by Anthea Sharp
“I can’t make you—”
“It’s not your choice.” He’d made the wry expression of a ruler faced with hard decisions. “I’d rather be happy, with you, than raise a child in a miserable marriage. And what kind of future monarch would that make?”
She’d given him a half-smile. “My brother Bran will do well enough, I’ve no doubt.”
“I think he’s the exception.” Owen had leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips. “Stay, if that’s what you desire. We will take each problem as it comes. Together.”
Now they stood in a field of golden flowers, Captain Crane and his soldiers waiting impatiently behind them. Anneth took a deep breath and turned away from the gate stones.
“Ready?” the captain asked in his usual brusque fashion.
Owen nodded, but Anneth bent to pluck a handful of the strange blossoms.
“We’ll take these to the castle’s herbalists,” she said. “Who knows what remedies they might contain?”
“A good thought.” Owen gathered up his own bunch, the flowers spilling soft light across his hand.
“Enough time spent picking daisies,” Captain Crane said. “You’ve a coronation to plan, your majesty. The sooner the better.”
Owen was the king now, as he’d explained to Anneth, and had been at the moment of his father’s passing. But it was customary in Raine to celebrate the new monarch with a formal crowning.
“Give us a moment,” Owen said to his captain, waving for him to precede them from the clearing. “And you needn’t scowl so.”
The captain grudgingly stalked away, and Owen turned to Anneth. To her surprise, he went to one knee before her and held out his small bouquet.
“We didn’t do this quite properly before,” he said, smiling up at her. “Princess Anneth Luthinor, of the Hawthorne Court of Elfhame, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my queen?”
She began to cry in earnest, her grief at seeing the doorway close now spinning to joy—the emotions two sides of a coin. Of a heart.
“Yes,” she managed to say. “Yes, King Owen Mallory of Raine. Nothing would make me happier.”
“Then why are you crying?”
The question didn’t need an answer as he rose and enfolded her in his arms.
Finally, she was home.
39
Bran, Mara, and Ondo emerged into Elfhame—and into the middle of a busy encampment. Flicking on his dark vision, Bran put his hand to his sword, then checked the motion to draw it as Hestil strode forward.
“Prince Bran,” she said, her normally reserved expression breaking into a smile. “Thank the doublemoons, you’re back.”
“We are.” Bran clasped wrists with her in the warrior’s greeting.
Now that they’d returned, his first concern was for his father. Did the Hawthorne Lord still live? Surely he must. Even between the worlds, Bran would have felt Lord Calithilon’s death, as the mantle of Hawthorne Lord fell upon his own shoulders.
A moment he certainly wished to prevent. His heart clenched with urgency.
“What news of my father?” he asked softly.
“He is… well enough. But let us speak in my tent.” Hestil’s gaze went past him to Ondo, and her brows drew together. “Where is Anneth?”
Bran raised his hand to forestall the fear rising in her eyes. “My sister is safe and happy.”
“And chose to stay behind in my world,” Mara said.
Hestil blinked. “Why?”
“For the same reason I’m here.” Mara slanted a smile up at Bran. “She found her prince.”
Hestil’s frown deepened, but she turned and gestured to the large tent set up near the edge of the clearing. “I look forward to hearing of what transpired in the human world. It sounds like quite a tale.”
“It is.”
Bran strode forward, Mara at his side. Ondo trailed them, carrying the pack full of medicines from the castle.
Foxfire flickered in silver bowls at intervals around the camp. Activity had ceased at the prince’s arrival, and while the soldiers were too disciplined to rush forward in greeting, they all bowed or raised a hand, welcoming their commander home.
“How long have you been camped here?” Bran asked, noting established cooking areas, roughly constructed tables, and weapons racks.
“Since Lady Anneth went through the gateway,” Hestil said. “And we mislaid Prince Deldarinnon.”
Alarm spiked through Bran. “You lost the Cereus Prince?”
“Only temporarily,” Hestil said.
