by Anthea Sharp
“Hmph.” The captain turned his grim gaze on Anneth.
She gave him an innocent look in return, and no answers.
“Stay out of trouble, young woman,” he said. “I’ll be watching you.”
“Yes, sir.” She dropped him a quick curtsey, remembering at the last moment to bob up and down like a village girl and not perform the elegant movements drilled into her at the Hawthorne Court.
Then, clearly dismissed, she edged away. She scanned the crowd for a sight of Lily, but didn’t spot her.
The prince, however, was hard to miss. He was dancing with a young lady in a light blue gown. From the set of his mouth, he was not enjoying himself nearly as much as when Anneth had waltzed with him, and that knowledge kindled a warm glow in her chest.
Ah, but she oughtn’t to be foolish. There was no point in feeling even a shred of interest for a human prince—their paths were not destined to run together in any way.
Conscious of the guardsman’s gaze at her back, Anneth headed to the refreshment tables, now rather depleted. Servants were clearing the emptied platters and sweeping up crumbs, but there still seemed to be plenty of ale.
Anneth scooped up a fresh tankard. Even though she had no intention of drinking more ale, holding it would give her something to do, and hopefully make her seem less suspicious. Quietly, she stepped back into a nearby alcove and set her shoulders against the cool stone wall. There was nothing to do now but keep watching for a glimpse of Lily, and wait until the current batch of ladies finished their dances and her group was finally called.
Furtive movement on the other side of the ale cask drew her attention.
A man in servant’s livery drew a vial from his pocket and, back turned to the hall, poured a small measure of its contents into a half-dozen tankards. Holding her breath, Anneth watched him. Surely there could be no innocent intent to such an act.
She reached for her wellspring, feeling the magic stir sluggishly. It was still far too weak to summon any of the greater spells, but perhaps she might cast a small sensing to try to determine precisely what the man had put into the ale.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she focused her power. When she opened them again, the man had already hoisted the tankards onto a tray and was moving into the middle of the hall.
“Nanhalya.” She murmured the rune of unveiling, flexing her fingers and staring at the serving man.
Slowly, her magic responded, revealing a sullen red cloud of betrayal about him, and a sickly green glow clinging to the cups. Poison!
And the man was headed directly for the dais where the king sat.
“Stop,” she cried, pushing her way through the crowd.
Her use of magic had weakened her, though—her panicked cry went unheard, her body trembling as she forced herself forward. To her horror, the servant bowed, offering the tray to the king. Smiling, the monarch selected a tankard.
“No!” Anneth forced herself into a run.
She cut through the cleared dance floor, glimpsing Prince Owen’s surprised expression as she stumbled quickly past. Saving her breath for one final sprint, she flung herself up the dais and crashed into the servant, knocking his tray to the floor, and the drink from the king’s hand.
The music stopped, Prince Owen halted, and she heard a collective gasp from the watching guests.
“What on earth?” The king grabbed his cane and stood, his ornate coat dripping. “Guards!”
“It’s him.” Anneth pointed to the servant, who was already melting into the crowd. “He tried to poison you.”
She swayed, and someone slipped a hand under her elbow, steadying her. She gratefully turned to see Prince Owen at her side, his expression grim.
“Explain,” he said.
“I saw that man pour poison into the cups,” she said.
“Catch him!” the prince called.
The watching guests stirred, glancing about, but it seemed the traitor had already disappeared. It would have been simple enough for him to tear off his servant’s tunic, don a neckcloth, and blend with the guests in a matter of moments. Oh, why hadn’t she gotten a closer look at the fellow?
Servants hurried to the dais and busily began mopping up the spilled ale. Captain Crane and several of his guardsmen arrived hard on their heels.
Once the captain had determined the king was unharmed, he pulled Anneth roughly away from the prince.
“You,” he said. “Come with me.”
“Why?” She shivered—not from fear, though he would think so, but from the aftermath of her use of magic. Her wellspring was back down to a bare flicker of power.
