by Anthea Sharp
Anneth stared at her mother, a shiver running through her. “My… betrothal? But I don’t have one.”
“Precisely. It is time we addressed the situation. I was thinking perhaps Prince Deldarinnon of Cereus. Your destiny is to wed a prince, after all.”
A cold wash of fear went through Anneth. Was her father’s health so very fragile, then? Things must be bad indeed if Lady Tinnueth was thinking of marrying her off. Anneth knew she was a pawn in the Hawthorne Court, but for most of her life, she’d been an overlooked one.
“Surely there’s no need to hurry my birth prophecy along,” Anneth told her mother, scrambling for some excuse, however flimsy. “Besides, I’ve never met the Cereus Heir.”
Lady Tinnueth’s mouth curled. “Of course you have—but Prince Deldarinnon is not the heir. His older brother, Prince Garithilon, is. Which you would know if you’d spent a quarter of the time paying attention to the affairs of Elfhame that you’ve spent in your ridiculous study of the humans. At any rate, you are to meet him soon. He arrives tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Anneth dropped her fork with a clatter that pierced the silence surrounding the head table.
The nearby diners glanced their way, and Anneth saw Lady Mireleth bring a hand up to her mouth—a gesture supposedly meant to hide her titter of amusement, but actually designed to bring attention to the fact she was laughing at Anneth.
Trust Mireleth to always enjoy someone else’s discomfort.
Lady Tinnueth ignored her daughter’s reaction. “There will be a reception tomorrow to welcome him, three turns before moonset. I expect you to dress accordingly.”
Meaning, as a Princess of Elfhame. And, Anneth supposed, throne-bait. For that was the deeper message: with her father possibly quite ill—though Tinnueth hadn’t admitted it—and Bran missing, Anneth was next in line for the Hawthorne Throne, should Lady Tinnueth choose to step down.
But that was Bran’s future, Anneth knew. Not hers. Even though both of them had been schooled in the duties and responsibilities of their station, she’d always known that she was an afterthought. And she’d never desired that power—or burden.
She’d never imagined being married off, either—at least, not so soon! Dark Elves were very long-lived, and she’d had every confidence her parents would continue to rule the Hawthorne Court for decades.
Certainly, in the rare moments she’d contemplated her potential futures, Anneth had assumed she’d have plenty of time before the issue of her betrothal arose. In truth, she’d imagined Bran on the throne at that point, and he would never force her onto a path she did not choose.
Unlike their mother.
But it seemed fate—and Lady Tinnueth—had other plans, whether Anneth willed it or no.
5
Mara gripped the water-glazed rail of the sailing ship with both hands and kept her eyes fixed on the distant shore of Parnese. That hazy line did not seem nearly close enough, and her stomach gave another uneasy lurch.
Sea travel, she’d discovered, did not agree with her. The past four days aboard the vessel had been, while not exactly miserable, not terribly comfortable, either. After the first night, she’d only eaten bread and water, which seemed to keep her stomach as settled as it could be under the circumstances.
Was there a magical cure for seasickness? She let out a low breath. Even if there were, with the unpredictability of her powers, who could say if she would not end up enchanting herself with some sort of unforeseen consequence, like a raging thirst that couldn’t be quenched? Or turning herself into a fish, for that matter.
Once she reached Bran, she would resume practicing the handful of runes she’d been taught. But on the middle of the sea, she’d judged it unwise to try even the simplest spells, like calling foxfire, for fear of incinerating the boat or wreaking some other havoc.
The captain of the vessel had said they should arrive in port just after dark. A wave sent spray into Mara’s face, and she tasted salt on her lips. Her skin was sticky from it, and she was looking forward to a bath almost as much as seeing her husband.
Bran had promised to meet her when the ship docked, then show her to the rooms he’d rented at a nearby inn. There, they would make their plans to hunt down the Void, which seemed to be preying upon the citizens of Parnese. It was imperative they find it as soon as possible.
