by Anthea Sharp
His face tightened. “Pay the gossips no mind.”
“How am I supposed to do that, when my own husband pays me no mind?”
Immediately, she wanted to bite her tongue, but the words were said. A small, sorry part of herself was glad of it, of the flash of momentary pain in his indigo eyes.
“There are others…” He hesitated, rubbing his cool fingers softly over her palms. “Others who believe the prophecy is only half fulfilled. That once the remaining Void creatures are dispatched, our fertility will return.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“I hope it is.” He stared down into her eyes. “I cannot believe that all of this has been in vain, Mara. Please, do not lose faith in me. In us.”
Her heart squeezed, and she clasped his hands tightly. “I’m sorry for what I said. It’s just… it’s difficult for me here.”
“I know.” His voice was solemn. “And I, in turn, am sorry for that. You have an ally in Anneth, do not forget. And Avantor. I depart on the morrow, and when I return, everything will settle out as it should.”
Her breath snagged. “And when will you return, Brannonilon Luthinor? How long will it take to vanquish the remnants of the Void?” How long must I molder away in the Hawthorne Court, waiting for you to come back? At least this time, she left the hurtful words unsaid.
Regret twisted his mouth. “I will not give you comfortable lies. It may well be several doublemoons.”
She made a quick calculation, her dismay rising. “Months? What am I to do in the meantime?”
“Spend time with Anneth. Study magic with Penluith—and knife work with Sicil.”
“I’ll miss you.” She felt hollow inside, the beginnings of panic shortening her breath. “I didn’t come back from my world just to watch you ride off with your soldiers. I should come with you.”
He cupped her cheek, his claws carefully sheathed. “Your magic is too untried—and you are too important.”
“My magic was tried enough to help win the war!”
“Mara. We will be riding for long hours, hunting down the creatures. Even my best warriors will be hard-pressed to maintain the pace. And cornered Voidspawn are vicious. I will not risk you.”
“Yet you risk yourself by not letting me come along. We are better together—we’ve proven that.” Hot tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned away. She almost wished she’d never returned to Elfhame. Almost.
He set his hands on her shoulders, but did not force her to turn back toward him.
“I am a poor husband,” he said, his voice low. “I know it—but I promise, when I come back, we will forge some happiness between us. I love you, my mortal wife.”
She sighed, then pivoted. “And I love you, Bran.”
For the first time, her traitorous heart wondered if that would be enough.
11
It was all Mara could do to sit through another feast in the Hawthorne Court’s dining hall. At least this time, Bran made a clear effort to include her in conversation with his parents—though Tinnueth markedly ignored every word she spoke, and Calithilon seemed only to humor her.
A different courtier was seated on Mara’s right—a noblewoman who gave Mara a single, disdainful look, then pointedly turned away and only spoke to her companion for the rest of the meal.
Mireleth presided further down the table, a mocking smile upon her lips whenever she glanced toward Mara—which was too often for comfort.
“Bran,” Mara said, when she’d finally had enough. “Will you give me a sip of your wine?”
He looked at her full cup, but said nothing, only raised his own goblet to her lips. When she finished drinking, he rotated the cup and placed his mouth where hers had just been. Warmth flashed through her, and she met his gaze.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Always,” he said. “Do not think I’m unaware of the difficulties you will face here.” His eyes brightened with pride. “I know you are strong enough to prevail.”
Her heart eased, and after that, Mara paid Mireleth no mind.
At the conclusion of the meal, the Hawthorne Lord stood. Quiet rippled into the room. Clearly everyone expected a speech from Bran’s father.
“Tomorrow, our prince rides out,” Calithilon said. “Our hopes and good wishes go with him as he seeks to finally put an end to our ancient enemy, and bring his prophecy to its ultimate fulfillment.”
The listeners stirred, and Mara read dissatisfaction in the faces of several of the courtiers. Despite what Bran had said about his supporters, it was clear that many in the Hawthorne Court thought that he’d failed—that this final attempt at chasing down the Void was a useless gesture.
“I know that Brannonilon will succeed in this, as he has succeeded before,” Calithilon continued. “And I know, too, that the brave warriors of Elfhame’s courts will not rest until they have eradicated this threat.”
However long that might take. Mara kept a smile on her lips, and pushed the thought into the background.
The Hawthorne Lord rested one hand on his son’s shoulder and raised his ornate goblet in the other. “Join me in a toast. To victory. To Elfhame. To Prince Brannonilon Luthinor!”
“To Prince Brannonilon!” the court echoed.
The raised goblets winked with reflected light, and for a moment, Mara was reminded of the surface of a lake, chased with sunlit ripples. She thrust her cup in the air, then drank the sweet elderberry wine. To Bran. Her impossible, beloved husband.
“I will come back to you, as soon as I may,” he murmured, slipping one arm about her waist.
“I know.” She gave him a smile. “I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”
That night, Bran paced restlessly in the sitting area. Mara, her feet tucked up under her on the couch, watched him.
“Are you always so on edge before a campaign?” she asked.
She didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. Annoyed, she decided. He needed his rest, after all.
“It helps me think.” He tugged at the thin braids framing his stark cheekbones.
