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

by Anthea Sharp

  “I’m ready.” She imagined her power flowing to him, filling his wellspring, giving the new spell enough strength to succeed.

  He drew in a deep breath, paused, then spoke the rune. “Firyanem.”

  Leaning forward, she studied his face. “I don’t see any change.”

  His expression hardened. “Again. Firyanem.”

  Power moved between them, and his features flickered, but still did not look human.

  “It almost worked that time,” she said. “Try once more.”

  “It’s taking too much power,” he said. “The rune should not be so difficult to cast. There’s no point in trading one energy-draining magic for another.”

  “Is there another rune you could try instead?” Surely there was a solution—she could almost taste it.

  “Hm.” He frowned in concentration. “Perhaps. But this is the last attempt.”

  For now, anyway. She nodded.

  “Ready?” His gaze met hers.

  “Yes.” Once again she funneled power through their clasped hands.

  “Nemfirya!” he called. The rings they both wore flared azure, and she felt the rush of their combined magic blow through the room like a sudden breeze.

  She looked up at him and grinned with delight. “It worked. You appear completely human—which is very strange.”

  The man who sat beside her did not look in the least like a Dark Elf. She studied his face, looking for traces of her beloved in the rounded cheeks and square chin, the mortal eyes and lips. She knew that her husband sat before her—yet he did not look like the man she’d married.

  “Am I… hideous to you?” he asked, with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

  “Never. You will always be my Bran.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Your hair didn’t change, nor your height. How long do you think the illusion will hold?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Well then, I suppose we’ll find out. Meanwhile, I ought to get up. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No.”

  “A hearty breakfast will do us both good. And then, husband of mine, I think you should rest.” She held up her hand to still his protest. “I’ll go about the marketplace and see if I can discover any bits of news. Women gossip, you know. Maybe I’ll hear something that will give us an idea of where to look next.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No—even with human features, you’re far too intimidating. I’ll learn more on my own.” It was true, even if her primary motivation was to force Bran to rest.

  He scowled at her, but didn’t argue—which, in itself, told her he was far wearier than he would admit. Her foolish, beloved prince.

  Smiling, she kissed him again, feeling love sweep from her toes to the crown of her head. He returned her kiss, and for a moment she felt as though they stood alone in a clearing in the Darkwood, the bright-edged stars whirling above them.

  Then the sound of someone shouting in the street outside their window broke the spell. She drew back and they gazed at one another.

  “We will find the Void,” she said.

  Truly, they had no other choice—not if the future was to be anything more than an endless quest in search of their dark enemy. Or a world consumed to nothing.

  8

  As soon as the palemoon had slipped from the sky, a soft knock came at Anneth’s door. She opened it and ushered Avantor in. After a glance down the hallway to ensure they were unseen, she quietly shut the door and gestured the healer to her sitting area.

  “How was the rest of your evening at the welcome reception?” Avantor asked, settling on one of the low couches.

  Anneth pressed her lips together. “It’s clear the Cereus Prince knows very well why he’s been invited to Hawthorne. We didn’t take to each other, especially, but he’s quite taken with the idea of becoming Hawthorne Lord.”

  Indeed, after her unsuccessful attempt to speak with her father, Prince Deldarinnon had rejoined her and spent the remainder of the event at her side. They had begun with a stilted conversation about his journey from Cereus to Hawthorne, which soon trailed off into awkward silence. She truly had no intention of encouraging him. Despite this, he was attentive, in a formal kind of way, as if going through a checklist of how to woo a princess. Bring her a glass of blackberry wine. Dance with her. Compliment her gown.

  Too soon, however, he began to make little comments about what he would change in the Hawthorne Court.

  “The throne room is a bit small, compared to the one I’m used to,” he’d said, glancing about the vaulted space. “It wouldn’t be difficult to expand, I imagine.”

  Then, later, he’d mentioned how much nicer the gardens would be if they planted a more diverse array of flowers.

