by Anthea Sharp
“Aye.” He glanced down at their linked hands, steeling himself for what he must say next. “I must tell you. The Void is gathering here, in the Erynvorn.”
She drew in a quick breath, as though she’d guessed the same. “All of them, in the whole realm?”
He gave a single nod. “My sensing says it is so—and Hestil has confirmed it.”
“What about…” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “What about the fragment we drove out of you?”
“It is… elusive, but I believe it is directing the Voidspawn. They are acting with a purpose and intelligence I cannot otherwise explain.”
“Then…” She locked gazes with him. “Then they mean to force the gate open and invade my world.” Her voice shook, ever so slightly.
“It seems so.”
A flash of panic crossed her face. “We have to stop them!”
“We will.” He tried to project more confidence than he felt.
She leaned to the side and peered around him. “How many soldiers have you brought?”
“Hestil is on the way to meet us, with her forces,” he said, evading her question. “And we have the best of the Rowan Court’s warriors with us, as well as their commander.”
He nodded at Nehta, who had been watching the interaction between him and Mara with quiet interest. She stepped forward and made Mara a short bow.
“I am pleased to meet you, Hawthorne Princess.”
Mara winced at the title, but, to Bran’s relief, did not try to deny it.
“Thank you for coming,” Mara said, then glanced back at Bran. “How soon until Hestil arrives?”
He let out a relieved breath that his wife understood the danger of charging immediately into the forest.
“After the doublemoons rise. I will scry her once we make camp.”
“Not until tomorrow?” Mara was clearly dismayed by the delay.
He could not blame her—he knew the soul-clenching fear of the Void threatening his world and all he held dear, and wished she could be spared that particular horror.
“The Voidspawn have not yet reached the gateway,” he said. “Let alone attempted to interact with it. And the passage between our worlds is not without its protections.”
He gave her a significant look, a reminder of the immense strength needed to open the portal, let alone hold it for more than a few heartbeats.
“Very well,” she said unhappily. “I suppose we’d best make camp.”
“There is a sheltered place at the far side of the rocks,” Ondo offered. “And a spring nearby.”
“Show me,” Bran said. He would sweep the entire area with his magic, to ensure that no Void creatures waited to ambush them.
Or assassins.
By the moons, his troubles mounted on either side, and he could not help the cold certainty that a battle lay ahead.
Then Mara slipped her hand into his. The warmth of her human touch steadied him, beat back the foreboding icing his blood. They would triumph once more. He could believe nothing less.
28
Delight over being reunited with Bran warred with Mara’s fear for her own world, mixing uncomfortably in her belly. They settled into the camp, quickly pitched on the far side of the Dragon Stones, but she had little appetite for the simple stew Ondo fixed for their supper. Every few bites she would pause and stare at the huge shadow of the Darkwood ahead, panic tickling the back of her neck.
The village of Little Hazel lay on the other side of the gate.
Not right outside it, but it was the closest human habitation to the center of the forest, tucked as it was on the outskirts of the Darkwood. If the Void creatures forced their way through…
She shuddered, unable to banish the terrible image of the gyrewolves and spiderkin descending on her unsuspecting family. Her sisters, her brother. Their village devoured.
“We will stop them,” Bran said, sensing her thoughts. “Here, drink.” He held out his goblet of wine to her.
“It won’t make me forget the danger,” she said, eyeing the silver cup. “Unless you’ve bespelled it—in which case I won’t drink.”
She did not need her husband cosseting her, and ever since the marlock berries, she was wary about what she let pass through her lips.
“I would not attempt to enchant you without your knowledge.” He sounded affronted. “It is only wine, but perhaps it will help blunt your worries.”
“I’m not one to drown my sorrows in drink,” she said, but she accepted the goblet and took a swallow anyway.
The tart, flowery taste lay on her tongue, and she tried to think of other things. The quiet beauty of Celebronen’s waters, the tilt of Anneth’s grin.
