Elfhame: A Dark Elf Fairy Tale/Beauty and the Beast Retelling (The Darkwood Chronicles Book 1)

by Anthea Sharp

  The final battle was upon them.

  He glimpsed hundreds of red-eyed creatures massed and waiting to pour through into Elfhame. And behind them, a devouring darkness that would not stop until it had eaten every shred of every world down to nothingness.

  “Dear heavens,” Mara whispered.

  “If ever was a time to find your power, beloved, do it now,” he said.

  Letting go of her hand, he raised his arms high overhead, fingers pointing up toward the rip in their world. Already, Void creatures were spilling out, pressing the exhausted fighters.

  But he could not pay heed to the desperate fights breaking out, the screams of pain, the wavering of Lieth’s power, even his own father laying about with blade and flame.

  Reaching deep into his wellspring, Bran sent pure power into the crack—a sharp, fierce lance of magic aimed at the heart of the Void. It streamed forth from his fingertips as he poured every shred of his energy into the attack.

  The Void resisted, its hunger stealing the magic and blunting its force.

  Bran swayed. It was not enough.

  Then Mara caught his upraised right arm and pulled it down until their hands were clasped. Their rings met, and azure flame leaped through him, so strong it left him reeling. Before it could burn him to cinders, he channeled it up and out, renewing the attack.

  His original bolt of power was now ten times stronger. Creatures sizzled and fell, screeching, through the air. The grasping touch of the Void could not hold back this new force, mortal and Dark Elf power combined. He felt it shudder as the pure blue light struck deep into the darkness, burning clear and strong.

  The Void bucked, spitting out more creatures, as if desperate to find him and cut off the attack. Still he kept the magic flowing.

  Mara wrapped her other arm about his waist, and he felt her giving him all her strength. Too much, he feared, for her mortal body to take. But they could not let up, not yet. Though his vision blurred and his lungs gasped for air, he must keep throwing their power at the enemy with all his might.

  Something shriveled and cringed in the depths of the Void, and a horrible screeching cry wailed out between the worlds, scorching his ears, flaying his mind. It lashed out, a final black tendril of power that smote him to the bone. Freezing cold enveloped him for a heartbeat.

  Then, with an earthshaking clap, the portal snapped shut. Bran and Mara’s power splashed up into the sky, then faltered, the magic raining down like shooting stars.

  The Void was gone.

  All about the battlefield the red-eyed creatures stilled, slumping down into death. He shivered from the frigid touch of the Void’s final attack, and prayed he’d taken the brunt of the blow, shielding Mara from it.

  The Dark Elves had won, though his heart sank at the casualties scattered over the silvergrass.

  Mara let out a shaky cry and pulled her hand from his. He turned to find her kneeling beside Garon. The old warrior lay surrounded by the carcasses of slain Void creatures, his heart’s blood seeping out of a fatal wound to his chest.

  While Bran and Mara had focused all their attention on attacking the Void, faithful Garon had kept the creatures at bay with more prowess than a fighter half his age.

  “Do not weep, mortal girl,” he said, his voice a weak thread. “It is a good death.”

  Bran went to his knees and took the old soldier’s hand. “Garon. I could not have asked for a better, more loyal defender. Thank you, my friend.”

  “My honor to serve,” Garon whispered.

  Then he closed his eyes and let out his breath for the last time. Above them, the palemoon shone, steady and true.

  “No,” Mara said. Her cheeks glistened with tears.

  “I am sorry.” Bran’s father came up to where they knelt, his shoulders bent with weariness. “The loss of a good man.”

  “One among many.” Bran lifted his head and bleakly surveyed the causalities. To his great relief, he saw Hestil moving among the fighters, Avantor at her heels.

  “Come.” Bran stood and offered Mara his hand. “We must tend to the wounded.”

  She wiped her face with her sleeve, then clasped his outstretched hand. Their rings glowed softly, but the fierce power was spent.

  When she stood, she staggered forward a step. He caught her in his arms, worry spiking through him.

