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

by Anthea Sharp

  Invasion, Bran thought, though he didn’t say it aloud. His gut clenched at the thought of the danger to Anneth, trapped in Castle Raine’s dungeon.

  Bran and Mara stayed on deck as the Pridewell, escorted by the Athraig leader’s ship, set off on a course parallel to the dark bulk of Raine’s shoreline. The other warship stayed behind, presumably to intercept any other vessels bound for harbor in Portknowe.

  Grimly, Bran watched as they moved away from the port. The ships rounded a long, rocky promontory, and Mara let out a breath at the sight of another two Athraig warships anchored some distance out, surrounded by a few small fishing vessels.

  “Four warships,” she said softly. “They plan to attack Raine. But where is our navy?”

  “They likely lured your country’s ships away. But even four ships’ worth of soldiers isn’t enough to capture an entire country, no matter how skilled in battle those warriors might be.” He narrowed his eyes at the small flotilla. “They have some other scheme in mind.”

  “Look.” Mara leaned over the rail. “Do you see something on the beach, up near the trees?”

  He caught the back of her cloak, not liking to see his wife lean so far over the water, then turned his attention toward the distant shore. The gray stones on the curve of beach shone very faintly in the last light. Bran flicked his dark vision on, then bit back a curse.

  “Empty boats,” he said. “The soldiers have already landed.”

  She turned to him, face pale, and grabbed his hands. “We have to get ashore. My family, and yours, are in terrible danger. We must warn them, and rescue Anneth.”

  The same urgency burned through him, but much as he wanted to leap overboard that instant, they must come up with a plan.

  “To our cabin,” he said tersely.

  She gave him a short nod, and together they left the darkening deck as the first bleak mortal stars emerged overhead.

  31

  In the confines of their cabin, Mara folded her arms about herself, trying to contain her fear for her family and, looming behind that, worry for her entire country. Raine, under attack by the Athraig! The rumors in Parnese had been right. Even if she’d known they were true, however, there was nothing she could have done about it at the time.

  Now, though, her tension notched up at the knowledge that rumors had become reality—and Little Hazel lay far too close to Castle Raine to provide any safety.

  “Tell Ondo to warn my family,” she said as Bran poured a measure of water into his scrying bowl.

  “His first duty is to free Anneth,” he said tightly.

  “Surely he can stop at the cottage on the way to the castle. Once my family leaves home, we can meet them in the forest.”

  The forest… For a moment, the vision she’d had in the Pool of Reflection at Hawthorne swam to mind. They’d been fleeing through the Darkwood at night, Bran turning as a black arrow flew from the shadows and struck him full in the chest. She shuddered at the recollection.

  Yet they must pass through the forest to reach the gateway.

  Just because I saw it, doesn’t mean it will come to pass. The tutor, Penluith, had said as much at the time. But what if he’d been wrong?

  “And then what?” Bran asked, unaware of the turn of her thoughts. “Your family will be even more reluctant to abandon the mortal world than you are. Will you really tell them to flee Raine without first trying to help your country?”

  She let out an unhappy breath. “What can we do, Bran? You’re a powerful warrior, but you can’t push back this assault—especially if the Athraig already have taken the castle.”

  “Together, we defeated the Void invasion,” he reminded her, setting his water-filled silver bowl on the tiny table.

  “Yes, but that was with over a hundred warriors keeping the Void creatures at bay while we focused our magic. And even though the Athraig are Raine’s enemy, we can’t just destroy them with magic. Those soldiers are guilty only of loyalty to their commanders and country.”

  “You are too soft-hearted.”

  “And you can’t just murder dozens of people!” She stared at him, heart pounding.

  He held her gaze, his expression shadowed. Finally he blew out a long breath.

  “I cannot promise not to spill mortal blood,” he said. “Especially with Anneth’s safety at stake. But I will do everything I can to minimize that bloodshed.”

  “I know.” She shut her eyes briefly. “We must take things as they come.”

