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

by Anthea Sharp

  She turned and rifled through the armoire. While Mireleth was occupied, Anneth took the opportunity to shed her comfortable dressing robe and don the indigo silk. She adjusted the length of fabric about her, wrapping it a bit more tightly about her waist.

  “Here.” Mireleth thrust a silvery overskirt at her. “Try this, with the sapphires. Oh, don’t give me that blank look—you know the ones I mean. Platinum settings, in the shape of flowers.”

  “I hadn’t realized you knew my jewelry collection so well,” Anneth said dryly.

  Mireleth sniffed. “You might not care about your gems, but some of us make it a habit to observe such things.”

  A soft, bell-like chime rang through the air: the signal that the reception was about to begin. Anneth fastened the overskirt on, admitting that Mireleth had chosen well, then went to don her sapphires.

  “A pity about your hair,” Mireleth said, trailing her to the dressing table. “There’s no time to do anything about it, though. We’ll be late as it is.”

  Anneth shrugged and pulled a brush through her own dark hair. Her few braids shone with faint russet highlights, and she coiled them atop her head, fixing them with a gemmed hairpin. Adequate, perhaps even understatedly elegant, in contrast to the colorful riot blazing atop Mireleth’s head.

  “Why did you stop by to see me?” Anneth asked as she and Mireleth stepped down the corridor toward the throne room. The courtier never did anything unless she could benefit from it in some way.

  “I thought we might go in together,” Mireleth said, with an insincere smile. “Seeing as how we’re such good friends.”

  “Mm.”

  Clearly, Mireleth wanted the prince to think she was favored by the rulers of the Hawthorne Court, with the princess as her bosom companion. No doubt she’d casually drop the fact that she and Bran had been betrothed in the past—and leave out that the entire thing had been a sham, meant to trigger the prophecy that Bran would wed a mortal woman.

  There was a short line at the entrance to the throne room, since the court was observing the formality of announcing each of the attendees as they arrived. As Anneth approached the doorway, she craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of her father.

  The courtiers in front of her stepped into the room, and Anneth was relieved to see the Hawthorne Lord seated upon his throne, his wife by his side. From a distance, he looked well enough.

  “Princess Anneth Luthinor, Lady Mireleth Andion,” the herald called, and Anneth stopped looking at her parents and belatedly followed Mireleth into the silver-lit room.

  It was impossible to miss Prince Deldarinnon. Garbed in a dark green that was nearly black and sporting a thin silver circlet over his dark hair, he stood near the door, surveying everyone who entered. Two pale-haired warriors flanked him, one female, one male, similar enough in looks and bearing to be siblings.

  Lady Mireleth hastened up to him immediately, of course, and sank into a pretty curtsey. Anneth trailed behind her, trying not to show her amusement. She would meet the prince, then go and speak with her father. Perhaps he would be honest with her, even if Lady Tinnueth refused to be.

  “My Lord Deldarinnon,” Mireleth said to the prince. “It is indeed a great pleasure to meet you.”

  “Rise, Princess Anneth,” he said, extending his hand to her. “A lady of your beauty and station should not prostate herself so.”

  “Oh,” Mireleth said, glancing over her shoulder at Anneth, a touch of panic in her eyes. “I’m not… That is…”

  Remarkably, she seemed at a loss for words.

  “Your pardon, prince,” Anneth said, stepping forward. “My tardy entrance into the room seems to have caused some confusion. I am Lady Anneth.”

  “Ah.” The prince pivoted smoothly and made her a slight bow. “My apologies to both you and your lovely companion. Lady… Mireleth, was it not?” He turned back to Mireleth with a polite smile.

  Well. Anneth had to give him points for diplomacy, at any rate.

  “Yes,” Mireleth said, looking coyly up at him. She seemed to have quickly recovered her equilibrium. “Welcome to the Hawthorne Court, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” he said, a hint of coolness in his tone.