  “Night-blooming cereus would be appropriate.” He looked down at her, all but smirking. “Don’t you think?”

  “What a lovely idea,” she’d said, pretending to misunderstand. “You’re right, my parents should plant an homage to all the courts. The cereus can go behind the nightshade. Or no… perhaps the moonflower.”

  She’d tilted her head up at him and smiled innocently, ignoring the annoyance in his expression. He lifted his goblet of wine and turned to survey the room from their vantage point off to one side.

  “What is the entertainment for the morrow?” he asked. “This is all very pleasant, of course, though rather subdued.”

  “Subdued?” She blinked at him. “I don’t think there is anything specifically planned, beyond the welcome reception.”

  He turned back to her with a disdainful lift of his eyebrow. “In Cereus we have daily events. It helps with the monotony.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at him. “You sound like an elder of a thousand moons! Is your court so terribly boring, then?”

  Perhaps it was. Prince Deldarinnon was not preparing to take on the duties of the Cereus Lord, after all, since he had an older brother, and a sister after that. And clearly he hadn’t cultivated an area of study, as she had, or been driven by prophecy, like Bran.

  “For those with refined sensibilities, yes,” he said.

  “Too refined to take up a sport or hobby?” she asked, too curious to take offense at his implied insult.

  “I have blade training, of course. And I flatter myself that I’m an accomplished illusionist. I almost always win the contests of fancy we hold at court.”

  Anneth tilted her head up at him. She’d heard of such things, though Hawthorne had never held contests of fancy. “Perhaps you can give us a demonstration. I haven’t seen much illusion work, I must admit.”

  Part of her magical training had included learning to summon small displays, like a shimmering flower or a miniature castle she could cup in the palm of her hand. But Penluith, the mage tutor, had not spent much time on that particular skill.

  “How can that be?” Prince Deldarinnon gave her an incredulous look. “Isn’t the point of magic to create beautiful illusions for our amusement and pleasure?”

  She took a sip of blackberry wine to cool the tart reply on her tongue. She might be outspoken, but she’d already been rather blunt with the prince. And this last statement of his was so outrageous that she needed to consider her response.

  “I see there are, indeed, some differences between the inner courts and the outer,” she said after a moment. “Here, near the barrier, we focus more on battle magic.”

  For the first time, true interest sparked in the prince’s eyes. “We learn some defensive spells too, of course,” he said. “But does everyone here truly study the art of magical combat?”

  “Considering that until very recently the Void was opening rifts into our world and sending its creatures through to attack, yes,” she said dryly. “Though some of us are more skilled than others. My brother Bran, for instance, is Hawthorne’s strongest warrior-mage.”

  And even then, they wouldn’t have been able to defeat the Void without Mara’s help.

  Prince Deldarinnon glanced at the dais holding the Hawthorne thr
ones. “I understand your brother is… away.”

  “He is currently in the mortal world. But he’ll be returning soon, I’ve no doubt.” She smiled at him, trying to hide the fact that she worried a great deal over her brother’s return.

  “Then I will be glad to meet him. And discuss the details of magical combat.” There was an eager note in the prince’s voice. “I’d like to have had the chance to fight the Voidspawn.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” she said without thinking. “They’re dangerous, nasty enemies.”

  Stung, he drew back. “As if you have such knowledge, Princess Anneth.”

  “Oh, I do.” She shivered, her back prickling with the memory of a gyrewolf’s claws raking down her spine. “I was attacked by one in the Erynvorn.”

  “You were? What happened?” The prince had dropped his world-weary tone and his eyes were wide with interest.

  “It was a few days after we won the battle against the Void, and we didn’t suspect that some of the creatures still lingered in Elfhame. I was riding to meet my brother, and a gyrewolf leaped from the underbrush at me.”

  “How did you vanquish it?”

  “It was Bran,” she admitted. “I held it off, but he arrived in time to dispatch it. And save my life.”