“For questioning.”
Prince Owen stepped forward. “Surely you don’t think she’s involved in a plot to murder the king?”
“How did she know it was poison?” Captain Crane shook his head. “Your highness, this woman is very suspicious. You must allow me to do my job.”
The prince glanced from the captain to Anneth, expression sober. “Very well—but don’t hurt her.”
Hurt her? Anneth shot the guard a wide-eyed look. What kind of barbaric place had she come to?
“Of course not,” the captain said stiffly. “I’m taking her to the gold parlor, not the dungeon.”
Her stab of panic ebbed, though the knowledge that Castle Raine possessed a dungeon did not set her at ease.
“I’m going to change my clothing,” the king said, glancing down at his sodden garments. “I’ll join you shortly.”
“As will I,” Prince Owen said, but the king shook his head.
“The ball must continue,” he said. “Everyone is unsettled enough without making an undue fuss.”
“Undue?” the prince asked, his voice low and urgent. “Father, someone just tried to poison you. We should close the gates immediately and question everyone until the traitor is found.”
The captain’s grip on Anneth’s arm tightened. “We’ll have answers soon enough, never fear.”
“But I don’t know anything,” she said.
“Music!” the king called, gesturing to the players in the balcony. As soon as a somewhat ragged melody started up, he looked at his son. “Finish dancing with your current crop of young ladies. We will know more at the break—after Captain Crane questions our guest.”
Prince Owen’s mouth tightened into a grimace, but he didn’t argue with his father. And despite her own precarious position in the chain of events, Anneth had to agree that continuing the ball was the best choice, strictly from a court protocol perspective.
Already the mood was growing less fraught as the prince stepped back down to the floor and bowed to the young lady he’d abandoned mid-waltz. The servants finished their cleanup, and the king, escorted by two guards, exited through the small door tucked behind the dais.
“Come.” Captain Crane tugged her arm.
She didn’t have much choice in the matter, and there was no point in trying to escape. After all, she was innocent.
Of trying to poison the king, at least. As for her other secrets, the captain of the guard had no way of guessing she was a Dark Elf—and she certainly had no intention of revealing the truth about herself.
23
Mara watched, stomach clenched with fear, as Bran drew his sword and stalked toward the red-robed priest. The black-cloaked figures lying about the Twin Gods’ altar looked more like strewn corpses than sleeping bodies—but if Bran’s magic faltered, they would awaken, and she and her husband would be horribly outnumbered.
Through her connection to him, she could feel his wellspring’s power seeping away. Her azure ring, linked to his, ached with bone-chilling cold.
She could not fight the priest, who had halted just beyond the reach of Bran’s sword, the Void-infused relic in his hands. But perhaps she could shift the rune of slumber to herself, leaving Bran free to fight.
Concentrate! What had the syllables been? Lorn-something…
Cursing her lack of familiarity with the language of the Dark Elves, Mara
shaped the word in her mouth. Lorna…Lornatala. Surely that was it.
The priest, face set in a grimace, raised the Esfera.
“I call upon your power, Twin Gods,” he cried. “Let your divine relic smite these infidels who have dared to violate your temple!”
Dark power pulsed within the stone, gathering to strike. Black tendrils whipped out, aiming for Bran. He ducked, his sword low as he held up his other hand and summoned a shield of blue power. The Void’s attack struck sparks, and with each hit, Mara could feel Bran’s power dip.
The sleeping worshippers began to stir and moan as the rune of slumber faltered.
“Lornatala!” she cried, flinging her arms wide. Like a wave crashing upon the shore, her power surged forward, breaking over everyone in the inner sanctum.
Bran staggered. The priest fell to his knees, losing his grip on the Esfera. And the slumbering bodies went deathly still.
Crack! The stone sphere hit the marble floor. At the point of impact, the floor split into jagged lines. The priest’s eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled forward, one arm outstretched.