  He settled at the table, scrying bowl before him. “Perhaps Ondo has discovered something more.”

  Biting her lip, she moved to stand behind her husband. He passed his hand over the shimmering surface and spoke the rune of scrying. A moment later, Ondo’s face appeared, worry carving long lines beside his mouth.

  “What news?” Bran asked. “Have you spoken with Anneth?”

  “No. I fear for her safety. Please, give me leave to enter the castle.”

  “You have it.” Bran’s tone was grim. “Athraig soldiers are on their way, and she must win free of the dungeon before they arrive.”

  “Are you near?” Ondo asked. “I will wait until you come.”

  Bran gave a sharp shake of his head. “No. We’re being held off the coast. There’s no hope of us reaching Castle Raine before the soldiers. You and Anneth will have to accomplish her escape, and hide in the forest until we come.”

  Gently, Mara set her hands on Bran’s shoulders. “Remind him to warn my family. They don’t have to leave Raine, but if they know what’s coming, they can at least make the choice to remove themselves from harm’s way.”

  He gave a tight nod, and did as she asked.

  “I will tell them,” Ondo said. “And I will attempt to scry to Princess Anneth—though they keep her under close watch.”

  “If you can’t reach her, you’ll need to find your way to the dungeon, and do whatever is necessary to get her out.”

  “I will, my lord.” Ondo bowed his head. “You have my word.”

  “We will come as soon as possible.” Bran’s voice was taut with leashed frustration.

  Mara felt the same. By now, they should have been riding toward Castle Raine—not trapped in an Athraig-controlled flotilla.

  Bran dismissed the scrying and sat back with a sharp exhalation.

  “As soon as the ship quiets, we’ll leave,” Mara said, rubbing the tension from his neck. “Cast the rune of invisibility, find a dinghy, and get to shore.”

  “What then?” he asked tightly. “A half-day, at least, lies between us and the castle. We will arrive too late.”

  She swallowed back a stab of panic at the thought.

  Everything was happening too quickly—and too slowly. Every few minutes, panic would try to steal her breath, and she’d stuff it back down, only for it to rise again.

  Save her family. Save Raine, if she could—though she had no idea how she might accomplish such a thing. Free Anneth. Open the gateway, and leave the mortal world. Save Lord Calithilon. Then what? Stay in Elfhame, or return to Raine forever?

  The thought of losing Bran made her heart twist with foreshadowed grief.

  But so did the thought of never seeing her family again.

  “Could we not make a rune of some kind?” she asked. “Haste, to move us quickly through the forest?”

  Bran frowned. “We have such castings—children use them in play. But without a direct line between where you are and where you wish to go, terrible things happen. The first branch we encounter would impale us, or we would drown in a pond, or—”

  “I understand,” she said, interrupting his gruesome description. “Flight? What if we went above the treetops?”

  He shook his head. “Our magic is connected to the earth, even here in the mortal world. If I could have soared across Raine and the sea in pursuit of the Voidspawn, believe me, I would’ve done so.”

  “Then there’s nothing else we might try?” Tears caught in her throat.

  Gently, he squeezed her h
ands, though his expression mirrored her own desolation. “Once night falls, we’ll slip off the Pridewell and make what haste we can. That is our only course.”

  Anneth plucked straw out of her hair by the light of the sullen torches lining the dungeon walls. She’d slept fitfully, eaten when an Athraig guard had shoved bowls of cold porridge into the cells, and waited for a moment when she might attempt a scrying to Ondo.

  Unfortunately, hours had passed without such an opportunity. In addition to the archers keeping the king under constant threat, two other guards had taken up posts just outside the cells.

  Every time Anneth tried to speak with Prince Owen, she’d been harshly told to keep her silence, and her distance.

  The prince grew increasingly agitated as the day wore on. He rose and paced at frequent intervals, shooting worried glances at his father. For his part, King Philip seemed diminished. Lines of pain scored his forehead whenever he moved, and Anneth feared the Athraig’s rough treatment had grievously damaged his already weak constitution.