The longer the Void spent in her world, the stronger and more dangerous it grew. They must vanquish it at all costs.
And then what? The thought made her nearly as queasy as the motion of the ship. Return to Elfhame?
Someone in the Hawthorne Court wanted her dead. Her magic was unpredictable, at best. And she and Bran had a new marriage to navigate, not to mention two worlds to try to bridge.
She could not ask him to stay in the human world with her. He was heir to Hawthorne, his destiny proclaimed by the Oracles—and she was certain that his destiny did not include a quiet existence in the village of Little Hazel, pretending to be human.
But she was not at all certain she wanted to return to Elfhame and live out her days among a dying people. Especially not when her own life was in danger.
Yet she loved Bran, with all her heart and soul.
Heart tangled with doubt, she faced the salt-flavored breeze and clung to the hope that, together, they would find their way forward.
Bran leaned against the stone warehouse wall at the dock, watching the lights kindle through the port district of Parnese. The smell of the sea was rank—old fish, bitter salt, and the black tar the mortals used to coat their ships and make them watertight.
Watercraft of all sizes bobbed at anchor, the sea restless beneath them. Watching them, he thought back on the novel experience of journeying across the sea.
When the trail of the Voidspawn he’d been tracking through Raine disappeared into the water, he hadn’t known what to do. His first impulse had been to shed his clothing and swim after it, yet as far as he could see, there was only water. It would be sheer folly to jump into a lake that had no distant shore. Not to mention the inadvisability of leaving his weapons behind.
Yet he could not abandon the trail.
Frustrated, he’d made camp nearby and begun scouting the woods for materials to make something that would carry him over the waves. He could stitch it together with magic, he supposed, yet he’d no idea how long the journey might take, or how many provisions he should bring.
It was a daunting prospect, even for Elfhame’s strongest battle-mage. His powers were better suited to attack and defense, not envisioning how to build a floating craft.
His human wife would know what to do, and he berated himself for dashing so precipitously through the gateway, leaving her behind. He’d been entirely focused on pursuing the Voidspawn that slipped into the mortal world. Who could have guessed that the gate would close the moment he stepped through?
After a frustrating day spent trying to bind sticks together with magic, he’d spotted a large craft passing by, floating on the water, and understood that the humans had already invented what he was trying to create. Quickly, he’d abandoned his efforts, broken camp, and followed the shoreline in the direction he’d seen the vessel go.
The next morning brought him to a human town built beside the water. Several vessels floated in the curving bay, many of them only big enough for one or two people.
Mindful of the first mortal he’d encountered, and the woodcutter’s horrified reaction to his appearance, Bran had spent some time crafting a spell that would make him appear human. It was complex, involving taking the perceptions of those around him at any given moment and bending them, showing them what they expected to see. But he had power enough to sustain it while he moved about in the mortal world.
He cast the magic once more, then stepped out onto the road leading into the port town—Portknowe, according to the rough-hewn sign. Despite an earlier test, with a hunter in the forest, he wasn’t entirely certain how well the rune would work in a more populated environment. The people he me
t didn’t cry out in fear or cower away, however, and the tightness in his lungs eased. The rune worked, though he must feed it a small, constant trickle of power.
The road turned to a stone-paved street, and Bran tried not to reveal his curiosity as he strode through Portknowe. Unlike the measured elegance of the courts of Elfhame, or the deliberate construction of the few Dark Elf towns, this human place seemed to have grown any which way.
Streets curved around and deposited him back into the very square he’d just left. Buildings of varied size, color, and materials stood shoulder to shoulder. Some seemed to be dwelling places; others displayed a variety of goods in their windows. Strange smells wafted from open doorways: bitter herbal scents, unfamiliar spices, thick floral perfumes.
Whatever magic had allowed Mara to understand him and his people seemed to be working in reverse. He caught snippets of conversation as he wended his way through the town, and was even able to ask for directions to the water when yet another twisty lane took him the opposite direction.
