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

by Anthea Sharp

  She blew out a long breath, pushing away the creeping sense of defeat that shadowed her thoughts. She refused to believe that she would wake to this view every morning for the rest of her life. Surely she must belong somewhere, beyond Little Hazel, or even the country of Raine itself. One day, she’d find that place.

  Holding that determination close, she got up and donned her favorite dress. She’d used all her pin money to buy it off a traveling merchant last summer. Clearly some noble’s castaway, there had been enough salvageable material for Mara to combine it with one of her other gowns and make a whole new garment. The sleeves and over-bodice were light blue silk, with bands of gold-embroidered trim, flowing down to the full skirt. It was rather impractical for doing housework, but she didn’t care. She’d put on an apron. Today was her birthday, after all.

  When she came downstairs, her mother looked her up and down, then handed her the wooden spoon to stir the porridge.

  “Good morning to you,” she said. “Up bright and early, I see.”

  Mara snagged an apron from the cupboard, then took the spoon and replaced her mother in front of the cast-iron stove and began to stir the lumpy oats.

  “This is sleeping late, compared to the hours at the castle. We’d be up before dawn to light the hearths.”

  “A pity your time there wasn’t a success.” Her mother’s voice held questions.

  Ones she’d never get the answers to, as far as Mara was concerned. She concentrated on stirring. “I’m sure something else will come along.”

  She hadn’t explained why she’d been turned out of Castle Raine. It wasn’t as though she’d actually stolen anything. She could try and tell them about the magical key, but her parents were the practical kind. Despite living at the edge of the Darkwood they gave little heed to the old tales, and always had a commonplace explanation for any odd occurrences.

  The dancing lights she’d glimpsed that once in the forest? Nothing more than fireflies out of season. The enormous black boar with glowing eyes that roamed the deep ravines? A frightened hunter’s exaggeration.

  They did not approve of the book of fanciful stories she’d discovered in a used bookshop during their yearly visit to the city of Meriton, and they certainly did not understand why she wanted to leave Little Hazel.

  “Thom the woodcutter’s son is a perfectly nice boy,” her mother had remarked on more than one occasion. “Give up your silly notions and settle down, Mara. I’ll help you look after the children.”

  Heavens, no.

  “Come with me to market today,” her mother now said. “Perhaps we can find you something nice for your birthday.”

  “I wondered if you’d forget,” Mara said, sliding the pot of cooked oatmeal off the stove.

  “Forget the day you were born? Not likely. You were a noisy child coming into the world, Mara Geary, yelling to wake the dead. It was a morning much like this, in fact, clear and with a bit of warmth. Now, is our breakfast ready?”

  Mara dished up wooden bowls of porridge while her mother called the rest of the family to breakfast. They all gathered around the long table, and Mara couldn’t help smiling. Much as her family might annoy her at times, she still loved them.

  In addition to the oatmeal, there were dried apples, honeycomb, and milk from the neighbor’s cow. It tasted much better than the food the servants were given at the castle, and Mara gave a contented sigh as she took a bite of honeycomb.

  “Mara and I are off to market after breakfast,” her mother said. “I thought we could take some fresh nettles for barter. Lily and Pansy, cut me some before you go off to school. And Mara, we’ll take eggs along, as well. Mrs. Weir is always happy to give us some good trout in exchange.”

  “Don’t cut all the nettles,” Mara’s elder sister, Seanna, said. “We need some for our studies with the herbwife.”

  Their mother gave her a sharp look. “Plenty of nettle patches all over. Old Soraya doesn’t need to raid ours.”

  Sean nudged his twin’s shoulder. “We can gather some from beside the baker’s.”

  The twins had been apprenticed to the herbwife since last fall, in an arrangement that seemed to suit everyone.

  Mara’s father, a man of little words, finished his breakfast, gave his wife a peck on the cheek, and departed for work at his small brewery located on the outskirts of the village. He and a good friend had started it up ten years ago, and everyone scoffed at the notion. Little Hazel was too tiny a village to support a brewery!