  “Starting with yourself,” he said.

  “I’m not injured.” Her voice rasped from her throat. “Just so very tired.”

  “I will watch over her,” the Hawthorne Lord said. “You go tend to your warriors.”

  Mara nodded, and, reluctantly, Bran let her go.

  “Guard her well,” he said to his father. “I will not be long.”

  He’d bring Avantor back with him, of course, but he needed a moment to speak with Hestil and assess the full extent of their losses. The battle had taken a heavy toll—but the Void was gone. The small glow of victory kindled in his chest, pushing back some of the shadows left in the aftermath of war.

  They would grieve, yes. Already he felt an empty space where Lieth ought to be, and feared she had drained her magic dry and fallen to the enemy. Garon, too, was a hole in his heart.

  And the greatest wound was yet to come, when he sent Mara back to her world.

  But balancing that darkness was brilliant light, and cause for celebration. The Void was defeated. It would not return for generations, if at all.

  The prophecy had come true. Elfhame was saved.

  20

  Mara opened her eyes and stared up at the golden curtains draping the bed. She knew exactly where she was: in Anneth’s bedroom, in the Hawthorne Palace. In Elfhame.

  But not for long.

  Oh, how her siblings would exclaim when she told them of her adventures. The thought made her smile. Already her time here was like a dream, the battle and the magic she had commanded more like something out of legend than an event that had truly happened.

  “You’re awake.” Bran leaned forward from the chair he was occupying beside the bed. “How do you feel?”

  Somehow, she was not surprised to find him there. She took a deep breath and wiggled her fingers and toes.

  “Good. I feel good. And hungry.”

  A faint smile lifted his lips. “I’ll send for food. Can you sit?”

  She did, and before she could protest, he propped a few pillows behind her back.

  “I’m not an invalid,” she said.

  “You slept for three days. I feared…” A shadow crossed his face, then was gone. “No matter. Anneth will be delighted to hear you’ve woken. I’ll fetch her, and return with food.”

  Her stomach gave an embarrassing gurgle, proof that it, too, was wide awake and in perfect health.

  Bran left, and a moment later Anneth hurried into the room. She sat on the bed beside Mara and squeezed her hand.

  “You are the heroine of the turn,” Anneth said. “Or more like the century. You and Bran did it! You defeated the Void.”

  “I wasn’t sure we could.” Mara shivered, recalling that vast, devouring darkness.

  “Father has declared a feast—another one—in your honor. This time, it might actually take place.” Anneth smiled at her, her eyes shining. “We have a great deal to celebrate.”

  It seemed Bran had not told his sister that Mara was leaving. Probably it was for the best, since Anneth would only try to make her stay. No matter how much of a heroine Mara might be at the moment, she knew it would fade quickly.

  Soon enough she’d be a stranger again, adrift in a sunless world she could barely navigate. Not only that, but married to the Hawthorne Prince, with not the slightest idea of what her new station entailed.

  She could not be the Hawthorne Lady. Even if the court tolerated a mortal on the companion’s throne, she had seen how rigid the Dark Elves were in their traditions and expectations. Once her notoriety wore off, she’d be nothing but a source of shame. Bran would be torn between his people and his wife, and she did not think she could bear th
e disappointment in his eyes when she failed to behave properly time and time again.

  “A feast,” she finally said, aware she’d been silent too long. “That sounds grand.”

  Anneth gave her a curious look. “Mara, is there something I ought to know?”

  Bran strode in carrying a tray, and Mara was saved from answering. She vowed to be perfectly cheerful in front of Anneth. At least until she said goodbye.

  “Save some room for the feast,” Bran said, setting the tray on the nightstand beside the bed.

  “I think I could probably eat two feasts worth of food,” Mara said, reaching for one of the Amaranth cakes.

  “Knowing the kitchens, they will serve that much, and more,” Anneth said. “Now, which gown will you choose this time?”

