by Anthea Sharp
Sobering, Mara looked at her mother. The fine lines about her eyes had deepened, and new streaks of gray threaded her brown hair. The cost of staying in Elfhame, Mara realized with a pang, was that she would have to see her family grow old without her.
Unless she stayed forever in that dark land—but that thought squeezed her heart with too much pain.
“I can’t stay,” she said, wishing she could erase the sorrow from her mother’s eyes.
“Surely you’re not stepping right out the door again?” Lily asked, cuddling her kitten beneath her chin. “You must see Papa.”
“And the twins,” their mother added. “We’ll have them over for supper.”
“They don’t live here anymore?” Mara glanced at the steep stairway leading to the bedrooms upstairs. It was strange to think of the house emptying out, her siblings moving away and going on with lives she knew nothing about. “Where has Pansy gone?”
Their mother shook her head fondly. “She did what she always said she would… married a rich fellow and moved to Meriton.”
“Is she happy?” Mara asked.
“Ridiculously so!” Lily rolled her eyes, and Mara smiled to see the echo of the child still within the young woman. “We all thought her a fool for leaving Little Hazel, but she lives in a mansion now. I’m to spend a month with her, come autumn, and she’ll show me all the sights of the city.”
“As long as you keep out of trouble,” their mother said.
Lily snorted in response and went to deposit her fluffball back on the cushion.
“And Sean and Seanna?” Mara asked, going to sit in her favorite chair.
She paused, brushing orange cat hair off the worn green upholstery, then settled. Things had changed, but not too terribly. The cottage was still home.
Her mother fetched the teapot from its shelf and strewed a handful of leaves inside, then set out three mugs.
“Old Soraya passed this last winter,” she said. “The twins were studying with her, as you recall.”
Mara nodded. Her oldest siblings had always shown a penchant for herbcraft, and the whole village knew that they would inherit the herbwife’s mantle.
“They moved into her cottage,” her mother continued, “and seem well content.”
“They have a suitor, though,” Lily said, giggling.
“Both of them?”
Mara’s mother firmed her lips. “We don’t know for certain which one young Orion is courting—and it’s no business of ours. Eventually, they’ll make some sort of announcement.”
Considering the fact that their middle daughter was married to a Dark Elf prince, Mara supposed that a human, of any persuasion, was nothing for her parents to concern themselves over.
“Lily, run tell the twins that Mara’s here and bid them come for supper this evening,” their mother said.
Without protest, Lily jumped up and grabbed her cloak from its spot by the door. She paused a moment to finger Mara’s finely woven Dark Elf garment.
“This is lovely workmanship,” she said. “Did you bring us more jewels this time?”
“Shoo,” their mother said, flapping her apron at Lily.
Grinning, Lily slipped out the door.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that child,” Mara’s mother said.
“Ship her off to Meriton?” Mara smiled at her mother. “I think she’ll have a grand time with Pansy.”
“Hopefully not too grand.” Her mother poured hot water from the kettle into the teapot, then came to sit across from Mara. “But speaking of changed circumstances, how is your life as a princess?”
Mara picked up her empty earthenware mug and rolled it thoughtfully between her hands. There was a fine line between putting a good face on things and confessing all her troubles to her mother.
“Complicated,” she finally said. “And not at all settled. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”
Her mother gently removed the mug from Mara’s grasp and poured out their tea. “You’ve a good reason, I’m sure.”
“Bran—my husband—is here in the human world.”
“Here?” Her mother set the teapot down with a thump and glanced at the door.
“Don’t worry, he’s not about to come striding in,” Mara said. “He’s in Parnese.”
“Parnese—across the sea?”
“That is the place, yes,” Mara said dryly.
“And he went all that way without you! Whatever for?” Concern shone in her mother’s eyes.
Mara shifted in the chair. Much as she wanted to tell her mother everything, she didn’t want to unduly alarm her, either.
