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

by Anthea Sharp

  “Then you will be our guide.” He let go of her hands and began to pace with excitement. “We must think of the rune.”

  “Door, or gate?”

  “Fende,” he said. “Combined with the word for travel… Perhaps lelyafende will work.”

  “If it does, we won’t even need to attempt to sneak ashore.” Her pulse rose with renewed hope. “We can cast the rune from here, inside the cabin, and be there in a matter of moments!”

  “It will take a great deal of power,” he said, coming to a halt before her. “We’ll need time to recover after such a casting.”

  “Yes, but at least we’ll be at the edge of the forest.”

  “The forest…” His expression darkened. “Neither Ondo nor Anneth have sent a scrying. They would if they’d reached the safety of the Darkwood.”

  “You think she hasn’t been able to escape?” The heady sensation of hope drained from her.

  “Not yet,” he said grimly.

  She brought her knuckles to her mouth, thinking, then met his turbulent gaze. “We can travel directly to Castle Raine. I served as a maid there for a short time. I’m sure I can recall the courtyard well enough.”

  “Too dangerous. We cannot arrive weakened in the middle of enemy territory, with no way of knowing if it’s safe.”

  He was right. The courtyard was too public, even at night.

  She let out a frustrated breath, mouth twisting as she wracked her memory. Where could they land?

  The smell of smoke tickled her nose, and she suddenly knew.

  “There’s a small door in the outer wall, near the kitchen gardens. We used to empty the fireplace ashes on the compost heap next to the wall. I could take us there—and it’s completely out of the way.”

  “Hm.” He narrowed his eyes, clearly weighing the idea.

  “The maids only go there during the day. I’m certain we’d arrive unobserved.”

  After a moment, he gave a sharp nod. “Very well. Let us try.”

  Swallowing back her tremble of nerves, Mara grabbed her pack, then stood beside Bran. They took hands, twining their fingers so that their azure rings touched.

  “Fix the place in your mind,” he said. “Then open your wellspring. I will direct the casting through you.”

  Praying it would work, Mara closed her eyes and recalled the tall outer wall of Castle Raine, moss clinging between the cracks in the stone. The small wooden door, dwarfed beneath the shadow of the castle. The smell of damp ashes and rotting onions.

  “I’m ready,” she said, opening her eyes.

  He glanced at her with a half-smile, then pulled in a deep breath and spoke the new rune.

  “Lelyafende.”

  Their power flared, the cabin blurring around them. She felt Bran’s magic pushing them forward…

  With a jolt, they arrived.

  Mara’s elation quickly turned to dismay to see they were back in the cramped cabin aboard the Pridewell.

  “It didn’t work,” she said softly. At least their wellsprings weren’t too much diminished. Perhaps only a successful casting would drain their power.

  Bran’s mouth tightened.

  “I could almost see the place,” he said. “And almost reach it—but not quite. It seems that whoever is holding the destination must cast the rune.”

  It made brutal sense, and alarm surged through her at the thought. “But Bran, my magic’s too unstable! Half the time I can’t summon a spell, and when I do, the power is all out of proportion.”

  He studied her intently. “I thought your work with Penluith—”

  “I let you believe I was making progress because I couldn’t bear your disappointment.” She looked down at the floor.

  “But your rune of slumber in the temple was well cast. All the priests fell instantly back asleep.”

  “Which was a good thing, yes.” She looked back up at him. “But I couldn’t control the intensity. If I needed to only put one person to sleep, who knows what might happen? I could just as easily kill them.”

  His brows drew together. “I understand. Nonetheless, you must try to transport us to Castle Raine.”

  “What if I fail?”

  He raised their joined hands and kissed her knuckles. “Then at least we made the attempt. I have faith in you, beloved. And you do not disappoint me. Ever.”

  Tears stung her eyes, and the tightness gripping her heart eased. She would try. She must.

  “Say the word again,” she told him.

  He did, several times, and she watched his face carefully, shaping the syllables with her own mouth.

