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

by Anthea Sharp

  Avantor took a moment to respond. Mara guessed he was wrestling with the answer, but at last he spoke.

  “I will,” he said. “Against my better judgment, might I add.”

  “A wise choice,” Ondo remarked from his position in the lead.

  Mara exchanged a look with the healer. Apparently Ondo’s ears were sharp enough to catch even their quietest conversations.

  “To summon a ball of flame, the casting is coronnar,” Avantor said.

  Mara tasted the word under her breath, fixing the shape of it in her mouth. Coronnar.

  “I pray you, do not practice it now,” Avantor added, somewhat dryly.

  “Don’t worry,” Mara said. “I’m not planning to set the grass on fire. Once cast, how do I banish the fireball?”

  “In the event that it has served its purpose and not yet burned out, the word is firnar.”

  She filed that word away, too, hoping she wouldn’t be called upon to cast the spell too soon. It felt good, knowing she had the ability to do more than lend the strength of her wellspring to Bran. Being a source of power for his admittedly more advanced magic had been essential in defeating the Void, but she liked being more than a stick of firewood waiting passively for the flame.

  The rounded edge of the palemoon curved against the sky, and the unfamiliar stars overhead sent a pang of homesickness through her. Ah, but she missed the sun.

  “When does the brightmoon rise again?” she asked.

  “In two more passes of the palemoon,” Avantor said.

  “After we meet Bran, then.” Her heart warmed at the thought.

  Not only would she be reunited with her husband, she would have light enough to not feel so drab-spirited. At least for a short time.

  “If we are entering the Erynvorn, the doublemoon will be a good thing,” Ondo said. “The forest is well named.”

  The Darkwood.

  His words made Mara’s thoughts skitter to the one thing she’d been trying to avoid. The gateway back to her world, and her growing suspicion that the Void was hungry to force it open.

  Surely she and Bran could stop it, though. The fragment she had cast from him had not been so very large.

  That makes it no less dangerous, her thoughts warned, and she found she could not quiet them.

  26

  Bran woke, restless, in the starlit quiet hours of the slumbering Rowan court. Nothing external had roused him—only his mounting concern over the destination of the Voidspawn.

  Still abed, he reached into his wellspring and summoned a sensing spell. His strength had returned enough that he could send the casting out to the edges of Elfhame. The magic skimmed along the boundary protecting the realm, then circled, sweeping up from Moonflower through the inner courts. Eyes closed, he stayed alert for the slightest ripple of malice that would signal the presence of the Void and its creatures.

  Nothing…

  Until he encountered the blot of malignancy gathering near the Erynvorn.

  The presence of a few dozen Voidspawn was unmistakable. And festering beneath, the coldness warning him that a shard of the Void still remained in Elfhame.

  Suppressing a shiver, Bran rose and set out his scrying bowl. Although Hestil could not match his range or power, she would be able to confirm that the southern part of the realm was clear of Voidspawn.

  She answered the scrying clear-eyed, her braids neatly binding her hair back. If he’d roused her, she gave no sign of it.

  “Commander,” she said. “What news?”

  “Have you found any trace of the Void in the inner courts?”

  “None at all—and not for lack of looking.” She firmed her mouth, then continued. “There are troubling reports of Voidspawn moving northeast, however.”

  “I’m afraid it’s true.” He frowned. “My sensing confirms that the Void is gathering just inside the Erynvorn.”

  Her eyes widened in immediate comprehension. “Do you think they plan to mount an attack on the gateway to the human world?”

  “Yes—and do everything they can to force their way through.” His throat was tight on the words. “Make all haste to meet me. We are under strength and need your fighters.”

  “What of Rowan?”

  He gave a quick shake of his head, trying to rein in his anger at the court’s inaction. Thank the stars for Nehta and her handful of trusted warriors.

  “We depart the court here in a few turns,” he said. “How long will it take you to reach the Erynvorn?”

  She tilted her brows together, and he could see her making some quick calculations. “One rising after the doublemoon, if we push hard.”

