by Anthea Sharp
Her heart leaped with hope, that he was so close. “Bran and Mara, too?”
“No,” he said, and her spirits plummeted back into shadow as he continued. “They are detained at the coast by the Athraig. But where are you?”
“The kitchen.”
“Very near.” His voice tightened with urgency. “There is a door at the side. I will wait for you there, and we will make for the Darkwood. You are almost free.”
She glanced at Prince Owen, who was watching her. Despair crept over his face, and she could tell he thought she was going to abandon him. With a deep breath, she looked back at Ondo.
“No.” The word abraded her throat. “I must help rescue the king.”
“I forbid it.” The scout’s voice rose, and she gestured him to quiet.
“I must,” she said. “Where are the Athraig gathering?”
He remained stubbornly silent.
“Ondo,” she said, bringing all her regal training to bear, “I command you to tell me. If you refuse to help me now, my death is upon your head.”
The scout squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, his expression was resigned.
“They are in the courtyard,” he said. “I will meet you there.”
Without responding, she dashed the water out into the sink, set the bowl back on the counter, and turned to Prince Owen. His eyes burned with fierce emotion.
“I am in your debt,” he said.
“Your father’s not free yet.” She nodded to the stairs.
He pivoted, and she followed him up, both of them staying close to the wall. Anneth kept her bow pointed low, so she wouldn’t accidentally shoot him if she stumbled. The sound of her heartbeat was like a drum in her ears as she tried to think of what runes she might need.
She wasn’t strong enough to cast slumber on a large gathering, and even if she could, it wouldn’t last long. In fact, the guard in the dungeon would awaken soon, and then they’d have enemies at their front and back.
If only Bran were there! He was skilled at battle magic, and she and Prince Owen were desperately overmatched. Ondo knew some runes of attack, but his wellspring wasn’t terribly strong. Certainly he wasn’t as powerful as the Hawthorne Prince.
But he was all they had.
The short stairwell opened into the great hall of Castle Raine. Anneth blinked to see it dark and empty. Only a few lanterns shed radiance, leaving lonely pools of light on the flagstones. How long ago the motion and hubbub of the prince’s ball now seemed. It was hard to believe it had only been… She frowned.
Time passed strangely in captivity, and she’d been careful to recast her illusion rune after every sleep—but she guessed it had been two mortal days. Not long, and even shorter in Elfhame, thank the moons. Surely Lord Calithilon still lived.
And here she was, going to the aid of another ruler.
She would give almost anything to save them both.
A shout sounded from outside the doors at the end of the hall. Exchanging alarmed glances, she and the prince began to run. Their footsteps echoed softly in the deserted room as they dashed between rows of benches—no doubt set up for Prince Owen’s imminent, and involuntary, wedding.
Breathing heavily, they fetched up at the tall doors. The prince adjusted his grip on his sword, then opened the door just enough for them to peer out.
The red-orange light of the setting sun illuminated a grim scene.
At the bottom of the hewn stone steps stood King Philip, held upright by an Athraig guard. Lord Jensen was next to him, facing a furious-looking Captain Crane, who had his arms pinioned behind his back by two other Athraig. Two more of Lord Jensen’s men stood behind the imprisoned captain, their blades drawn.
“I’ll control my men,” Captain Crane said, his voice fierce. “Just don’t harm the king.”
“Rather too late for that, isn’t it?” Lord Jensen said. “On both counts. A pity you didn’t take us more seriously.” He beckoned to the nearest soldier. “Demonstrate to the captain that we are true to our bargains—especially when they are broken.”
The man stepped forward, lifting his gleaming sword over the king. “Where shall I strike him, my lord?”
“No!” Prince Owen cried, shoving the door wide.
Anneth gave him an alarmed glance as he dashed out. Forcing her hand to remain steady, she lifted the bow, sighted the swordsman, and depressed the trigger mechanism. By the brightmoon, she hoped she’d set the arrow correctly.