  But their beers and mead had turned out to be excellent, and they now had a nice export business going, with vendors and even a few inns all over Raine carrying Geary’s Meads and Ales.

  Mara glanced around their cozy cottage, at her family who all seemed content with the fit of their daily lives. Well, except for Pansy, who had already mapped out her future away from Little Hazel and seemed to have no doubts about it.

  Mara wondered, not for the first time, what was the matter with her. Why did she never quite belong? What was the restless itch she’d felt just under her skin ever since she’d been a child?

  Swallowing the last of her tea, and with no answers, she rose and helped her mother clear the table.

  “Look.” Mara’s mother prodded her in the ribs. “Thom is over there, by the potato seller. Go and say hello.”

  Mara glanced up from the tray of silver jewelry she’d been admiring. The necklaces were beautiful, like spun moonlight—and far above what they could afford. When her mother asked, she’d say she’d been looking at the braided copper rings instead.

  “Oh look, he’s seen us.” Mara’s mother waved and called a greeting.

  Thom saw them and, smiling widely, started to make his way to where they stood.

  Too late to escape. Mara dredged up a pleasant smile. It was always difficult, trying to be kind to Thom without giving him undue encouragement.

  “Mara!” Thom fetched up before her, his brown eyes shining. He took off his cap and made her a clumsy bow. “You’re back from the castle.”

  “She missed you too much to stay,” Mara’s mother said.

  “Mother!” Mara glared at her mother, then turned to Thom. “She’s teasing, of course. They found they’d hired too many maids, and I was let go.”

  “That’s a pity,” he said. “But I can’t say I’m sad about it, since now you’re home where you belong.”

  More than ever, Mara felt as though she did not belong—but it was hardly the time or place to try and explain.

  “It’s Mara’s birthday,” her mother said. “Seventeen—such a good age to think about starting a family of her own.”

  “I disagree,” Mara said, but the damage was already done.

  Thom gazed at her, the adoration shining in his eyes making her quite uncomfortable. For the first time that day, she regretted wearing her prettiest gown. While she’d always thought Thom a nice enough boy, if she thought of him at all, she’d never returned the force of emotion he so clearly directed at her every time they met.

  “May I come and call upon you soon?” Thom asked, crumpling his cap between his hands.

  His intent was plain: he meant to begin courting her in earnest.

  “I really don’t—”

  “Mara will be delighted to see you,” her mother said. “Come visit us tomorrow after supper, if you’re free.”

  “I am. Yes. That would be marvelous.” Thom grabbed Mara’s hand and planted a moist kiss upon it. “I can hardly wait. Thank you, Mrs. Geary.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow then, Thom,” Mara’s mother said. “Have a good afternoon.”

  “Oh, I shall.” Thom jammed his cap back on his head and walked away, glancing back at Mara every few steps.

  “He’s like a puppy.” Mara wiped the back of her hand on her cloak. “Mother, did you have to be so encouraging?”

  “Well, you weren’t.” Her mother shifted her market basket. “Come, we don’t want to be late to Mrs. Weir’s stall, or we’ll miss the best fish.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t want to marry Thom.” She hurried after her mother. “I wish you’d understand that.”

  “Puppies grow up in time,” her mother said. “And you need to do something with your life, since the castle didn’t work out.”

  “I thought I’d travel.”

  “Alone? The world is full of troubles waiting to beset an innocent young woman. Besides, you haven’t any money.”

  Mara felt she’d be able to handle most difficulties that might arise on her travels, but her mother’s last words were depressingly true.

  “Not much,” she said.

  “Perhaps you can convince Thom to spend a little time seeing the country, once you’re married.”

  “He doesn’t seem the adventurous sort,” Mara said.

  “Then he’ll settle you down nicely.” They halted in front of the fishmonger’s. “What do you think of that fat trout there, on the end?”