The fault lines spread across the marble, fast as fire. One ran under the priest’s hand, which glowed and began to sizzle with the sickening smell of burning flesh. He twitched in agony, but did not awaken.
“Stay back,” Bran cautioned her, leaping over a snaking crack that seemed determined to catch his feet.
The Esfera sent more seeking tendrils toward the fallen figures. With each one it touched, Mara could feel its inimical power increase.
Bran sent bolt after bolt of blue fire at the stone. Each blast made the sphere shake, but it did not break. Somehow, they had to get it out of the inner sanctum, away from the bodies it was feeding upon.
Still pouring her power into the rune of slumber, Mara stumbled away from the cracks. They followed Bran as he darted back and forth, never able to get close enough to land a blow from his sword.
“Watch out!” she shouted, as three lines etched the floor behind him.
He whirled and barely managed to jump clear, fetching up against the wall. As if sensing he was trapped, the Esfera pulsed with malevolent magic. A web of lines advanced toward him, and Mara cried out in denial and prepared to shift the force of her magic to attack the sphere. It seemed only their combined magic could defeat the Void.
Bran whipped off his cloak.
“Astagar!” he yelled, and flung it over the Esfera.
The cracking floor froze, the room shuddering with the force of the contained sphere.
“Run!” Bran called, scooping up the cloak-covered Esfera.
Mara turned and dashed for the hallway leading back into the main temple. Bran followed at her heels, the Esfera pulsing in its fabric prison. Tendrils of acrid smoke rose from the cloak. They raced through the passage and burst through the door into the hushed dimness of the main temple.
For a moment Mara thought they might be able to fight the Void there—but confused shouts echoed from the room they’d just left. The priests and worshippers were waking. While some of them might not regain consciousness, enough would to pose a threat. She and Bran must flee the temple immediately.
They ran past the benches, their footsteps ringing loudly. Halfway to the tall arched doors, and freedom, Mara recalled they were barred and locked.
“Bran,” she gasped, “can you unlock the doors?”
He groaned. “It is taking all my power to keep the Esfera trapped.”
Behind them, the first red-cloaked pursuer burst into the temple.
“Catch them!” he shouted, and his followers responded, surging forward.
Mara and Bran were almost to the doors. If they didn’t open…
She stretched out one hand toward the barred archways.
“Edro,” she called, praying the rune of opening would work.
The doors creaked, the bars straining, but they remained closed.
“Halt!” the priest shouted behind them. “Halt or face the Twin Gods’ wrath!”
Mara summoned all her desperation, all her horror at what the Void was capable of, all the determination that they would win free, and wound it into a searing ball of azure light.
“Edro!” she cried again.
The doors exploded in a blaze of blue fire.
She and Bran plunged through into the Parnesian twilight. There was just enough light remaining at the far edge of the sky that she was not in danger of breaking her neck.
“This way,” he said, veering sharply to the right.
She pelted behind him, rounding the sharp corner, then followed him down to the next alley. Then the next, and up a twisty cobbled walkway that was more stairs than street.
Finally, lungs burning for breath, they fetched up against a high wall made of pale stone. Mara glanced at Bran, dismayed to see the strain on his face. In his arms, the cloak-wrapped sphere shuddered, the fabric beginning to smolder.
“I can’t hold it much longer,” he said, his voice harsh with effort.
Wildly, Mara glanced up and down the street. Rows of shuttered shops, with lamp-lit apartments above. This was not a place they could unleash the Void. She turned, her gaze going to the top of the wall they sheltered beside.
A leafy canopy of trees rose beyond, barely visible against the dark sky. A garden of some sort, if the fates were kind.
“On the other side of the wall,” she said. “Stay here—I’ll find a way through.”
He nodded, face taut.
Though she had scarcely caught her breath, Mara ran up the street bordering the wall. Just when she was about to give up, she spotted a small doorway set into that blank expanse of stone. Quickly, she went back to where Bran could see her and waved at him to come.