  “Lelya…” she said after a moment. “Fendi. Fendae. Fende.”

  “Good,” he said. “The last time was correct.”

  Repeating the sound under her breath, she once again pulled up her memory of the doorway in the castle wall. Glancing at her husband for support, she took a deep breath.

  “Lelyafende,” she said fiercely.

  Blue light flashed around them as the rune took hold. The cabin flickered once, twice…

  And then reappeared around them as the spell ebbed.

  She had failed.

  With a sob, she pulled her hand from Bran’s and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. It was no use. Her power was too unpredictable. And without being able to control it, she would never be able to dwell easily among the Dark Elves.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He knelt beside her, cupping her cheek in his palm. “Do not cry, love. We’ll go back to our original plan.”

  He did not add what they both knew: that they would arrive at Castle Raine far too late.

  34

  Wrists bound before her, the cold stones of the castle wall at her back, Anneth watched as the Athraig prepared for their princess’s marriage to Prince Owen. Her heart beat fast in her chest, a glimglow fluttering for escape. But there was no escape.

  In a very short time, the stretch of meadow outside the walls had been illuminated with a flickering array of lanterns and torches. Under other circumstances it might have been lovely, but in her current predicament the light cast ominous shadows, glinting off naked swords and sharp-tipped arrows. The flames cast grotesque shadows over the watching Athraig, and she shivered.

  A small man holding an ornate book waited in the space readied for the marriage ceremony: a cleared semicircle outside the small door set in the wall. His bald head glistened with sweat, and every few moments he darted an anxious glance at the mass of gathered soldiers.

  Princess Rella had disappeared somewhere behind her troops. Presumably she would return imminently, ready to marry the prince and seize control of the kingdom.

  On either side of Anneth stood the Athraig’s prisoners, all of them bound as she was. To her left, King Philip slumped against the wall, barely conscious, his face drawn with pain. Beyond him, closely guarded by two of the princess’s men, was Captain Crane, rage sparking from his eyes.

  Ondo, on her right, merited only one guard. A bruise had risen on his cheek, and blood darkened the sleeve of his forearm, but other than that, he seemed unharmed—thank the moons.

  Standing at the edge of the semicircle of torches surrounding the nervous cleric, Prince Owen had fallen under the less-than-tender hand of Lord Jensen. The Athraig nobleman held a wickedly sharp dagger point-first against Owen’s ribs, even as a flustered man hovered over the prince, attempting to transform him from prisoner to bridegroom.

  “Enough,” Lord Jensen said as the fellow brushed the prince’s hair out of his eyes for the third time. “He’s presentable enough. You’re dismissed.”

  “Thank you, Antoine,” Owen said in a low voice. “I do appreciate the attempt.”

  The man jumped back, bobbed a quick bow—aimed at the prince, not the Athraig lord—and made to scurry away. He was quickly stopped by an armored soldier and brought to stand against the wall with the rest of the captives.

  Their sorry line was bracketed by Lord Jensen’s archers, crossbows at the ready in case a
ny of the prisoners managed to wrest free. Anneth knew all too well the power of those short bolts, and how quickly they flew from their strange, sideways bows.

  Lord Jensen nodded at one of the black-clad guards. “Inform the princess we’re ready,” he said, his dagger never wavering from its place against the prince’s side.

  The soldier hastened away, and Owen shot Anneth a glance. She raised her brows. When was he going to reveal their hasty agreement?

  It had been a wild impulse, spurred by the king’s words about Lady Fiona. But anything they could do to forestall the Athraig from taking power gave Bran and Mara more time to reach them.

  Anneth hadn’t been prepared for the result of her impromptu suggestion. When Owen asked and she’d said yes, her wellspring had surged, power flaring as though a solemn binding had just been made.

  But what did it mean? Even among Dark Elves, not every betrothal resulted in a bond-spark. And certainly not one that sent out such a forceful ripple of magic.

  Cautiously, she tapped her wellspring, amazed to find it partially restored. Their earlier attempt to escape had left her drained. Now, though, they had a chance. Not much of one, but she guessed—hoped—that Ondo still had a reserve of power. Between the two of them, they might be able to win free yet again.

