by Anthea Sharp
“If it’s poisoned, then aren’t you in danger?” She frowned at him.
“I know several runes of purification,” he said, then flicked his fingers at the parchment and spoke a quiet word.
Blue light danced briefly over it, then faded.
“Is it safe?” she asked.
He nodded, then carefully unrolled the paper. It appeared to be a note, and Mara moved to his side so that they could read it together.
Mara,
You do not belong in Elfhame, but if you are reading this, then you have returned with Prince Brannonilon. If that is the case, and he is still content to be married to you (for whatever unfathomable reason) then I suppose I cannot rail against fate any longer.
At any rate, I have come to an understanding with Prince Deldarinnon, and will be imminently departing Hawthorne with him, to take up life in Cereus as a princess of that court.
I feel it is my duty to let you know that Lady Tinnueth hired an assassin to pursue and kill you. It is only for my dear Brannonilon’s sake that I tell you this, to spare him any sorrow, since I am no longer there to offer him solace.
As this is valuable information, I have no doubt an adequate payment can be made. Although Prince Deldarinnon is a noble of Cereus, the life of a high-ranking princess carries certain costs.
If, by some chance, you are considering visiting Cereus, I urge you not to do so. Although I have very magnanimously forgiven you for stealing my betrothed from me, and will expect some tokens of your gratitude for this warning, I would not welcome your presence.
Lady Mireleth Andion
Princess of the Cereus Court
Bran held the note steady as they read, but Mara found herself shaking. There was one question answered.
“Steady,” Bran said, catching Mara’s elbow and guiding her to the low couch.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered.
“I can.” Bran’s voice was grim as he rerolled the note and tucked it into his pocket, then settled beside her.
She turned to him, grateful for the warmth of his arms around her. “What will we do?”
“Confront Tinnueth.”
“Is Mireleth’s note enough evidence?”
“If it’s not, I’ll summon Mireleth from Cereus to give testimony.”
“Oh, Bran.” Mara’s heart twisted. “Your own mother.”
He was silent a moment, then exhaled; a low, weary sigh. “Tinnueth never cared for her children. I’d thought she held some affection for my father, no matter how remote that emotion might be—but now I think she is only concerned for herself.”
“I’m sorry.” She leaned against him, seeking comfort, giving it in return.
“As am I.” He brushed her hair back from her cheek. “But dealing with my mother will have to wait until after we meet with the Oracles.”
Mara gave him a tight nod. She dreaded seeing Lady Tinnueth again, but she would trust that Bran would keep her safe.
It did not take long for them to dress and make their way to the Hawthorne Palace’s throne room. Instead of entering via the main arched doorway, however, Bran led her to a small side corridor, then pushed at the intricate paneling. It slid aside, revealing another entrance.
“The rulers come and go this way,” he said. “It opens just behind the thrones.”
Mara nodded and followed him into the room. A quick glance reassured her that Tinnueth wasn’t in attendance—at least, not yet. The room was filled with courtiers and urgent, low-voiced conversations. In the center, before the thrones, the Oracles stood—three figures veiled in white from head to toe.
The courtiers had given them a wide berth, and the air around the visitors seemed strangely still.
“Stand with me,” Bran said softly, taking Mara’s hand.
Together, they stepped onto the polished white stone of the dais. Ignoring the two thrones positioned in the center, he strode to the front and stood there, surveying the court. Mara let go of his hand, but remained at his side.
A renewed buzz of whispers hummed in the air, but Bran held up his hand, and slowly the courtiers quieted.
He inclined his head to the figures in white. “Oracles of Elfhame—on behalf of the Hawthorne Court, I bid you welcome. To what do we owe this surprising visit?”
The middle Oracle took a step forward. Through the gauze of her veil, Mara could just make out the delicate features of a Dark Elf woman, her expression serene.
“Prince Brannonilon Luthinor,” she said. “We come to tell you the terms of your prophecy.”
