by Anthea Sharp
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Also by Anthea Sharp
About the Author
RAINE copyright 2020 by Anthea Sharp. First edition published April 2020. All rights reserved. Characters are purely fictional figments of the author’s imagination. Please do not copy, upload, or distribute in any fashion.
Cover by S. Frost Designs. Professional editing by LHTemple and Editing720.
ISBN 9781680131123
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QUALITY CONTROL
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RAINE ~ A Dark Elf princess embarks on a perilous adventure that will save her world, but cost her heart…
In the shadowed land of Elfhame the Hawthorne Throne is in grave peril, and the heir, Prince Brannon Luthinor, is nowhere to be found. He and his human wife have crossed between the worlds in pursuit of the Dark Elves’ ancient enemy. Only one person has the courage to follow: his sister Anneth.
But the mortal world is far more complex than Anneth expected. Desperate to find her brother and his wife, she instead stumbles into danger of her own. Her only hope of protecting those she loves is to give herself up to the enemy, and risk sacrificing everything for the sake of a mortal prince.
Don’t miss the previous books in this epic romantic fantasy series!
ELFHAME - Book 1
HAWTHORNE - Book 2
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my long-time friend and fellow author Chassily - couldn’t have done this one without you! Big thanks is also due to another friend and writer, Laurie, for excellent editorial advice. Your passion and grace help make me a better storyteller.
Another big round of thanks to my mom, Ginger, for catching a lot of little things in the MS during your nightly read-throughs, and to Will, for listening (and making a catch or two himself!) - hugs to you both.
I also want to thank everyone in basically the world for doing the right thing and sheltering in place during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic. I was behind on this book by a month, due to life upheavals caused by the virus - but the fact that it didn’t sweep like an out-of-control wildfire through my country enabled me to dial back the panic and immerse myself in the fantasy world of the Darkwood Chronicles to get this book done. Humans are amazing, and resilient, and we will get through this…
Another big tip of the hat to Arran for the fine work and quick turn-around, not to mention cleaning up my comma abuse.
Special thanks to S. Frost Designs for the gorgeous cover.
Finally, I’d like to acknowledge the work of Leonard and the wonderful folks who compiled Parf Edhellen, a free online dictionary of Tolkien’s languages. The Dark Elf language is deeply inspired by Sindarin, with many thanks to this excellent resource. https://www.elfdict.com/about.page
This one goes out to everyone working on building bridges between worlds. You know who you are. Keep the light burning bright~
1
In the overheated back corner of a Parnesian wine house, Brannon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne, Prince of the Dark Elves, warrior-mage and prophecy-born, was losing at dice. Rather spectacularly. And not on purpose.
“Pity,” said the olive-skinned man seated across the table as he swept the last of Bran’s coin into his pile. “Got any more stake?”
The silver gleamed mockingly against the pitted wooden tabletop. Bran, trying not to clench his teeth, shook his head. While surveilling the wine house, he’d thought to plump up his purse with a simple game of chance. He’d thought wrong.
For a moment, the leashed wellspring of his magic flared.
Just a little nudge of the dice, and the tables would turn…
No. That was not his way, no matter how much the mortal world might tax his patience. He glanced over at the man who had taken the last of his coin.
“I am finished,” Bran said.
“Tsk.” The man sucked his teeth. “Another coin or two, and you might win it all back.”
“I have no more.”
“I could lend you a bit.” The gambler smiled, his expression all kindness with not one drop of sincerity.
Bran regarded him steadily from within the shelter of his hooded cloak. “I think not.”
“Eh. Your loss.” The man scooped the coins into his purse with a sweet, metallic clink of farewell. “Better luck tomorrow, then.”
“Perhaps,” Bran replied, though he had no intention of frequenting that particular wine house. The Soiled Cockerel. It seemed aptly named.
“Ciao.” The man flashed a cheeky smile and slid out from the bench to spend his ill-gotten gains elsewhere. He eeled his way into the crowd around the bar, leaving Bran to his tangled thoughts and his empty purse.
The Hawthorne Prince let out an irritated breath. It was only money, after all. He would sleep beneath the bridges tonight, and manufacture more coin on the morrow. The flat white stones along the riverbed were easy enough to enchant into silver florins, and they spent as well as any mortal coin.
Although the whole concept of money was strange to him. They did not use such a system of commerce in Elfhame. It had taken him some time to understand its use, and longer still to take advantage of it.
“Another glass?” the barmaid asked, coasting past his table with a half-dozen empty goblets blooming like a crystal bouquet from her hand.
“Thank you, but no.” Bran pushed aside his goblet, still half-full of harsh red wine.
There were no answers here, no hint of the enemy he was chasing. A wasted evening, and it was his own fault for thinking drink and a bit of gambling would help ease the tight twist of yearning in his heart.
