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

by Anthea Sharp

  A knock sounded at the door, and she went to answer it. No doubt it was Avantor, coming to check on Bran.

  She opened the door, and then wished she hadn’t. The noble lady named Mireleth stood there, elegantly gowned and with a disdainful expression on her sharply drawn features. Seeing Mara, her lip curled.

  “What are you doing, answering the prince’s door?” she asked.

  She made to step inside, but Mara didn’t move, continuing to hold the door half closed. Nothing could entice her to step back and allow this woman into Bran’s rooms.

  “I’m his wife, as you might recall. And he’s currently not seeing visitors.”

  “He will see me.” Mireleth leaned forward, trying to peer past Mara. “Be a good little servant, and inform him I’m here.”

  Trying not to grind her teeth at the courtier’s arrogance, Mara narrowed her eyes. “I’ll tell him you called. Good day.”

  She made to close the door, but Mireleth inserted her foot in the jamb.

  “Mortal girl,” she said, her voice low and poisonous, “you have no place in our world, let alone marrying our prince.”

  The hateful words echoed Mara’s earlier thoughts. Resolutely, she pushed them away.

  Lifting her chin, she met the courtier’s gaze steadily. “Nonetheless, here I am.”

  “It’s not too late for you to leave.” Mireleth modulated her tone, attempting sweetness. “Surely you miss the mortal realm, your family, your life. Don’t you want to return?”

  Mara had already gone back once—but she wasn’t about to tell the Dark Elf her secrets.

  “No,” she said. “I am here to stay.”

  Mireleth’s expression hardened as she dropped all pretense of politeness. “You will regret it. Prince Brannonilon will see his mistake soon enough. He has no more need of a human bride, and will cast you aside. Then you’ll wish you’d gone when you had the chance.”

  The woman’s motives were painfully obvious.

  Mara shook her head in mock pity. “Believe me, even if I were gone, Bran would have no interest in wedding you. Goodbye.”

  She shoved the door and, reluctantly, Mireleth removed her foot rather than risk having it crushed.

  “We are not finished, mortal,” she spat.

  “I am.” Mara shut the door as forcefully as possible. For a moment she considered barring it—but she didn’t want to prevent Avantor from entering if she were to fall asleep.

  She let out a breath and leaned back against the carved wooden surface. Mireleth’s threats had unsettled her, reminding her all too clearly that she had enemies in the Hawthorne Court.

  I am the woman of the prophecy, she reminded herself. She had helped Bran beat back the Void and save Elfhame. Mireleth might try to intimidate and bully her, but Mara was strong. She would not let a poisonous elven courtier get the better of her.

  Still, it would be good to start her magical training sooner, rather than later. So far, her use of power had simply been by instinct. It would be a very good thing to be able to direct her magic at will, the way Bran did.

  Weariness shuddered through her, and she couldn’t help yawning. Despite Bran’s assurance he would not roll over onto her, she did not quite feel ready to share a bed with him. The couch was draped with a soft blanket. She pulled it over herself and settled in for a rest. Just a short one…

  A knock at the door roused her. She blinked sleepily, the foxfire lights in their curved bowls reminding her where she was. Elfhame. Bran’s rooms.

  “Who is it?” she called, pushing off her blanket. She wouldn’t make her earlier mistake of simply opening the door.

  “Avantor.”

  Good. She went to let him in.

  “How is Bran?” the healer asked, stepping inside.

  “Sleeping, I think.” She glanced toward the bedroom. “I admit, I fell asleep out here.”

  Avantor nodded sagely. “You both need a good deal of rest. Your wellsprings are depleted, and Bran’s life force is too low for my liking.”

  “How long does it take for wellsprings to refill?” she asked, trailing him into the bedroom. She was glad to see Bran was still deeply asleep.

  “It depends on how much power you have, and how much you’ve used.” The healer moved to stand beside the bed and held his hands out over Bran’s prone form.

  Mara watched him anxiously. Avantor’s face remained calm, and she took that as a good sign.

