by Anthea Sharp
Bran’s eyebrows twitched, but he made her a small bow. “Thank you.”
Mara wanted to protest, but it was not the time or place to voice her concerns. She hoped he would listen to reason—or at least to Avantor—when it came time to leave the Hawthorne Court. Which, no matter what Lady Tinnueth implied, would not be immediately.
“Sit,” Lord Calithilon said, gesturing to the chair on his right. “I have messages for you to give the other courts.”
“Of course.” Bran settled Mara in the chair beyond, then took the indicated seat beside her.
The narrow-faced courtier on Mara’s right gave her a swift glance, then looked pointedly away, lip curling.
“It’s all very well for the prince to have saved our realm from the Void,” he said to the lady seated next to him, clearly meaning for Mara to overhear. “But ultimately, it’s of no use.”
“Indeed,” his companion replied, her voice melancholy. “Alas, we are doomed to perish.”
Mara blinked, trying to absorb what they had just said. She looked at Bran, to see if he’d caught the words, but he was already engrossed in conversation with his father, discussing the Nightshade Court and the losses they’d sustained in the war against the Void.
A server paused beside her place, offering slices of melon and a dish of some unfamiliar grain. Mara accepted both, but after a few bites, her curiosity got the better of her.
“Pardon me,” she said, turning to the courtier. “What did you mean, when you said defeating the Void was useless?”
He let out a sigh and gave her a sidelong glance. “Prince Bran prefers to keep you in ignorance, I suppose—and I cannot blame him. There’s little you can do about it.”
“About what?” She wanted to take the fellow by the shoulders and shake the information out of him.
“The prince pampers his new pet,” the woman beside him said. “Unlike some of us, he chooses to ignore the fact that fulfilling his prophecy only prolongs our decline. Elfhame’s enemy is defeated, true. Nonetheless, we are fated to die.”
“To die? What do you mean?” Mara curled her fingers in her lap, her heartbeat accelerating.
Was some disease ravaging the courts, or a new invasion on the horizon? What fate had she consigned herself to, when she’d agreed to turn her back on the human world? And why hadn’t Bran told her?
The woman gave her a pitying look. “Tell me, mortal creature. Do you see any children here?”
Mara glanced over the dining hall. The bobbing spheres of foxfire illuminated a crowd of Dark Elves that ranged from young adults to the elderly. No one appeared younger than perhaps twelve years of age, by mortal reckoning.
“I assumed your children took their meals elsewhere,” she said.
Upon reflection, though, she realized she’d seen no youngsters dashing about the palace, heard no high-pitched laughter issuing from nurseries and schoolrooms.
The thin-faced courtier shook his head. “No Dark Elf child has been born for over two hundred doublemoons, when our people were struck barren by some mysterious malady.”
“Prince Brannonilon might have beaten back the Void,” the woman said, leaning forward and meeting Mara’s eyes. “But perhaps it would have been better had he not. We are dying out. For myself, I prefer a quick end as opposed to a lingering decay. In a generation, only a handful of Dark Elves will remain, waiting for extinction.”
“That’s terrible,” Mara said. She couldn’t imagine living with the knowledge that humanity was destined to die out. “Surely some cure can be found?”
The woman slowly shook her head. “We have tried everything. Nothing has allowed us to once more conceive offspring.”
Mara wanted to argue that surely there must be something. But it was not her place—and besides, the Dark Elves, with all their magic, must have done everything they could.
“It would have been better had you not come,” the thin-faced courtier said, giving Mara a cold look. “It would be ended, now. Our people gone, devoured by the Void. Instead, we must gradually waste away.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “We have nothing to look forward to but a dreary future of loss and emptiness.”
The Dark Elves had a taste for the overly dramatic, it seemed, and Mara’s patience had worn thin. She’d grown up with two younger sisters, after all. The courtiers’ fatalistic attitude, and their inability to honor Bran’s victory, set her teeth on edge.