“Something… escaped from Elfhame, and Bran is tracking it down. As I said, things are complicated. I was delayed, and am only now able to follow him.”
“Well. He might have stopped here for help, you know,” her mother said.
Mara could imagine how that might have gone. Screams and consternation, her father laying about with his sharp axe, Bran trying to defend himself with magic. The cottage would have been flattened, at the very least.
“Ah, well,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal, “it’s probably best if I introduce you the first time you meet.”
Her mother took a sip of tea, studying Mara’s face, then nodded.
“I fully expect both of you to make a stop here on your return journey,” she said. “I’m not sure we could forgive you for depriving us of the chance to get to know our son-in-law. I assume you’re going to fetch him, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And that the whatever-it-is that’s running free poses no danger.” Her mother gave her a sharp look. “It’s not some poor runaway child, is it, going to be hauled back in chains?”
“Of course not!” Mara covered her mother’s hand with her own. “And Bran is more than a match for the bit of… I suppose we can call it stray energy that got into our world.”
She neglected to add that it was the fragment of an inimical force that wanted to devour any world it came into contact with. After all, she and Bran would be able to find and extinguish the Void shard.
Mara clung to that firm belief and sipped her minty tea.
“You’re leaving tomorrow, I take it,” her mother said, ever observant.
“First thing in the morning. Could I borrow the donkey cart? And maybe Lily, to drive it home from Portknowe?”
“Better yet, your father has to make a delivery of ale tomorrow. He must stop at the castle, but then he’d be glad to take you to the coast.”
And if he wasn’t, well, Mara’s mother would see to it that he’d drive her there anyway.
“Thank you, Mama. I don’t want to be any trouble.”
Her mother rose and took the now-empty teapot to the sink. “I’ll tell you what’s trouble—those muddy roads. The donkey cart’s too small. You’d get stuck every mile. The ale dray will make better time, and your father will see to it that the innkeepers give you a warm welcome. Half the country drinks his ale now, you know.”
“I’m glad to hear the brewing is going so well. And thank you.”
Her mother waved the dishtowel at her. “You’re family, silly girl. Leave those princess manners at the door, and come help me with the washing up.”
With a wry smile, Mara joined her mother. For now, she was a daughter of the house—but later that night, she would scry to Bran and reassure him she was on her way.
For a moment, her thoughts went to the Hawthorne Court. She cared little for the machinations of the courtiers, but her one friend in Elfhame, Bran’s sister, Anneth, must surely be wondering how her brother fared. Mara was not strong enough to scry between the worlds—she doubted anyone could, except perhaps Bran.
Whatever transpired in Elfhame, the worlds turned their separate ways, and, on the whole, she was glad to have left Hawthorne behind.
3
Owen Mallory, Crown Prince of Raine, stared somberly at his mother’s mausoleum. The white stone was freshly cut, carved with twining
leaves, the doorway sealed where her body had been interred.
Overhead, the sky was closed with clouds, a spring drizzle spitting down. Spring. It had used to be his favorite time of year. Owen braced his legs as though the damp ground might give him some solidity.
It didn’t.
Nothing was firm any longer—not with his mother suddenly dead, and his father wounded in the carriage accident that had taken the queen’s life.
“You must marry,” his father said, leaning heavily upon his cane with his good hand. “I am old and infirm, and the people must cheer themselves with the prospect of a hale young king and new queen.”
“You’re not old,” Owen said, blinking rain out of his eyes. Or tears. Probably both.
“The last few weeks have aged me.” King Philip let out a low sigh that matched the cold wind blowing through Owen’s heart. “We shall find you a bride.”
Owen clenched his hand, the fine leather of his riding glove straining at the knuckles. “I have no desire to marry.”
He had loved, once. Foolishly, as it turned out.