  “Is Bran recovering?”

  Avantor frowned slightly. “Yes. Though, as usual, our beloved prince has pushed himself to the limits of his strength.”

  “When I found him, he was barely breathing.” Her voice caught on the memory of how close she’d come to losing him.

  “Do not worry.” The healer dropped his hands and turned to her. “Bran is not currently in danger of dying. I predict a full recovery within a doublemoon.”

  She let out a relieved breath. “How long is that, precisely?”

  The two moons of Elfhame danced about one another, the palemoon and the bright, but she had not yet spent enough time in that world to know how often they rose and set in tandem.

  Avantor gave her a faint smile. “My apologies. I forget you are not accustomed to our realm. The next doublemoon will occur in roughly six risings of the palemoon.”

  Six days? “I don’t think Bran will be happy about staying in bed that long.”

  “In that, I must agree with you.” The healer shook his head. “I rely upon you to do what you can to keep him resting.”

  Mara folded her arms across her stomach. “I don’t have that much sway with the prince.”

  “Of course you do.” Avantor regarded her steadily. “He is married to you. What’s more, he cares deeply about your opinion.”

  She wasn’t so sure, but there was no point in arguing. Time would tell, she supposed.

  “We should let him rest.” She glanced down at Bran’s sleeping form. Their conversation had not roused him in the least—proof of his soul-deep weariness.

  “Yes.” Avantor turned to the nearby bowl of foxfire. “Gwath,” he murmured, and the light dimmed.

  “Oh.” Mara looked from him to the now-extinguished light. “Can you teach me to do that?”

  “Of course. It takes no particular skill or magic. Just speak the word gwath.” He gestured to the other bowl illuminating the room. “Try it.”

  Practicing the shape of the word in her mouth, Mara went to the light. It was all very well for Avantor to say it took no skill, but what if she could not do it? What if the foxfire only responded to Dark Elves? How humiliating that would be, having to ask anytime she wanted the lights off. Or on, for that matter.

  “Gwath,” she said softly.

  The blue flame flickered, its reflection wavering in the silver curve of the bowl—but it did not go out. Her spirits plummeted. She could not even perform this one simple task.

  Then the ball of foxfire slowly faded, and relief blossomed inside her.

  Smiling widely, she turned to the healer. “I did it.”

  “I had no doubt.”

  She thought he smiled in return, but in the dimness, it was impossible to tell. The room was nearly dark, no light sifting through the curtains covering the tall, arched window on the far wall. The only illumination spilled from the sitting room.

  “How do you summon the light again?” she asked.

  “Calya,” he said.

  Immediately, a small blue glow kindled in the center of the bowl, growing in strength until it shed a steady radiance.

  With a glance at Avantor, she moved to the other bowl and murmured the word. A ball of foxfire formed in answer, and a thrill went through her. Magic, at her command.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Avantor nodded. “I know this is not the life you are accustomed to, Mara Geary. Whenever you require assistance, please call on me. But for now, I recommend you rest. Perhaps…” He glanced at the bed where Bran lay, unmoving. “Perhaps near to your husband.”
>
  “And not on the couch?” She raised a brow.

  “I do not know the customs of humans,” he replied, a bit stuffily. “But it is advisable to remain close, in case he needs your help.”

  “Ah, yes.” He did have a point. And though she would not promise to sleep beside Bran all night, she would not insist on bedding down in the sitting room, either.

  “I will check on you both on the morrow,” the healer said.

  “I’ll see you out,” Mara said. “And practice turning on and off the lights.”

  Another faint smile crossed Avantor’s face. “Good.”

  As soon as he’d gone, Mara spent a few minutes speaking the words he’d taught her. The foxfire went out and rekindled until she felt completely secure in her knowledge of gwath and calya.

  She was eyeing the couch, and debating whether to pull the cushions into the bedroom, when Bran made a noise somewhere between a shout and a groan.

  “Bran?” she called, running to the other room.