Thwack!
The bolt flew true. It buried itself in the guard’s chest, and he stumbled back, his sword clanging to the cobbles.
Prince Owen reached the man holding his father and drove his blade into the guard’s side. With a gurgle of pain, the guard released King Philip. The prince hastily caught his father, but now was hampered in his fighting.
Lord Jensen called for more soldiers, a note of panic in his voice. With a vicious kick to the knee, Captain Crane sent one of the guards holding him to the ground, then whirled and jabbed the other one in the throat.
Quick as thought, he scooped up the sword and sprang toward Lord Jensen, now guarded by the two other swordsmen.
Halfway down the stairs, Anneth paused. There wasn’t time to pick off each soldier individually. Already the remaining guards were advancing on Prince Owen and the king.
Squinting against the last rays of sunlight, she reached for all the power in her wellspring and held up her hand, palm toward the fighting.
“Calya!” she yelled, the rune for summoning light, then turned her head away, squeezing her eyes closed.
A brilliant flash blasted down the stairs, brighter than the sun. The power of it scorched her skin. From the yelps of consternation below, the rune had done its job.
It was not a bolt of magic, but even foxfire could temporarily blind.
She opened her eyes, wincing at the afterimage of light seared across her vision, and sprang down the stairs. The soldiers scrubbed at their eyes. She had bought a little time, but not much.
They must disappear before their enemies could see again.
“This way,” she whispered urgently, grabbing Prince Owen by the arm and hauling him toward the corner of the castle.
The prince resisted her pull, lagging to help support his father. Anneth quickly took the king’s other arm and, with as much haste as possible, they hobbled toward safely.
“What about Captain Crane?” the prince asked softly.
“I can’t guide you all.” She cast a distressed glance over her shoulder. She didn’t much like the captain, but how could they abandon him? They needed every ally they had.
Then a lithe form darted into the courtyard. Ondo!
He took Captain Crane’s shoulder, then ducked as the man made a wild swing with his sword. Leaning forward, the scout whispered in the captain’s ear.
A moment later, they were heading toward Anneth at a rapid pace. Even though Captain Crane couldn’t see, he moved with efficient ease under Ondo’s guidance.
“Help the king,” Anneth said as soon as they were near. “We’re almost to the corner. I’ll go first, to make sure it’s safe.” And to cast a rune of slumber, if necessary.
“Take hold of my cloak,” Ondo told the captain.
He thrust his garment at the man, then turned and took Anneth’s place, slipping his arm around the ailing king’s waist.
Captain Crane grabbed a handful of Ondo’s cloak and cocked his head. “Who are you?”
“One of my allies,” Anneth said.
“Helping us escape?” the captain asked, directing the words in her general direction. “Strange behavior for an Athraig spy.”
“Later,” Prince Owen said.
She could tell the captain wasn’t satisfied, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue—for the moment.
“Halt a moment,” she said, peering around the corner of the castle.
No one was in sight, thank the seven stars, and she urged her companions forward. As soon as the bulk of the sto
ne wall lay between them and the Athraig, she let out a ragged breath. They weren’t safe yet, but at least they had a chance.
“That way,” Ondo said, jerking his head to the right, as his hands were full with the king. “Past the kitchen gardens. There’s a small door in the outer wall.”
“Can any of you see yet?” she asked.
“A little.” The prince blinked several times. “Shapes—dark and light.”
“Move faster,” the captain said. “If we’re recovering our vision, so are they.”
No one argued.
The smell of bruised herbs stung Anneth’s nose as they made their way through the gardens. It was painfully obvious that the king would not be able to flee into the forest. He was barely able to stagger along, even supported on both sides.
But they could not leave him.
A shout came from behind them, and Anneth glanced back to see the guard from the dungeon.
“Here!” he called, presumably to Lord Jensen and his remaining soldiers.
Anneth grabbed Prince Owen’s arm, but there was no use urging him to speed up. Not while he and Ondo still supported the king.