  If the opportunity arose, which was not a certainty by any means.

  Soon enough, she supposed, the prince would announce he could not marry the Athraig princess. Most likely he’d bide his time until all attention was upon him during the ceremony. A loud public declaration would have the most impact.

  Her gaze flicked to Lord Jensen and his dagger, and anxiety cinched her lungs. Surely he wouldn’t slay the prince. The point of the forced marriage was to lend legitimacy to the Athraig’s takeover, quelling any attempts at rebellion.

  And despite Lord Jensen’s previously veiled threats, she didn’t think the Athraig would kill Owen immediately after the wedding. No, they would make sure he sired an heir before doing away with him.

  Gruesome thoughts, but she’d grown up in a court and had learned the machinations of power from watching her own mother’s manipulations.

  There was a stir among the soldiers as the princess’s black-armored guards cleared a path. Someone among the crowd began to play the flute—a breathy thread of sound that wove eerily through the air.

  At the far end of the makeshift aisle, Princess Rella appeared, wearing a silvery gown and long cape. She paced forward accompanied by sparks of faceted fire, and Anneth realized the edges of her cape and gown were sewn with diamonds. Each gem caught the reflection of the passing flames and amplified it. Combined with the crown blazing atop her pale hair, the Athraig princess was a glittering sight.

  She reached the cleric, and Lord Jensen prodded Owen forward to stand before his supposed bride.

  The cleric cleared his throat and, after a quick glance at Lord Jensen, began to speak.

  “Dear friends and companions, we are here today gathered—”

  “Skip the preamble,” Princess Rella said coldly. “Begin on page four of the ceremony.”

  The man ducked his head and shuffled through the pages of his book, anxiously turning them back and forth beneath the princess’s imperious gaze.

  “Ah, yes, here,” he mumbled, setting his finger on the text. “Princess Rella Jansdotter, Princess of the Daneric Inlands and… um…”

  “The titles don’t matter,” she said, with a slash of her hand. “Go on.”

  “Is there any reason known to you which prohibits your marriage to this man, Prince Owen Mallory?”

  “No. I am free to wed as I choose.”

  The cleric bobbed a nod and turned to Owen. “Prince Owen Mallory, heir to the throne and only son of his majesty Philip Mallory, King of—”

  The princess skewered the man with her pointed gaze. “Faster.”

  “Yes, your majesty…. Prince Owen isthereanyreasonknowntoyou.” The cleric gulped for breath, then plunged back in. “Whichprohibitsyourmarriageto this woman, Princess Rella Jansdotter? Then, if there is no objection—”

  “I am not free to marry the princess,” Owen declared in a loud, ringing voice.

  A shocked silence spread over the crowd. The cleric paused, mouth open.

  Princess Rella slowly turned to Owen. The anger in her eyes was sharper than the dagger Lord Jensen held to his side—and just as lethal.

  “You lie,” she hissed. “Lord Jensen assures me you weren’t able to make a formal offer of betrothal before you were imprisoned.”

  “Nonetheless, I am promised to another.” The prince held his head high, calmly meeting Princess Rella’s stare.

  “To whom are you betrothed?” she asked.

  Owen gave no answer, but Lord Jensen’s head swiveled to where Anneth stood. She could see the cold calculation in his eyes as he worked his way to the inevitable conclusion.

  “Her,” he said, tipping his chin at Anneth. “The foreign spy.”

  Princess Rella looked Anneth up and down and let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “That bedraggled commoner? Prince Owen, you are in desperate straits, indeed, to contemplate marrying so low. I am a much better match. Break off your engagement, immediately.”

  Owen’s gaze locked with Anneth’s, and again she felt the chiming ripple of magic.

  “I will not undo my promise,” he said. “She is the woman I will marry.”

  Rumbling whispers spread through the watching soldiers. Beside her, Anneth felt Ondo tense.

  “Are you quite certain?” Lord Jensen asked.