In one of their spare moments together, Anneth had told Bran of Prince Deldarinnon’s visit, and their mother’s attempt to force an alliance.
“Tell him I’m sorry,” Anneth had said, unable to hide her grin. “I wish him all the best—but it turns out he was not, in fact, the prince for me.”
Now, though, it seemed Bran had a diplomatic incident on his hands.
“Don’t look so fierce,” Mara said. “I’m sure Hestil resolved the situation in a satisfactory manner.”
“Indeed,” Hestil said dryly. “We recovered Prince Deldarinnon, and he’s safely on his way back to Cereus even now.”
“What happened?” Mara asked.
“Another tale, and long in the telling,” Hestil said. “We have more pressing concerns at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Yes,” Bran said as they reached the tent.
Hestil went in and lifted the door flap. Bran ducked inside, followed by Mara and Ondo. As they settled about the small table taking up half the space, one of the soldiers brought them cups of strongly brewed tea.
“Lord Calithilon is fading,” Hestil said bluntly, as soon as the soldier departed. “Avantor updates me regularly. Since the brightmoon’s rising, the Hawthorne Lord has taken a turn for the worse.”
Bran’s claws dented the wooden table. “We must depart immediately for the palace.”
“I fear it will be too late.” Hestil’s expression grew shadowed. “Even taking a change of horses, the ride—”
“There’s another way,” Mara said. “And thankfully, our magic is not too depleted to use it.”
Bran rose. “We have remedies from the mortal world—we must get them to Avantor immediately.”
“And these.” Mara lifted the saddlebag filled with golden flowers. She glanced at Ondo. “Give your pack to Bran—I’m not sure we can manage to transport three people plus all the medicines.”
“Better not to risk it,” the scout agreed gravely, rising and handing Bran the pack. “I will stay and help Hestil decamp.”
“And provide a full debriefing,” Hestil said. She looked back at Bran. “We will join you as soon as possible.”
“Of course. And I will scry to you after we reach the palace.” He hefted Ondo’s pack, checked that his own satchel of remedies was secure, then reached and took Mara’s hand.
She nodded at him.
Holding the thought of his rooms at the Hawthorne Palace clear in his mind, he pulled deeply on his wellspring, and spoke the rune in the human tongue.
“Portal.”
The tent whirled away, and for a moment there was nothing solid beneath his feet. Mara gripped him tightly, her magic mingling with his.
Then they arrived, standing a bit breathlessly before the low couch in his darkened living area.
“Calya,” he said, summoning light.
Foxfire lanterns sprang to life in their curved silver bowls, and he looked at Mara. Despite the evidence of strain in her expression, she gave him a brief smile.
“Definitely faster than riding.” She set the saddlebag down, then scooped out a handful of the flowers, surprisingly unwilted after their magical journeys. “Let’s go see about saving your father.”
Bran nodded and strode to the door, the vials and tinctures clinking as he adjusted the pack and satchel.
Their appearance in the halls of the Hawthorne Court was met with wide eyes and exclamations, but whenever a courtier approached them, Bran
waved them away. Later, there would be time enough to announce their return—though considering the speed at which gossip traveled through the palace, an official proclamation would probably prove unnecessary.
He went quickly through the corridors, making for his parents’ private rooms. At his side, Mara was nearly trotting in a valiant effort to keep up. As soon as they were in view of the Hawthorne Lord’s suite, Bran slowed, giving Mara time to catch her breath.
And himself time to marshal his emotions. He must be prepared for the worst, even as he hoped for the best.
The warrior at the door bowed at their approach, quickly mastering his surprise—but then, Sindor had held this particular post for quite some time. Very little surprised him.
“Commander,” he said, “welcome home.”
He turned and opened the door, and Bran, with a nod of thanks, stepped into his parents’ suite. The scent of blackberry wine and his mother’s floral perfume made a swirl of memories, mostly unhappy, rise within him.