At last he emerged from a narrow alley onto a wide stone causeway. Wooden structures jutted out into the water, enabling access to the vessels—boats, as he now understood from overhearing, and he was now at an area called the docks.
Making sure his hood was drawn high, he stepped into the bright light, made even worse by the reflections off the water, and made for the largest boat.
A big, well-muscled man, nearly as tall as Bran, stood guard at the wooden plank leading up to the boat. Clearly, not just anyone could saunter onto the craft.
“Are you going across the water?” Bran asked, halting before the man.
“To Parnese?” The man scowled. “Aye, if the waters be clear of Athraig ships. Buggers have been raiding.”
His words made little sense, but Bran nodded as if he understood. “May I join you?”
“As a sailor? Captain doesn’t need new hands. But he’ll take your coin if you’re seeking passage.”
“Coin?”
“Ten silvers.” The man took a flat, round piece of metal and flipped it into the air. It winked as it turned. Then he deftly caught it and slipped it back into his pocket. “Do you dice?”
“No.” Whatever dice might be. Nor did he have any coin.
“Pity.” The man eyed him up and down. “You look like a fellow with a goodly purse. At any rate, you’ll find the captain over a pint at the Staggering Gull, yonder.”
He pointed to a building with a bird painted inexpertly beside the open door. Even at a distance, Bran could hear raucous laughter issuing from within, and the sound of dishware clinking.
“I thank you,” he told the man, then turned toward the Staggering Gull.
“I’ll teach you how to gamble,” the fellow called after him. “It’ll be good sport.”
Bran merely nodded. His first task was to procure silver coins, and he had no idea how to go about it.
He wandered a bit more, observing how the humans exchanged coin for food and goods. It was a clever system, he supposed. His own people simply traded value for value, but in a land of strangers, it would be nearly impossible to know what to offer.
He could go back into the forest and trap animals, but he didn’t have the time. It would be far easier to find some small objects, pebbles or leaves, perhaps, that he could bespell into the appearance of coin.
Making his way down to the water, he discovered a small cache of shells that had washed up against one of the dock supports. Perfect. He stepped into the shadows and, after a moment’s thought, crafted a rune of illusion that turned them, he hoped, into a fair approximation of the silver coin the man had tossed into the air.
Then he’d gone to seek the captain of the boat. It was not difficult to find the fellow, as he seemed to be holding court at a large table in the center of the Staggering Gull, regaling his audience with tales of adventure upon the sea.
After quickly surveying the room and its occupants, Bran made his way to the counter and exchanged one of his coins for a glass of foamy ale. The serving man studied the silver a moment, then shrugged and handed Bran back a handful of smaller copper-colored coins. Apparently, beer did not cost a great deal.
Bran took his glass and settled at the edge of the captain’s enthralled crowd. There was a wealth of information to be teased from his tales, and Bran gathered that the crossing to the land of Parnese took several days, that a warlike people from further north were menacing the ships, and that the life of a sailor was filled with ease and carefree adventure.
Judging by the captain’s callused hands and the scar upon his cheek, Bran rather doubted that last bit.
Finally, the man finished entertaining his audience and Bran approached him.
“I enjoyed your stories,” he said. “And I would like to buy passage on your boat to travel to Parnese.”
The captain tilted his head and scrutinized Bran. “Twelve silvers.”
“Ten,” Bran countered.
“Eleven, and that’s final. We leave with tomorrow’s tide.”
Realizing he should have offered eight, Bran nodded. He had much to learn. But at least he could now continue pursuing the Voidspawn.
As it turned out, his time among the sailors aboard the Pride of Clundy was highly educational. He had use of a cramped cabin, but spent much of his time out on deck. Eik, the first man he’d met, taught him how to play dice, and gleefully scooped up Bran’s store of coin every time he lost.
He grew accustomed to the rough fare of the sailors, and learned the words for most things nautical, as well as the various creatures that inhabited the sea, the term for a woman whom one could pay for physical favors (a very odd concept), and the various types of alcohol the men consumed, or wished they could consume.