Bran blinked. “Didn’t defeating the Void fulfill the destiny you foretold at my birth?”
“Do you recall the words?” The Oracle tilted her head and began to recite. Her resonant voice filled the room.
“Evil lurks and soon will fall,
A door long closed must open wide,
Elfhame’s greatest need will call
A mortal woman as the bride
The Hawthorne Prince must surely wed,
Else all our kind shall perish, dead.”
“I haven’t forgotten my own prophecy.” A touch of annoyance crossed Bran’s face. “But we defeated the Void.”
The Oracle pivoted, sweeping the room with her veiled glance. “And yet our kind is still fated to perish. Without children, what will become of the Dark Elves?”
A low murmur greeted her words.
“What are you trying to say?” Mara’s patience frayed. “Either Bran saved his people by marrying me, or he didn’t. Which is it?”
With a soft exhalation that pushed out the delicate fabric concealing her face, the Oracle turned back to the dais. “So impatient, you mortals. The balance is much more delicate than that.”
“You mentioned terms,” Bran said. “Explain.”
The Oracle lifted her delicate hands. “It is not that simple. Your understanding is flawed—but I will try.”
She glanced at her companions on either side, who each gave her a slow, silent nod. Mara leaned to brush her shoulder against Bran’s. Whatever the woman was about to say, they would face it together. And overcome it.
“The answer to the Dark Elves’ future lies beyond the gate,” the Oracle said. “You returned with it from the human world.”
“I am weary of your riddles,” Bran said.
“Wait.” Mara pressed her lips together. The answer teased at her mind… “The flowers. The ones blooming around the doorway, with the golden petals.”
“Yes.” The Oracle nodded. “It is the cure for the Hawthorne Lord’s ailment—a weakness that will, sadly, remain with the ruling line of all the courts.”
“That only solves our immediate need,” Bran said.
The Oracle regarded him for a long moment. “It is also the cure for our people’s infertility. But it comes with a price.”
The taut silence gripping the court broke into gasps of gladness, a clamor of questions.
“Quiet,” Bran called, raising his hands. When the crowd quieted again, he frowned at the Oracle. “What price?”
“One easily paid, at least for this generation.” Her voice carried the hint of a smile. “The gateway will open once every thirteen doublemoons—three years’ passage in the human world—so that your people may go forth and harvest the blossom, which will only grow on the mortal side of the gate. Its distillation will keep the rulers’ sickness, and the Dark Elves’ inability to bear children, at bay.”
“On what condition?” Bran’s voice was hard.
“A noble of Elfhame must wed a mortal, or a mortal ruler must marry a Dark Elf. As long as an alliance holds, and a mortal dwells in our land, or a royal of our blood in the human world, the gateway will open and the flower will bloom.”
“That’s convenient,” Mara said under her breath.
“What of future generations?” Bran asked.
“They must uphold the bargain, or perish.”
This caused another spike of conversation, and Bran glanced at Mara. “Good thing my peop
le are now accepted in Raine, or this would be a difficult undertaking, indeed.”
She managed to smile at him. “And good thing that Anneth stayed, just to be doubly sure. But it’s wonderful news—the Dark Elves are saved!”
“For now.” His brows drew together. “I worry for the future.”
The Oracle glided forward to the edge of the dais. “Do not fear for what is to come,” she said. “Tend to the present.”
She lifted her head, gazing behind Bran and Mara.
They turned, to see Lady Tinnueth step through the doorway. Mara’s breath caught in a mixture of fear and dislike.
“Holding an audience without the Hawthorne Lady?” Tinnueth’s voice was cold, her eyes flat with anger as she stared at her son. “You could be banished for less.”
Bran took a step forward as his mother paced past the thrones, and pulled the roll of parchment from his pocket.
“Lady Tinnueth Luthinor,” he said loudly, holding up Mireleth’s note. “I have here testimony that you plotted against my wife by hiring assassins to murder her. How do you answer?”