This time, she swore she’d use far less power to cast the rune of opening.
When Bran arrived, chest heaving with effort, she’d coaxed the door open without blasting it to pieces. As she’d hoped, a park spread out behind the wall, the short-cut grass extending beneath tall trees.
“Good,” he said, stepping through.
She closed the door behind them, wedging it with a nearby stick. Bran lurched forward, and she hurried to catch him by the elbow. The darkness of the Void hummed through him with bone-shaking intensity, and she marveled that he was able to stand, let alone carry that evil burden.
Together, they lurched toward the shelter of a hedge clipped into fanciful shapes: pyramids, squares, circles.
“Here,” Bran said once they’d put the foliage between themselves and the door in the wall.
He went to his knees, dropping the cloak-wrapped Esfera to the ground, and drew a long, ragged breath.
She immediately came to stand behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. Though they were both exhausted, the hardest task of all lay before them.
“I’m ready,” she said in a soft voice, reaching for her wellspring.
He brought one hand up to cover hers. Their rings touched, blazing momentarily with blue fire.
“Together, beloved, we are strong,” he said. “Hold fast. We must not let it escape again.”
As if his words were a signal, the Esfera began to rock back and forth. Flames kindled from Bran’s cloak where it covered the sphere, and Mara could feel the dark power of the Void on the verge of breaking free.
She closed her eyes against the faint silhouettes of the trees, against the fear trying to wash over her, and summoned up all her hope, all her love. With each breath, she released power to Bran through their linked hands.
The wildness of his Dark Elf magic met hers, and together their wellsprings mingled, streams of joy and sorrow, laughter and longing. Everything that made them different, everything that bound them together.
A sweet wind blew Mara’s hair from her face as their power twined, higher and higher. She could taste the combined light of the doublemoons and the sun, smell mingled roses and the glowing qille blossoms of Elfhame.
Darkwood.
Erynvorn.
Two worlds, standing together.
The power streamed from them. Mara opened her eyes to see it glowing, a whirlwind of blue magic, of gold, illuminating the garden with eerie light.
The Void screeched, flinging itself at them, then reversing direction to charge against the bonds of their power, desperate to escape. Each attack stung, stealing her breath, burning her skin.
No, she shouted at it with all her might. You cannot have these worlds.
Still the joined magic built, until Mara felt as though she were nearly drowning in the intensity of their power.
Bran rose to his feet, his hand still tightly clasped with hers. He pulled in a breath, then, in a deep voice that rang like a bell, spoke a final rune.
“Lacarina Oiale Morgoth.”
Begone forever, dark enemy.
The ground beneath their feet shuddered, the wind whipping in a frenzy of light, dark, light.
Bran intoned the words again. The Void responded with a surge of searing pain that made them both scream aloud.
“Together,” Mara whispered, her throat raw.
Bran’s gaze met hers, and he nodded.
“Lacarina Oiale Morgoth,” they cried in unison.
Blue light streaked high into the sky, then turned and plummeted like an arrow. It struck the Esfera with a sound like a thunderclap, found the heart of the Void lodged inside, and unmade it. Utterly.
The night went dark around them. Weakly, Mara leaned against Bran and scrubbed her wet cheek with her palm. She hadn’t even realized she’d been weeping—tears of pain, tears of exertion.
A quiet breeze stirred the shrubs about them. Some insect gave a single, tentative chirp.
“Is the Void truly defeated?” she whispered, glancing up at Bran—her beloved husband. Her heart.
He nodded, exhaustion shadowing his eyes. “It is gone. From your world, and mine—forever.”
They could have stood there another hour, supporting one another in the dark garden, but slowly Mara became aware of a commotion on the far side of the wall. Shouts and the flickering lights of torches, the shrill whistle of the city guards.
Of course. Even in Parnese, a tower of glowing light and strange, otherworldly winds, not to mention the sound of the Void shard’s final destruction, would not go unnoticed.