  Clearly their discussion about Mara’s future was at an end. She swallowed back her words of protest and privately vowed that, no matter what happened, she would never settle for a life in Little Hazel, married to Thom the woodcutter’s son.

  Chapter 6

  The only redeeming feature of the Hawthorne Court’s formal dinner was that Bran was seated beside his sister. Although it was rude, he ignored the woman on his left and spent the meal conversing with Anneth.

  During the soup course, she made him smile with tales of her escapades in the court, including raiding the library and making off with as many lurid tales of mortals as she could carry.

  “One of us needs to know what you’ll be getting into when your human woman finally appears,” Anneth said, giving him a teasing look. “Did you know that mortals prefer strong light—even stronger than our brightmoon—and like to eat snails?”

  “That sounds most unappetizing.”

  “What, the light or the slugs?”

  “Both.” But the prophecy demanded he bear with honor whatever challenges a mortal wife would bring.

  “What is afoot with our parents?” Anneth glanced to the head of the table, where the Hawthorne Lord and Lady presided over the feast. “Mother looks as though she’s swallowed something surprisingly pleasant, and Father is absolutely gloating.”

  Bran leaned back to let the servant take his bowl, and did not speak until the man had moved away down the table.

  “They have a scheme that they hope will force the prophecy to manifest.”

  Anneth frowned. “I was afraid of that, from the tidbits Father let drop. But is it even possible to make a prophecy happen? Can you tell me more?”

  Bran paused again as the fowl course was served, and took the opportunity to take a deep draught of elderberry wine. His father was correct: it was one of the finest vintages yet.

  Anneth took a bite of pheasant, patiently waiting until Bran was ready to speak. It was one of the reasons he was so fond of her. She never pressed, never scolded, but simply accepted him as he was.

  Which was more than their parents had ever done.

  Bran made himself eat, though he’d lost his appetite. He needed all his strength for his return to the front, and it would be foolish to refuse the food set before him.

  As soon as conversations rose about them, he leaned toward Anneth.

  “They think that making a formal announcement of my betrothal will activate the prophecy,” he said.

  She stared at him a moment, her dark eyes flaring with sympathy. “So they do want you to marry someone. That’s absurd. You didn’t tell them yes, did you?”

  “I did.”

  Her expression turned to dismay. “Bran, no. Was that wise? What if the prophecy abandons us altogether? I’m sure such things don’t like to be dictated to.”

  “Something has to happen.” He could not entirely suppress the note of urgency in his voice. “The battles are getting desperate.”

  He took another swallow of wine. By all the stars, he should be there now, not enduring a formal banquet while his parents gloated over forcing his hand. His mother, in particular, had always hinted that she did not quite believe in the foretelling that had accompanied his birth.

  Anneth laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I trust we’ll prevail. Surely the fates would not desert us altogether.”

  “I wish I shared that trust.” He took another bite of tasteless meat, made himself chew and swallow.

  “But who is the lucky—”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Anneth.” The syrupy-sweet voice came from just behind him. “I need to borrow your brother for a moment.”

  Bran turned in his chair to see Mireleth standing there, a predatory look in her eyes. Anneth’s gaze met his, and her eyes widened. She knew how he felt about Mireleth, and he read horrified sympathy in her expression.

  “Lady Mireleth.” He set his napkin aside and rose smoothly. “It would be my pleasure to attend upon you.”

  “Good.” She twined her arm through his, and he felt the delicate prick of her claws through his shirt.

  As soon as they stepped out of the dining hall, she turned to him. Her pale cheeks were flushed with emotion, and her eyes glowed dangerously.

  “Do you think so little of me,” she said in a tight voice, “that you force me to seek you out in the middle of dinner?”

  “My most sincere apologies,” he said. “I was busy in strategic meetings until the dinner bell rang. I had every intention of finding you after the feast, to discuss matters between us.”

  “Discuss matters?” The words came out in a hiss. “You have a duty to me now, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor. Our fathers signed the agreement.”