Tinnueth’s eyes narrowed as she glanced from her son to Mara. “I was doing you a kindness, Brannon. The Hawthorne Court is better off without the taint of a mortal in residence.”
Her words were caught by the nearest courtiers, some of whom hissed in reaction.
“You would doom us all,” one of them called. “Step down! Let Prince Brannonilon rule.”
This idea was met with approval, and Tinnueth jerked her head back, blinking at the shift in the court’s favor.
“You cannot rule if you’re imprisoned for life.” Bran’s voice, low and menacing, was pitched for their ears alone.
Tinnueth gave him a scornful look. “I have committed no crime.”
“Call off your assassins,” Bran continued. “Or I’ll ensure you’ll never see the light of the moons again.”
His mother made a dismissive gesture. “That incompetent guild is no longer my concern. I’ve no interest in employing assassins whose target slips from their grasp.”
“I want your assurance you will not attempt to harm my wife ever again.” He could barely get the words out past the rage tightening his throat.
Tinnueth merely looked at her son, unspeaking.
Claws fully extended, Bran took a step toward her.
“Wait.” Mara caught his arm. “Much as I’d like to see your mother taken down, maybe the middle of the throne room isn’t the place.”
“Indeed.” Without asking permission, the Oracle mounted the dais and, quickly but firmly, took Tinnueth’s arm in her grasp. “Lady Tinnueth will be coming with us.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Bran’s mother attempted to jerk away.
Despite the Oracle’s seeming fragility, her grip was apparently made of steel, as Tinnueth was unable to free herself.
“Tinnueth Luthinor,” the Oracle said, her voice suddenly deep and booming. “You are the next chosen of our order. Your temporal titles are hereby stripped from you. You will be escorted to the sanctuary, and all your power turned to the service of the moons.”
“But I am the Hawthorne Lady! You cannot simply—”
“The Oracles have spoken.” The veiled woman nodded to her companions.
They came to the dais and flanked Tinnueth, taking her arms.
“Show our newest acolyte out,” the Oracle said calmly, then looked at Bran. “This is your chance to say farewell, before she no longer knows your face.”
“Mother.” Bran faced Tinnueth. “I want you to know that, even though you didn’t ask after Anneth, she is well and happy. And remained in the mortal world, to marry their king.”
Tinnueth’s lip curled. “Then I raised two fools, instead of just one.”
“You did not raise us at all.” Bran turned away and glanced at the Oracle. “I wish you good luck with her.”
“She is the one in need of such wishes.” The Oracle’s voice held a touch of menace that made Mara shiver.
It seemed that Lady Tinnueth was not going to escape punishment after all.
41
Bran dismissed the courtiers, and he and Mara accompanied the lead Oracle to the gates of the palace. His mother was already ensconced in the rounded coach they’d arrived in, a strange vehicle the likes of which he’d never seen before, pulled by four horses.
“Wait,” Mara said, as the Oracle stepped away. “What about my vision?”
“What vision?” Bran glanced at his wife.
A shred of guilt crossed her face as she looked at him. “Before I left Hawthorne, I had a vision in the Pool of Reflection. We were in the Darkwood, fleeing, and you…” She swallowed. “You were lethally shot with a black arrow.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid.” She caught his hand. “Afraid that speaking the words would make it come true. But it didn’t.” She turned to the Oracle. “Or is there still a danger it will?”
“No.” The veiled woman shook her head. “Cross-world visions are not always accurate. Your actions—or rather, Anneth’s—changed the timeline of what might be.”
“So her alliance with Prince Owen…” Mara trailed off.
“It was the soldiers of Raine, in the vision,” Bran guessed. “Pursuing us. Or the Athraig.”
“It matters not.” The Oracle flicked her fingers. “Your sister’s ability to trust, to love, turned the tide of time. That possible future now lies in the past.”
“Can we visit her?” Mara asked. “When the doorway opens, can we see our family in the mortal world again?”
The yearning in her voice made Bran want to pull her to him in a strong, reassuring embrace. He settled for squeezing her hand.