  The three of them stood together awkwardly for a moment, Mireleth gazing at the prince, and him looking at Anneth. She knew she ought to make small talk, but across the room, she noticed the Hawthorne Lord rising from his seat. She could not lose the opportunity to catch her father, even if it made her appear rude.

  “Yes,” she said to the prince, “welcome. I look forward to making your further acquaintance, Prince Deldarinnon. But I must go have a word with my father. If you will excuse me?”

  “Of course.” Face impassive, he inclined his head.

  As she strode away, she heard Mireleth say, “Not everyone in Hawthorne is quite so standoffish, my lord—I assure you of that. Perhaps you might let me show you about the gardens later?”

  The prince’s reply was lost in the general noise of conversation, and Anneth was sorry she’d given Mireleth an excuse to make veiled insults. Or not so veiled, as the case may be. The next time Anneth encountered the prince, she’d have to be extra-charming, to make up for her first impression—otherwise she was certain Lady Tinnueth would hear of it, and she was already weary of her mother’s scorn.

  But now, her father was about to slip out of the room using one of the secret doors concealed behind a long, silver-embroidered tapestry. They were for the Hawthorne Lord and Lady’s exclusive use, and opened only at their command. Anneth ran the last few paces and caught his arm.

  “Father,” she said brightly. “I’ve been wanting to see you.”

  This close to him, she was taken aback by how dark and sunken his eyes were, how weary his face. Under her grip, his arm trembled faintly.

  “Anneth.” He gave her the whisper of a smile. “I must go now. Perhaps tomorrow we might speak.”

  “No!” A few courtiers looked their way, and she lowered her voice. “What is wrong? You can’t keep avoiding me—or the court—forever. I’m worried about you, and Tinnueth—”

  “Your mother is doing what’s best for Hawthorne,” he said. “Have you met Prince Deldarinnon?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Excellent.” He pulled out of her grasp and, with a complicated gesture, opened the door. “Good evening, Anneth.”

  “Wait! Father…”

  She was left speaking to a blank wall, the tapestry swinging gently back and forth where her father had brushed past.

  For a moment, she wanted to stamp her feet in frustration. She did not want to be married off to some prince she didn’t know. She wanted honesty from her father, not the constant maneuverings of the court.

  “Anneth.”

  A touch on her shoulder brought her around to see the healer, Avantor, a concerned look on his already-serious face.

  She counted the healer among her friends, but clearly he was deeply embroiled in whatever was going on. For the past several moons, he’d been avoiding her altogether.

  “You’ve been nearly as scarce as my father,” she said. “Who, quite frankly, doesn’t seem in the best of health. I’m concerned about him, Avantor.”

  “We need to speak.” He scanned the room, then shook his head. “Later. You’re already drawing undue attention.”

  “Doesn’t Hawthorne deserve to know if their lord is mysteriously ill?”

  Sickness was all but unknown among the Dark Elves. The rest of the court seemed content to believe Lady Tinnueth’s excuses that the Hawthorne Lord was immersed in a deep period of quiet and contemplation in preparation for a journey to the Oracles. But Anneth hadn’t been satisfied with Lady Tinnueth’s official reasons why the Hawthorne Lord was suddenly absent from almost every court function.

  And now, seeing her father, it was clear that something was very, very wrong.

  “I’ll go dance with Prince Deldarinnon,” she told Avantor. “But I expect you at my rooms just after moonset.�
��

  He nodded and strode away into the crowd. With a deep breath, Anneth went to find the prince and, hopefully, repair whatever damage Mireleth had done.

  7

  The bustle of the Parnesian docks flowed about Bran as he stood in the shadows, watching the ship weigh anchor. It was not the Pride of Clundy, but a different boat that bore Mara to him. He spared a moment’s thought to hope that the captain and crew of that vessel were well, and that his rough acquaintances were staying out of trouble.

