Into the Darkwood: A Dark Elf Fantasy Romance Trilogy (The Darkwood Chronicles)

by Anthea Sharp

  He could not stop staring at Mara. His woman of the prophecy. His soon-to-be mate. For the first time, the prospect did not seem a dreary one.

  She gave him a shy smile, and something strange happened to his heart: a sudden squeeze, and then surge of blood, similar to the battle rush he felt upon the field, yet different. His gaze went to the ornate gold belt at her waist, and he let out a surprised laugh to see her homely human knife hanging there.

  “By the bright moon, he laughed!” Anneth said. “Call the historians, quickly, so they might set it in the record scrolls.”

  “Mara.” He found his voice again. “You look lovely.”

  She smiled again, color rushing into her cheeks. He did not find it unbecoming.

  “You see.” Anneth sounded very self-satisfied. “I told you he’d be stunned.”

  “I am not,” he said. “Merely admiring your handiwork. Well done, sister.”

  Anneth raised a brow at him. “Afraid she’s going to outshine you now, aren’t you?”

  He did not bother to reply, only held his arm out to Mara. “The court awaits. Are you ready?”

  “I suppose.” She pulled in a deep breath. “Is it all right if I wear my knife?”

  “It is a blade that’s seen honor in battle. Wear it with pride.”

  Too, it was a reminder that she was not entirely helpless. He’d already spread the story about her wounding the spiderkin, and the knife added to the mystique that Anneth had woven around her.

  He had to admit his sister had worked wonders. And though he would never tell her, “stunned” was the perfect description of how he’d felt when he looked upon Mara’s transformation. Wedding her would be an honor, despite all their differences.

  It was not just the physical change that a formal court gown and well-dressed hair made. Her determination and bravery, her resilience, even the way she chattered on—all these facets were like a gemstone polished in a tumbler.

  She had been Mara from the first, but now something had shifted inside him, and, somewhat to his consternation, he could truly see her shine.

  Mara thought she saw a flash of approval in Bran’s eyes when Anneth opened the door. His sister seemed to think he was impressed, and he had told Mara she looked lovely. She didn’t think he was the type to give empty compliments. He’d also laughed at the knife tucked through her ornately woven belt, though it had been an approving sort of laugh.

  Why she was so worried about what Bran thought of her? She should be far more concerned about the Hawthorne Lord and his lady. Anneth had not said much about them, her expression clouding when Mara asked, so she hadn’t pressed the matter. She didn’t want to alienate the only other person she knew at court by insisting on speaking about what was a clearly a painful subject.

  As Bran led her down the corridor, thoughtfully providing a blue sphere of fire for illumination, Mara couldn’t help but fret. Anneth had evaded her question about the rulers of the court. She could only assume that they were dreadful indeed.

  “Do not be afraid,” Bran said, as if sensing her thoughts. “No one will harm you, and if they try, they will have to deal with me.”

  It was a comforting thought, and she gave him a quick, grateful glance. She might be wearing her kitchen knife, but she noticed he had a bejeweled sword at his hip and a dagger hanging from his belt, as well as a second blade tucked into his boot. He had changed his attire, too, and was wearing a midnight-black tunic with gold embroidery around the sleeves and neck. His hair hung in thin, even braids on either side of his severe face.

  “You could go a little faster,” Anneth said from behind them. “I’m sure the court is in a frenzy by now.”

  “Give Mara a few moments,” Bran said. “This won’t be easy for her.”

  “I’ve no doubt she’ll carry herself well.”

  “I’m right here,” Mara said dryly. “No need to speak as if I’m absent—or hang back on my account.”

  The sooner they arrived, the sooner she could dispel her looming apprehension. Surely the reality of the Hawthorne Court couldn’t be worse than her fearful imaginings.

  Their footsteps echoed over the mosaic floor. Mara wore her boots, though Anneth had flicked her fingers over them, and they’d not only gained a high polish, but turned the exact hue of the gown she wore.

  “It’s a temporary spell,” Anneth had said. “A small glamour that will fade by tomorrow.”