“I think… you’d do best with some sleep.”
He gave a sharp shake of his head. “I’d only twist and turn, my mind filled with details. It’s better this way. Eventually, I’ll tire.”
As if his words conjured up her own weariness, Mara tried to hide a yawn behind her hand.
Bran halted. “You don’t have to stay awake and keep me company.”
“I want to. It’s my last chance to see you for… well, however long.”
He came to sit beside her. “Tell Penluith to teach you how to scry. Do you know what that is?”
“I’ve seen you do it, I think. In a bowl of water, yes?”
A slight smile softened his mouth. “Yes. The first time I ever saw you was in my scrying bowl. You were running through the Darkwood.”
“I was?” She tried to think back to the time before she’d met Bran. It seemed very long ago. “In my world, or yours?”
“It was not Elfhame—though there were glimglows.”
“It must have been my birthday eve. I don’t think I ever told you. Glimglows beckoned me out into the forest.” To a magical destiny she would never have believed. Even now, it almost seemed a dream—except she was living it.
“I am glad.” He enfolded her hands, his smile widening as she yawned again. “You should sleep now.”
“I’ll just curl up here,” she said, pulling a pillow over to tuck under her head.
“If you wish.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead, then stood. “But if my pacing disturbs you, I will not blame you for seeking the bed.”
“You won’t disturb me.” In truth, she loved watching him move. Even in his weariness, every step was filled with elegant, powerful grace.
He nodded, then resumed his movements, concentration drawing his features taut.
Mara must have slept, for she was dimly aware of Bran gathering her up in his arms and carrying her into the dim bedroom. He set h
er down and drew a blanket over her.
“Sleep well, beloved,” he said quietly.
She meant to wake more fully, to tell him not to worry, that she would not expire of frustration, or boredom, while waiting for him to return. But the blanket was soft, the room warm, and she slipped back into slumber.
When she next awoke, it was to find that she was still alone in the bed. Her questing hand found a warm hollow beside her, though, suggesting that Bran had risen only recently. She hoped he’d gotten enough sleep.
“Bran?” she called groggily.
“I am here.” His voice came from the other room.
“Is it time?”
“Nearly,” he replied. “We meet at the gates in a half turn.”
“I’ll get dressed, then.” She certainly wasn’t going to let her husband ride off without bidding him a proper—and public—farewell.
“Calya,” she said, rising on her elbows, and the foxfire obediently sprang to life within its silver bowl.
She hadn’t realized how convenient that tethered magic was. Were there smaller lamps that could be used portably? Or was every Dark Elf capable of calling foxfire if they wished?
She glanced at the sand-filled glass on the low table beside the bed, wishing for the normalness of a human clock. The hourglasses the Dark Elves used were confusing—and, of course, they didn’t count hours at all, only turns. One more thing reminding her how far she was from home.
She rose and surveyed the few outfits Anneth had lent her. It had been kind of Bran’s sister, but it was increasingly imperative that Mara procure some clothing of her own. Silken wrap-dresses were well enough for formal court dinners, but seemed impractical beyond that. She wanted some sturdy homespun—though she was unsure if the Dark Elves even created such humble material.
After wrapping herself in a swath of gold-embroidered green, Mara went to join Bran in the sitting room. He set down the satchel he’d been packing with scrolls and strode over to envelop her in an embrace.
She leaned against him, breathing deeply of his spicy scent.
“I’ll miss you,” she said, trying not to sound too forlorn.
“My body might go, but my heart remains here.”
It was one of the most romantic things he’d said to her, and she wanted to cling to him and beg him not to go. She had come back to Elfhame for him, and it was almost too much to bear that he was riding away.
But she would bear it—for his sake, as well as hers. And for the future of Elfhame.
A soft chime sounded, and his arms tightened about her for a moment before he let go.
“Stay safe, wife of mine.” His voice was rough with emotion.
“I am not the one fighting gyrewolves and spiderkin,” she replied. “You’d best return to me, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I swear it.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “This is not goodbye, Mara.”
The chime sounded again. Bran stepped back and scooped up his satchel.
“Is that all you’re taking?” she asked.
“The servants already carried my bags out. Fuin and the other horses are saddled and waiting.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Lifting her chin, Mara laced her arm through his and let him lead her through the door. They went quietly down the silver-lit hall, but as they passed Anneth’s rooms, her door opened and she stepped out.
“I was waiting for you,” she said. “You’re almost late.”
“Are you certain you should be up?” Bran gave her a stern look.
She gave him a tilted smile. “I can’t let my brother ride off without wishing him safe journeys. Besides, I thought Mara might like a bit of company once you go.”
Mara sent her a grateful glance. “I would—thank you.”
It would be far easier to bear the scathing looks of the court with Anneth at her side.
Bran firmed his mouth, but did not try to argue with his sister. Still, he slowed his pace slightly, and Anneth didn’t urge them to hurry. The unspoken compromise carried them to the front doors of the palace.
In the courtyard before the gates, a dozen warriors were making their farewells to families and loved ones. Their mounts stamped restively, ready to be off. Calithilon stood there, his silver circlet resting regally on his dark hair. There was no sign of Tinnueth.