  Three times since waking she’d felt the tug of a scrying, but had no way to safely respond. With each missed attempt, her worry mounted. How could she plan her escape when communication with her allies was impossible?

  Finally, when the tense silence in the dungeon had reached suffocating levels, Lord Jensen strode in. He faced the king, hands on his hips. His usual sneer had been replaced by taut-mouthed anger.

  “Well, your majesty,” he said, the title dripping with sarcasm, “it seems your captain of the guard needs a demonstration of our sincerity.”

  Prince Owen rushed to the front of his cell.

  “What do you mean?” he demanded, gripping the bars with white-knuckled hands.

  Lord Jensen spared the prince a glance. “Captain Crane thinks he can incite his soldiers into retaking the castle. I intend to dissuade him from that idea.”

  “How?” the prince asked in a choked voice.

  Alarm singing through her, Anneth moved to the door of her cell. Although it was locked, there was no additional chain holding it closed, like the others. Silently, she reached for her wellspring, focusing her power.

  Lord Jensen jerked his head at the guards. “Remove King Philip from his cell.”

  “Take me,” the prince said. “If you must make an example—”

  “Your wedding is imminent,” the Athraig leader said. “Princess Rella arrives tonight, and on the morrow, the marriage will take place. She would not be happy to find her bridegroom missing a limb.”

  His words sent a cold clutch of fear into Anneth’s stomach. Her gaze darted from Lord Jensen to the guards and archers. The prisoners were outnumbered five to three—or two, since the king was in no condition to fight. Judging from his pained movements, he would need assistance fleeing the dungeon, which made their odds of escape even worse.

  With a jingle of keys, the guards undid the chain fastened across the door of King Philip’s cell.

  “No,” the prince said, the word a low moan.

  Anneth held herself still, her mind racing. When Lord Jensen took the king, he would need at least one of the archers and one of the guards to accompany him, which made her and Prince Owen’s chances of escape better.

  The king’s pace would be slow, too. Even if the guards had to carry him, Anneth and the prince could catch up—hopefully before Lord Jensen inflicted further harm.

  The two guards moved into the king’s cell and took him by the arms. For a moment, King Philip resisted. Then one of the Athraig kicked his leg, and he let out a yelp of pain. Only the guards’ grip kept him from collapsing to the straw-scattered floor.

  “Stop,” Prince Owen said sharply, pressing himself against the bars.

  The Athraig ignored him as they hauled the king from his cell.

  “Folie, with us,” Lord Jensen said, gesturing to the nearest archer. “Grinar, keep a close eye on these two. If they try anything, shoot the girl.”

  “What?” the prince cried in horror.

  Lord Jensen glanced at him. “As I said, you won’t be harmed. Not before you’re wed, at least.”

  The implication chilled Anneth to the bone. Unless she acted soon, none of them would escape Castle Raine with their lives.

  The guards dragged King Philip forward. As they passed the prince’s cell, he stretched his hands through the bars.

  “Father,” he said brokenly, reaching for the king.

  “Take heart.” King Philip gave a weary smile and met his son’s anguished gaze. “You will make a good king—your mother would be proud.”

  “No!” the prince cried as the guards, led by Lord Jensen, took the wounded monarch away.

  Her throat dry with sorrow, with fear, Anneth watched as the archer took up the rear, his crossbow trained on the king’s back.

  Prince Owen shot her a desperate look. Tears shone against his cheeks, eerily resembling blood as they reflected the ruddy torchlight.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Do something.”

  Anneth glanced at him, then leaned forward as far as she could, peering into what she could see of the cellar. The metal bars were cold against her cheeks, but after a few ragged breaths, she was all but certain that Lord Jensen and his miserable retinue had gone.

  “Back to your bench,” the remaining archer said, jerking his bow at Anneth.

  She widened her eyes at the prince, giving him a nearly imperceptible nod. Then, drawing on her power, she lifted her hands. One palm pointing at her cell door, the other at Prince Owen’s, she shouted the rune of opening.

