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

by Anthea Sharp

  “Hello. I’m Mara.”

  The elf nodded, as if it weren’t obvious. “Are you ready to begin your knife training?”

  Clearly Sicil wasn’t one to mince words, or waste time on niceties. Which, Mara reflected, was a hallmark of most of the warriors under Bran’s command. She was glad to see the warrior, despite Sicil’s brusque manner. It brought Bran closer, somehow.

  Mara glanced down at the length of scarlet silk draped, somewhat inexpertly, about her. “I suppose I should change.”

  “It is not necessary. May I enter?”

  Mara stepped back, giving Sicil permission to stride into the sitting room. The elf took in the room with a glance.

  “We’ll need to move the couch back,” she said, pushing the table out of the way.

  Mara helped her move the furniture until the center of the room was cleared. With brisk efficiency, Sicil rolled up the ornately patterned rug, revealing smooth wooden planks the color of a pigeon’s wing.

  Did Elfhame even have pigeons? Mara thought not. The only flying things she’d encountered were the glimglows, and a dark-winged owl in the depths of the Darkwood. Of course, she hadn’t seen very much of Elfhame. There might well be all kinds of creatures dwelling in the realm that she had no notion of.

  “I understand you have a knife,” Sicil said, glancing with disapproval at the lack of weapon at Mara’s waist.

  “It’s in the other room. I’ll fetch it.”

  Mara forced herself not to scurry to do Sicil’s bidding. The woman had a forceful personality, but that didn’t mean Mara should bow to the warrior’s every command. She’d stood up to Bran, after all, and she could think of no one more forbidding than the Hawthorne Prince in one of his moods.

  She returned from the bedroom with the dagger Bran had given her, the gemstones cool against her palm. It was a better weapon than her old, trusty kitchen knife, but she felt a pang of longing for the plain wooden handle and nicked blade.

  Sicil held out her hand, and Mara gave her the weapon.

  “Hm.” The Dark Elf turned it back and forth, giving the haft a close inspection. She tested the blade with her thumb, and frowned.

  “Needs a sharper edge, but the balance is good, the workmanship solid. You should wear it at all times.” She handed the dagger back to Mara.

  “Even when I’m alone in these rooms?”

  “Of course.” Sicil’s voice held an impatient note. “What good is giving you lessons in blade work if you have no weapon handy when you need one?”

  “And why shouldn’t I change into something more practical?” Might as well ask all the annoying questions at once.

  “If you are called upon to use your blade, it will not come at an opportune time. Your enemies will not wait for you to don proper fighting garb. You’re not joining the ranks of the fighters.” Sicil paused. “At least, that is not the instruction Prince Brannonilon gave me.”

  It was a somewhat laughable thought.

  “He’s right,” Mara said. “I have no intention of becoming a warrior.”

  Sicil nodded. “Then we shall proceed as planned. Now, hold the dagger firmly, with your thumb wrapped about the handle, like so.”

  She demonstrated the proper grip, and Mara tried to emulate her. Sicil reached over and adjusted her fingers until she was satisfied with Mara’s grasp.

  “Now, your stance. Spread your feet wider and bend your knees.”

  Mara complied. At least the Dark Elf dresses were roomy enough to maneuver in. As long as she avoided tripping over her skirts, she supposed she could learn to fight in court clothes.

  Sicil took her through a pattern of lunges and swipes, some high, some low, pausing at intervals to reposition Mara’s arms.

  “Where to strike depends on the size of your attacker,” the elf said. “Whether they are wearing armor or silk, how skilled they are. A gut wound will slow your enemy, but a throat stab is better.”

  Mara halted, taking a moment to catch her breath.

  “What kind of enemies do you think I’ll face here, in the Hawthorne Court?” she asked.

  And why hadn’t Bran discussed such things with her, instead of informing her she’d be training to fight, and then leaving her behind?

  Sicil’s expression grew remote. “I cannot say, my lady. One never knows where danger lurks.”