  “Come find us, when you reach the forest. I will try to delay the fight until then.” They needed Hestil’s forces to keep from being seriously outmatched, but if the Void attempted to open the gate, he would have to act.

  “Understood. I will rouse the warriors now and make haste for the Erynvorn.”

  He gave her a terse nod, then waved his hand over the scrying bowl, dismissing her image. Before picking it up to pour out the water, however, he paused.

  “Show me Mara,” he said, once more passing his hand across the still water.

  The silver reflection of his own face shimmered, then re-formed to show the image of his wife, fast asleep.

  The cords of tension winding about him eased as he watched her. No matter what happened, they would be together soon.

  “I’m coming,” he murmured, then banished the scrying.

  Despite the early hour, he suspected his warriors would be awake and making ready to go. It would not hurt for their commander to join them. Bran quickly gathered up his few belongings, then sent a quick magical summons to the kitchen, requesting a hearty breakfast be delivered to the warrior’s quarters.

  Outside the guest chambers, he was unsurprised to meet Nehta, accompanied by a half-dozen warriors.

  “Prince.” She made him a half bow in greeting.

  “Commander. Thank you for joining us.” He waved her to precede him into the soldiers’ quarters. “Have you yet eaten? You are welcome to join us.”

  “Thank you—we will.” She lifted her brows slightly, acknowledging the fact that warriors who broke bread together shared a deeper kinship in battle.

  It was probably why they’d arrived at that hour, which reinforced Bran’s already high estimation of Rowan’s commander. If joining him resulted in her losing her position at the Rowan Court, he would find a place for her, and her warriors, at Hawthorne.

  Provided they all survived.

  Mara woke from dreams of her husband.

  “Bran?” She rolled over, for a moment certain he was there beside her, but found only the empty pallet and the cold fabric of the tent.

  Outside, she heard Ondo’s quiet movements, the hiss of water boiling over his conjured fire, the shuffle of a horse shifting position. They had ridden well past moonset before making camp. She had no idea what time it might be—not that the passage of time in Elfhame made much sense to her human notions of day and night.

  But based on what Bran had said, she thought they would arrive at the meeting point by the end of the day. The thought was enough to get her up and moving, despite the weary protest of her muscles.

  Avantor and Ondo both looked up as she emerged from the tent.

  “Did you rest well?” the healer asked.

  “Yes.” She stretched, surprised to find that the words were true, then shot Ondo a suspicious glance. “You didn’t let me sleep too long, did you? I intend to see Bran today.”

  The warrior gave her a pointed look. “You rested as much as necessary. And do not fret—we will reach the Dragon Stones before the palemoon leaves the sky.”

  “Good.” She blew out a breath, then twisted her tangled hair into a makeshift bun, uncomfortably aware of the stickiness of her skin, the smudges of grime on her hands. “Is there any way I might wash up?”

  It would be nice to make herself presentable before reuniting with her husband.
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br />   Avantor gave her a half-smile, as if aware of her thoughts. “I believe our path leads beside the Celebronen—the silver lake—for a time today. Perhaps there might be time for all of us to bathe.”

  Ondo frowned, but nodded a grudging assent. “One at a time, of course.”

  “Of course,” Mara echoed. None of them wanted a repeat of the assassination attempt.

  While she ate, Ondo packed away her bedroll and tent, and soon they were on the move once more. Perhaps it was the knowledge she would see Bran soon, but the air seemed lighter, the beauty of Elfhame striking her to the core.

  The sky overhead was dark purple at the edges, the lilac palemoon washing out the nearby stars. Glowing flowers peeped from dark-leaved thickets as they passed, and the silvergrass waved in the light breeze.

  As promised, after about an hour of riding, the trail rounded the crest of a hill to reveal a shining expanse of water below. The lake, Celebronen. Mara smiled at the sight of the moon reflected on its rippled surface.