“Maybe fate has something else in store.” She couldn’t help the tartness of her tone. “Do you really think the prophecy is finished? That conviction seems foolish, to say the least.”
The woman pulled in a sharp breath and turned pointedly away. The other courtier simply gave Mara a scornful look and went back to his food.
Well then. Mara poked at the melon upon her plate, her appetite gone. No wonder she’d had such a cold reception at court, if the majority of the courtiers still thought the Dark Elves were doomed. As soon as dinner was over, she and Bran were going to have a long talk.
At last, the meal came to an end. Bran turned to her, apology in his eyes.
“I fear I’ve neglected you,” he said.
Mara squeezed his arm, the muscles hard beneath her hand. “You had much to discuss with the Hawthorne Lord.”
After the narrow-faced courtier had gone back to ignoring her, she’d listened to Bran and his father. It seemed to her that Lord Calithilon was humoring his son instead of treating him with the respect that a warrior mage deserved. Especially one who’d won the war against the Void.
Did the rulers of Hawthorne also wish Bran had been unsuccessful?
Mara glanced at Lady Tinnueth, to find the woman watching her, catlike eyes narrowed in malice. Throat dry, Mara swallowed and refused to look away. Finally, Bran’s mother gave a slow blink and turned to Bran.
“I believe Lady Mireleth would like a word with you,” she said to her son.
“So I understand,” Bran said stiffly.
“Do not treat her with discourtesy.” Lady Tinnueth’s voice held a note of warning.
“I will seek her out tomorrow.” Bran stood. “And now, I must beg your leave. My wife is weary.”
He held his hand out to Mara, who quickly rose. From the dark smudges beneath his eyes, it was Bran who needed to rest, but she would willingly bear the burden, if it meant they might depart the dining hall immediately.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s been a tiring day.”
Lady Tinnueth’s lip curled in disdain, but Lord Calithilon nodded.
“You have our permission to go,” he said. “We know you have much to do to make ready for your departure, Prince Brannonilon.”
“Thank you,” Bran said.
Mara dipped another curtsey, and then took Bran’s arm as they moved away from the head table. She could feel Lady Tinnueth’s stare boring holes in her back, and forced herself not to shiver.
After what seemed like miles, they reached the silver doors and stepped out of the hall. Bran let out a breath, and she felt his steps drag the moment they were out of sight.
“You’ve pushed yourself too much,” she chided him.
“It had to be done.” His voice was hoarse with weariness.
“Bran,” she said. “At lunch, I heard—”
“Prince Bran,” Avantor called from behind them.
Bran paused, and the healer caught up to them, his brow creased with concern.
“I hope you are on your way to rest,” Avantor said. “And not preparing to march out at moonrise tomorrow.”
Bran slanted a look at the healer, then away. “I’ve duties to attend to.”
“Then have one of your deputies arrange matters.” Avantor’s voice held a note of annoyance, and Mara sympathized.
“Please.” She squeezed Bran’s arm. “Let’s go look in on your sister, and then you can send for Hestil. Surely it’s her duty, as your second-in-command, to assist with such things?”
“It is,” Bran said, giving her a look of reluctant
agreement. “But if she organizes the patrols, she will expect to come. It was my intention to leave her here to watch over your safety.”
“Isn’t it more important to hunt down the Void creatures?” Mara asked. “Surely I don’t need a personal guard here in the Hawthorne Court?”
“I will not leave you unprotected,” he said, his tone uncompromising.
“You have other skilled warriors who might watch over your wife,” Avantor said. “Take Hestil.”
Bran made an exasperated sound. “Very well. I cannot stand against both of you.”
Mara exchanged a glance with Avantor, glad of the support she saw in his eyes.
“Are you going, too, as healer?” she asked.
“I would prefer to.” His words were measured. “If our commander agrees, of course. There is more need of me on the battlefield than in the court.”
Bran shifted and began walking down the corridor once more. “It won’t be a war, Avantor. I don’t intend to put my soldiers in undue danger.”