  “That’s a handy bit of magic. Are you as powerful as your brother?”

  Anneth had let out a short laugh. “Not nearly. No one in all of Elfhame can match Bran—though don’t tell him I said that. He’s already too proud of himself as it is.”

  Bran did not seem overly prideful to Mara. Rigid and exacting, perhaps, but she’d wager he demanded more of himself than of anyone around him.

  “Nearly there,” he said, laying his hand over hers where it rested on his arm.

  “Ignore the gossips,” Anneth said. “They’re petty and spiteful. Pretend you don’t hear a word they say.”

  Mara pressed her lips together. She hadn’t grown up in a court, learning to harden herself against hurtful words—but she would do her best.

  The hallway opened into a crescent-shaped foyer dominated by tall double doors made of some glowing silvery metal. They were decorated with a design featuring the blossoms and thorny spikes of hawthorn branches. Mara hoped the gossips of the Hawthorne Court would not be as sharp as their namesake thorns.

  A Dark Elf dressed in a flowing robe stepped forward as they approached, and gestured at the doors. They swung open by themselves, and Mara swallowed back her impending panic. Bran pressed her hand, as if he understood her anxiety, but did not slow his steps. She was carried along with him as they crossed the threshold of the Hawthorne Court.

  “Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne,” the doorman announced. “Lady Anneth Ithilden Luthinor. And the mortal woman called Mara Geary.”

  Shock swept through Mara, clearing the fog of fear rising in her brain. Prince Brannonsomething? Heir to the throne?

  “You’re a prince?” she hissed at Bran. Curse him for being so closemouthed! “What else haven’t you told me?”

  He gave her a look tinged with apology. “The court is watching.”

  To perdition with the Hawthorne Court, and its lying heir. Mara pulled her arm free of Bran’s and held her head high. These Dark Elves were no better than humans, no matter how fearsome they looked, and she would not be cowed by them.

  “Good girl,” Anneth murmured from behind Mara. “Go straight forward, then stop a pace from the dais and curtsey. Ignore everyone to either side.”

  Fueled by her anger, Mara marched forward. She didn’t care if Bran kept up with her. The crowd murmured as she passed, but she paid them no mind. Her attention was fixed on the two thrones set upon the dais, occupied by the Hawthorne Lord and Lady.

  Bran’s parents.

  She could see the stern cast of Bran’s features in his father’s face. His mother assessed her coldly from eyes the same violet hue as her son’s.

  She should have wondered why he had a prophecy surrounding him. Why he was given such deference at the camp, and why his magic was so strong. She’d been a fool, imagining him to be, at best, a member of the minor nobility.

  No, she was a prisoner of the Hawthorne Prince himself. No wonder he’d been so possessive of his prize. The connection she’d felt building between them evaporated like mist under strong sunlight. Bran only wanted to use her to save his kingdom. She was nothing but a pawn on the board of Elfhame’s future, and she resented it bitterly.

  She halted in a swirl of purple skirts before the dais and made the rulers her most formal curtsey—the one she and her sisters had practiced in front of the mirror for hours, pretending they were going to visit the queen. Mara held the pose for a heartbeat to show her respect to the Hawthorne Lord and Lady. Their son might be full of deceit, but she was in their court now, and at their mercy.

&nbs
p; She refused to be trapped in this wretched dark land for the rest of her life, however. Someday, somehow, she would find a way to escape Elfhame and return home.

  Chapter 15

  Standing just behind Mara, Bran made a formal bow to his parents. Though he kept his gaze low, he was monitoring their reactions closely. His father seemed amused, his mother taken aback, by Mara’s fearless demeanor. No doubt Tinnueth expected a meek and cowering human, not this fierce girl with a bare blade at her belt.

  By the seven bright stars, he was proud of his mortal woman for marching so boldly into the throne room. He supposed he should have told her he was the Hawthorne Heir—although the moment had never seemed right—but ultimately her anger at him had proved to be well timed.

