Elfhame
A Dark Elf Fairy Tale
Anthea Sharp
Fiddlehead Press
Contents
Copyright
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HAWTHORNE Excerpt
Acknowledgments
Also by Anthea Sharp
About the Author
Copyright
ELFHAME copyright 2016 by Anthea Sharp. First edition published June 2016. All rights reserved. Characters are purely fictional figments of the author’s imagination. Please do not copy, upload, or distribute in any fashion.
Cover by Jennifer Munswami. Professional editing by LHTemple and Editing720.
Visit www.antheasharp.com
QUALITY CONTROL
We care about producing error-free books. If you discover a typo or formatting issue, please contact antheasharp@hotmail so that it may be corrected.
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ELFHAME - From USA Today bestselling author Anthea Sharp, a richly-imagined fantasy romance uniting an adventurous young woman and a fearsome Dark Elf warrior, in a magical tale reminiscent of Beauty and the Beast.
Deep in the Darkwood, a mystic portal awaits...
Mara Geary faces a bleak future in the village of Little Hazel until, on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, strange glowing lights beckon her into the mysterious shadows under the trees. She follows, hoping for adventure. What she finds is her destiny...
Prince of the Hawthorne Court, Brannon Luthinor has spent his life becoming a powerful warrior in order to save his people. Now, on the eve of war, his fate is rapidly approaching.
Centuries ago, the Dark Elves retreated to their homeland of Elfhame, sealing the portal between their lands and the human world. But when their realm is threatened, prophecy demands that the doorway be opened, and that Bran marry whatever mortal woman manages to find the hidden key and unlock the door.
Thrown together, Bran and Mara forge an unlikely alliance. But in the face of evil, will they be able to trust their lives - and their hearts - to one another?
For love, in all its forms.
This book is dedicated to the memory of those slain in Orlando 6/12/16
1
There was no music at Castle Raine, little light, and the fresh-quarried stones still bore the clammy chill of the earth.
A chill that Mara Geary was supposed to banish as part of her duties as one of the new maids. Not that she thought Castle Raine would ever be warm, not even in midsummer. It certainly was frigid now, in spring, with no hint of the softening air outside penetrating the tall stone walls or creeping in through the narrow windows.
Mara’s tallow candle sent flickering shadows dancing over the grey walls, lighting the way as she and Fenna, who had only been hired two days ago, hurried to the Great Room to light the fires. Mara’s wooden bucket of kindling bumped against her leg and the whisk broom at her waist rasped over her wool skirts with every step she took.
“It’s not what I imagined,” Fenna said as they knelt to clean the ashes out of one of the great hearths. “Somehow I thought it would be more exciting, serving at the castle.”
“Well, Castle Raine has only been finished for a month,” Mara said. “Perhaps once the weather turns warm and more lords and ladies come to visit, it will be more interesting.”
Fenna frowned and cast a look over her shoulder at the dark recesses of the Great Hall. “Dunno why anyone would want to come visit here. The castle’s grim enough, and then there’s the Darkwood just outside.”
Mara refrained from pointing out that the King of Raine lived at the castle now, and soon enough it would become a hub of activity. Fenna was a sweet girl, but not quick to put all the pieces together.
Still, it was true that life as a maid in Castle Raine had been dreary so far. If she were honest with herself, Mara had to admit that she, too, had thought working at the castle would be less full of drudgery and more… She tried to find the right word for it. More lively.
“You don’t have to worry about the Darkwood,” she said to Fenna. “I know you’re from the coastlands, but the forest isn’t anything to fear.”
“But the stories…” Fenna trailed off, the sibilant echo of her words hanging in the shadowed air.
“Just old tales.” Mara finished sweeping up the last of the ashes and deposited them in Fenna’s bucket. “Nothing interesting has happened in the Darkwood for centuries. Not since the Dark Elves disappeared.”
“Were they real, then?” Fenna paused in laying the kindling and stared at Mara with wide eyes. “What if they decide to come out and murder us all in our sleep?”
Mara laughed. “Believe me, that won’t happen. There’s no magical doorway in the forest anymore. People have searched for generations.”
She didn’t mention that strange things still happened sometimes in the Darkwood. No point in frightening Fenna any further. And strange didn’t necessarily mean dangerous.
She brushed off her skirt and rose to her feet. “That’s this fire done. One more in here, and then we move to the smaller rooms.”
Only one peculiar thing had ever happened to Mara in the forest, and even now she wasn’t entirely sure it had been real. It had been on her thirteenth birthday, nearly four years ago. Mara had gone out with her siblings to fetch wood for their dwindling stores. Birthday or not, there was always work to be done.
As the middle child of five, she was used to being left on her own. Her older brother and sister were twins, and always paired up, even when they were fighting. Sometimes it seemed that they lived in a different world from the rest of the family, a world full of the secret language of shared birth that no one else could penetrate.