  Then anticipation swept through him, and it was all he could do not to fling himself up the gangway and seek his wife out that very moment. But it was best not to draw undue attention, and so he waited, hands clenching and unclenching.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, her slight figure appeared, a bulging satchel slung over one shoulder. He strode forward and met her as her foot touched the quay then swept her up in his arms.

  “Mara,” he murmured, inhaling deeply of her scent—mint and the smell of the sea.

  She felt perfectly right in his arms, and he cursed himself again for so precipitously charging off and forcing them worlds apart.

  “I missed you,” she said, drawing back to study his face, though she kept her tight grip on his shoulders. “You don’t look human. Are you not wearing an illusion?”

  “I’ve cast an expectation,” he said. “People see what they wish to see.”

  She nodded and lifted a hand to his cheek. There was a trace of sorrow in her eyes, and his heart clenched at the sight.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I should never have abandoned you.”

  “You went to save my world,” she said softly. “I don’t begrudge you that one bit.”

  He shook his head. “And yet here we both are, and the fragment of the Void is still unvanquished.”

  “We will find it.” She gave him a weary smile and stepped back.

  “Here.” He took her bag, which he assumed contained clothing and a few supplies. “I have a set of rooms at a nearby inn.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a bite of supper. Now that I’m finally on land and not constantly bobbing up and down, my appetite seems to be returning.” She sent him a curious look and fell into step beside him. “Did sea travel affect you much?”

  “No. I spent my journey across the water learning to play dice, and at night seeking out the Voidspawn’s trail.”

  “Which led here.” She glanced about the docks, still bustling, despite the late hour, with cargo being loaded and unloaded and boisterous groups of sailors going to and from the ships. “This is nothing like Raine’s port.”

  “I’ve learned that Parnese trades in goods up and down the entire coast, and throughout the continent. It is a busy place, indeed—and you have not yet seen the half of it.”

  The city that spread out inland had amazed Bran at first, with its sprawling and diverse areas—trade districts and several large markets, places where the residents barely scraped out a living, contrasted with opulent homes, temples, and, of course, the Parnesian royal palace set on the hill overlooking the city.

  Unfortunately, the sheer size of Parnese made it all the more difficult to track the Void. As they walked, he told Mara of his suspicions: that the Void had taken a new form and was preying upon those least likely to be missed.

  “Although there have been no new bodies discovered in the past few days,” he said.

  Brow creased with worry, she sent him a glance. “What do you think that means?”

  He’d been giving it a great deal of unhappy thought. “I fear that the Void has gone to ground. If it no longer needs to hunt, then it has found a way to bring victims to it. I fear…” He let out a breath. “It may soon be strong enough to begin opening rifts into this world.”

  She clutched his arm. “Dear heavens, no.”

  “It is only speculation,” he said, wishing he could offer her more reassurance. “Now that you are here, we will be able to track it down, wherever its lair might be.”

  “I hope so.” Her voice was tight with apprehension.

  They arrived at the side street where the inn lay—a place that catered to traveling merchants and visitors to the city. The common room was peaceful, unlike the rougher lodgings the sailors frequented. He ushered her through and up the stairs to the two small rooms he’d rented—a sitting area connected to a bedroom.

  “I hope this will do.” He watched her anxiously. “It’s smaller than our rooms in the Hawthorne Palace.”

  “Oh, Bran.” She turned to face him. “I don’t care about such things. I’m just glad to be with you—no matter the circumstances.”

  She removed her cloak and hung it beside the door, then went to look out the window, which showed a view of the courtyard and one corner of the palace perched above the city.

  He draped his cloak beside hers, then paced to stand beside her. She was like the brightmoon, and he the pale, drawn by her brightness.

  “We will find the Void,” he said, circling his arms about her waist. “I swear to you, I will not let your world fall to the enemy.”

  She sighed and leaned back against him. “We’ve always been stronger together.”

  “Yes.”

  He tried not to show how much of a failure he felt. It would almost be better if she berated him for incompetence rather than meet his lack of success with such calm confidence.

