by Anthea Sharp
“Don’t worry.” Mara laid a hand against his cheek. “They will accept you as part of the family.”
“Even though I have stolen their daughter from them?”
Her lips tilted in a wry smile. “I’d have left Little Hazel, whether I’d set foot in Elfhame or not. Parents are destined to lose their children. My sister Pansy moved to the city, and they scarcely see her at all.”
“At least she inhabits the same world.”
“And I might, still.” Her smile faded. “It’s not an easy thing, trying to choose.”
He had no answer for that, so he pulled her against him. She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. For a long moment they lay there, breathing in unison. His heart ached with the thought of losing her.
“I know I am not much able to show it,” he said softly, “but I love you, Mara.”
“And I love you. But I am not sure where I belong.”
At my side, he wanted to say—but he could not force her to dwell in Elfhame if everything else there brought her bitter unhappiness.
“The Oracles will provide an answer.” They must, or he would go mad with grief.
Anneth watched Prince Owen pace back and forth behind the bars separating them. Every so often he’d pause to glance at his father, who sat slumped on the cold stone bench in his own cell. Then, expression set, he’d resume pacing.
Earlier that night, she’d awoken when the man guarding her had been summoned away by a shout from the cellar. Her heart had leaped; she thought Bran and Mara had arrived and her rescue was at hand.
But then two well-dressed Athraig stepped into the dungeon, roughly herding the king before them. He stumbled, and she winced as they’d shoved him into the right-hand cell. They were closely followed by two soldiers carrying the strange-looking crossbows armed with lethally sharp bolts.
The archers took up stations at either side of the dungeon, then trained their weapons on the king. He leaned weakly against the bars by the locked cell door, and she watched in horror, thinking he was going to be murdered before her eyes.
“Guard him,” the more ornately garbed of the Athraig said to the bowmen. Then he turned to face Anneth, looking her up and down with a haughty expression. “You must be the one who interrupted the attempt to poison King Philip.”
“Don’t you know your own spy, Lord Jensen?” the king asked weakly.
The Athraig let out a cold laugh. “She’s not ours. How delicious that you threw the wrong suspect into your dungeon, while our agent went undetected.”
The king looked from Lord Jensen to Anneth. “You’re not an Athraig spy?”
Mutely, she shook her head.
“You were right about the poison attempt,” the king said, a frown bracketing his mouth. “We should have listened.”
Lord Jensen’s lip curled. “You Rainish have no judgment. Look at this girl! She doesn’t resemble an Athraig in the least.”
Anneth turned to him. “Will you let me out?”
“I don’t think so. You’re clearly someone’s spy. Once we finish dealing with the royal family, we’ll consider what to do with you.”
That wasn’t promising—but his lack of immediate curiosity meant that Mara’s family was likely out of danger. Unfortunately, the king was in grave peril, judging by the Athraig’s treatment so far.
Lord Jensen turned his back on the cells and strode out of the dungeon, accompanied by the other nobleman. The archers remained, never removing their attention—or their aim—from the king.
Anneth swallowed, then went to the bars separating herself from King Philip. He limped to the stone bench along the back wall of the cell and sat, staring down at his hands.
“Your majesty, what is happening?” she asked softly, casting a wary glance at the nearest bowman.
The king gave her a pained look. “Isn’t it plain? The Athraig are taking over the castle.”
Her lungs tightened in fear. She’d stumbled into a far worse situation than she’d imagined when she first agreed to go with Lily to the prince’s ball. And while Anneth was skilled at smaller court intrigues, she’d never thought to find herself caught between two warring kingdoms.
“What about the prince?” she asked, wrapping her fingers around the cold metal bars.
“They’re going for him now.” The king gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “I should have known better.”
“Maybe Prince Owen has escaped.”
“No. He would never leave me in danger.” He slumped further back on the stone, a look of desolation in his eyes.
Anneth could offer no reassurances, so she returned to her own bench and waited in tense silence until, as the king had guessed, Prince Owen was brought to the dungeon.
Now, watching him stride back and forth, she wished the archer hadn’t interrupted her earlier. The prince might have dismissed her information that she had a handful of allies outside the castle, but he didn’t know how powerful they—and she—were.
There was only one clear course of action. She must escape. And take the king and prince with her—even though it meant revealing her magic.
She would need to draw upon her wellspring to scry to Ondo, at the very least. Most likely, she would have to cast several runes: slumber for the guards, opening for the cell doors, and probably some kind of shielding or invisibility so that they could make their way unseen out of the castle.
With a sudden shock, she realized that in the turmoil she hadn’t refreshed her rune of illusion. Hurriedly, she lay down, turned her face toward the clammy stones, and pulled the blanket over her. With luck, the guards would be too busy watching the king and prince to notice her casting the small illusion.
Focusing her power, she softly spoke the rune Bran and Mara had created. The wall was momentarily illuminated by a flash of blue. By the brightmoon, she hoped that telltale light had been concealed by the glow of the ever-burning torches.