Mara had tried for years, and when she’d finally given up and resigned herself to being nothing more than the tagalong, she’d found that her two younger sisters had made an alliance of their own, with no room left for annoying older siblings.
So there she was, the odd one out, quite literally.
The air had been cool that day in the Darkwood, and moist enough that dew still clung to the new leaves of the underbrush. Mara practiced walking silently and smoothly through the trees, letting the moss cushion her steps. She’d become used to her solitude, though she didn’t necessarily embrace it.
A few black-capped birds chirped and fluttered from bush to tree, their wings flashing whitely as they flew. She tried not to feel jealous that even the chickadees had companions when she did not.
Perhaps it was because of her birthday, or that the yearning inside her to belong somewhere was beginning to blossom into true misery, but she paused, tilted her head up to the feathery needles of the hemlock trees, and spoke.
“I wish that my life were different,” she said. “I wish something exciting would happen.”
There was no answer but the rush of the wind in the high branches. Sighing, Mara dropped her gaze back to the forest floor, searching for deadwood to stick in her burlap bag.
Then the breeze changed, murmuring down to pull at her brown hair and push against her skirts. The air felt thicker, as though filled with invisible mist, and she could no longer hear her siblings calling to each other through the trees.
Small, twinkling lights darted and danced in the shadows ahead, bright as candle flames. Mara’s breath hitched in fear, and
in wonder.
Something was happening.
The dark evergreens shivered, like animals sensing danger. Mara didn’t know whether to run toward the glimmering motes, or dash away in panic. Her heart thudded beneath her simple woolen dress.
Not yet.
It was a whisper of regret, rolling through the Darkwood. The breeze quieted and let go of her dress. The air grew lighter. The glowing lights abruptly winked out. Loss ached through her, but for what, she did not know.
“Mara, aren’t you done?” her older sister called, her tone sharp. “We’re ready to go.”
Mara wanted to shout back that they should leave without her. Maybe if she stayed, she would rediscover whatever little bit of magic she’d just seen.
But it was the cardinal rule of living beside the Darkwood: no one ventured there alone until they were well of age. The forest might not hold uncanny dangers any longer—though after what she’d just experienced, Mara wasn’t so sure—but there were plenty of other threats lurking in the wild depths of the woods.
Bear, boar, and even wolves who howled in the winter at the far-distant moon. Not to mention poisonous mushrooms and spiders, sinkholes where a body could disappear forever, treacherous snags, and deep ravines.
Heaving a sigh, she turned and lugged her sack of branches back toward her family. She sent a single glance over her shoulder, but there was nothing to be seen but empty underbrush and ancient trees.
Later, she’d tried to tell her next-youngest sister what she’d experienced, but Pansy only looked at her.
“There’s nothing special about the Darkwood,” Pansy said. “I can hardly wait until I’m grown up and can marry a rich merchant and move away from here. Do you want to rot in Little Hazel forever?”
Mara didn’t know what she wanted, beyond a future that felt important and real. And though the idea of seeing the wider world was quite appealing, she was fairly certain her life wouldn’t feature a rich merchant.
“Where do we take the ashes?” Fenna’s question jolted Mara back to her work.
She blew out a breath and turned her mind back to tending the cold hearths of the castle. Back to a life that was small and exceedingly unimportant.
“The compost heap is behind the kitchen gardens,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
She led the other maid through the chilly stone corridors and into a grey morning filled with mist. The fog would burn off later, but for now everything was seen through a filmy veil. The tall trees of the Darkwood rising beyond Castle Raine’s walls were soft blurs, and the newly risen sun a flat coin barely rolling into the sky.
“The heap is here.” She dumped the bucket and powdery ash drifted down, covering the onion skins and withered greens on the top of the pile.
Something else slid out, too, with a soft clatter.
“What’s that?” Fenna leaned forward.
“Careful—sometimes there are still live coals buried in the ashes. Let me poke at it.”
Mara cast about and found a discarded stake at the edge of the heap. She prodded gently at the item. It glowed faintly, as an ember would, but the light was much cooler, a pale blue instead of the orangey-red of coals.
A puff of wind made the ashes swirl, and when it cleared, Mara could see what lay there.
It was a key—but the strangest one she’d ever seen. Cautiously, she poked at it again. The stick clicked lightly against the surface, which seemed to be made of glass. The key was as long as the measure of her fingertip to her palm. Eerily, the bow was formed to look like a grinning skull, the shank formed like a bone, and two teeth protruded at the end.
“A key?” Fenna asked.
“Seems to be.”
Mara gave it a wary glance. She didn’t remember sweeping it up, but somehow it had ended up in the ash bucket. It shone from the middle of the compost heap, and almost seemed to be laughing at them.
“Whatever do you think it opens?”
“I’ve no idea.” There was something very unsettling about the key.
“Suppose we’d better take it in to the housekeeper,” Fenna said doubtfully.
“Yes.”
They both stood there, unmoving. Clammy mist curled around them, and a bird called mournfully from the hazy trees beyond.