  His eyes were closed, his face nearly chalk white. His hands clenched and unclenched over the covers, his half-extended claws leaving marks on the opulent fabric.

  “Mara?” he whispered hoarsely.

  She did not think he was quite awake.

  “I’m here.” She sat beside him and carefully took one of his hands in hers.

  He quieted, his claws retracting, and let out a deep, shuddering breath. Watching him battle for sleep, a wave of weariness washed over her. When she tried to remove her hand from his, he clutched at her, murmuring something in elvish.

  “It’s all right.” She smoothed a lock of his dark hair from his forehead. “I’ll stay. But you have to move over.”

  Eyes still closed, he released her hand and half rolled. She lay down beside him, pulling the corner of the satiny quilt up to cover her. The bulk of his body was solid and comforting, and she recalled resting in his arms in the Darkwood. Half of her yearned to return there with him—to run away into the forest and dwell beneath the shadowy trees, far from the complexities of the court.

  “Gwath,” she said quietly to the bowl of foxfire. It dimmed obediently, and she sighed into the dark. At least she’d mastered this small part of the Dark Elves’ world.

  One step at a time.

  Twice in the night—or what Mara took to be night in the strange, dim world of Elfhame—Bran thrashed in the grip of dark dreams. When she touched him, his skin was cold to the touch, icier than even his usual coolness.

  She put her arms around him and pulled him close, trying to warm him with her body. Both times, her presence seemed to ease him, and together they fell back into fitful sleep.

  At last she opened her eyes, to discover the room was gently illuminated by a tiny ball of blue light hovering over the bed. She glanced at Bran, to find him awake and propped up on one elbow, regarding her.

  “Good morning,” she said, then blinked. “Do you even have mornings here?”

  He laughed, a low chuckle that shook the bed slightly. “We do. Especially when the brightmoon rises, as it does today.”

  “How do you feel?” She studied his face, glad to see the strain about his eyes had eased.

  “Better.”

  “Avantor gave me strict instructions that you rest until the next doublemoon,” she said.

  One of his brows rose, a slash of ebony. “We both know that’s not possible.”

  “Yes, but please try.” She reached over and gripped his arm. “I can’t lose you.”

  His expression softened. “For your sake, then, I will rest—for half that time. But Elfhame requires me.”

  “Surely your warriors need some time to prepare before leaving the court,” she said.

  His lips firmed, but he gave a grudging nod. “I will send messages to the other courts to stay alert for Voidspawn, in the meantime.”

  With a graceful motion, he rolled from the bed and went to the window. He pushed the curtains open, letting a golden glow into the room, and Mara let out a breath. It was not sunlight—but the brightmoon’s light was a welcome change from the cool silver of the palemoon.

  “Are you hungry?” Bran asked, turning toward her.

  “Yes. Should we eat in here?”

  He glanced about the room, then shook his head, a regretful tilt to his mouth. “We will show ourselves at the midday meal in the dining hall. No doubt the court is rife with speculation about our return.”

  Mara bit her lip, and his gaze focused on her.

  “Is there something I should know?” He raised one eyebrow in question.

  “It’s just… Mireleth called last evening.”

  His expression hardened. “Did she insult you?”

  “Not too badly,” Mara lied.

  She could fend for herself, and didn’t want to distract Bran with needless worry for her. He had his own burdens to bear. Once he’d returned from patrolling Elfhame, they could deal with any problems remaining at court.

  “You will tell me if Mireleth is unbearably discourteous.” He leaned forward, meeting her gaze.

  “I’m not going to come running to you every time some courtier is rude to me,” she said.

  “Perhaps not. But you will wear a weapon.” It was not a question.

  “If you think it’s wise.” She didn’t like the implication that she might be in physical danger—from Mireleth, or anyone else.

  He nodded sharply and went to one of the weapons racks mounted on the wall. Slowly he moved past the wickedly curved swords, shaking his head until he reached a smaller dagger, its handle sparkling with green and blue gems.

  “This one.” He lifted it and brought it to the bed, where Mara still sat. “No one would dare attack my bride—but it is better if you are armed, all the same.”