How many times had he been scolded while standing just there, before the hearth? How many times had his mother’s cold gaze moved past him, his father’s frown judged him unworthy?
Mara touched his arm, and Bran straightened. The past was done. It was the future that mattered now.
“Bran!” Avantor rose from the armchair positioned beside the door to the bedroom. The healer looked exhausted, deep shadows beneath his eyes, his braids a rough tangle.
“Am I in time?” Bran asked softly, glancing at the half-open door.
“Barely.” Avantor’s voice was grim. “I do not expect your father to live much past moonset.”
“We’ve brought medicine,” Mara said. “And these.”
She held out the handful of golden flowers, while Bran rummaged through the pack, setting the various bottles out on the side table.
“Mara.” The healer managed a weary smile. “I’m so glad you and Bran are here. What do those blossoms do?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen them before. Have you? They were growing all around the gateway, but only on the human side.”
Bran’s brow twitched up. He hadn’t noticed that detail in his single-minded desire to reach Hawthorne in time.
Avantor took one of the flowers from Mara’s outstretched hand. He brought it to his mouth and closed his eyes, whispering a rune Bran didn’t catch. The petals stirred and Avantor opened his eyes abruptly, jerking as if in shock.
“Extraordinary,” he said. “We must brew a tisane—there might still be a chance.”
He whirled, summoning up a large bowl of steaming hot water and an empty mug. Murmuring softly, he plucked the petals of the flowers and strewed them over the water. They spun, tiny golden boats, then gently drifted beneath the surface, leaving sparkling trails in their wake.
The desire for answers pricked Bran, but he held his tongue as the healer worked. This was no time for distractions—Lord Calithilon’s life was at stake.
Mara watched Avantor intently, her arms folded about herself. After what felt like a hundred turns, the healer nodded to himself, then poured a measure of the brew into the mug he’d conjured up.
The smell of sunshine-warmed grass filled the room, a scent few Dark Elves would even know, but the recognition of it tickled Bran’s senses. There was an underlying resonance, something he felt he should recognize. But what?
“Salt,” Avantor said, answering Bran’s unspoken question.
“Tears,” Mara said softly, amazement stealing over her face. “My tears, when the gateway would not open. But how could they be the seeds of flowers?” She glanced at Bran, as if he had answers.
“I do not know, beloved.”
“We will have time for this mystery later.” Mug in hand, Avantor pushed the bedroom door open. “I have a patient to tend.”
Bran hesitated a moment, then followed the healer in.
The sight of his father lying gaunt and listless in the wide bed sent a spike of pain through Bran. He’d thought he was prepared to see the Hawthorne Lord at the edge of death.
He wasn’t.
Gulping back his fear-tinged grief, Bran came to stand at the foot of the bed.
“Father,” he said quietly. “I am here.”
“And not a moment too soon,” came the sharp reply, as Lady Tinnueth stood from her vigil at the far side of the bed. “So, you finally decided to grace Elfhame with your presence. How noble of you.”
The spite in his mother’s voice was a lash against his raw emotions. Bran clenched his fists, feeling the sharp prick of claws against his palm. She is grieving, he told himself, wishing it were true.
More likely, she was waiting for her husband to die so she could take up the mantle of sole ruler. Bran’s return clearly brought her no joy.
“I hope you left that odious creature you married behind in the mortal world, at least,” Lady Tinnueth said. “Although I’m sorry to say that Lady Mireleth tired of waiting for you to come to your senses.”
Bran kept himself from glancing over his shoulder to the room where Mara waited. There was no point in telling his mother that his wife had returned with him to Elfhame. The Hawthorne Lady would discover it soon enough.
“Please,” Avantor said as he slipped an arm around his patient’s shoulders. “Be quiet, or leave. The both of you.”
Lady Tinnueth glared at her son a moment longer, then turned to the healer, watching impassively as Avantor coaxed Lord Calithilon partially upright.
“Drink this.” Avantor held the cup to the dying lord’s lips.