Captain Crane frowned. “We must make a stand.”
“No—we must get my father to safety,” Prince Owen argued.
“Do both,” Ondo said. “Two of us take the king out the side door and flee. The others defend, giving them time to escape.”
Although surely the captain couldn’t see Ondo’s face, he and the scout exchanged a glance.
“No,” Anneth said, with a shiver of understanding. “I refuse to let you sacrifice yourself so that I can escape.”
“It is my duty, my lady,” Ondo said gently. “And my privilege to serve the Hawthorne Court.”
The prince’s expression grew bleak. “Captain Crane, I forbid—”
“No time.” The captain released his grip on Ondo’s cloak. “I can almost see well enough to fight. Get to the door. Now!”
He turned to face their pursuers, sword raised. Ondo coaxed the king to go faster. Face twisted in pain, King Philip increased his hobbling steps. The outer wall loomed ahead, the small wooden door dwarfed against the high stone.
“Take my place,” Ondo said to Anneth as they reached the door. “We will buy you enough time to reach the Darkwood. Farewell, Princess Anneth. Tell your brother I am sorry.”
Throat tight with unvoiced sobs, Anneth reached for the latch. She pulled open the door, helped Prince Owen carry his father through, then froze in disbelief.
Facing them, only a few paces from the wall, stood over a hundred Athraig soldiers. They carried torches, the light reflecting off bits of metal on their stiff leather armor.
And off the diamond crown of the fair-haired young woman borne on a palanquin in their midst.
Her ice-blue gaze skidded from Anneth to the king, then fixed on Prince Owen.
“Ah,” she said, with a small, cold smile. “My intended groom, Prince Owen of Raine. How thoughtful of you to come out and meet me.”
33
Owen stared at the Athraig princess, his thoughts freezing. Their hard-won escape had been for naught. His hopes squeezed down to dregs, a bitter wine he could scarcely stomach.
His father, one arm draped heavily across Owen’s shoulders, made a sound of dismay.
“Too late to ask Lady Fiona now,” he said, his voice rasping with misery.
Behind them came the sound of fighting, and the princess snapped her fingers. Ten men in black armor stepped forward, presumably her personal guard.
“Take them,” she said, nodding to where Owen stood with his father and Anneth. “And see what’s happening behind that wall. Signal if you need reinforcements.”
Owen looked as his father’s bowed head, and despair flooded him. There was no use trying to run.
As the Athraig soldiers advanced, Anneth shot him an intent look.
“Prince Owen,” she said with soft urgency. “If you must be betrothed, then marry me.”
He blinked at her a moment before comprehension dawned. As his father had reminded him, Rainish law forbade an already-engaged person to wed someone else. That had been the entire point of the ball, after all.
“Anneth,” he said hurriedly. “Will you consent to be my bride?”
“Yes,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation.
Their gazes locked. A strange sensation rang through Owen, as though he had just been struck by a pulse of inaudible sound, dashed by a wave that carried no water.
The Athraig guard reached them. Three of them roughly took charge of Owen, Anneth, and the king. The others dashed through the door into the castle grounds beyond.
A few shouts rang out, a final clang of swords meeting. Owen held his breath, hoping the bravely loyal Captain Crane, as well as Anneth’s man, still lived.
A taut silence fell, finally broken by Lord Jensen’s appearance. As he stepped through the doorway, he shot Owen a triumphant look. Then his attention turned to Princess Rella, and he swept her an ostentatious bow.
“Your highness,” he said, “how wise—and fortuitous—of you to come to the side door in the castle walls.”
She gazed haughtily down at him. “Credit me with some sense, Jensen. Our reconnaissance showed that your control of Castle Raine was less than complete—which I’m sure my father will find… disappointing.”
The greve flinched slightly, but stood his ground. “We’ve quashed the momentary uprising, my lady, and taken the dissidents back into custody.”