  A buzz of whispers rose as Bran’s father welcomed Mara to Elfhame and the hospitality of the Hawthorne Court. Tinnueth looked like she’d bitten down on something sour, but she could hardly deny the prophecy any longer.

  “A hideous creature,” someone said, loudly enough for Bran to hear. The voice sounded suspiciously like Mireleth’s.

  Bran glanced down at the silver bracelet shackling his wrist. He’d seek her out immediately after court to dissolve their false betrothal.

  The flush of color on Mara’s cheeks was the only sign she’d heard the malicious words.

  “Thank you,” she said to his parents once the welcome speech ended. “I am honored.”

  This prompted another wave of murmuring when the Dark Elves realized Mara could speak their tongue, as well as understand what was said. A flash of satisfaction went through Bran, though he kept his expression impassive.

  “We will feast tonight in your honor,” Lord Calithilon said. “Until that time, feel free to tour the palace. Prince Brannon will serve as your guide. Tomorrow is a day for celebration. So that we might all make ready, I declare our court hours at an end today.”

  He raised one finger, and the sound of the dismissal gong rang through the room.

  Mara curtseyed again to the lord and lady, then took a step backward. Bran caught her elbow as she began to turn.

  “Wait,” he said. It was the height of rudeness to turn one’s back on the rulers before they stood from their thrones.

  He bowed to his parents, aware of the look of warning in his mother’s eyes. Tinnueth would pounce upon any misstep Mara might make, and they would both pay the price.

  The Hawthorne Lord and Lady rose and regally paced to their private door behind the thrones. Sometimes they stepped off the dais to mingle with their court. Bran was relieved it was not one of those days.

  Smoothly, her pulled Mara’s arm through his, then turned them back toward the tall doors of the throne room. Beside him, he felt Mara take a quick breath. None of the assembled court had departed yet. Oh no—they wanted a good look at his mortal woman.

  Anneth came up to them and took her place on Mara’s other side. Approval shone from her eyes. She would not praise Mara here, in front of the court, but Bran could tell she was pleased.

  As was he. His future bride had a core of strength that would serve them both well in the coming days.

  An awkward circle of space formed around them, with no one willing to step close enough to have to speak to Bran or Mara. Despite that, the pathway to the exit was blocked. It would be unpleasant to have to force their way forward.

  Then his old master-at-arms, Garon, strode forward, his blackthorn cane knocking on the floor with every other step. He bowed stiffly, and Bran held out his hand.

  “No need for such formality,” he said.

  “It’s not you I’m honoring.” Garon turned to face the mortal woman beside Bran. “Lady Mara, it is a pleasure to meet you. I know I speak for everyone when I say I’m glad to see the prophecy fulfilled in such a satisfactory manner.”

  He sent a fierce look toward the bystanders, and most of them had the grace to nod and murmur their agreement. All except Mireleth, who glared at Bran, and a few other members of the nobility who clearly sided with her.

  “Thank you, sir,” Mara said.

  The edge in her voice implied she didn’t think being found “satisfactory” much of a compliment.

  “Not all of us are so easily satisfied.” Mireleth stepped up beside Garon. Her claws were unsheathed, and malice glittered from her narrowed eyes.

  Bran set his hand to his dagger, and called his magic to his fingertips. If Mireleth had the gall to physically attack Mara, he would not hesitate to defend her.

  “Lady Mireleth,” he warned, “consider your actions carefully.”

  “Is this so-called Mara Geary actually a mortal?” Ignoring him, Mireleth whirled to face the crowd. “How do we know this is truly the woman of the prophecy, and not some trick meant to deprive me of my intended husband? You all saw us pledged to one another! Now he plans to set me aside for some so-called human girl from who-knows-where?”

  Her few supporters voiced their approval, and Bran could see questions arise in the eyes of some of the nobles. He clenched his jaw. Trust Mireleth to stir up trouble.

  “Your accusations are ridiculous,” he said. “Be careful whom you call a trickster.”

  Mireleth stared angrily a moment, then raised her voice. “Members of the court, consider this. How is it that this mortal newly come to Elfhame is fluent in our language? And would a real human be able to stand before the Hawthorne Lord and Lady without quivering in fear? I think not.”