At night, in the privacy of his cabin, he scried for the Voidspawn. The lumberer’s trail was faint, but as the ship came closer to the shore, Bran was certain the creature had emerged from the sea somewhere along the coast.
The traces of shadow seemed to indicate that it was further south, and still on the move. Once they reached Parnese, he would bend all his power upon seeking it out.
He cursed himself for his inability to do so thus far. But now that Mara was about to come ashore, he had faith that, together, they would be able to track down the Void and eradicate it from the mortal world.
6
As promised, Prince Deldarinnon arrived at the Hawthorne Court with his retinue from Cereus, and the palace was abuzz with gossip over his visit. Anneth stayed in her rooms, trying to avoid the inevitable. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t forgo attending his welcome reception—and she still hadn’t decided what to wear.
The pale silver gown spread across her bed was elegant and refined, and seemed far too close to a wedding garment for Anneth’s comfort. She whirled, mouth screwed up with frustration, and rifled through the large armoire taking up most of the opposite wall.
What about the scarlet dress? No, too forward. Purple? She lingered, stroking the smooth fabric, then shook her head. She’d lent that gown to Mara, and those memories would distract her from the purpose at hand.
Perhaps the indigo blue…
A knock came at the door, and she blew out a breath, grateful for the interruption.
“Who is it?” she called, striding into her sitting room.
“It is I, Lady Mireleth.”
Anneth paused. She truly did not want to spend any time with her least-favorite courtier. Still, Mireleth had a good eye for fashion, in her flamboyant way, and Anneth was at an impasse. Much as she hated to admit it, she could use some help. Even if it came from Mireleth. With an inward sigh, Anneth went to open the door.
“Oh, my,” Mireleth said, eyeing Anneth up and down. “You aren’t ready?”
“I almost am,” she lied, wishing she could wipe the superior smirk off Mireleth’s face. This hadn’t been a good idea at all. “I’ll see you at the recep—”
“Have you not summoned a maid to help you?” Mireleth
asked, pushing past Anneth and peering into the bedroom. “Really, Anneth, there’s no need to live like a lowly human, no matter how much you might admire them. Now, what have you picked out to wear?”
“I’ll show you, but you must share all the gossip about Prince Deldarinnon,” Anneth said. She might as well get some use out of Mireleth’s little visit and discover as much as she could about the prince.
“He’s come to find a bride,” Mireleth said, pausing to admire her own reflection in the mirrored panels of the armoire. “I intend to catch his eye, of course.”
Anneth blinked. So, the courtiers hadn’t yet heard that she was supposed to be the prince’s intended. And at least Mireleth was finally setting her sights on someone other than Bran.
“Is he handsome, then?” Anneth asked, pulling out the indigo gown and shoving the silver one back among the other dresses.
“Of course. He’s a prince, after all.”
Anneth stifled her smile. The fellow could be ugly as a tree stump, and Mireleth would overlook it due to his pedigree.
“He arrived with a chef, you know,” the courtier continued. “And a troupe of dancers and musicians. And so many trunks of clothing that a separate set of rooms had to be found just to house his wardrobe. Can you imagine?” She let out a trill of laughter.
“Marvelous,” Anneth said, her mood plummeting. It sounded as though Prince Deldarinnon was planning on a rather lengthy stay. So much for her hopes that he’d come, she’d stall for some time, and then he’d depart.
“Although,” Mireleth said with a touch of annoyance, “it isn’t as if we’re uncivilized in the outer courts. He needn’t have brought the chef.”
Or the dancers, or the enormous amounts of clothing, Anneth privately added. “I suppose we’ll change his mind,” she said.
“Oh, I intend to,” Mireleth said, brightening. She patted her elaborately braided hair, the dark strands almost entirely hidden by an array of multicolored gems. “And you ought to make an effort too, Anneth. Try to do justice to your station. In fact…”