“Tell me of your studies with Penluith,” Bran said. “I expect you have proven an apt student.”
“Somewhat.” She blew out a breath and went on to describe her troubles harnessing her magic reliably. “I don’t know whether it’s because I’m human or something else, but even the simple magics don’t always work for me,” she finished.
“They protected you well enough when needed,” he said grimly. “I have never heard of a simple shielding spell behaving in such a fashion as you described, when that assassin attacked. I will work with you to harness your wellspring once the realm is safe once more.”
“Both our realms, Bran.” She took another swallow of wine, her gaze once more drawn to the waiting Darkwood.
“Of course.” He touched her shoulder. “I would not leave the human world in danger.”
He said no more, as if voicing the thought that the Void might enter her world would make it come true.
“What did Hestil say?” Mara asked. “Will she be here on the morrow?”
He glanced at her, then away. “No.”
“Why not?” Mara clenched her fingers around the silver goblet. “We have to catch the Void! I’ll go alone, if necessary.”
“You will not. And Hestil is making all speed, but she cannot wear her forces ragged if we wish them to be any use in the coming fight.”
Misery tightened Mara’s throat. “You can’t force me to stay in the camp—not when the enemy is mounting an attack on the gate.”
“I will not make you stay here,” he said quietly. “I only said you will not go alone.”
“Oh.” She took a gulp of wine, then handed the goblet back to him. “Then will we go, tomorrow?”
He glanced at the web of stars stitched overhead—constellations Mara had yet to learn—then drained the goblet.
“When the brightmoon rises on the morrow,” he said, “we will strike camp and follow the Void into the Erynvorn.”
“Good.”
It wasn’t good, of course, but the knowledge that Bran was with her eased the knot in her stomach.
“We should rest,” he said, rising gracefully and offering his hand. “My lady, will you join me in my tent?”
“Yes.” She managed the wisp of a smile for him and let him draw her to her feet.
Despite the comfort of Bran’s solid body beside her, Mara slept fitfully. After the third time she woke and lay rigid, staring up at the fabric of the tent, Bran reached over and stroked her hair.
He offered her no empty words of comfort or promises of victory. Just the simple reassurance of his touch, his presence. She pulled in several deep, wavering breaths. Then, finally, she went into the dreamless dark.
When she woke, brightness filtered through the tent. The sun! She sat up, filled with joy for a fleeting moment—then realized her mistake. To her light-starved eyes and homesick heart, she had mistaken the rising brightmoon for the light of her home world.
She was not surprised to find the tent empty, the spot where Bran had lain cool to her touch. No lying abed for the commander. She felt a twinge of remorse that her insistence on entering the Darkwood had no doubt drawn him to his duties at first light.
Despite his assurances that he was fully healed, she saw the faint shadows in his eyes, and had noticed that he had summoned only the sm
allest balls of foxfire the night before. Perhaps he was conserving his strength for the battle to come, but she feared that his wellspring was not yet returned to its full power.
She was with him, though, and her wellspring seemed as potent as ever. As before, he could draw on her magic if necessary.
And she feared it would be necessary.
With a grimace, she pushed back the soft blue coverlet, shook out her tunic, and twisted her hair into a messy bun at the back of her head. Anneth had given her a hairpin fashioned of silver and inlaid with a flat, shining purple stone. It seemed too fine to wear into battle, but Mara had nothing else to keep her hair in place.
Well, she supposed she could jam a stick through her bun, as she’d used to do when rambling about the woods, but that was equally foolish.
With a fortifying breath, she ducked out of the tent. The camp was all but struck. A few of the warriors sat on the tumbled rocks, finishing their meals. She turned slowly, making a count by the golden illumination of the brightmoon, and her heart clenched as she numbered the soldiers. There were so few!
“Mara!” Avantor hailed her from a nearby jut of stone. “I have porridge for you.”