Owen briefly shut his eyes in gratitude. Their loyal defenders had survived.
“And the escaped prisoners?” Princess Rella tipped her head toward Owen. “It seems we’re needed here to mop up your careless spills.”
“My soldiers were on the verge of retaking them.”
“They never should have gotten free in the first place!” Her tone was sharp. “Indeed, I don’t trust you to not botch things further. We shall hold the wedding without delay. No more of your ineptitude will be tolerated.”
Her warriors murmured in agreement, and Lord Jensen went pale at the rebuke.
“Of course, my lady,” he said. “I will prepare the great hall—”
“No.” She glanced about the dusk-filled stretch of meadow where they stood, fitfully illuminated by torchlight and lantern. “We will not give my intended any more opportunities for flight. The ceremony will take place here. Fetch the cleric. And more light.”
“As you wish.” Lord Jensen made her another bow, then spun and stalked back to the door in the castle wall.
“Bring the dissidents,” the princess called after him. “After the ceremony, we’ll make an example of them.”
Anneth’s head jerked up at that. She glanced at Owen, her eyes wide with fearful questions. All he could do was shake his head. At the moment, there was nothing they could do to save their men. Or themselves.
And now that they weren’t fleeing for their lives, he recalled what her man had called her. Brows knitting, Owen turned his head to stare at her.
“You’re a princess?” he asked in a bare whisper.
Her mouth tightened, but she jerked her head in affirmation.
So, his intuition had been right—she was no commoner. But what country would send their princess, unescorted, into such a perilous situation?
Not completely alone, however. In the dungeon, which felt like an eternity ago, she’d told him she had three allies. The first, arms tightly bound, was even now being escorted through the doorway, Captain Crane behind him.
But where were Anneth’s other supporters?
By the light of the oil lantern mounted on their cabin wall, Mara finished tucking the last of their provisions into her bag. Straightening, she glanced out the porthole. Night had finally descended, the last shimmering reflection of daylight fading from the sea. It was time for them to leave the Pridewell.
Grimly silent, except for a few whispered consultations about who would carry what, she and Bran had made ready.
All the while, she’d been thinking furiously, trying to find a solution to the problem of their distance from Castle Raine.
They couldn’t travel any faster, as Bran had already made clear. But perhaps there was a different answer…
“Ready?” he asked, turning from his packing to face her. “Once I cast the rune of invisibility, we must not speak until we’re safely ashore.”
She lifted her hand, forestalling him. “There might be another way.”
His brows rose, but he waited patiently to hear what she would say.
Speaking slowly, she tried to put her glimmer of inspiration into words. “Could we craft another rune? One that would transport us across Raine to the Darkwood—not with speed but…” She paused, searching for the concept.
Bran watched her intently. “A door?” he suggested.
“Yes.” She smiled at him, hope blossoming inside her. “If magic can create a gate between worlds, certainly it can create a doorway from one place to another within the same world.”
“Another gateway,” Bran said, dawning hope in his eyes. He took her hands in his. “Your mortal perspective is sorely needed in Elfhame, my love. Until this journey of ours, creating new magics was unthought of among my people.”
Her shoulders twitched uncomfortably. Just because she’d helped invent new runes didn’t mean she ought to dwell among the Dark Elves forever. The question of her future loomed ever closer, and with effort, she set it aside. Their first priority must be to reach Anneth, and then her family. The rest would follow as it may.
“How would we know where to arrive, though, without any gateway stones to mark the way?” she asked, frowning. “It will do us no good to wind up in some featureless tract of forest, with no idea which direction to go.”
“If you can envision it, then I believe I can transport us there,” he said, pressing her hands. “I have little memory of Raine, other than the coast, but you must know the area around your family’s cottage well.”
“Of course.” She’d lived there her whole life, after all, until she’d been magically whisked into Elfhame. “There’s a place where the forest clears to meadow, just at the edge of the Darkwood.”