by Anthea Sharp
He was a tall, elegant Dark Elf, his silver hair intricately braided, his eyes a deep indigo. The only signs of his age were the deep creases that formed about his eyes and mouth when he smiled. Which, thankfully, he did rather frequently. She was relieved that his personality was not as aloof as his appearance might indicate.
“Excellent,” Penluith said after Mara demonstrated her ability to control the lighting. “Has Bran given you any other instruction in the use of your wellspring?”
“Not particularly—beyond helping me sense its presence.” She set her hand to her chest, as if she could somehow feel the magic dwelling within her. “I tried summoning foxfire once, with no success.”
No need to tell Penluith about helping Bran open the gateway back to the mortal world. Or her own struggle to return to Elfhame and those bleak moments when she feared she’d lost Bran forever.
“Then we shall begin with the basic lessons,” the tutor said. “You have a strong natural ability—evidenced by your assistance during the battle against the Void—but a properly channeled wellspring will allow you to do much more.”
Mara nodded. “Can I learn to create something like a magical cloak or shield?”
Having the ability to protect herself physically would make her feel much better whenever she encountered Mireleth about the court. Not to mention the Hawthorne Lady. From the thinly disguised hatred in Tinnueth’s eyes, Mara wouldn’t put it past Bran’s mother to try slipping a dagger between her ribs while Bran was away.
The tutor pursed his mouth. “Do you feel unsafe here? I assure you, no one wishes you harm.”
Clearly he hadn’t been paying attention. Mara gave him a tight smile.
“Still, I wouldn’t mind the knowledge, being so far from my own home as I am.” She was careful not to ask about offensive spells. Implying she would attack members of the court, even in her own defense, was not something she wanted to share with the royal tutor.
Bran would show her something of battle magic if she asked. In fact, it might help ease his mind to know that his wife was equipped with some sort of ability to inflict damage. Just in case.
“Once you show satisfactory progress, I can teach you how to cast a ward about yourself,” Penluith said solemnly. “It is a dangerous magic, however, as it drains your wellspring in proportion to the protection it gives. You must take care with its use.”
“What happens if my wellspring is emptied?” Her mind flashed back to Bran, lying nearly lifeless in the embrace of the Darkwood. “Will it kill me?”
Penluith frowned. “Not kill you, no. The danger is that you will permanently lose your magic, or a large part of it. A wellspring, once drained, has difficulty regenerating. Not to mention that, if your power is depleted while you’re under an active attack—say, from a Void creature—you will not be able to survive for long.”
“I see.” Mara pressed her lips together, thinking.
Perhaps it was different for her, as her wellspring had been dormant most of her life. And if she was drained of it, well, living without magic would be nothing new. She suppressed a pang at the thought that then she would, indeed, be nothing more than a mere human in the land of the Dark Elves.
“For now,” the tutor said, “let us work on calling foxfire. Unlike kindling and extinguishing the lights, which are already summoned and tied to their chalices, creating foxfire uses a portion of your own magic.” He gestured to the low couch. “When you succeed, you may well feel a bit tired. Now, settle yourself into a comfortable position and focus on your wellspring.”
Mara stuck a pillow behind her, set her feet firmly on the floor, and closed her eyes, trying to sense her magic. After some concentration, she thought she detected a fizzy feeling in her chest. It was nothing like the fierce blue fire she’d felt before, first when she’d lent her power to Bran in battle, and later, when she’d forced the gateway between their worlds to open and let her back into Elfhame.
But perhaps a small fizziness, as opposed to a sheet of azure flame, was a good thing. There was no need to engulf half the palace in fire.
“Are you ready?” Penluith asked.
“I think so.” She hoped so, at any rate.
“Watch closely.” He leaned forward, one hand raised. “The word of summoning is calma.”
As he spoke, a flickering ball of foxfire sprang into being above his fingertips. Mara studied it, trying to memorize the sound of the word in her mouth.
“Try it,” Penluith said encouragingly.
She lifted her hand, mirroring his gesture, then squeezed her eyes shut, holding the image of foxfire steady in her thoughts.
“Calma,” she said, and opened her eyes.
The air flickered slightly, but no hovering ball of light appeared over her hand. Spirits sinking, she glanced at Penluith, who regarded her steadily, no hint of disappointment in his lean face.
“Did I pronounce it wrong?” she asked. There was a subtle lilt to the word that perhaps she hadn’t spoken correctly.
“Try saying it a few times, without attempting to summon foxfire.” The tutor’s tone was thoughtful. “I should have realized—you are not used to the cadence of our language. Calma.”
Mara repeated the word after him several times, until he gave her a satisfied nod. Then she attempted to reach for her wellspring, and spoke the summoning again.
“Calma.”
This time, there was not even a hint of shimmer in the air.
“Again,” Penluith said patiently.
“Calma.” She tried inflecting the word up.
Nothing.
After a dozen tries, Penluith held up his hand to stop her. “Let us try something else.”
She nodded, swallowing back the bitter taste of failure. How could a word that sounded like “calm” be such a source of frustration?