“The gate will open at dawn on the appointed day,” the Oracle said. “And close at midnight. Whatever your business in the human realm, it is best concluded within that time frame. I advise you to spend the bulk of it in harvesting the flowers.”
“What are they called?” Mara asked.
The Oracle studied her a moment. “Nirwen will do,” she said at last. “Now, I must be gone. Rule well, and long. I will not see you again.”
She turned, despite Mara’s outstretched hand, and gracefully entered the coach. At some unseen signal, the horses started forward, and the vehicle glided away.
When it was gone from sight, Mara glanced at him.
“What does it mean, nirwen?”
“Maiden’s tears.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Your grief is the salvation of my people.”
She leaned against him. “I hope that my happiness will be equally beneficial.”
“It will.” He smiled at her. “To both of us.”
She laughed, and his own joy blossomed, as bright and golden as the mysterious flowers. And just as potent.
The next several moons were a flurry of activity. Lord Calithilon slowly recovered, and did not seem overly concerned about his wife’s departure. Or perhaps he was still too weak to fully comprehend what had happened. Bran resolved to have a long chat with the Hawthorne Lord, once his father regained his strength.
Hestil arrived with the rest of the Dark Elves who’d camped by the gateway, including Ondo. The four of them—Bran, Mara, Hestil, and Ondo—met in Bran’s rooms soon after their return. Seated around the low table, Bran and Mara told the others everything that had transpired since their return. The scout was greatly relieved to hear that no assassin was threatening Mara’s life, and satisfied that Lady Tinnueth was now the Oracle’s problem.
“Are you certain she’s no longer a danger?” Hestil asked, a crease between her brows.
“Yes.” Bran met his second’s gaze. “She cannot harm us—in fact, she may no longer even know who we are. Or care.”
He’d gathered that the Oracles would change his mother’s memories, and he trusted them implicitly. They would tend to their own business. Just as he’d tended to his, taking up temporary rule until Lord Calithilon was ready to reassume his
position as Hawthorne Lord.
“Ondo.” Bran turned to the scout. “Now that the gateway between worlds will be opening regularly, Mara and I think there should be a Dark Elf presence in the Darkwood. A guardian, if you will, to watch over the forest and the doorway. We were hoping you might take up the mantle of Galadhir on behalf of Elfhame.”
The scout’s eyes widened, and he glanced from Bran to Mara. “It is a great honor. But I do not think I’m qualified for such responsibility.”
“Of course you are.” Mara leaned forward and lightly touched his forearm. “There’s none better. Other than us, and Anneth, you know Raine best of anyone.”
“And you don’t mind the solitude of the forest,” Bran added dryly. “We’re not asking you to act as a diplomat to Castle Raine—only to tend to the gateway and keep humans out of trouble in the Darkwood.”
“And be there for Anneth,” Mara added.
“Well then.” The apprehension faded from Ondo’s eyes. “As long as I’m not required to dwell at the castle, I think I could accept such a duty.”
“We’ll come through the doorway every three years,” Mara said, smiling. “We’ll visit everyone then.”
“It will only be thirteen doublemoons here,” Bran reminded her.
“Yes.” She sobered. “It will be hard to watch our families age, while we don’t.”
He dropped a kiss on her head. “Don’t carry that sorrow until you must, beloved.”
“What of your magic?” Hestil looked across the table at Mara. “Ondo tells me you’re finally able to control it at will.”
“Mostly.” Mara gave her wry look. “As long as there’s a similar concept in my language, or if the Dark Elf word is simple enough.”
“We’ve created new runes, as well,” Bran said. “Though not everyone will have the power to cast such magics.”
“And the nirwen essence?” Hestil asked. “Is there enough for all the courts?”
Bran shook his head. “I wish there was more elixir—but for now we have been able to treat Hawthorne, and give the rest to Nightshade. I will ask all the courts to send help for the harvest, when the gateway next opens.”