“What was that?” one of the archers asked.
“Dunno,” the other said. “I didn’t notice anything. Someone coming?”
The first man shook his head. “My eyes getting tired, that’s all. Grinar and Folie better come relieve us soon.”
His companion grunted, and that seemed to be the end of it.
After a long moment, Anneth cautiously rolled over. She was startled to see Prince Owen, arms folded, leaning against the bars nearest where she lay.
“Who are you?” he whispered, his eyes filled with wary curiosity.
She sat up and scooted closer. “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Try.”
“I…” She hesitated. Perhaps there was still a way out of their predicament without using magic. Or at least without admitting to the prince who, and what, she truly was.
“Have you heard the tales of the Darkwood?”
During her study of the human world, she’d found the handful of stories the mortals told about magical monsters dwelling in the forest humorous. Especially as she knew the truth.
Now, though, they did not seem laughable in the least.
“I grew up in Raine,” the prince said. “Everyone knows those fables. But there are no monsters or mysteries in the Darkwood. Those are just stories to frighten children.”
Anneth glanced down at the dirty straw covering the floor, then back up, meeting the prince’s green eyes.
“What if the stories are true?” She held his gaze.
He stared at her a long moment, frowning. “How could they be?”
“Watch.”
She turned her back on the archers, then cupped her hands and, with a whisper, called up a tiny ball of foxfire. It glowed between her fingers, and she heard Prince Owen’s inhalation of surprise.
She flattened her palms, revealing the foxfire. Then, before the guards noticed, quickly extinguished the light. When she turned back to the prince, his eyes were wide, and she could see him struggling to reconcile what he’d just seen with his lifelong belief that magic didn’t exi
st.
“It can’t be some sleight of hand,” he said, half to himself. “There’s nothing here for you to use to create such trickery. And so…” He paused, giving her a penetrating look. “You are somehow able to summon light.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “And much more. As can my allies.”
His brows drew together in thought. “Are they nearby? Can you summon them?”
“They will contact me as soon as they are close.”
“When will that be?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure—but I will try to find out.”
“Soon, I hope.” He glanced at his father, who was now fast asleep on his stone bench. “The Athraig are sending troops to take the castle, though it will take them a day to arrive. We must win freedom and regain control of Castle Raine before that, or the kingdom is lost.”
Her body prickled with tension.
“Give me a moment,” she said. “I will attempt to make contact.”
She went and scooped up her water skin, giving the archers a quick, sideways glance. One of them was watching her, his eyes narrowed, though his bow was still trained upon the slumbering form of the king.
Clearly she couldn’t cast a scrying without raising the guard’s suspicion. Instead, she retreated back to her ledge, throwing the prince an apologetic look.
He gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
Weariness tugging at her senses, she leaned her head back against the unyielding stone. It was impossible to tell what time it might be, though judging by her exhaustion, the flaming sun was probably well-risen in the mortal sky.
Bran and Mara will come tonight. She clung to the thought, hoping desperately, for all their sakes, that they would be there soon.
30
The rocking motion of the Pridewell sent Bran, still holding Mara close, into an uneasy slumber. When he woke, dusk was filtering silver shadows through the porthole. Mara still slept, and he was glad to see her resting comfortably. For a long while he lay there, gazing at his wife’s beautiful mortal face.
How many more times would they wake in one another’s arms?
The question twisted inside him. To distract himself, he gently disentangled himself from Mara, pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, then sought the deck. Perhaps the wind of their passage would clear away his melancholy, and he would finally spot the dark bulk of Raine over the rippling backs of the waves.
When he reached the forward deck, however, he discovered the captain and several of the crew gathered at the railing. The captain was peering through a long tube, pointed ahead and slightly to the left. Bran squinted, trying to determine what the man was looking at. At first he saw nothing, but after flicking on his dark vision, he could make out a cluster of lights floating above the water. Another ship?
Behind it, the shadowy shape of Raine’s coastline rose from the sea. As he watched, the lights drew apart, separating into two groups. Two ships, their silhouettes visible in the fading twilight.
That certainly didn’t bode well. Around him, the sailors moved restlessly.
“Pirates,” one said, in a low voice.
“Athraig?” another suggested.
“They be one and the same,” the first man replied.
“How far, cap’n?” the mate asked, gripping the rail with calloused hands.
“Close—and getting closer.” The captain lowered the tube, frowning. “They carry too much sail for us to outrun.”
“Can we make harbor before they catch us?” the mate asked.
“They’re between us and land.” The captain lifted the tube to his eye again. “No chance we can slip by—they’re on a direct course to intercept.”
For an instant, Bran considered casting a rune to raise the wind—but he was not adept at weather spells. And even if the ship could escape whoever was on the water with them, he did not want to turn them away from Raine. Not when they were so close.
He moved to stand at the captain’s shoulder.
“My sword is at the ready,” he told the man. “Will there be a fight?”
The captain lowered his device and turned to Bran. “My men aren’t soldiers, and those are Athraig warships coming to meet us. We don’t stand a chance.”