  The trail descended to curve along the shore. Wavelets lapped the stone-strewn beach, making a gentle hushing noise. A wild, sweet scent reached Mara’s nose, and she sniffed appreciatively.

  “Lissalma,” Ondo said, gesturing to a bush laden with pale yellow blossoms. “It blooms by the waterside.”

  “It smells lovely.” A thought struck her and she eyed the flowers askance. “They’re not… poisonous, are they?” She’d learned her lesson about appreciating the apparent bounty of her new land.

  “No,” Avantor said. “Sometimes, during celebrations, we weave the blossoms into our hair.”

  It was a lovely thought. Perhaps, once she’d bathed, she’d do the same.

  They followed the water for what felt like hours. The soft air and quiet sound of the waves lulled Mara into a waking doze. When Ondo called a halt, she was surprised to find that the palemoon had begun to dip toward the horizon.

  “Lunch,” the warrior said.

  “And then a bath, I hope.” She glanced longingly at the lake.

  “Aye.”

  She was first to finish the small meal of dried fruit, cheese, and seed bread. Ondo directed her to where a spit of grassland jutted out into the water.

  “We cannot give you privacy,” he said apologetically. “But I will avert my eyes.”

  “I understand. I’ll be fast.”

  He gave her a short nod, then unsheathed his sword. Just in case—though unless the assassin could breathe under water, Mara did not see how she could be in danger. Still, she had no idea what magics the Dark Elves were capable of. Better to be safe, than dead.

  Avantor brought her a square of cloth to use as a towel, and a thin disc of soap. She supposed, as a healer, he’d be prepared with such things.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The water was chilly, which helped speed her bathing process. She tried not to yelp as she dunked her head under and finger-combed out the worst of the tangles. Avantor’s soap smelled medicinal, but it did its job. She emerged feeling much cleaner, then quickly dried off and donned the fresh tunic she’d had the foresight to pack.

  “That’s better,” she said, rejoining her companions.

  “I’m next,” Avantor said, twisting his hair into a bun high atop his head.

  Ondo gave him a curt nod. “Do not linger. Prince Brannonilon waits.”

  Mara pulled in a breath, aware of a prickling excitement running through her. While Avantor bathed, she plucked a few of the lissalma flowers. Unlike the Dark Elves, she did not sport intricate braids to tuck the blossoms into. Instead, she settled on braiding the long stalks together to fashion a makeshift crown.

  “Most fitting,” Avantor said, donning his clothing and shaking his hair free. “You are a princess now. Never forget.”

  She gave him a strained smile. “I’m not sure I want to be. Especially not within the walls of the Hawthorne Court.”

  He sobered. “Your husband will not allow you to step back into danger. Once we meet with Bran, we will make a firm plan for your safe return to the Hawthorne Court.”

  “We must defeat the remaining Voidspawn first,” Ondo reminded them.

  He swung up on his horse and gave them an expectant look. Trying not to groan with stiffness, Mara let Avantor boost her onto her own mount. Single file, with Mara again in the middle, they set off once more.

  The path curved away from the water, and she was sorry to leave the shimmering expanse of the Celebronen behind. Not only had the quiet ripples of the water soothed her, but the reflected light had offset the encroaching darkness as the palemoon set.

  Now, lavender shadows sifted over the land. The tall grasses shone purple, and in the distance, a dark mass of trees arose, just visible on the horizon.

  The edge of the Darkwood.

  27

  Bran’s spirits rose as his party approached the Dragon Stones. The sliver of the palemoon was nothing more than a sharp tip slipping below the horizon. Despite the hulking shadow of the nearby Erynvorn, and the battle that surely awaited within, he was filled with anticipation. Soon, he would be reunited with Mara.

  Their time apart had been a dull ache in his side, a sense of missing a part of himself. He did not want to experience it again. Whatever happened in the next few moons—and beyond—he would spend them by his wife’s side.

  “There,” Nehta said from where she rode beside him. She gestured at the ridged rock of the meeting place. “I see movement.”