  Wonderful. When Bran returned, Mara planned on having a serious discussion with him about the dangers of Elfhame.

  “Do you think the prince is being overcautious?” She watched Sicil closely.

  The Dark Elf’s face remained impassive. “It is his duty—and mine—to ensure your safety, whether in the court or elsewhere. Shall we resume?”

  “I suppose.” Mara wiped her forehead with her sleeve, then took up her stance again and raised her blade.

  By the time Sicil declared the practice session at an end, Mara was sticky with perspiration. She could tell her arms were going to be sore later, and probably her legs as well.

  “Good work,” the warrior elf said. “You will rest on the morrow, then alternate between working with me and lessons with Penluith.”

  Mara firmed her mouth. “I suppose Bran decreed this schedule?”

  Without once discussing it with her. Clearly her husband had forgotten that theirs was supposed to be a partnership of equals.

  Sicil must have heard the annoyance in Mara’s tone, for her voice held a sympathetic note. “The commander sometimes forgets that we are not pieces to be moved about on a game board. If anyone can help remind him of that fact, my lady, it is you.”

  Mara blew out a breath. She hoped Sicil was right. And in his defense, Bran had been distracted, trying to recover from the edge of dying while also mustering his soldiers for their quest. Not to mention worrying about his sister and facing off against his parents.

  “We shall see.” And she would bide.

  For now.

  15

  It took longer for Bran and his warriors to recover than he would have liked. By the doublemoon, he was restless and impatient at the thought of Voidspawn loose throughout Elfhame.

  He sat with the Nightshade Lady in her private study over breakfast, where they had taken to discussing the threat to Elfhame, and how best to face it.

  “Sobering news,” the lady said, pushing aside her plate. “There have been reports of a spiderkin spotted near Moonflower, a gyrewolf killed at the border.”

  “Nothing from the inner courts?”

  “No.” The Nightshade Lady sounded thoughtful. “Do you find that odd?”

  “Not particularly. The main rifts were all in Hawthorne and Nightshade territory. Why should the Voidspawn disperse from the area?”

  “Still, you intend to visit all the courts,” she said.

  Bran gave her a terse nod. “I must, to ensure the entire realm is free of our old enemy. I’ll sweep the surrounding countryside as I go, of course.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll succeed in your quest.” She leaned forward, giving him a searching look. “And your wellspring? Is it replenished?”

  “Well enough.”

  That had been a difficult conversation, admitting to the Nightshade Lady that the Void had injured him so deeply. But it was better than pretending all was well and continuing to drain himself dry. An exhausted commander did his warriors no good.

  He shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. “Once I’ve returned to the Hawthorne Court, I hope I might bring my wife here for a visit.”

  “I would like that very well.” Her face softened. “What I saw of your lady, I admired.”

  Bran felt his lips lift in a slight smile. Yes, his wife was remarkable, and he was glad that Nightshade recognized her worth.

  Unlike his own parents. His smile evaporated. “I hope that visit will come soon.”

  “As do I, Hawthorne Prince. But now, I see you are ready to depart.” She pushed her chair back and rose. “I will not wish you a safe journey, for that would defeat its purpose, but I do wish you a
ll success. May your sword fall true and your magic burn bright.”

  He bowed. “Thank you, my lady. Next we meet, the Voidspawn will be gone from our land, forever.”

  She nodded gravely, her fingers tight on the back of her chair. Neither of them spoke of the other threat hanging over the fate of the Dark Elves.

  I will conquer that, too, Bran thought fiercely. Our future depends on it.

  The palemoon and the bright cast double shadows as Bran and his warriors—their party now numbering sixteen—rode out from the Nightshade Palace. The mood was cautiously cheerful, and he felt his spirits rise as they rode into the purple-hued meadows.

  His wellspring, though still not at full strength, was recovered enough that he could once again wield his battle magic. His troop numbered enough to make up three scouting parties, so that they might cover more ground. And the Nightshade Lady respected his wife.

  That, perhaps most of all, gave him heart.