She joined him, bidding him good morning. Despite her lack of hunger, she set herself to scooping up the spiced grains from the bowl with a flat wooden spoon. At least Bran and his warriors had their healer with them once again. Avantor’s skills would be a welcome, and necessary, addition when the fighting began.
As she chewed, Mara watched Bran stride about the camp. He paused to speak with Nehta, the Rowan commander, and her pitifully small force.
“Why so few?” Mara asked Avantor in a low voice. “I know that Nightshade could not send many fighters, after losing so many in the last battle. But why did Rowan not provide more?”
The healer shifted uncomfortably. “You must ask Bran.”
“I will.” She set her bowl down and met Avantor’s gaze. “But I’m also asking you. Why do you think there are only a handful of fighters from Rowan?”
He frowned, his gaze going to the Rowan contingent, then back to Mara. “At a guess—and it is only a supposition, nothing more—I would say the Rowan Lords did not think it necessary.”
Lords? She noted that bit of interesting information, then tucked it away to puzzle over later.
“Not necessary?” She looked quizzically at Avantor.
When he said nothing more, she made herself think, and the answer dawned, cold and awful.
“They are content to let the Void invade my world if it means the enemy is gone from Elfhame?” The words were bitter in her mouth.
Avantor hunched his shoulders and could scarcely meet her eyes. “Aye. But not all Dark Elves—”
“Let them hang!”
She rose and grabbed the empty bowl, then stalked over to where Ondo was finishing the washing up and deposited the dish with him. Part of her wanted to condemn all Dark Elves for consigning her world to the Void without a fight—but that was unfair.
Bran’s forces might number only two dozen warriors, but he was here, ready to pursue the Voidspawn into the forest. And, if Avantor’s guess was true, Nehta and her fighters had gone against the wishes of her rulers to accompany him.
Mara blew out a breath, letting some of her anger go. Not all Dark Elves were so careless of human lives. A grudging part of her even understood why the rulers of Elfhame might turn their backs, as long as their own people were safe. Wouldn’t many human kings do the same?
Bran strode toward her, his tall form outlined in the warm golden glow of the brightmoon, and the last of her temper ebbed away. She could not afford it—not now, when their whole focus must be turned to the task ahead.
“Are you ready to ride into the Erynvorn?” he asked. His hand rested on his sword, and he looked every bit the warrior commander he was.
Mara checked that her own blade rested comfortably at her waist, then lifted her chin and met her husband’s inhuman gaze.
“Yes, my Hawthorne Prince. I am.”
29
They did not make a triumphant charge into the shadows of the Darkwood, however. Mara reminded herself there was nothing to charge at, after all. Not yet. And despite the driving need to protect her home, she was not eager to meet the fierce gyrewolves and skittering spiderkin the Void used for its army.
Bran and his warriors filtered through the forest. Mara was in the middle of a rough circle, fighters to either side of her riding swiftly and silently through the trees. Bran led the party, and Nehta rode at the back, scanning constantly for danger that might come upon them from behind.
To Mara’s relief, Avantor and Ondo stayed near. While they traveled deeper into the Darkwood, she silently reviewed her small store of spells. Foremost among them was coronnar, the fireball. The shielding ward would be useful as well, and possibly calling foxfire. That, and the dagger at her side, were the sum of her weapons.
She hoped they would be enough.
After what felt like hours, Bran halted, holding up one hand. The rest of the warriors brought their mounts to a soundless stop, and Mara belatedly followed suit. Without a word, Bran pointed ahead and to the right, then pulled his sword.
The hiss of blades leaving scabbards made the back of Mara’s neck prickle with apprehension. She scrambled to pull her dagger, then nudged her horse to follow as the entire party veered in the direction Bran had indicated.
One moment there was nothing but the dimly lit underbrush on all sides. Then, with an ominous rustle, a dozen Void creatures emerged from the trees and swarmed toward them.