  “But we will not search tonight,” he said. “You are weary from your journey. Eat, rest, and tomorrow we will begin anew.”

  And this time, he swore fiercely to himself, he would not fail.

  Mara slept soundly, descending quickly into the grateful slumber of a body and mind no longer tossed about on the surface of the sea. She was dimly aware of Bran’s solid bulk beside her throughout the night, and his presence reassured her all the more.

  When she finally awoke, the late-morning sun was filtering in through the drawn curtains. Bran sat at the small table in the other room, his scrying bowl before him. A frown creased his forehead, and she wanted to smooth it from between his brows.

  Instead, she watched him, marveling at the severe features that had grown so dear to her—the sharp cheekbones and angular planes of his face, the strangeness of his eyes.

  He glanced up, and, seeing her, his expression gentled.

  “You’re awake.”

  She sat, pushing her hair out of her face. “It’s hard to believe I’m here with you. We’ve spent so much time apart.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “Are you done running away from me yet?”

  “You ran from me first.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I came back. You didn’t have to keep chasing me.” Even as she said the words, a pang went through her.

  Did Bran regret marrying her? She had thought that, despite the prophecy’s demand that he wed a mortal, what they felt between them was strong and true.

  Was love.

  Her mother had always told her to judge a man by his actions, not his words. Bran was a man of few words, which certainly didn’t help matters. And his actions, so far, had been to send her away—which, yes, she had insisted he do—and then, when she came back, depart the Hawthorne Court almost immediately in search of the remaining Void in Elfhame.

  Then, once she had rejoined him, he had leaped through the gateway, leaving her behind once more.

  Expression solemn, he rose and came to sit on the edge of the bed. “I do not want to force you to any course of action against your will. It was unwise of me to follow the Void through the gateway. I thought only of the threat to your world.”

  He paused, staring down at the covers, a hint of anguish in his eyes. She set her hand over his, hating to see her bold warrior look unsure.

  “I know,” she said, “and I honor you for it. Your entire life’s purpose has been fighting the Void. How could you do anything except pursue?”

  He gave a grudging nod. This close, she noted the shadows under his eyes, his too-pale complexion. Alarm skittered through her.

  “B
ran—is something the matter with you?”

  “My wellspring is somewhat depleted,” he admitted. “I did not take time to fully recover, and am drawing upon my power daily so that I can move about your world without detection. It is… tiring.”

  “There must be another way.” She pursed her mouth in thought. “Is there a rune that you can use to cast a spell, rather than constantly channeling your magic?”

  “What kind of spell?” He shook his head, his long hair swinging beneath the intricate warrior’s braids. “We have no need of appearing human. As far as I know, I’m the first Dark Elf to come so far into your world.”

  “Parnese is the farthest I’ve ever been from home, too,” she said dryly. “With the exception of Elfhame, I suppose. But what about the illusions your people cast? Can one be modified in some way?”

  “Hm.” He cocked his head and was silent a moment, a faraway look in his eyes.

  She sat still, trying not to distract him. Maybe part of his difficulty in finding the Void was because he was siphoning his own power in order to function in the human world. It was so like him to push himself to his limits.

  But now there were two of them, and he didn’t have to bear the entire burden of tracking down the Void alone.

  “There might be a way,” he said. “I will attempt to merge the rune of illusion with a command to appear human.”

  “Try it,” she said, pressing his hand. “Do you think it will work?”

  “I’ve no idea.” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “No new runes have been created for centuries.”

  “Let me lend you my strength. Maybe being linked with a mortal will help.”

  “I do not wish to tax your power.”

  “You won’t.” She didn’t add that she was more worried about him running his wellspring dangerously dry.

  “Very well,” he said.

  It was a grudging agreement, but Mara smiled at him. Getting Bran to accept help of any kind was a victory, no matter how small. She interlaced her fingers with his and leaned forward.