  “Yes.” Owen held her gaze.

  “Then the solution is clear.” The Athraig lord gestured to his nearest archer. “Kill her.”

  Heartbeat slowing to a dull thud, Anneth turned. She threw up one hand, mind scrabbling desperately for a rune of protection. Too slow. Too slow. The archer sighted down his bow. Tightened his grip.

  “No!” Ondo cried, flinging himself forward.

  The bolt flew—straight toward his heart.

  Despite Bran’s words of encouragement, desolation swept through Mara. The porthole was a dark mirror now, reflecting the cramped cabin. She bowed her head, shutting out the sight.

  Beside her, Bran jerked in surprise. “Did you sense that?” he asked, voice startled.

  “Sense what?” She glanced about the room in confusion.

  For a moment there was only the gentle rocking of the ship at anchor. Then she felt it too—a shiver of magic in the air, far distant, but unmistakable.

  She turned to Bran. “What was that? It reminded me of something…”

  “You felt it when we married,” he said. “That was the echo of a vestalevere.”

  “A vestale…?”

  “There is no exact word in your language. It is the moment of a pledge of bonding that creates a resonance between two people.”

  No exact word in your language. His statement lodged in her mind. She stared at him as enormous understanding began to dawn.

  No exact word…

  “We’ve been so foolish,” she said softly.

  “Many times.” His lips twisted in a rueful smile. “But which particular instance do you refer to?”

  “All of them. All the times I’ve done magic—don’t you see?” She rose, a fire of disbelief, of hope, glowing in her belly. “Crossing the gateway in either direction allows us to understand the other world’s language; we know that. Except your runes don’t translate, as the words are the way you summon your magic. So of course I’ve been trying to cast runes as you do, in your native tongue.”

  He nodded, clearly trying to follow her thoughts. “Yet you do not speak the language of the Dark Elves.”

  “That’s just it! No wonder I’ve struggled. The pronunciation, even the very concepts, are foreign to me.”

  “Yet you have had some success.”

  She grimaced at him. “Barely. The times my power has flowed best is when I lend it to you—or at moments of all-encompassing need.”

&n
bsp; “When the sheer might of your wellspring overwhelms the errors in casting.” His eyes widened. “We’ve been going about this all wrong.”

  She shot him a wry look. “Well, it’s not like you’ve had many humans in Elfhame who can do magic.”

  “Or any at all,” he said, with a gesture of frustration. “Still, we should have thought of this far earlier.”

  “Perhaps—but we’ve no time now for recriminations.” Her nerves tingled with anticipation. “If I’m right, then we still have a chance to reach the castle—immediately. The word I need to speak is not in your language, but mine. And I know exactly the one to use.”

  “Then, beloved, do so.” He caught up their bags and reached for her hand.

  Fingers laced together, she closed her eyes and concentrated: the small door in the outer wall of Castle Raine, the night sky overhead, the damp smell of the earth and compost heap.

  She was ready.

  Heart racing, she reached for the power of her wellspring. It leaped at her touch, as if eager to pour its magic through her.

  “Portal!” she cried, drawing upon that blaze at the center of her being.

  An eldritch wind whirled through the room as she and Bran were enveloped in blue fire. The door to the cabin slammed open, startling a passing sailor, who cautiously peered inside.

  But the room was empty.

  35

  Bran braced himself as the overwhelming vortex of his wife’s power engulfed them. He had only a moment to marvel at the ease of her casting before her magic spat them out beside a tall stone wall.

  But instead of a silent, night-swept meadow, his senses reeled with confusion to see an array of flickering lights, a small army of warriors, and, just ahead, a strange ceremony underway.

  Motion caught his eye, and he watched in horror as Ondo flung himself in front of Anneth…

  “Ustavanwa!” Bran yelled, throwing a blazing ball of white fire from his palm.

  It sped forward, incinerating the arrow about to bury itself in Ondo’s chest. The scout, his arms bound before him, flinched away, then turned his stumble into a graceful roll and regained his feet.