  Prince Deldarinnon gave her a concerned look. “Has your injury fully healed?

  “Yes.” She moved her shoulders slightly beneath the silken gown. “Though I bear faint scars.”

  He took a sip of his wine, then gave her a rueful look. “I know it was unpleasant for you, but nothing so interesting ever happens in the inner courts.”

  “I could do without things being quite so lively.”

  It had been a trying time, compounded by the assassination attempts against Mara, and Bran leaving to chase the Voidspawn all over the realm. And now they were both gone, and her father was not well…

  “Perhaps, during my time at Hawthorne, a bit of adventure might come my way,” the prince said, sounding so eager at the thought that Anneth did not have the heart to say that she wished the opposite—that her life at court would cease being so disrupted. Peaceful monotony would be welcome, though under the present circumstances, very unlikely.

  It was a tiring evening, all told, and she was glad when she could make her excuses to the prince and seek the privacy of her rooms.

  Her private thoughts, however, were in turmoil. Hopefully, Avantor would be able to give her answers, even if they were uncomfortable ones.

  Now she leaned forward, hands clasped.

  “Tell me what ails my father,” she said to the healer. Might as well get the issue directly out into the open. She was tired of evasions and misdirection.

  “Your father. Yes. Well…” Avantor’s gaze darted to the foxfire chandelier illumining the room, skimmed the ornate mirror on the wall, and finally settled back on her.

  “The truth,” she said.

  He hesitated a moment, then acquiesced with a sigh. “What I tell you must be held in strict confidence. If your mother discovers I’ve spoken, I fear what she might do.”

  Anneth nodded in sympathy. They both knew that Lady Tinnueth was as hard and unyielding as a diamond. “I won’t say anything, I swear it.”

  “Then, bluntly, Lord Calithilon is, indeed, ill—but with some sickness I am unable to diagnose, let alone cure. All I am able to do at this time is hold it at bay—but I fear even that reprieve will be brief. It was all I could do to give him enough strength to make an appearance at the welcome reception this eve.”

  Anneth slowly leaned back, breath hissing out through her teeth. “You’ve no sense of what’s wrong? How can that be? You’re the most skilled healer in Elfhame.”

  “Not skilled enough, I fear.” He grimaced. “You see why Bran must be returned to our world as quickly as possible. I cannot say how long your father will be…”

  He faltered to a stop, and Anneth couldn’t blame him. The thought of the strong and powerful Hawthorne Lord wasting away, and so quickly, was almost impossible to contemplate.

  “I’ll go after Bran,” she said. As soon as she spoke the thought aloud, she realized it had been budding inside her for some time, waiting for the proper moment to flower. Perhaps her earlier conversation with Prince Deldarinnon had catalyzed her decision. “Of anyone, I know the most about the world of the humans. I’m the perfect choice.”

  Avantor’s eyes widened with alarm. “With Bran gone, you are the next heir! If you leave, there is no clear successor to the throne.”

  “I suspect my mother plans to continue to rule Hawthorne for hundreds of moons yet,” Anneth said dryly. “Certainly I don’t want to be the one to make her step aside. And although my father is ill, I trust you to keep him alive.”

  “I will continue to do what I can.” Avantor glanced down at the ornately patterned carpet. “I received a cryptic message from the Oracles that made me wonder… What if this is a new manifestation of our fate, and your father is only the first to be stricken?”

  That was a chilling thought. Was the end of the Dark Elves coming so quickly?

  Anneth refused to believe it.

  “Our fate is not to disappear forever,” she said. “It can’t be. Perhaps… perhaps there are medicines in the human world that can help?” The thought took hold inside her, and she warmed to the idea. “Once I reach Bran and Mara, she can tell me what we should bring back. Herbs and such grow there that we don’t have in Elfhame. That must be the answer to our current troubles!”

  “It might be.” Avantor did not look convinced. “But the humans are not necessarily skilled in such things.”