  Once Bran was reassured that Mara suffered no long-term ill effects from her prodigious use of magic, he took his leave. It had been easier to be in her company while she was asleep. He could gaze on her face and imagine to himself that she’d changed her mind.

  But once awake, it was clear she still intended to go home.

  He could not blame her. She had been thrust unexpectedly into a land and a fate not of her choosing. Not to mention a husband she found distasteful. After the celebratory feast, he would fulfill his promise and somehow send her back to the mortal world.

  The longer she stayed, the more it would hurt. A quick, sharp cut would be best. The kind that left a scar.

  It would not be the first one he bore, nor the last. But he feared it would be the deepest.

  He shook his head. What a sorry excuse for a warrior he was. It was useless to fill the hours with such thoughts. The future would bring what it would bring—although he felt strangely adrift without the prophecy guiding his steps.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Bran turned toward his father’s library, ignoring the bone-deep coldness that had settled inside him since the final battle. It was only the effect of using so much of his power that left him feeling dizzy at times, but he knew it would pass.

  Meanwhile, there was work to do. The Hawthorne Lord had asked for his opinion in finalizing the plans to help Nightshade rebuild their broken court. Bran also wanted to broach the idea of sending a patrol around the entire circumference of Elfhame. They must ensure that the barrier was fully mended and secure.

  In fact, he would volunteer to lead the party. It would remove him from the court and give him something to do other than dwell on his pain.

  Working out the details of the aid they would provide the Nightshade Court, complete with arguments from his father and protests from the Nightshade Lady, kept him engaged until it was time to dress for the feast. Bran choose his formal tunic with care, picking a dark amethyst velvet that made him appear more like a prince than a warrior.

  Not that it would do any good in Mara’s eyes.

  Mentally chastising himself for a fool, he went to fetch her from Anneth’s rooms.

  Although he thought he was prepared for the sight of his wife gowned and bejeweled, she never failed to steal his breath for a heartbeat. This time she wore deep emerald satin decorated with silver embroidery of twining leaves. The necklace he’d given her shone at her throat, and Anneth had woven pearls into her hair to match.

  Her gaze went to his belt, and she laughed at the sight of her knife hanging there.

  “Are you truly going to wear that to the feast?” she asked.

  “Of course. Unless you would like to trade tokens?”

  Her hand went to her necklace, and she shook her head. “I think you’d look a bit silly wearing this. Besides, it’s too beautiful to part with.”

  Her obvious pleasure in his gift gave him a flash of warmth. At least he was not completely odious in her eyes.

  With Mara on one side and Anneth on the other, he escorted them to the dining hall. As soon as they stepped into the room, everyone rose and began cheering. The tables were full to overflowing, the members of Nightshade and the fighters from the front making up for the empty places where fallen warriors ought to have been.

  Garon. Lieth. His throat tightened at their loss.

  At one of the near tables, Hestil tipped her goblet in a toast to him. New lines etched her face, but he saw peace there as well.

  The Hawthorne Lord beckoned them to the head table, and insisted that Mara be seated on his right side, with Bran next to her, and then Anneth. Tinnueth’s mouth turned down at the corners, but she spoke not a word of protest.

  Still, as the feast began, he caught her watching Mara, her sharp eyes cataloguing every misstep his mortal wife made. Mara used the wrong fork, reached too far for the salt cellar, and engaged in conversation all across the table as well as to either side. They were small things, but enough to begin a litany of errors that would only grow over time.

  His mother was not the only one taking note. Mireleth was seated further down the table, and she sent frequent, narrow-eyed glances to where he and Mara sat. Partway through the meat course, he saw her lean aside and make some remark to her companion. The man looked at Mara and laughed unkindly.

  Bran curled his fingers into his palm, feeling the stab of his own claws. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that Mara was departing. She had said so many times she did not belong in Elfhame.

  But she belongs with me, his heart insisted.

  Idiot piece of flesh. He hardened it to stone and continued eating, though he tasted not a bite.

  At last the meal was over, the musicians played a final fanfare, and the Hawthorne Lord rose.