“What other spells do Dark Elf children learn?” she asked, then winced as a desolate look crossed Penluith’s face.
Of course—there were no children now. The tutor must feel that loss deeply.
“I mean,” she hurriedly added, “perhaps I need to start with something simpler.”
He nodded, grief still shadowing his eyes. “Yes—perhaps foxfire is too ambitious. Let me think…”
After several heavy, silent moments, he raised his head, held out his hand, and spoke a word she did not quite catch. A slender white flower appeared in his palm, the leaves furled closed.
“I will teach you the rune of opening,” he said. “Edro. Try it.”
She blinked, trying not to reveal that she already knew this word, and had used it to pry open the gateway between the mortal world and Elfhame. At the very least, she knew her pronunciation was correct.
“Edro,” she said obediently.
“Very good. Now, concentrate on the flower, on coaxing the petals open. Breathe deeply, connect with your wellspring, and speak the rune.”
Mara tried to do as he said, but the tickle of sensation she thought she’d felt in her chest seemed to have gone entirely. Still, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, searching vainly for the fizz of her wellspring.
“Edro,” she said, then tightened her hands and tried again. “Edro.”
The flower lay motionless on Penluith’s palm.
She attempted the rune of opening several more times, with no result. Finally, the tutor shook his head and banished the still-furled flower. He did not sigh, at least not audibly, but Mara thought she detected disappointment in his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She grimaced. “I didn’t think I’d struggle this much. Maybe it’s because I’m a human.”
“Perhaps so. Learning to use one’s wellspring does not always come easy,” the tutor said. “Sometimes it takes longer than one hopes.”
It was kind of him to say, but they both knew she’d had no trouble accessing her power to help combat the Void. Why was it now so difficult? Was Bran’s presence somehow the key to her abilities?
She certainly hoped not—she was dependent eno
ugh on him as it was.
“We will meet again on the morrow,” Penluith said. “In the meantime, practice sensing your wellspring.”
“I will.”
She also intended to spend as much time as possible trying to summon foxfire and open flowers. Surely it was not that difficult. She could master the use of her wellspring.
Indeed, if she meant to secure her place among the Dark Elves, she must.
9
Bran bent over the map of Elfhame spread out across Hestil’s table. He had the same maps in his rooms, of course, but it was better to do the planning at his second-in-command’s and leave Mara undisturbed for her session with Penluith.
She would make a brilliant student, he was certain. Aside from his own power, he’d never felt such a strong wellspring, and he looked forward to hearing how her tutoring session had gone.
But for now, he must turn his attention to the realm. With one sheathed fingertip, he traced the road to the Nightshade Court.
“Our first stop,” he said. “I have no doubt the Nightshade Lady will spare what warriors she can.”
“It won’t be many,” Hestil warned.
Bran nodded grimly. Nightshade had sustained heavy losses during the last days of the Void attacks leading up to the final battle. “We must ask all the courts for assistance.”
He frowned at the map. Moonflower and Rowan, as well as the inner courts, had not faced the Void directly—but it was imperative that the warriors of Elfhame scour the land and make sure their ancient enemy was eradicated.
“Our fighters will be ready to leave first thing tomorrow,” Hestil said.
“Good.” Bran lifted his hand, letting the map roll up.
The sooner they were gone, the sooner he could return to Mara and face his next challenge: becoming a worthy husband. In truth, fighting Voidspawn was a more appealing task. At least he knew how to vanquish such foes. But how could he even be sure of his mortal bride’s love? She had wed him under duress and was a stranger to his land and his people.
She returned to save you, he reminded himself.
But what if her love was misguided? He could not help the premonition that she would be desperately unhappy in Elfhame. His emotions twisted at the thought. Mara was the only brightness in his life. But could he give her what she needed?
Perhaps he should spurn her, for her own good. Even though it would mean ripping his own heart from his chest and trampling upon it.
No. He shook his head. Such games were below him. When he returned from chasing down the last of the enemy, he would deal with his marriage as best he could.
“I wish you would remain here,” he said, glancing at Hestil. “I trust no one better to look after my wife.”
Hestil snorted. “You could no more leave me behind than you could leave your sword. Sicil will make a fine interim commander. And you know as well as I that your mortal wife is made of strong stuff. She will weather the Hawthorne Court until we return.”
He hoped so. “I’ll have Sicil give her some instruction in knife work.”
“Wise.” Hestil sent him a narrow-eyed look. “With all due respect, Commander—you should go rest. You look as wilted as a second-bloom moonflower.”
Bran gave a reluctant nod. They had finished planning, and although he’d done his best to hide his weariness, his second was not so easily fooled.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” he said. “I’m certain my father will want to make some kind of inspiring speech before we set out.”
The Hawthorne Lord was ever fond of such gestures, though Bran preferred action to talk.
“No doubt,” Hestil said dryly. She was not overfond of court protocol, herself.
Bran took his leave and strode down the corridors. Pale moonlight flowed in through the high, arched windows to pool on the polished flagstones, providing enough illumination that he didn’t bother summoning a light.