“What do they want?” Bran cast a glance at the quickly approaching ships.
“Our goods, likely. The hold is full of Parnesian cloth and spices.” The captain grimaced. “It’ll be a hard loss—but at least I’ll be able to bring back a load of lumber to help recoup the cost.”
“Once they empty the ship, they will let us go?” Bran asked, his pulse spiking as the shadowy forms of the other boats grew larger and larger.
“Aye.” The captain turned to his men. “Prepare for boarding. Hide anything you value, and let the others know. Fall off!”
The sailors scurried away, and the ship turned, the sails beginning to flap as they lost wind. The slap of the waves against the sides quieted from a hiss to a hush as they slowed.
“Best go stash your coin,” the captain said to Bran. “And keep that sword sheathed. No need for bloodshed.”
Bran gave him a tight nod, then strode back to the ladder leading to the cabins below. He swiftly descended, then pushed open the cabin door to see Mara awake and looking out the twilight-illuminated porthole mounted beside the bed.
“Other ships,” she said, turning toward him. “Trouble?”
“The captain thinks they’re Athraig raiders, come to steal our cargo. They’ll board and be gone soon enough. He advised we conceal anything of value.”
Her gaze went to his sword, the jewels gleaming on the pommel. Bran covered it protectively with his hand and bared his teeth. “I dare anyone to try.”
She shook her head, but didn’t argue. “At the very least, we need to recast your illusion.”
“That, I can agree to.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and spoke the rune. A quick flare of blue light, and his human semblance was refreshed. It would last through the night, and, if all went well, they would be nearly to Castle Raine by the time he’d need to summon it again.
A moment later, they heard the clunk of metal meeting wood and the thud of running footsteps overhead.
“I want to go up.” Mara rose and grabbed her cloak from the hook by the door. “Do you think it’s safe? The thought of being trapped down here…” She shivered.
He frowned in thought. “Even if we were pursued from Parnese, which is unlikely, word of what happened there would not yet have traveled this far. It should be safe enough to go above. According to the captain, the raiders will not shed blood as long as the Pridewell surrenders.”
And he’d rather have room to swing his sword if things turned ugly.
He went first up the ladder, then gave Mara a hand up. The deck swirled with motion, but no one was fighting. A much larger ship rode beside them, their vessel tethered to it with ropes and grappling hooks, and a long plank had been shoved across the watery chasm between.
Several fair-haired soldiers in dark uniforms were herding the sailors together. At the prow, the captain was arguing fiercely with a woman who, by her proud bearing, was the leader of the Athraig.
Mara glanced at Bran. “Shouldn’t they be unloading the cargo?”
“Something is wrong. Come—we need answers.”
He headed toward the captain, Mara beside him. They received a few curious looks as they made their way past the sailors and soldiers, but no one stopped them.
“And these are our passengers,” the captain said as Bran and Mara halted before him.
“Bound for Raine?” The Athraig leader’s cold blue gaze swept them up and down.
“Yes,” Mara said. “I’m going to visit my family. Is there a problem?”
“Aye,” the captain said, a bitter edge to his voice. “We’re being taken hostage.”
“What! Why?” Bran demanded, narrowing his eyes at the Athraig woman.
She met his stare without flinching. “No ships are allowed to
land upon Raine at this time.”
“For what reason?”
“Not your business to know,” she said.
“I could make it my business,” he said, resting his hand on his sword.
“Bran.” Mara caught his arm and nodded to the armed soldiers closing in around them.
Bran clenched his teeth and slowly removed his hand, letting his cloak fall closed over his weapon. Mara was right—it was not the time to fight. Yet.
Although it was clear the Athraig were trying to isolate Raine. Whatever their intentions, they couldn’t be good.
“How long will you be keeping us?” the captain asked.
“Two days,” the Athraig told him. “You’d best ration your stores.”
“What happens after two days?” Bran asked, casting a look at the large ship. It was large enough to carry several dozen soldiers, at least.
The woman ignored his question, and Mara stepped forward. “Even if you must keep the ship, can’t you just put us ashore?”
The woman cut her hand through the air. “No more questions. Unless you’d like to be confined to your quarters.”
When they remained silent, the Athraig leader turned back to the captain. “My pilot will take the helm, and I’ll be leaving a detail of soldiers aboard. We’ll escort you to the flotilla. Don’t try anything clever. Our cannons will be trained on your ship.”
The man grimaced. “I understand.”
“Good.” She swept them all with a last, icy glance, then turned on her heel and strode to where the plank spanned the two ships.
Bran wished he could make the vessel lurch as she went up the length of wood. Unfortunately, despite the movement of waves and wind, she was surefooted, and gained her ship without mishap.
“Damnation,” the captain said in a low voice. “Wish I’d listened to the rumors.”
“At least they didn’t take your cargo,” Mara said.
“Yet.” The man gave her a dark look. “I won’t count my blessings until I’m back in Parnese, that’s for certain. What are those devils planning?”