“But Void creatures are on the loose,” Mara said. “Surely there is plenty of risk. Look what happened to Anneth.” She glanced at the healer. “How is she feeling?”
“I am pleased to say she’s recovering well so far,” Avantor said. “Indeed, it’s time for another visit from me. I will accompany you to see her.”
“Good,” Bran said. “And I warn you now, my sister needs your tending more than I need you to accompany my warriors into the field. If you insist I bring Hestil along, then you must remain at the Hawthorne Court. For all our sakes.” Bran lengthened his stride, putting an end to the matter.
Avantor’s expression soured, but Mara smiled at him, even as she was forced nearly into a trot to keep up with her husband.
“I’m glad you’re staying,” she said to the healer. “I find Hestil rather… severe.” The warrior was downright intimidating, if she were honest.
“Sicil, the third-in-command, is just as formidable,” he replied. “I do wish the prince would be more sensible and let me accompany him.”
Mara shot him a rueful look. “We both know it’s almost impossible to change his mind once it’s made up.” Witness her own inability to make him rest, let alone delay his departure until the doublemoon.
When they reached Anneth’s rooms, Bran knocked on her door, then entered without waiting for an answer. Anneth lay propped on her side upon her low couch, a tray of partially eaten fruit on the table before her.
“Look who’s charging in,” she said, a lopsided grin softening her words. “A whole entourage come to visit. How lucky I am.”
“Are you well?” Bran went to his sister and knelt, taking her hand.
He clearly was still wracked with guilt over her injuries, and Mara couldn’t blame him. Anneth had come into the Darkwood looking for them, after all.
“I’m sore,” Anneth said with a grimace. “Avantor tells me I’ll be able to start moving about in another day, though.”
“Not without some pain, I am sorry to say.” The healer glanced from her to Bran. “At least one of my patients is wise enough to listen to me, and remain abed as advised.”
Bran shook his head. “Our realm can’t afford that luxury. I will not be damaged for life if I neglect my healing—but Elfhame may well bear scars if I fail to act.”
“You’ve always put your people’s needs before your own,” Anneth said. “When will it be your turn, Bran?”
Mara couldn’t help but agree. The Hawthorne Prince took his duties too seriously. But perhaps growing up under the shadow of the prophecy as he had, it was understandable.
“When our realm is safe.” His tone was hard, and it was clear that no argument would sway him from his course. “I must go and meet with my second-in-command as soon as possible.”
“Hestil is almost as bad as you are,” Anneth said. “But what are you going to do about Mara’s training?”
Bran glanced at Mara, his expression softening, and her annoyance with him faded. He was doing his best under trying circumstances. They all were.
“I’ve not forgotten you,” he said. “My own tutor, Penluith, will meet with you in a half turn in my rooms.”
“Will you be there?” Mara shifted, not wanting to sound demanding, but she had to admit that she was a bit apprehensive.
And more than a little excited. Who would ever have thought that she possessed magic? Back in Little Hazel, such things were the stuff of stories and fables, not reality.
“I will come, when I may,” he said.
He took her hand, his claws sheathed, and dropped a quick kiss upon the back of it, then turned and strode from the room.
Avantor let out a sigh. “Our prince is ever single-minded.”
“It’s what allowed him to save Elfhame in the first place,” Mara said in Bran’s defense.
“He’s not entirely focused on the realm,” Anneth said. “He’s clearly in love with you, and those divided loyalties make him more terse than usual.”
Mara felt her brow quirk. “Maybe—but I don’t want to stand in the way of him doing what he needs to.”
“Don’t forget your needs,” Anneth said archly, and Mara felt her cheeks flush.
The words reminded her of the questions she meant to ask. Eventually. She flicked her gaze to Avantor, unwilling to broach the subject in his presence.
“I suppose I should go back to Bran’s rooms,” she said. “I don’t want to be late for my first lesson in magic.”
“Wait a bit.” Anneth reached out, then winced as the motion pulled at her injury. “Distract me while Avantor changes my bandages. You have plenty of time before Penluith comes.”