“Pick it up,” Mara said.
“What, me?” Fenna tucked her hands in her apron and backed up a step. “I’m the new girl, remember? It’s your job to do such things.”
Unfortunately, she was right. Mara pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and plucked the key from the compost, careful to keep the glass from touching her skin.
“Is it hot?” Fenna asked.
“No.”
It wasn’t cold, either, but the warm temperature of something alive. Mara slid the key into her pocket. As soon as she and Fenna finished with the hearths, she’d have to turn the uncanny thing over to the housekeeper.
It might be adventure, a voice in her mind whispered. It might be important.
This was true—but Fenna had seen the key, too. It would mean instant dismissal if a maid kept any trinket she found lying about the castle, and this glass key was no exception. Mara couldn’t keep it, even if she wanted to.
She and Fenna completed their early morning chores, and then Mara went to find Mrs. Glendel, the housekeeper.
“I’m sorry, I have to return you,” she whispered to the key, patting her pocket as she went down the narrow servant’s hallway to the housekeeper’s office. However it had come to be in the ash bucket, surely it belonged somewhere far grander.
Mrs. Glendel was going over her household lists by the light of an oil lamp, and looked up sharply when Mara came in.
“My apologies for bothering you,” Mara said, “but Fenna and I found something while cleaning out the hearths.”
“Very good.” Mrs. Glendel stood and held out her hand. “Give it over.”
Mara reached into her pocket, then paused. A knot of discomfort formed in her belly as her fingers met her handkerchief—and nothing else. There was no warm, heavy weight in her pocket.
“Well?” The housekeeper waggled her fingers. The starched cuff of her brown dress drew a sharp line across her wrist.
“It’s here,” Mara said, her breath tightening. “I know it is.”
She felt about in her pocket, jamming her fingers into the corners. Was there a stray hole the key had slipped out of?
All the seams were tightly sewn, however. In desperation, she turned out both pockets of her heavy woolen skirt. Her empty kerchief fluttered to the slate floor. Mrs. Glendel’s thin eyebrows rose higher in her seamed forehead.
“It seems you’ve misplaced the item, Miss Geary. What was it, pray tell?”
“A key. A strange glass key with a skeleton head.”
“Hm.” The housekeeper gave her a disapproving look. “No one’s reported such a loss. But you know that the place of every maid here depends on complete honesty. You have until tomorrow to find that key and bring it to me.”
“Of course.” Mara swallowed the sour taste of her own saliva.
“Then you are dismissed for now.” Mrs. Glendel sat back down and turned her attention to her papers.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mara bobbed a curtsey and let herself out the door.
She’d have to retrace every step and find that blasted key, wherever it had gotten itself to. Her job at the castle—little though she might love it—depended upon finding that key again.
2
In the double-mooned realm of Elfhame, the halls of the Hawthorne Court were hushed, the dim corridors even more shadowed than usual. The Hawthorne Prince, Brannon Luthinor, strode in and out of patches of starlight thrown from the high windows onto the flagstones.
Although he was not pleased to be summoned to his father’s court, Bran let no hint of his feelings show. For this audience, he had replaited his black hair into formal warrior’s braids on either side of his face, and donned a court tunic of indigo silk embroidered with silver.
He’d even washed the mud off his boots. Court opinion was brutal, and though he was protected somewhat by his rank and power, it was always best to give the gossips nothing to fasten upon.
Just outside the ornately patterned silver doors of the throne room, Bran paused. He’d rather face the gyrewolves and twisted spiderkin threatening their border than set foot inside this room filled with courtiers speaking untruths and twisting their actions to suit their ambitions. But the robed servant standing outside the room was watching him expectantly, and there could be no escape.
Settling his jeweled sword more firmly at his hip, Bran took a deep breath, then nodded at the doorman. The servant waved his hand, summoning the small magic that would open the double doors.
“His Highness the Hawthorne Prince, Brannonilon Luthinor!”
The doorman’s voice rang out, and Bran stared impassively at the far wall as all eyes turned to him. A few gazes held admiration, others envy, but the worst were the ladies who viewed him as a means to an end, either for themselves or their daughters. That end being the Hawthorne Throne.
Their court was not the most powerful in Elfhame, but it was one of the oldest, and well placed among the seven ruling families.
Luckily, the circumstances of his birth provided an easy answer for why he was not yet married. It did not, however, provide him with a reasonable excuse for not taking mistresses—a fact that many of the women of the court liked to remind him of.
He’d had his share of dalliances, of course, but had no interest in weakening himself or his mission with misplaced attachment. Need for love made one vulnerable. He’d grown up learning that lesson, and had no desire to repeat it.
At the far end of the hall stood a raised dais, and upon it sat the Hawthorne Throne, occupied by Bran’s father, Calithilon Luthinor. The years lay lightly on his face, as was the way of their people, but silver threaded his once midnight hair, and his dark eyes held a weary cast.
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