  Cold twisted in Bran’s chest. “You are aware that we won’t actually be married.”

  “Oh, Bran.” She ran one hand possessively up and down his shoulder. “Who’s to say what might happen? Now, I’ve brought the vow bracelets. You must say the words.”

  Bran closed his eyes briefly. Of course, he should have guessed that Mireleth and her politically grasping father would take every advantage to seal the betrothal as tightly as they could. He’d hoped it would be a mere formality—a tactical error on his part.

  Now he had no choice but to ask Mireleth to become his fiancée, and even wear the cursed bracelet. But no way under the moons would he allow the full betrothal bond to be forged. Luckily, even Mireleth would not overstep protocol by dragging him away from the rest of the feast to put her permanent claim upon him.

  “Here.” She handed him the smaller of the silver-runed bracelets.

  “Lady Mireleth Anion,” he said, reluctantly taking it in his palm, “will you pledge your future to mine, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm?”

  “Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne.” Her voice was exultant. “I will do so, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm. Until the day we are wed, let these bracelets seal the depth of our vow.”

  She held up the bracelet meant for him, kissed it, and then slid it over his hand. He was hard-pressed not to make a fist to keep it from encircling his wrist. The veins in his hands corded, and he forced himself to breathe evenly.

  The cold metal closed over his skin, latching with a click that reverberated through him like a slammed door.

  “My turn,” she said, a hint of threat in her voice.

  Dutifully, Bran raised her bracelet to his lips, then pushed it onto her hand. It slithered over her skin like a metal snake, eagerly snapping shut the moment it reached her wrist.

  The bracelets flared in tandem, and Mireleth gave him a smug smile. “Now there will be no doubt when our betrothal is announced at the end of dinner.”

  “As you say.” He felt numb.

  If this betrothal did not call the woman of the prophecy, he would be shackled to Mireleth for life. Fortunately, that life would be very short as the creatures of the Void overran Elfhame and destroyed everything in their path. It was a bitter consolation.

  “I’ll co
me to your rooms tonight, after moonset,” she said, lifting her hand to caress his cheek. “We’ll seal the bracelet bonding then. Leave your door unlocked.”

  His heart was a stone, his mouth full of pebbles. He said nothing.

  “You could show a little more emotion,” Mireleth said, huffing out a breath. “After all, we’ve been companions already. This will only formalize things.”

  “We ought to return to dinner,” he said, catching her arm and deftly steering her back inside the dining hall.

  He could not bear another moment in her company, and he absolutely refused to bond their bracelets by welcoming her to his rooms later that night.

  He escorted Mireleth to her seat, bowed and kissed her hand, then hastily retreated to his place.

  “Oh dear,” Anneth said, once he sat down. “She’s determined to get her claws into you, isn’t she?”

  Bran glanced at the pinprick holes in the arm of his linen shirt. “I’m afraid she already has.”

  His sister grimaced. “And making you wear the vow bracelets, too. Does she really think she’s more important than the prophecy that will save our realm? Oh, don’t answer that. Clearly she does.”

  The fruit course was served, and Bran made his decision.

  “I’ll be leaving right after dinner,” he told his sister in a low voice. “I must return to the front. I’ll leave a note.”

  “She’ll be furious.” Anneth glanced down the table, to where Mireleth sat, showing off her bracelet to anyone whose attention she could catch.

  “Stay well out of her way until she calms down,” he said. “And send for me at any sign of trouble. So far we’ve been able to keep the border secure, but I fear some creature might slip through. Do you have the dagger I gave you?”

  She nodded. “I wear it at my belt, always.”

  “And are you still practicing the moves? Go to Garon at the first hint of danger—he may be old and lame, but the man still knows how to fight.”

  “Yes—he complains constantly to anyone who’ll listen that he ought to be out fighting with the rest of the warriors.”

  “He’s needed here as captain of the guard. Remind him of that next time he grumbles. And that I’ve entrusted my sister’s safety to his hands.”