“It needn’t be for love,” his father said, correctly reading his expression. “The stability of the kingdom is paramount, what with the Athraig making veiled threats and the Fiorlanders too busy with their own troubles to lend us aid. A pity Princess Jutta is a mere babe. But perhaps—”
“I am not marrying a child twenty years my junior,” Owen said sharply. “And, as you said, Fiorland is preoccupied at the moment.”
The king stood silently, shoulders bowed, his cloak darkened with rain. Behind them, the horses stamped restively, jingling the harness that attached them to the royal coach. Owen couldn’t bear the thought of being cooped up in the gloomy interior, and had taken his own mount, who stood patiently under the hand of the coachman.
“The Athraig princess…” his father said.
“We both know that would be the first step in their annexation of Raine,” Owen said. “They’ve long wanted control of our shores.”
For over a century, the small island nation of Raine had, with their superior navy, kept incursions at bay. But now that the kingdom was unsettled by the death of their queen, the Athraig would take full advantage.
“All the more reason to get you married to a Rainish girl, then,” his father said. “And soon.”
The only Rainish girl Owen had been inclined to marry had left his heart in tatters. He’d truly thought Lady Elisa loved him. He had fallen deep into the clear blue of her eyes and the sweetness of her smile—only to discover that she had another lover, and wanted him only for his throne.
All those pretty words of love she’d spoken were like flower petals. Beautiful, but quick to shrivel and blacken once the truth was out.
“Let’s go back,” Owen said, turning away from the white-slicked marble of the tomb.
“A ball,” the king said thoughtfully, making his slow way back to the coach. “A joyous event, to give everyone something to anticipate. We’ll invite all the eligible young ladies in the kingdom. Surely you’ll be able to find one that suits.”
Owen glanced at his father. “I hardly think I’ll find the right girl by sifting through hundreds of women in the space of a single night.”
“It won’t be hundreds,” the king said. “The census last summer was very thorough. If we narrow the age range, I believe it will be fewer than fifty.”
“That’s still several dozen too many—and I can’t believe I’m even considering this mad idea.”
But, much as Owen hated to admit it, his father was right. He did need to find a bride, despite the fact it would be a loveless marriage. And the kingdom needed something to distract it from its grief.
“Surely a few young ladies will catch your eye,” the king went on, undeterred. “We can invite them to stay on at the castle so you might get to know them better. It’s not as though you need to make a decision right away. Now, help me into the coach. I need to speak with the council so we might set things in motion. An early summer ball, I think—that will give us enough time.”
Owen shook his head and assisted his father up the unfolded coach steps. He gently tucked the lap blanket about the king, taking care not to jar his leg.
A fresh gust of raindrops pattered on the coach windows, and Owen let out a low sigh. Despite the unmistakable signs of spring burgeoning through the forest, it seemed to him that winter would never end.
4
Lady Anneth Luthinor paused before the arched entrance to the Hawthorne Palace’s dining hall and tucked her dark plaits back behind her pointed ears. From the murmured gossip she’d heard in the corridors, it seemed that, once again, the Hawthorne Lord was absent from the evening meal.
Her first clue that something was wrong had been a few moons earlier, when Lord Calithilon had suffered a bout of coughing at dinner. Seated as she was at the high table, she’d seen blood flecking her father’s napkin, a spatter of red against the white cloth, before he quickly folded it into his lap. After that, she’d noticed things. Small things, to be sure—his too-slow response to a question, his sunken-eyed gaze—but worrying when taken all together.
When Anneth stepped into the vaulted hall, she saw that the head table was indeed occupied only by her mother, the sternly elegant Lady Tinnueth. For a moment, all Anneth wanted to do was flee back to the quiet safety of her own rooms, but it was too late. Her mother had spotted her, and beckoned her forward with one twist of a bejeweled hand.
Pasting a smile on her face, Anneth obeyed her mother’s summons. A trail of whispers eddied in her wake: speculation about the Hawthorne Lord’s continued absence from meals, concerns that the Hawthorne Heir had once again gone missing, and sidelong glances that spoke all too clearly of the court’s unease at the possibility that Anneth might eventually take the throne.