Mara was relieved not to have to bear the Hawthorne Lady’s silent scorn, though she felt a pang for Bran, that his own mother didn’t bother coming to see him off.
But his father was there, and Anneth, and a few others. The small crowd cheered as their prince descended the wide steps.
Bran nodded to his warriors, then turned to Hestil. “Is everyone ready?”
“Yes,” his second-in-command said.
The groom brought Fuin, and Bran set his hand on his steed’s shoulder, making ready to mount.
“Good luck,” Anneth said, going on tiptoes to kiss her brother’s cheek.
He nodded, his face stern, but his gaze softened as he looked at Mara.
“Bran,” she said, then went into his arms.
She raised her face to his, and their lips met in a kiss she felt all the way down to her toes. A faint whisper ran through the onlookers, but she didn’t care. This was her husband, her chosen one—no matter that the prophecy had forced them together.
“Beloved,” he whispered against her lips.
Then he stepped away and swung up on Fuin. Mara’s heart was hot with fierce love for him, heavy with sorrow.
“Fight well, my son.” The Hawthorne Lord raised his hand. “We shall scry for you.”
Bran gave him a short nod, then signaled to his riders. Almost as one, they wheeled their horses and rode out through the tall, pale gates of the Hawthorne Palace. As befitting warriors, none of them looked back.
12
The arched gates of the Hawthorne Palace shone under the wan light of the palemoon, and the rising radiance of the brightmoon. The small crowd gathered there watched the warriors ride into the silver-misted air until they disappeared in the haze of distance.
Mara was the last to turn away, Anneth’s hand on her shoulder.
“He’ll be back soon,” Bran’s sister said in an encouraging tone.
“Or not.” Mara faced the elegant palace. Knowing that Bran was no longer within made it seem a hollow, cheerless place.
“We have much to do while he’s gone.” Anneth smiled at her. “Starting with your wardrobe.”
Mara glanced down at her silken dress. “That would be good. I wanted to thank you again for giving me a few things to wear.”
Anneth waved a hand. “That’s just a start. Come back with me to my rooms. I’ll rest, and you can look through my wardrobe.”
“I can’t steal all your dresses!”
“I won’t let you, don’t worry. Whatever takes your fancy, we can ask the seamstresses to make something similar.”
Mara nodded, then lent Anneth her arm for balance as they mounted the stairs. Bran’s sister paused at the top, her breathing fast.
Mara gave her a sharp look. “How is your healing progressing?”
“Very well. Truly, it is—you don’t need to frown at me as if you were Bran. By the morrow, Avantor says I can be up and around.”
“But not today,” Mara said pointedly. “You’re my last ally here—I need you in good health.”
Anneth tsked. “I would not have missed Bran’s leave-taking. And as far as allies, plenty of people in the Hawthorne Palace support you.”
“Who?” Mara glanced around the deserted courtyard. “Almost none of the courtiers, I’d wager.”
She held the door for Anneth, then offered her arm again. Slowly, they made their way toward her sister-in-law’s rooms.
“Perhaps not a great number of the nobles,” Anneth conceded. “But some think well of you—Avantor, for one. And many of the craftspeople do, too. Of course, the soldiers are firmly with you.”
“With Bran, you mea
n.”
“And with you,” Anneth said. “Everyone who was on the battlefield knows that without your help, Elfhame would have been lost.”
“I’ve been informed by certain members of the court that our victory doesn’t matter.”
Anneth made an annoyed sound. “They are idiots. Or Mireleth’s flunkies, who foolishly pinned their hopes on seeing her become the next Hawthorne Lady.”
“She doesn’t seem to have given up,” Mara said as they stepped into Anneth’s rooms. She was happy to have the solid door between their conversation and any listening ears.
“Mireleth is blind to anything but her own ambitions. Even the obvious fact that Bran loves you.” Anneth sank down onto her couch with a sigh. “She’s irritating, but harmless.”
Even if that were so, it seemed to Mara that Tinnueth remained her most dangerous adversary. But how did she mention such things to the woman’s daughter? Especially when Anneth was doing her best to help Mara navigate the intricacies of the court?
She didn’t. Perhaps a better time would come, or perhaps her fears would amount to nothing. In the meantime, she had a wardrobe to select.
Anneth directed her to the tall, carved wardrobe in the corner, and bade her remove armloads of dresses. As Mara began sorting through them, her belly let out an inelegant rumble.
Anneth glanced at her. “I’d wager Bran didn’t bother to feed you! Let me send for a tray.”
The privileges of being a princess. Mara didn’t argue—and she supposed she could do the same. Except for the fact that she needed magic to contact the kitchens. Which reminded her…
“Is it difficult to scry?”
“That depends.” Anneth tilted her head. “How far apart the scrying parties are is a major factor, as is the strength of their bond.”
“Bran told me he saw me in the mortal world.”
Anneth’s eyes widened. “Between the worlds! That’s impressive. Of course, he’s the strongest warrior mage we’ve had in eons. And the two of you are deeply connected via the prophecy.”
The dratted prophecy. Mara was growing weary of bumping up against it at every turn.