“Guard Mara,” Bran called over his shoulder at Ondo, then raised his sword and urged Fuin forward.
Mara watched, her heart clenching, as he beat back a gyrewolf leaping for his throat. Then the soldiers surrounding her blocked her view as two spiderkin scuttled forward in attack. The forest was suddenly loud with the sounds of battle: the Void creatures snarling and screeching, the thud of blows falling, the grunts and cries of the Dark Elf warriors.
“Stay back,” Ondo said, maneuvering his mount between Mara and a gyrewolf that had sprung from a nearby thicket.
He was hard-pressed, the wolf nearly biting his arm several times. Pulse pounding, Mara gripped her dagger tightly, preparing to rush to his aid if she saw an opening. She did not trust her ability to cast a firebolt at such a close range without scorching Ondo into the bargain.
Then Nehta was there, deftly blocking the wolf’s attack with her spear. It snarled and turned to face her, and Ondo managed to stab it in the side. Together, they dispatched the creature, short, brutal work that made Mara flinch, despite her experience on the battlefield.
All around them, small, desperate fights were being waged. But where was Bran?
Mara turned her horse in a tight circle, searching desperately for a glimpse of her husband. Blue fire flared, and she tracked it to where he and two other warriors were battling one of the spiderkin.
She closed her eyes briefly, thankful to see him unharmed.
A rustling overhead made her open her eyes and look up, even as she drew her dagger. What came hurtling down at her from the sturdy limb was not a Void creature, however, but the dark-cloaked figure of the assassin.
Her mount shied. She managed to slide off, then stumbled over a protruding root and dropped her dagger. Her attacker gave a soundless laugh and flowed forward like ink spilled in water, bright blades flashing.
Mara flung up her hand and cried, almost without thinking, “Coronnar!”
Even as the knife descended to her throat, a jagged bolt of blue flame struck the assassin square in the chest. His eyes widened as he fell backward, fire coruscating over his body. The deadly knife landed point-first in the soft loam, and a tendril of Mara’s hair, neatly sliced from beside her neck, floated down beside it.
“Mara!” Bran yelled, full-throated and full of anguish.
She brought her hand up to her throat and pulled it away, expecting to see blood. The assassin twitc
hed and shuddered, thrashing beneath the trees, then stilled. Mara blinked at her unstained fingers, at the unmoving body.
Then Bran was there, gathering her against him. She pulled in a shuddering breath and clung fiercely to him. Death had stared her in the face once more, and she had barely escaped it this time.
“Are you hurt?” Bran thrust her away and scanned her, head to toe. Satisfied she bore no injury, he clasped her close again.
“I’m all right,” she said, even as a wave of shivering gripped her.
Ondo had arrived moments after Bran. He toed the body, assuring himself the assassin was dead.
“Do you recognize him?” Bran asked.
The scout shook his head. “No—but those who choose the deadly blade are careful not to be known, especially among fighters.”
Shouts broke out at the vanguard of the fighting, and Bran’s mouth twisted.
“I must help my warriors,” he said, then gave Ondo a fierce look. “Do not stir from her side.”
“I swear it.” He drew his sword.
“Let me help,” Mara said, looking up at Bran. “My strength—”
“Will be needed later,” he said grimly. “Look. The creatures are already on the run.”
It was true. The Dark Elves had beaten back their attackers. Even as Bran ran to lend his aid, the spiderkin skittered back into the depths of the forest. He sent a bolt of fire after a fleeing gyrewolf, and the creature yelped and collapsed.
A hush followed the fighting, thick silence where Mara could hear her heartbeat still thudding frantically in her chest. The fighters were cleaning blades, taking stock of injuries—which, thankfully, seemed few.
Bran directed them to collect the two bodies of the fallen Voidspawn, then tramped back to where Mara stood.
“We will burn the assassin, as well,” he said. “A cleaner end than he deserves.” He gestured at Ondo. “Check the body for anything that will help us identify who sent him, and from where.”