  The cold reception Mara had received at the Hawthorne Court angered him. He’d wanted to take the nobles by their collars and shake them hard, until they saw Mara’s value. Wasn’t it enough that she’d played a pivotal role in the battle against the Void? They were fools, all of them.

  Especially Mireleth.

  He gritted his teeth at the memory of his ex-betrothed waving her bracelet about as if it were some kind of promise, instead of a broken bond. She must have retrieved the bracelet after he’d severed that foolish betrothal. It was unheard of, for one party to continue to wear an empty promise, but then again, Mireleth was always looking for advantage and was happy to bend the rules to do so.

  Once he returned to Hawthorne, he’d have to do something about her—and her ambitious father. There could be no more angling for a position at his side. Mara was the next Hawthorne Lady, and in his heart there could be no other.

  At least Anneth understood. He knew that his sister would help Mara settle into the ways of the court. And once his wife mastered her wellspring, a greater acceptance must follow.

  “Shall we break off?” Hestil asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

  “Yes.” He glanced at the five hand-picked warriors that would go with her, taking point as they made for Moonflower. “Contact me if you sense anything.”

  “Aye, commander.”

  She signaled to her fighters, and the six of them spurred their mounts forward. The moons illuminated them as they rode away—the bright glints of metal on their weapons and padded armor, the locks of raven and silver hair flying behind them from the wind of their passing.

  “My lord.” Turut, the leader of the second scout troop, guided his horse beside Fuin. “Shall we turn aside as well?”

  “Not yet. We’ll give Hestil some time to flush out our prey.” If, indeed, any Void creatures lay in their path. Bran watched the riders until they disappeared over the crest of a purple-hazed hill.

  He’d cast a net of sensing over the entire party. If his second-in-command engaged in a fight, the magic would alert him immediately. So far, all was quiet. Although, the Voidspawn had managed to elude his perceptions until the last moment during their previous encounter—further proof that they had grown in cunning.

  “If she hasn’t encountered any Voidspawn within two turns, I’ll send you on your way,” Bran said.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Turut fell back to ride with his scouts. Their party also numbered six, leaving Bran with three warriors. And his own powerful magic, of course. He planned to stay on the main road, while Turut and Hestil ranged ahead and to the sides. It would take them five sleeps to reach Moonflower, where he hoped to gather another half-dozen warriors, at least.

  Then on to Rowan, which circled back to share a border with Hawthorne, though their courts lay almost as far apart as Hawthorne and Moonflower. The proximity of Nightshade to the Hawthorne Court was unusual.

  But then, their two courts shared the Erynvorn and guarded the doorway within. Rowan and Moonflower had ever been removed from such things—and the inner courts even more so, preoccupied with etiquette and artistry rather than facing any threats at their borders.

  No, the four outer courts had borne the brunt of shoring up the barrier that protected their small realm. Hawthorne and Nightshade most of all.

  Bran flexed his hands, extending and retracting his claws. He was not certain what kind of reception he’d find once he turned to the center of Elfhame. His parents sat on the Courts’ Council, as he would in turn, but the seven courts did not always agree.

  At least they’d all sent warriors once the Void started breaking through in earnest. Bran had found no fault with their fighting skills.

  The nobility, on the other hand…

  He let out a heavy breath. He’d turn that glass when he came to it. Meantime, he had Voidspawn to hunt.

  16

  As Mara had suspected, her arms were sore the next day from her training with Sicil. The ache helped distract her from the deeper pain of waking alone in Bran’s bed. Did he miss her? How long would it be until he returned?

  Such thoughts only served to hone the edge of her unhappiness, and she scolded herself for wallowing in them. Better to turn her mind to the new day. Determinedly, she rose, stretched, and decided to visit Anneth instead of going in search of breakfast.

  But what to wear? Pursing her lips, she stared at the colorful lengths of silk hanging in the closet. Was it considered vulgar to don the same outfit twice in as many days? Probably. Good thing the seamstress was scheduled to deliver an assortment of new gowns after lunch.