“What’s he like, the tutor?” Mara settled in the low chair facing Anneth’s couch. “Did you have him as a magic teacher, too?”
“Yes.” Anneth’s nostrils flared as Avantor began tending her injuries, but she staunchly continued speaking. “He’s been the nobility’s teacher for as long as anyone can remember. He even tutored my parents in the use of their wellsprings.”
Mara blinked. “He must be very old.”
How much longer did Dark Elves live than humans? Would she wither and age while Bran remained youthful? She shifted uncomfortably, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
“He has seen thousands of moons,” Avantor said, glancing up at her as if sensing her worry. “But his wellspring also sustains him. Magic extends our lives. As it will yours.”
Which reminded her…
“I heard something distressing in the dining hall,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Is it true that no more Dark Elf children are being born?”
Avantor stilled, and Anneth’s eyes turned sad.
“Yes,” she said after a moment. “No one knows why.”
“That’s terrible.” Mara swallowed. She did not know how to give condolences to a people destined to die out.
“You see why I’m annoyed with Bran, though.” His sister smiled crookedly. “If we are all fated to fall to dust, why not enjoy what we have in life right now? Chasing the Void creatures won’t save us.”
Avantor cleared his throat. “Some think otherwise. Once the Void is entirely defeated and Bran’s prophecy fulfilled, there are those who believe our fertility will return.”
“Do you think so?” Mara glanced at him.
“I am not certain. The prince’s prophecy did say he would save Elfhame. Surely that includes the people that dwell within the realm.”
“Or maybe Bran and Mara will repopulate Elfhame.” Anneth’s grin turned impish.
Mara felt herself blushing again. “Surely we couldn’t do that single-handedly.”
“I’m only teasing.”
“Um.” Mara bit her lip, then looked at Avantor and charged ahead. “Can Dark Elves and humans even produce children together? Are we… compatible in that way?”
The healer looked at her over Anneth’s shoulder, his expression thoughtful. “I believe that such pairings have resulted in offspring in the past. D
ark Elves have been known to slip through the gateway, sometimes bringing mortals back with them, sometimes spending the span of a human life in your world before returning to Elfhame. There have been several instances of half-elf, half-human children.”
“It’s probably why you have magic,” Anneth added. “Some Dark Elf ancestor passed the gift on to you.”
“If I hadn’t come here, I never would have known,” Mara said. Although—that wasn’t entirely true.
She pressed her lips together, recalling that a part of her had always been different. She’d felt the pull of the Darkwood, had seen the flitting lights of glimglows before she’d even known what secrets the forest contained.
Dark Elf magic ran in her blood. Why else had she found the magical key that opened the gateway to Elfhame? Why else had Bran’s prophecy chosen her?
“Might it be possible to bring humans with Dark Elf blood into Elfhame, to help repopulate?”
She was grasping at straws now, she knew, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her newly adopted people ceasing to exist. They, and their magic, could not simply fade away.
Anneth’s expression turned melancholy. “Even if such a thing were possible, do you really think other humans would welcome the experience, knowing how the court has treated you? You are the woman of the prophecy, and it was difficult enough for you, in the beginning.”
It was difficult still. Despite herself, Mara heard the echo of Mireleth’s cruel words, recalled the hatred in Tinnueth’s eyes. But there was no point in complaining. Anneth would only worry, and there was very little she—or anyone—could do about it. Mara would endure the animosity and hope that, in time, she would be accepted at the Hawthorne Court.
She had more questions to ask—but as Avantor hummed a song of healing, Anneth’s eyes closed. Soon, she was fast asleep. Quietly, Avantor and Mara left the room, parting ways in the corridor.
“Good luck with Penluith,” the healer said.
“Thank you.” Mara bit her lip. It was probably too much to hope that learning magic would come easily.
8
As it turned out, working with her wellspring was, indeed, more difficult than Mara had hoped. After returning to Bran’s rooms—she supposed they were hers now, as well—she had distracted herself by turning on and off the lights until Penluith arrived.