  Garon tapped his cane on the floor. “Now see here—”

  “Everyone knows Prince Brannon is the strongest magic user in the land,” Mireleth continued. “He’s quite capable of casting a glamour none could see through.” She pointed at Mara. “How do we know this isn’t simply some Dark Elf girl in disguise?”

  Before Bran could speak in her defense, Mara set her hands on her hips and took a step forward.

  “Truly?” she said. “You’re upset because Bran won’t marry you? I can understand why.”

  This drew a few laughs, quickly suppressed.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Mara continued, “you can have him. The two of you deserve one another.”

  Bran knew he must speak, but somehow his tongue was frozen inside his mouth.

  “And what of the prophecy?” Garon asked.

  “Who would willingly put herself through all this?” Mara waved at the assembled courtiers. “Who would come here to be looked down upon by your lord and lady, insulted and sneered at, forced to obey some prophecy she’s never even heard of? I’d happily leave you all to your fate, if there was any way for me to return home.”

  Her words rang with unmistakable truth, and Bran could see the effect they had on the crowd. No Dark Elf would ever speak so. And although he was dismayed at Mara’s words, he was equally pleased to see Mireleth withdraw her claws and slink back into the crowd.

  “Well said.” Anneth linked her arm through Mara’s. “Excuse us.”

  She strode forward, not waiting for the assembled nobles to clear a path. Those courtiers between her and the door scrambled to get out of the way.

  Bran almost followed. He would like nothing better than to remove himself from the room. But first, he must sever his betrothal to Mireleth.

  She had sequestered herself in a circle of her supporters. When they saw him approaching, however, they parted like water.

  “Lady Andion,” he said formally, paying no mind to the poisonous look she turned on him, “speaking of trickery, you were well aware that our so-called betrothal was a ploy to activate the prophecy. I am pleased that it succeeded, and am here to officially break our bond.”

  Her nostrils flared, but she could not deny the truth.

  “Then I repudiate our vows,” she said bitterly. “By fire and storm, pale moon and bright, star and shadow, I want no part of you, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor.”

  She shook her arm, and her silver betrothal bracelet opened and fell to the floor with a clang.

  Bran caught his as it slithered off his wrist, then held
it awkwardly, for once at a loss. He would not offer Mireleth an empty apology.

  “I wish you well with your horrid little creature,” Mireleth said.

  She tossed back her hair and stalked away, kicking the bracelet aside as she went. Her allies scurried after her.

  “I’ll take charge of the bracelets,” Garon said, limping up to Bran. “Nasty business.”

  Bran didn’t know if he meant Mireleth, the bracelets, or the entire sham betrothal. Likely all three. He held his discarded bracelet out.

  “My thanks,” he said.

  “You’d best go clear up matters with Lady Mara,” the old soldier said.

  “Indeed.” He clapped Garon on the shoulder, then strode out of the room.

  What a tangle. He was only glad his mother hadn’t been there to witness the entire thing—though no doubt Mireleth was already on her way to tell Tinnueth her own slanted version of events.

  By the pale moon, at times like this he wished for the simplicity of battle.

  Boot heels ringing over the patterned stone floor, he made for Anneth’s rooms, and the mortal woman he had lied to—not once, but twice over. He hoped she would not despise him for the rest of their days.

  Chapter 16

  Mara’s fury carried her all the way to Anneth’s rooms before subsiding to a dull smolder.

  “I made a mess of things,” she said, perching on the silk-draped couch in the sitting room. “The court must hate me now for speaking so bluntly.”

  “Not in the least,” Anneth said. “You were wonderful. I’d venture to say you even won the respect of the Hawthorne Lord—no mean feat.”

  “Your father.” Mara crossed her arms. “I can’t believe Bran didn’t see fit to mention the fact that he was a prince.”

  Anneth let out a sigh. “Getting my brother to part with words is like prying gold coins from a dragon.”

  “You have dragons here?” Mara leaned forward, temporarily distracted by the thought.