by Anthea Sharp
The hiss of swords leaving scabbards filled the air, but Bran held up his hand. “Wait. Those are no Void creatures.”
He sent a ball of glowing foxfire forward. Its blue light illuminated a line of Dark Elves straggling down the road. At the front strode the Nightshade Lady, her expression grim.
“We’re here,” she called back to her people. “Hurry—the Hawthorne Palace awaits.”
Bran and the other fighters stood aside as the people of Nightshade came through the gates.
“Welcome.” Lord Calithilon raised his hand in greeting. “Enter, friends, and seek food and shelter within. Our hospitality is yours as long as you need it.”
“My thanks, Hawthorne,” the Nightshade Lady said, stopping beside Bran’s father.
“You would do the same,” he said. “How many?”
“Not enough.” Her voice was hollow with weariness. “Our best fighters fell in the first attack. I fear Nightshade is lost to us.”
“Not for long,” Bran said.
Whatever happened, the war with the Void would be over soon. And if the Dark Elves were defeated, then the fate of the courts of Elfhame mattered not at all.
He watched as the stream of refugees trickled in. Nightshade was a small court, smaller than their own, and after a dismayingly short time the road was empty again.
“The creatures are not far behind,” the Nightshade Lady said. “I would stay with you and fight, but I fear my magic is spent.”
“Recover as you can,” Lord Calithilon said. “You traveled fast, to reach us this soon.”
“The Rune of Quickness has its uses.”
Bran shot her a look of respect. No wonder her powers were exhausted. To cast the Rune on one person was challenge enough. The Nightshade Lady had done so for all her court, and several times over, if he was any judge.
A faint sound reached Bran, and he stiffened.
“The Void creatures come,” he said. “Spread out in front of the gates. Mara, stay close by me.”
He’d wanted to ride out and engage the enemy further from the palace, but it was too late. The creatures that had attacked Nightshade were closer than the ones Hestil was retreating from, and he prayed his small band would be able to dispatch them before the fighters from the front arrived.
Between one breath and the next, the enemy was upon them. Red-eyed gyrewolves leaped and snapped, and one spiderkin jumped over them all and headed for the palace.
Bran shouted a warning, and saw his father blast the creature with a bolt of power before drawing his sword. Then all his attention turned to fighting the wolves swarming toward him and Mara.
As he’d guessed, somehow the Void sensed her presence. The battle soon became not a defense of the palace gates, but a circle of fighting around him and his bride.
A wolf came too close while he pushed back a spiderkin. Mara cried out and slashed at it with the dagger he’d given her. It growled and prepared to leap, then was taken down by a swing of Garon’s blade.
Bran’s heart pumped furiously. That had been far too close. He raised one hand, summoning his power, and let out a blast. It knocked back the current attackers, but by its light Bran could see more approaching, including two of the lumbering creatures. These ones were twice the size of the lumberer he and Lieth had dispatched, and he could not help a twinge of dismay at the sight.
“Now what?” Mara asked. One of her braids had come loose, and her mud-colored hair straggled across her face.
He gently tucked the strand behind her ear.
“We hold fast,” he said. “This is a skirmish. I fear the real battle is yet to come.”
“Something’s happening yonder,” Garon said, lifting his blade and staring toward the rise above the palace.
Bran looked, and saw the telltale glow of magic flickering against the starlit sky.
“It must be Hestil.” He raised his voice in command. “Fighters, move position to the ridge!”
He sent another blast of power to keep the Void creatures at bay and give their small band enough time to scramble for the rise. He caught Mara’s hand. Despite Garon’s lame leg, the old soldier kept pace on her other side. It seemed he’d appointed himself her bodyguard, and Bran was glad of it. As they vacated the area before the gates, arrows hissed from the towers toward their enemies, burning green and orange with magical flame.
They crested the ridge to see scores of Dark Elf warriors holding back a wave of gyrewolves and spiderkin. Lieth’s bolts of magic flew true, and the glows of lesser magic users bloomed and faded over the trampled silvergrass. Bran scanned the fighters, finding Hestil in the process of dispatching a gyrewolf.
A spiderkin leaped to attack her. With a shout, he raised his hand and blasted it down. Hestil whirled and impaled the creature, dodging the green ichor spurting from its side.
“Bran,” she called. “Thank the seven bright stars.”
He’d opened his mouth to reply, when, with a deafening crack, the air above them split open.
Bran pulled Mara to his side and stared up. This was no mere breach. No—this was a portal torn into the very fabric of their world, pulsing with the malevolent energy of the Void. Somehow, it had managed to bypass the barrier and push itself into the heart of Elfhame.
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 El
ves 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.
Chapter 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 the 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.