Lord Calithilon’s eyes remained closed. He made no movement, except the labored rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
“Drink, my lord,” Avantor pleaded.
Bran rounded the bed and joined the healer. He went down on his knees and took his father’s hand. It felt fragile in his grasp, the once-powerful sinews and muscle now as breakable as a glass goblet.
“Father,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve brought you medicines from the human world. I’m home. Please, do as Avantor asks.”
Lord Calithilon took a deep breath. Let it out.
For a stark moment, he lay perfectly still. Then his eyelids fluttered open and he inhaled raggedly. He blinked at Bran, then, as slowly as the motion of the moons in the sky, turned his gaze to Avantor.
The healer held the mug up once more. This time, the Hawthorne Lord opened his mouth and drank.
Some of the liquid escaped down his chin and darkened the blankets as Avantor coaxed the contents of the mug into his patient. But enough went into Lord Calithilon that the healer seemed satisfied. Finally, when over half the mug was gone, he let the Hawthorne Lord slowly sink back against the pillows.
Bran watched, half expecting some miraculous transition—but none was forthcoming. His father’s hand lay quiet in his grasp.
“It will take a little time,” Avantor said, giving Bran an intent look. “But I promise you that your father will recover.”
At this, Lady Tinnueth gave a little snort of annoyance. “Don’t make vows you can’t keep, Avantor.”
Expression calm, the healer turned to her. “I assure you, my lady, I do not. Even now, the shadows are withdrawing from your husband.”
Disbelief plain in her expression, Lady Tinnueth took her seat once more. “We will see if you’re right,” she said. “Bran, have the kitchen send up some food. I’m weary and in need of nourishment.”
Curbing his impulse to tell her to summon it herself, Bran rose. For Avantor’s sake, he would make sure a lavish meal arrived, with more than enough food for two.
“Come back after moonset,” the healer said. “I will have good news for you.”
“Thank you.” Bran laid one hand on Avantor’s shoulder.
Then, without a glance at Lady Tinnueth, he left the room. Mara waited before the hearth, and he wondered how much of his mother’s vitriol she’d overheard. As he swung the bedroom door half shut behind him, Sindor hurried into the room.
<
br /> “My lord,” he said in a hushed voice, glancing from Bran to the bedroom, and back, “your presence is urgently needed in the throne room.”
“Why?” Bran asked, as Mara came to stand beside him.
The soldier swallowed. “The Oracles have just arrived.”
“The Oracles?” Bran stiffened. “But they never leave their sanctuary.”
It was unheard of. His people went to the Oracles. Not the other way around.
“And yet they are here, demanding an audience.”
“Well then.” Mara slipped her arm through Bran’s. “I suppose we’d better go see what they want.”
40
Despite the need for haste, Bran insisted they stop back at their rooms. Mara didn’t argue. She was curious about the Oracles, but she was also more than ready to wash her face and don new clothing. Especially as, judging by Bran’s reaction, meeting the Oracles was tremendously significant.
At least it would be easy to keep the promise she’d made to him, that she’d speak to the Oracles before deciding to leave Elfhame forever. Which, of course, wasn’t a question any longer.
She was staying.
Despite the brightmoon’s wan light, the Dark Elves’ prejudice against mortals, and the small fact that someone there wanted her dead.
“Do I get to ask the Oracles a question?” she asked, as she opened her side of the armoire.
Her elvish gowns hung within, an array of silks without buttons or buckles, and she smiled briefly as she ran her hand over the smooth fabrics.
“You can try.” Bran, too, was laying out a fresh change of clothing. “Whether they answer…”
He lifted his shoulder.
One question, that may or may not receive a reply. Too bad she had a half-dozen at the ready. What should she ask?
As she sifted through her clothing, a small roll of parchment fell to the floor. She bent to pick it up, but Bran was quicker.
“Take care,” he said, scooping up the paper. “You avoided one poisoning attempt in these rooms already. This time I’m here to protect you.”