  “Edro!”

  32

  Blue light exploded from Anneth’s hands. The sharp clang of metal on metal resounded through the dungeon as the cell doors burst open, followed by the clinking of shattered chain links hitting the stone floor.

  “Look out!” Prince Owen cried, leaping for the archer, even as a bolt whizzed past Anneth’s ear.

  She jerked away, and a black braid drifted to the ground, shorn from her head. Fear grabbed her heart and squeezed. Any closer, and instead of that plait of hair it would have been her body lying there, bleeding her life out on the dirty straw.

  She ducked, readying her next rune, but the prince was faster. He collided with the archer, and she heard a dull thunk as the man’s head hit the wall.

  The archer’s eyes rolled back in his head. Prince Owen yanked the crossbow from his hands and grabbed one of the scattered bolts. He cranked back the string and managed to jam the bolt into place just as the two guards stationed in the cellar came running.

  The first received a bolt to the chest. The other halted, then slumped to the ground as Anneth’s rune of slumber took him.

  Prince Owen dropped the bow and bent to snatch the sword from his fallen foe. She stepped forward and scooped up the abandoned crossbow and a handful of bolts. Their wickedly sharp points would serve as makeshift daggers, if it came to close fighting. There wasn’t time to unbuckle the quiver from the unconscious archer, so she jabbed the bolts through the material of her sleeve, mentally apologizing to Mrs. Geary. Although, in truth, the dress was already ruined beyond repair.

  “Hurry.” Urgency burned in Prince Owen’s voice as he straightened, weapon in hand, and turned toward the cellar.

  “Wait.” She awkwardly shouldered the short-stringed bow. “Let me cast shadow upon us.”

  Invisibility would be better, but that rune took intense concentration, and she could already feel the strain upon her wellspring. Shadow, though imperfect, was easier to summon, and at least would help conceal them from sight.

  The prince paused, impatience flashing in his eyes.

  Hastily, Anneth spread her fingers and spoke the rune.

  “Unuhuine.”

  Patchy darkness shrouded her face and settled about her shoulders like a tattered cloak.

  Prince Owen peered at her. “When we are free, Anneth, you have a great deal of explaining to do.”

  There were still far too many obstacles ahead for her to worry
about answering to Prince Owen. Without replying, she cast shadow upon him in turn. The moment it was done, he whirled and ran for the cellar stairs. She was right behind him as they dashed up the stairway, and was barely able to stop herself from colliding with him when he halted at the closed door at the top.

  With excruciating slowness, he lifted the latch and pushed the door open a crack. The room beyond was dim. The kitchen, if she remembered correctly.

  Flicking on her dark vision, Anneth took the unfamiliar weapon and tried to recall how the prince had armed it. Cautiously she cranked back the string and set a new bolt along the wooden shaft, taking care to keep her fingers away from the trigger on the underside.

  What a strange contraption—but she did not have time to examine at it further, as Prince Owen pushed open the door and motioned her forward.

  They crept out into the deserted kitchen. The scent of meat and cooked onions lingered in the air, and a long counter next to the sinks held rows of drying dishes. Dinner must be over, and the servants dismissed until it was time to prepare for the next meal.

  Motioning her to stay behind him, the prince led the way past the cavernous hearths and the huge table, stained and pitted from kitchen work. At the end of the room, he paused at the short run of stairs, listening.

  “A moment,” Anneth whispered, veering toward the sinks.

  She grabbed the nearest bowl—a dented metal thing—and splashed some water into it. Not even bothering to set it on the table, she angled it to catch the slice of sunset coming in from the single window high overhead.

  Ondo, she thought fiercely, as she intoned the rune of scrying.

  “Princess!” His concerned visage stared up at her from the bowl. “Are you safe?”

  “Shh. I have little time, but are you near? We need your help.”

  “I am just inside the castle wall, near the herb gardens,” he said. “Even though it’s nearly sunset, there is much activity—it’s difficult to move about unseen.”