  “Today, we celebrate victory,” he said. “We owe it to the steadfast honor of the Hawthorne Heir, whose trust in the prophecy never wavered. And to Lady Mara, the mortal woman who opened the door between our worlds and used her newfound powers for the good of our land. We are eternally in your debt.” He picked up his goblet and raised it high above the court. “Let us toast, to victory—and to Prince Brannonilon and his bride!”

  Mara’s cheeks colored and she nodded acknowledgment. Bran took up his goblet, full of rich elderberry wine, and raised his cup to her.

  “Thank you, Mara,” he said in a low voice. “You will be missed.”

  Freezing cold wormed through his bones, and he took a deep draught to dispel it. The wine tasted sweet and bitter in equal measure as he swallowed it down.

  21

  The feast lasted forever, and yet was over too quickly. Despite her hunger, Mara took care not to eat too much of the rich food. She had a journey to make—not only through Elfhame to the doorway, but a second passage through the deep trees of the Darkwood. She hoped she would not become too lost on her way back to Little Hazel.

  Her pulse quickened at the thought of coming home at last, of seeing lights in the cottage windows, of stepping through the familiar doorway and at last embracing her parents.

  And seeing the sun, and being surrounded by normal-sized beings whose eyes were not strangely slitted and whose features were not the stuff of screaming nightmares.

  Back in Anneth’s rooms, however, a strange melancholy fell over her as Bran’s sister helped her out of the satin gown. She had enjoyed playing the lady, though no doubt it would grow tiresome after a time. And the weight of the Dark Elves’ expectations would bend her down to the ground.

  “I’d like to wear the tunic and leggings from earlier,” Mara said. She’d already run through the forest once wearing an impractical dress. No need to repeat the experience.

  “Are you quite sure?” Anneth cocked her head. “This is your bridal night, after all. Don’t you want something more…”

  She waved her hand at one of the frothier gowns, but Mara shook her head.

  “Bran is taking me riding,” she said.

  “Riding?” Anneth’s brows rose.

  “Anneth, I must tell you. I’m not staying in Elfhame. Bran is sending me back through the doorway tonight.”

  “He is?” Anneth paced away, her steps sharp. “What an utter fool. Can’t he see that sending you away is the
most idiotic—”

  “You misunderstand.” Mara held up her hand. “I want to go. It was a condition I set before we wed, that he would use his magic to send me home after we fulfilled the prophecy and defeated the Void.”

  “You want to leave?” Anneth halted and gave her a wounded look. “But you saved Elfhame.”

  Mara let out a short, bitter laugh. “That doesn’t mean I belong here. Truly, my mind is made up. Please don’t ask me to stay.”

  Anneth stared at her a moment longer, then shook her head. “I don’t understand you at all.”

  “No. And that proves my point. No one here ever will. We come from worlds that are too different. Even though I can speak your language, everything here is foreign. Your customs and thoughts, and even the way you tell time, make little sense to me.”

  “Bran would understand you. I think he already does.”

  Anneth’s words sent a pang through Mara. But even if it were true, she and Bran had no real hope of a future together. No matter what the prophecy might think.

  “I won’t argue with you over this,” she said. “I’m sorry, Anneth.”

  Bran’s sister stood there a moment, lips tight. “I am sorry, too. But if you insist on going, I will help you prepare.”

  By the time Bran came to fetch her, Mara was wearing the sturdy tunic, her boots had returned to their original plain state, and her hair had been taken out of its elaborate coiffure and simply tied back from her face. She was Lady Mara no more.

  “I see you are ready,” he said, his features settling into his starkest expression. “Take the dagger I gave you. And the necklace.”

  “I can’t. It’s far too costly.”

  “That is precisely why I gave it to you,” he said. “Will such gems not serve you well in the mortal world?”

  She tamped down her unexpected surge of disappointment. She should be grateful for his generosity, not sorry that he only had a practical reason for giving her so opulent a gift.