Stars forbid! The last thing she wanted to do was preside over the intricacies of a Dark Elf court. She’d deliberately shunned that path, instead taking up the unlikely, and much scoffed-at, study of mortals and their world.
Now that her brother, Bran, had wed a human, however, her knowledge was coming in handy. Provided that said human actually was in residence at the Hawthorne Court…
“Anneth.” Her mother raised one arched brow as Anneth stepped onto the dais. “How good of you to join me.”
Not as if she had a choice, but Anneth inclined her head and took the seat to her mother’s right. Her presence seemed to underscore the emptiness of the chair on Lady Tinnueth’s left, where her husband should be sitting.
“Where is Father?” Anneth asked, unfolding the silken napkin over her lap.
The magical dome of silence permanently cast over the head table ensured that the rulers of the court could discuss anything without fear of being overheard. Perhaps Lady Tinnueth would finally speak freely about her husband’s wellbeing.
“Is there any news of your brother?” Lady Tinnueth asked instead—as usual, paying no heed to anyone’s needs but her own.
“You would know better than I.”
Her mother’s lips thinned. “I have heard nothing. A pity your strange little hobby isn’t of more use.”
“Knowing about the mortal world doesn’t mean I’m able to scry between the realms.” Anneth kept her tone even, denying Lady Tinnueth the pleasure of making her lose her temper. “Even Bran can’t do that.”
Though he’d confided, once, that he’d seen Mara in a scrying, before she’d opened the gate between the worlds and entered Elfhame. Of course, a cross-world vision was rather different from an actual two-way communication.
The servers came with the fruit course, providing a temporary distraction, but soon enough, Anneth and her mother were alone again. The head table was enough removed from the other diners that a sea of space seemed to spread out around them.
“What good is it that Brannonilon is the most powerful magic user in history, if I can’t even communicate with my own son?” Lady Tinnueth did not sound like a distraught mother—she had never b
een maternal—but rather, annoyed that Bran was out of her reach.
Anneth twisted the napkin between her fingers, wishing that she, too, could escape into the mortal world. Would it be as fascinating as she thought? Oh, why hadn’t she asked Mara more questions about life among humans, before she’d left the Hawthorne Court?
“Bran and Mara will be back soon, I’m sure,” she said, trying to reassure herself more than her mother. “Time flows differently in the human world, after all. Chasing down the last of the Void might take several moon-turnings there, but only a short time in our world.”
“A doublemoon has already come and gone,” Lady Tinnueth said. “Bran must be fetched from that other place. He is needed here.”
No mention of his wife, of course. Lady Tinnueth would prefer that Mara didn’t exist, despite the fact she was wed to Bran—and that the Dark Elves would never have been able to defeat the Void’s invasion of Elfhame without her help.
“The gateway between the worlds isn’t a simple door that can be opened and closed at will,” Anneth said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.
“Hestil knows how it’s done,” her mother continued heedlessly. “I’ll send her into the Erynvorn, and the others who were there when Bran went through, to help her open the gate. She can go through and find Bran.”
“How will she get back?”
Lady Tinnueth waved a hand. “She will tell Bran to return immediately, and accompany him home.”
There were so many problems with that plan that Anneth didn’t know where to begin—but she resolved to try to make her mother see sense.
“Don’t you think that, with Bran gone, his second should stay at the Hawthorne Court instead of being dispatched to the mortal realm? And what about Healer Avantor? He helped open the gate, but perhaps you have need of him here. Don’t you?”
It was an obvious attempt to pry information about her father’s state of health from Lady Tinnueth. Too obvious, of course. But the fact that Bran’s presence was deemed necessary was… worrisome.
“I will send them at the next brightmoon,” Lady Tinnueth said, then turned to Anneth, her cold gaze filled with intensity. “But now let us discuss your betrothal.”