  He closed his eyes and sent out a searching tendril of thought. His magic sensed two Dark Elves—and the unmistakable feel of a human presence. Mara. He leaned forward, and Fuin responded to the movement by picking up his pace.

  “Prince,” Nehta said, urging her mount into a trot. “Do not go alone.”

  “It is not Voidspawn.”

  She gave no response, merely pressing her lips into a line and loosening the spear strapped in its holder beside her saddle.

  “Your caution is commendable,” he said dryly. “But there is no need for your weapon.”

  He kindled a small ball of foxfire and sent it to hover just above his shoulder, so that his dark-blind wife might see who approached.

  Not that there should be any question. Her wellspring was attuned to him, and he was certain she knew of his presence, just as he sensed hers. But something had made her and her companions wary, and he wanted to reassure Avantor and Ondo that no danger approached.

  The movement near the jagged spine of stones stilled for a long moment as he and Nehta rode forward. Then foxfire blossomed ahead, shedding light over the three figures gathered there.

  “Bran!” A glad cry burst from Mara’s lips and she nudged her mount forward.

  In turn, he urged Fuin into a faster pace. Just as they met, he guided his horse slightly to the side and plucked Mara off her mount, pulling her into his arms.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, a scolding laugh in her voice as she laced her arms around his neck to secure her perch.

  “Greeting you properly.” He bent his head and breathed deeply of her human scent and the flowers woven into her hair.

  “Well, don’t drop me.”

  She looked up at him, her strange round-pupil eyes smiling, even as she tried to keep her features stern. Ah, would she ever know how precious she was to him? Once again, he cursed himself for leaving her behind.

  In a few short paces, they reached the rest of her party. Bran, still holding his wife, threw one leg over Fuin and gracefully slid to the ground.

  “You should put me down,” she said, though she still held tightly to him.

  Reluctantly, he set her gently upon her feet, but could not help keeping one arm around her shoulder. Deep inside, his wellspring sighed, then settled.

  “Commander.” Ondo made him a bow, then turned to acknowledge Nehta.

  Avantor, his expression carefully blank, made his greeting, and Bran narrowed his eyes. The healer was clearly hiding something.

  “What happened?�
� he demanded, his gaze fixed on Avantor’s face.

  Avantor winced and opened his mouth to answer, but Ondo stepped forward.

  “The fault is mine, my lord,” he said. “I carelessly allowed your wife out of the campsite, and she was attacked.”

  Fear and anger swept hotly over Bran, and his hand went to his sword.

  “Attacked? By all the stars, you should have told me! Was it Voidspawn?”

  “No.” Ondo’s mouth screwed up in repentance. “It was an assassin.”

  The fear won, then, and he whirled to Mara. “Is he dead?”

  She shook her head, and Ondo grimly continued.

  “We were fortunate that Mara’s magic repelled her attacker, but he was able to escape. Since then, we’ve kept a close watch.”

  Bran’s thoughts raced. He did not ask how Ondo had failed in his duties so miserably, for clearly a greater magic had been at work. A power that could only be wielded by one of the rulers. But who wanted Mara dead?

  For a moment, his mind skittered to his parents, but he could not begin to think of what that might mean. Not now, with another fight looming. And surely even Tinnueth would not be so cruel.

  She would, though—he’d known since birth that his mother cared for little but herself and her own power.

  “Forgive me.” He took Mara’s hands in his, anguish tightening his throat. “I placed you in more danger than I ever would have guessed.”

  “You didn’t mean to,” she said softly, and her lack of recrimination made his guilt twist all the more tightly inside him.

  “I will not lose you,” he vowed.

  In answer to the strength of his words, the azure rings of binding on both their hands flared to life. The blue light limned her hair and sparked in her eyes, turning her into an ethereal creature. His heart ached at the sight of her, and he nearly wanted to weep at the thought of losing her once more.

  Then the rings returned to their quiescent state, and she was back to being his beloved human wife.

  “Just don’t leave me behind ever again,” she said, a tart note creeping into her voice. “Where you go, I go.”