  Anneth scowled at him. She was well accustomed to the disdain that even the most well-read Dark Elves had for mortals—though she’d hoped for better from Avantor. He’d accepted Mara well enough. But then, that was easy to do when she was the prophesied bride of the Hawthorne Prince, and the only mortal in Elfhame.

  “The mortal world is not hopelessly backward or filled entirely with peasants,” Anneth said. “They have healers, and scholars, and scribes. Kings and queens, merchants and explorers. And probably things that we have never seen in our world.”

  Her pulse fluttered with anticipation and the conviction that she was right. Somehow they would open the gate, she was certain of it. And then she would, at last, set foot in the human realm.

  Avantor rose and began pacing. “I cannot advise it.”

  “As long as you don’t oppose the idea, I’m going.”

  He pivoted and gave her a long look. “Lady Tinnueth must grant permission for you to depart.”

  “She’d be happy to see me go.” Anneth tried to keep the sour edge from her voice.

  Both she and Bran had never known warmth from their mother. Indeed, most of the time, the Hawthorne Lady seemed to actively dislike her offspring. And although she had arranged for Prince Deldarinnon to come from the Cereus Court to woo Anneth, it seemed more like an afterthought. Bran, as the true heir, was the priority. If Anneth, with her knowledge of the human world, volunteered to go after him, she knew her mother would agree.

  Tellingly, Avantor switched tactics. “Hestil will not approve. As acting commander of the Hawthorne warriors, her job is to keep you safe.”

  “She will not be able to deny me, if I have the ruler’s blessing.”

  “Then what about Prince Deldarinnon?” The healer sounded a bit desperate. “Isn’t it a diplomatic misstep for you to go running off when he’s come to court you?”

  “Hm.” Anneth folded her arms and drummed her fingers on her elbows, thinking.

  That was a bit of a tangle. The betrothal was her mother’s backup plan in the unlikely event that all other options had been exhausted—and a way to dispose of Anneth’s future. Even when Bran returned, she knew the Hawthorne Lady would try to push her into the match.

  But maybe, if she spoke further with him, Prince Deldarinnon would understand. At the very least, she hoped she could make him see that her departing on this quest was not an insu
lt directed at him. Plans had been made to reopen the gate before anyone—with the exception of Lady Tinnueth—even knew the prince was arriving at the court.

  “What does Cereus know about the gate in the Erynvorn?” she asked the healer.

  Avantor shrugged. “The inner courts are not as concerned about such things. Certainly, they know of its existence, and that Mara was destined to come through from the mortal world to help save Elfhame.”

  “It’s not in his best interest for Bran to return, or my father to recover,” she said quietly.

  “The prince does not strike me as one to maliciously plot for his own advancement. He might well be happy here in Hawthorne as part of the noble family, without the guarantee of a throne.”

  Anneth winced at the thought. “Well, I wouldn’t be happy to wed him.”

  “You are young, yet.” Avantor gave her a paternal look. “In time, you might find that Prince Deldarinnon is not as annoying as you first thought.”

  “Yes, but what if he is?” She jumped up, tired of watching Avantor pace the length of her sitting room. “Anyway, I’ll speak with him.”

  She had no idea what she would say, but it seemed the best course.

  Avantor gave her a skeptical look, but made no more arguments about why she must stay in Elfhame. Instead, he glanced at the silver sand running through the turnglass.

  “It is late,” he said, moving to the door. “And you’ve much to do on the morrow, if you truly intend to pursue this course of action.”

  “I do,” she said firmly. “Rest well, Avantor.”

  “And you.” He gave her a nod, then slipped out.

  Anneth locked her door behind him. Ever since the attempts on Mara’s life, she’d become far less trusting. Sometimes a little caution was a good thing, even though it might go against her nature.

  She didn’t intend to sleep, though—at least not yet. There was so much planning to do, and so little time! It was imperative that they set out for the Erynvorn as soon as possible. And then—she shivered with excitement at the thought—she would at long last set foot in the human world.