His own fault, too, for being worlds away from his beloved, Mara.
When he’d leaped through the gateway from Elfhame into the mortal realm, it had been the only course of action. The Void, his people’s ancient enemy, could not be allowed to escape and wreak havoc upon the humans.
But he’d lost the trail of the Voidspawn here, in the bustling city of Parnese. The lumberer, that fearsome creature of the Void, had somehow vanished. Now, disquieting rumors were surfacing about strange deaths in the poorer quarters: withered corpses found floating beneath the piers, beggars who disappeared, only for the husks of their bodies to be discovered in dank alleyways and abandoned buildings.
He was certain it was the Void, gaining in strength. Yet, despite Bran’s formidable powers, he was unable to discover where the creature had gone to ground.
Did the Void still maintain the aspect of the lumberer? He doubted it. But what form had it taken, and where was it? The questions kept him restless and on edge.
It did not help matters that he must draw upon his magic at all times in order to appear human, which honed his already sharp temper. He could not alter his height, and did not choose to change the dark plaits of his warrior’s braids, although his enchantment of misdirection softened the angles of his face and rounded his pupils. The mortal world was frustrating, and the fact that he dared not show his true self or perform any obvious acts of magic made it all the more so.
He’d thought Mara difficult to understand—but here, in the heart of the human city, he felt like a creature of the air thrust underwater and expected to swim. W
as that how his mortal bride had felt, trapped in the realm of the Dark Elves?
It was not a pleasant sensation in the least, and once again he acknowledged what a poor husband he’d been to her. Poor husband and—so far—failed hero.
But enough of these desperate thoughts.
He gave himself a mental shake. At least Mara had finally been able to contact him via the magic of scrying, though she was a kingdom and an ocean away. It would not do for her to find him lost in self-pity and at his wits’ end.
Even if he felt that way daily.
Day.
That was part of the problem, too. In his own land, there was no fireball scorching its way across the sky, blinding and burning the people beneath. The Dark Elves were made for moonlight, the soft radiance of their doublemoons twining through the shadowed hours. Sometimes both moons shone, sometimes one, and rarely none at all. Thus, his people had developed the ability to moderate their vision to the amount of available light.
Thank all the bright stars that he could do so with the sun as well, sliding a protective membrane over his catlike eyes in order to reduce its terrible glare. That, plus the deep-hooded cloak he wore, made the refracted brilliance bearable.
Night was a relief, and so he had become a denizen of that darker time. Mostly, it was a wise choice. Unless, while trying to distract himself, he lost all his coin in an unlucky game of chance.
Fingering his now-empty purse, Bran rose. It was past time for him to leave the Soiled Cockerel. Too bad he’d not paid in advance for lodgings—but he’d learned his lesson. Despite his distaste for moving about in the day, on the morrow he would secure a place for the next fortnight.
How long would it take Mara to reach him?
He longed to scry to her—but without a private room and a lock on the door, it would be utter folly. He must not run the risk of discovery, no matter how much he longed to see his wife’s face and hear her voice.
For now, he must content himself with the knowledge that she’d managed to open the gate and step from Elfhame into the mortal world. She was on her way to him—and surely, as a native of this world, she would not find it so difficult to come to Parnese.
Not nearly as difficult as he had.
As soon as they were reunited, he felt certain that, with their joined powers, they’d be able to track down the Void. No matter where it had hidden itself, or how well guarded it might be.
He clenched his hands, his partially sheathed nails biting into his palms. He would keep searching, of course—prying relentlessly into the scum-infested areas of Parnese, like the Soiled Cockerel—and pray to the doublemoons that the Void would not take too many more victims.
2
The Darkwood stirred, a cold wind whispering through the tall hemlocks as Mara Geary and the Dark Elf scout, Ondo, trod the paths beneath the trees. The gateway between the worlds lay far behind them, the standing stones hidden in their secret glade in the center of the forest.
Shafts of sunlight sifted down, illuminating patches of pale blossoms, and Mara could not help sighing at the sight of the sun. She had missed it dreadfully during her time in Elfhame. Even a few hours back in her world had helped ease her heart. Not to mention that she was in the same realm as Bran, and on her way to him. She let out another long breath.
“Are you well, my lady?” Ondo asked, casting a look over his shoulder. “Should we call a rest?”
“No need. We’re almost at the edge of the forest.”
Almost to the wide meadow where the road to the village of Little Hazel began—and her family’s cottage stood.
“I do not think it wise to leave you,” the scout said.
“Coming with me would be more foolish. My magic is too unreliable to disguise you. And besides, I’ll make better time traveling alone.”
He frowned, the gaunt lines of his face tightening, but turned back to the path. They both knew that she was right—he would only slow her down with his lack of knowledge of the human world, and if anyone guessed what he was, they would both be in danger.