Unfortunately, the shadows were deep enough to hide the figure waiting for him until she stepped directly into his path.
“Bran,” Mireleth said, her voice honey-smooth. “I was so hoping for a private word.”
“I know what you hope for—and you must seek it elsewhere. Excuse me, my wife is waiting.” He stepped around Mireleth.
She nimbly moved in front of him, forcing him to draw up short. Despite his urge to trample over her, he was the Hawthorne Prince. A certain etiquette must be maintained—though he let a scowl settle on his face.
“I understand you’re leaving tomorrow.” She shook her robe back, revealing the betrothal bracelet clamped around her wrist. “I was hoping to say farewell to the man I am pledged to.”
He folded his arms. “Take that blasted thing off. I’m already wed.”
It was a ridiculous show on her part. He had publicly broken the betrothal bond between them. The metal clamped about Mireleth’s wrist was a desperate attempt to assert a connection that had been severed moons ago.
“Yes…” Her delicately arched brows rose. “But have you consummated that union?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
She gave a contrived shudder. “I cannot say that I blame you. The thought of lying with a mortal is quite distasteful.”
“Step aside.” He all but growled the words, trying to push down the hot anger threatening to fog his vision.
Ignoring the threat in his voice, she swayed closer and placed an elegant hand on his arm. “Whatever happens, I am here for you.”
With a snarl, he brushed her away her. “Our foolish betrothal is over, Mireleth.” He cursed the absent stars that he’d ever agreed to such a thing. “Begone. I am not changing my mind.”
“Of course, my lord.” She stepped away, a smug tilt to her lips. “You are a man of honor, after all. But the mortal cannot give you what you need. Remember that.”
And with that, she was gone, slipping back into the shadows like a dark whisper.
Bran rubbed the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted to do was storm into his rooms prickling with anger at Mireleth. She was best put out of his mind—and his marriage—entirely.
10
“Calma,” Mara said, for what felt like the thousandth time.
Her throat was hoarse, and frustration gnawed at her, yet she persevered. Just one last time.
Or one more.
And one after that.
She’d vowed not to sleep until she conjured up a dratted ball of foxfire, no matter how tiny or misshapen.
Gritting her teeth, she held the image of flickering blue light in her mind. Her wellspring waited; she knew it did. Why wouldn’t it respond? Irritation itched like sand under her skin.
“Calma!” She infused the word with an afternoon’s worth of desperation.
Whoosh. A wind rushed through the room, pulling Mara’s hair over her face. Then, with a force that knocked her back against the couch cushions, an immense ball of foxfire appeared in the center of the room.
Mara threw her arm up to shield her eyes from the brightness. Well! Triumph sang through her, and she grinned, though no one could see her. It seemed she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.
“By the moons!” Bran’s voice sounded from the door. “What are you doing, Mara?”
She jumped to her feet and went to where he stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed against the blue inferno. The brightness made his skin look ashen, his hair black as polished onyx.
“I… summoned foxfire.”
“So you did.” He closed the door. “But why so much?”
“I wish I knew. I’ve been trying all day to conjure it up—and was only just now successful.”
He glanced at the sphere of blue fire taking up his sitting room, then winced away from the light. “While I’m impressed with your display of power, perhaps you should dampen the foxfire—or dispel it altogether.”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know how.”
“What?” His brow creased. “I thought Penluith would teach you better than that.”
“Don’t blame him. When he left, I hadn’t succeeded in summoning anything, so there was no need to teach me how to un-summon it.”
“That was careless.” Bran shook his head. “Say uscalma, and imagine the light extinguishing.”
Mara took a breath, then did as Bran instructed. Immediately, the foxfire went out. The room plunged into shadows, and Mara had to blink several times to adjust her vision. A sudden, sharp longing for sunshine made her nearly gasp, and she swallowed the sound. That bright, mortal fire was not for her. Not anymore.
“That’s better,” Bran said. “I’ll have a word with Penluith. He’s too accustomed to pupils who obey and don’t think to practice on their own.”
“Speaking of which…” Mara cleared her throat. “I understand that Dark Elves can no longer bear children.”
He froze, then shot her a cautious look. “This is true.”
“You didn’t think to mention it before?” Exhaustion lent a sharp edge to her voice. “When we defeated the Void and closed the rift, I thought we’d saved your people! Imagine how it felt to learn that I was gravely mistaken and there is more to contend with. You should have told me.”
He watched her warily. “It does not matter.”
“Of course it matters.” She clenched her hands and tried not to sound peevish. “How can I be the woman of the prophecy if we didn’t actually save your people?”
Bran looked away from her, his expression suddenly weary. “My prophecy was to save Elfhame. Together, we accomplished that task.”
She wanted to pound her hands on his chest. “What good does that do, if the Dark Elves are destined to die out as a people?”
“Mara.” He reached and took her hands, gently unfolding her fists. “Who knows what else the future holds? It is enough that you are here, that we defeated the Void.”
“Maybe for you.” She tried to breathe past the tightness in her chest. “But apparently the rest of the Hawthorne Court feels differently.”