  She wrapped a length of turquoise silk around herself and tied the ends together behind her neck to anchor the garment. The skirts billowed about her legs, but despite the free-flowing fabric, the dress was not immodest. At the last minute, she recalled Sicil’s instruction to wear her dagger at all times.

  After a bit of searching through the wardrobe, Mara found a woven belt that seemed to match her dress. Or at least didn’t clash with it. She looped the sash about her waist and slipped on the sheathed dagger. A polished silver mirror hung on the far wall of the bedroom, and she went over to inspect her reflection.

  The turquoise fabric brought out the green of her eyes, and she thought she’d done an adequate job of dressing herself. She might yet master the knack of donning the Dark Elves’ clothing, but it would never feel as familiar as her old homespun dress. She went back to the wardrobe and ran her hand down the coarse weave. It felt like home, and she couldn’t help sighing before she closed the door and went to visit Anneth.

  Bran’s sister was delighted to see her, and Mara was glad to find that her friend was up and moving without apparent pain.

  “Are you all better?” she asked, stepping into Anneth’s sitting room.

  “Avantor has pronounced me fit enough to resume my normal activities,” Anneth said with a grin. “No vigorous riding for a bit longer, though. I must say, you’ve done a fair job with your dress. Let me just pull this bit out, here, and re-tuck it… Yes, like so. You see? And then this part goes over here.”

  Mara twisted about, trying to discern where Anneth had folded the fabric upon itself and where she had tucked it in. Whatever she’d done, the dress flowed more gracefully, and Mara felt a bit less like she was wearing her elder sister’s castoff.

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever get it right,” she said ruefully, meaning more than just the Dark Elves’ style of dress.

  “You will, with my help.” Anneth gave her an encouraging look. “I was getting ready to go to breakfast. Come with me?”

  Mara nodded. Truly, it was time to stop sulking in Bran’s rooms. She could face the dining room with an ally by her side.

  “How are the lessons going with Penluith?” Anneth asked as they stepped together into the hall.

  “I am not the most talented of students,” Mara said, unwilling to confess that she was, apparently, terrible at magic. Despite the fact that, according to Bran, she possessed an amazing wellspring. It did not see
m to be a very obedient one, unfortunately.

  “It will come.” Anneth squeezed her arm, then glanced at the blade belted at Mara’s waist. “I hear that Sicil is giving you weapons training.”

  “The rudiments of how to use a dagger, that’s all. I’m not sure how useful it will be.”

  “Being able to wield a weapon of any kind is important,” Anneth said, her voice somber. “After being attacked by the Voidspawn, I’ve vowed to work on my archery. Perhaps we can train together.”

  “Where?” Surely Anneth wasn’t going to practice shooting her bow and arrows inside. “The gardens?”

  “That’s a marvelous idea. I’d thought the training arena, but the gardens are even better. There’s a secluded corner near the old wall that will be perfect. When shall we start? After breakfast?”

  Despite nearing the dining room’s doors, and the no-doubt disapproving members of the court, Mara smiled. Clearly Anneth was feeling better, if her exuberance was any indication.

  “Very well,” Mara said. “As long as you don’t laugh at me. I’m not very skilled.”

  “Of course you’re not—you’ve just started. Whereas I am horrid with bows, despite having used them for years.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Avantor said, catching up to them from behind, having clearly overheard Anneth’s last words. “You just haven’t cared to excel.”

  “Well, I care now,” she replied.

  The healer gave her a stern look. “You may practice your archery, but no sessions longer than a quarter turn until the next brightmoon.”

  Anneth made a face, but didn’t argue. For her part, Mara was glad of the time constraint. She wasn’t certain how much stabbing and lunging she could do, with the muscles in her arms and legs protesting with every movement.

  The three of them entered the dining hall, and Mara was relieved to see it was not very full. The Hawthorne Lord and Lady’s places were empty. A few nobles browsed the food set out on the long tables, and others clustered together, taking their meals.