  She pushed the silken coverlet aside and rose, eyeing the ornate weapon. It seemed far too grand for the bumbling attempts of a beginner.

  “Can’t I just use my kitchen knife?”

  “No. You need a blade with balance and a good edge,” he said. “A weapon, not a tool. Take it, and wear it at all times.”

  Reluctantly, she reached out and accepted the dagger. It was heavy, the gemstones cool to her touch. “I’ll need a sturdy belt.”

  “We will have several made for you.” He looked at her, his slitted pupils narrowing. “As to that, we both ought to dress. Perhaps Anneth has something you might borrow.”

  Mara glanced down at her homespun skirts, wrinkled and grubby, with a few spots of Anneth’s blood staining the cloth. No wonder Mireleth had been so dismissive.

  “Maybe.” Mara didn’t want to disturb Bran’s sister, but she certainly couldn’t enter the dining hall in such a state.

  Well, she could, but it would reflect badly on Bran. She owed it to him—to both of them—to take her new station seriously. After all, she was wed to the Hawthorne Prince.

  And no matter the intricacies of court etiquette, the rumors and whispers, she would not change that fact for the world.

  7

  An hour later, as Bran escorted Mara into the dining hall, she was not quite as confident. Everything in the Hawthorne Court seemed designed to make her feel small and inelegant, from the arched hallways to the ornately braided hairstyles of its inhabitants.

  Despite Anneth’s suggestions, issued from her propped-up position in bed, Mara had no hope of emulating the coiffures, let alone the poised grace, of the Dark Elf courtiers. She’d done what she could, but her wayward hair refused to stay in place, let alone fall like shining sheets of water about her shoulders, as Anneth’s did.

  At least Bran’s sister had lent Mara a lovely silken azure gown, with jewelry to match. A tapestry belt wrapped about her waist, where her new dagger hung in its silver-scrolled sheath.

  The moment she and Bran stepped into the room, heads turned and courtiers halted in the act of eating and drinking. A hush fell, then was quickly filled with the low buzz of speculation. Mara felt their sharp-eyed gazes, their sibilant whispers lodging just u
nder her skin.

  “Do not fear,” Bran said in a low voice, his hand covering hers where it rested on his arm. “You look every bit a princess.”

  Up to a point, she supposed. But there was no disguising her blunt mortal features, round-pupiled eyes, and clawless hands, which were viewed with disgust by most of the Dark Elves.

  Not all of them, however.

  As Bran let her toward the high table where the Hawthorne rulers sat, Avantor caught her eye and gave her the faintest of smiles. Bran’s lean second-in-command, Hestil, inclined her head in respect as they passed.

  “My lord. My lady,” she murmured.

  Lord Calithilon and Lady Tinnueth watched Mara and Bran approach. Bran’s father gazed at them impassively, but the cold hatred in his mother’s eyes nearly made Mara miss a step. If Mireleth was a poisonous little spider, Lady Tinnueth was a sleek and deadly viper. Mara was suddenly glad for the weight of the weapon hanging from her belt.

  They halted before the Hawthorne Lord and Lady, and Bran made them a formal bow. The weight of the courtier’s regard heavy on her shoulders, Mara performed her best curtsey—careful not to make it too low. She was not some supplicant come groveling to the court, after all.

  When she straightened, she caught a flash of amusement in Lord Calithilon’s eyes. His wife’s nostrils flared, and she kept her eyes upon her son, not deigning to glance Mara’s way.

  “You seem much recovered,” Lord Calithilon said, nodding to Bran.

  “Thank you, my lord. I am,” Bran replied, as if he were in perfect health.

  Mara resisted the urge to jab him with her elbow. Why must he be so stubborn? On the other hand, it didn’t seem wise to show any weakness in front the Hawthorne rulers.

  “Good.” His mother’s voice was cool. “Then you’ll be delighted to hear that we have approved your plan to patrol Elfhame. You may depart as soon as your soldiers are ready.”