Beyond those arguments, though, was the simple fact that his prince had ordered him to remain in the Darkwood and guard the gateway between the worlds. Ondo would not disobey.
The trees thinned, and Mara caught a whiff of wood smoke drifting on the breeze. Soon she would see her family again. Her pace quickened, anticipation pushing her forward.
Her sisters, Lily and Pansy, would be older, of course; everyone would. Time ran differently in the land of the Dark Elves, and where a few months had passed for her, she knew that equaled almost two years in the mortal world. How strange, to think that Pansy would now be older than she was, and Lily nearly her same age.
Would they be courting? Pansy had wanted nothing more than to marry a rich merchant and leave Little Hazel behind. Lily had expressed no opinion either way.
And as for the twins, Sean and Seanna, Mara couldn’t imagine them making separate lives apart from one another—but perhaps they had.
She and Ondo reached the last stand of cedar trees, the feathery branches marking the edge of the Darkwood.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to him. “I know you wish only to keep me safe, as you have done before. But this is my world, now. I’ll come to no harm.”
His lips twisted, as though he wished to argue, but he merely shook his head. “I wish you safe travels, my lady. Find Prince Bran, dispatch the Voidspawn, and return to us, as soon as you may.”
“I will.”
By her calculations, it was a two-day ride to the coast of Raine and then a journey of four days by ship to Parnese. So, a fortnight’s worth of travel there and back—but that did not include helping Bran track down the elusive Voidspawn and then dispatching it. At the very least, they would not return for a month.
Her family deserved more than one day’s visit from her, as well, and she must provision for the journey ahead, by land and by sea.
How had Bran managed? Were there even oceans in Elfhame? How strange it all must have seemed to him.
“Bide—and we will scry to you,” she told Ondo. “Meanwhile, take care not to be seen.”
“I am adept at woodcraft,” he said in an injured tone.
She set her hand on his arm. “I know—but you would appear monstrously frightening to any human who might catch a glimpse of you.”
“Monstrous?” His dark brows drew together. “But you do not find us so, my lady.”
“No.” Her mouth twisted in a wry smile at the memory of how dreadful she’d found Bran on their first meeting. “Not any longer.”
“I will be cautious,” he said.
She nodded. “I don’t doubt it. Farewell, Ondo.”
“May the moons shine upon your path,” he said, bowing.
“And the sun upon yours.” She smiled, then strode out of the forest into the crisp light of spring.
New shoots of green were emerging from the brown hummocks of meadow grass, and the first hardy yellow flowers bloomed beside the road. The meadow gave way to fenced fields and thickets, and soon she caught sight of the stone-walled cottages scattered ahead.
Without meaning to, she began to run, flying toward the second cottage on the left. Home.
She drew up at the front step, heart pounding. The lilac bush beside the door had grown into a tree, the first new buds swelling beneath the bark. The scent of fresh-baked bread permeated the air, and from inside the cottage she could hear laughter.
Suddenly tearful, she lifted her hand and knocked.
“Coming!” her mother called.
The door opened, revealing Mara’s mother, whose mouth fell open when she caught sight of her daughter. “Mara—dear heavens.”
She opened her arms, and with a sniffle, Mara stepped into her mother’s embrace.
With an ear-splitting screech, Lily joined them, wrapping her arms tightly around Mara’s shoulders. At least, Mara thought it must be her youngest sister, but her eyes were so blurred with tears it was difficult to tell.
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When her mother let her go, Mara rubbed her vision clear and took a shaky breath. She knew she’d missed her family, but she’d tried to ignore how very fiercely her longing to see them had burned through her. Now, standing on the scrubbed wooden floorboards of their cottage, with her mother and sister before her, she could scarcely breathe past the happiness filling her chest.
“Come in, take off your cloak,” her mother said, closing the door.
“I can’t believe it,” Lily said, looking Mara up and down. “I’m taller than you! Did you shrink there in the magical land of the elves? Are they all ridiculously short?”
“Far from it,” Mara said, laughing. “But look at you—you’re all grown up.”
Her sister’s brown hair, the same shade as her own, was coiled into a neat bun, her hazel eyes bright with curiosity.
“Alas,” their mother said with a mock sigh. “Lily might be a young woman now, but she has no suitors.”
“But I have a kitten,” Lily said proudly, going to scoop up a ball of fluff from the chair before the hearth and holding the kitten out for inspection. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Very.” Mara hung up her cloak beside the door, then went to admire her sister’s new pet.
The kitten’s marmalade-colored fur was soft as silk. It blinked up at her with green eyes, then yawned.
“You’ve missed Pansy’s monthly visit,” their mother said, bustling to the hearth to put the kettle on. “Dare I ask whether you’ll be staying?”
