by Anthea Sharp
“What is this?” a richly dressed woman cried from the center of the semicircle of torches. “Guards, take them!”
Judging from the sparkling crown atop her head, she was royalty of some sort, but Bran didn’t care. He flung out his hands and, mindful of Mara’s aversion to shedding human blood, cast a sweeping spell of slumber over the throng. He didn’t have time to select their allies by name, so as he cried the rune, he targeted it toward anyone who was an enemy to Raine.
The soldiers slumped, falling where they stood, and he turned to see Mara had already dealt with the guards surrounding the prisoners. He strode forward, taking in the scene: fallen guardsmen, flickering torches, bound prisoners.
Foremost among them, Anneth.
Alive, tears tracking her face.
“Bran,” she said, her voice breaking.
He freed her in a matter of moments, then folded her in his arms. “I was so worried for you,” he said.
Belatedly, he became aware of a dark-haired young man staring hotly at him. Anneth took a step back and swiped her sleeve across her face, drying her tears. Then she glanced at the young man and gave a crooked smile.
“Bran,” she said, “this is Owen.”
Stony-faced, the man nodded.
Bran glanced about. Everyone still awake was an ally—including, presumably, the nervous fellow who had bolted back inside the walls—but all too soon, their slumbering enemies would awaken. They must have a plan in place before that moment occurred.
He was glad to see that Mara had already freed Ondo and a hard-faced guardsman who’d also been among the prisoners. Now she supported an older man slumped against the wall, his head hanging low.
“Can you heal him?” she asked Bran. “He seems very weak.”
Owen leaped forward with a gasp of dismay.
“Father,” he said, slipping his arm around the other man’s waist. “Father—wake up.”
“We have no time.” Bran glanced at the sea of bodies around them, some of them already beginning to stir.
“I’ll fetch reinforcements,” the guardsman said, brusquely hurrying to the door.
“We must retreat,” Anneth said. “Stay inside the walls and defend the castle. All the Athraig are out here.”
“They will lay a siege,” Owen said. “One we’re not equipped to withstand.”
“Kill them?” Bran suggested.
“That would surely incite a war,” Anneth said. She gestured to the crowned woman sprawled upon the grass. “That’s Princess Rella of the Athraig. We can’t simply murder her and her men.”
“We will send them away,” Mara said decisively. “Back to their ships lying off the coast. But I will need all your help.”
She beckoned, and they gathered around her. Anneth, her face drawn with exhaustion but her head held high. Ondo, loyalty and relief shining from his eyes. The human man, Owen, who kept shooting Bran narrow-eyed looks.
And Bran himself, who came to stand behind his mortal wife, his hands laid gently upon her shoulders.
“Are you strong enough?” he asked softly, guessing at what she was about to do.
“I hope so. With your help.” She pulled in a breath. “Can you muddle their memories? I want them to have no thought of magic, or revenge.”
“Only of defeat at the hands of a superior enemy?” He nodded. “I will do my best.”
“Then lend me your power.” She held out her hands. “All of you.”
Anneth grasped her left hand, Ondo her right, and Owen gripped Anneth’s arm, confusion in his eyes.
The enemy soldiers surrounding them began to wake, sitting up and reaching for their weapons.
“Princess!” one of them shouted.
Mara’s magic surged, and Bran opened his wellspring to her. A whirling circle of blue light appeared, hovering above the grass. Through it he glimpsed the dark sea, the silhouette of the Athraig warship. He clenched his jaw and threw up a veil of confusion and defeat, hazy memories of battle outside the castle, that each of their enemies must pass through.
“Portal!” Mara shouted.
The gateway expanded, sucking the nearby bodies through. Some of the soldiers rose and tried to attack, but they could not withstand the pull of the magic.
The princess, fair hair whipped by the wind, hung for a moment in the eye of the storm, then was gone. One by one, the Athraig were disappearing from the meadow. But over half of them—fifty at least—remained.
With a terrible, piercing clarity, Bran understood that his small group would be overwhelmed. Their magic was not enough.
Mara began to tremble, and he poured all his strength, all his love into her. He felt the thin thread of Anneth’s nearly depleted wellspring, the staunch trickle of Ondo’s power.
The awakening soldiers stumbled forward. One, sword swinging, came too close. Ondo managed to kick the man away, and he was sucked through the doorway.
The portal shuddered, contracted. Mara gasped with effort.
“Hold fast, beloved,” Bran murmured.
A new source of energy joined their efforts—a faint touch of magic that, shockingly, could only have come from the human, Owen.
Two more Athraig stumbled through the portal.
Again, Mara’s spell faltered, and this time there was no reprieve. Like the brightmoon setting, the doorway waned, fading to a smear of light in the air.
Leaving their exhausted party facing dozens of infuriated Athraig.
Bran released Mara, stepped forward, and drew his sword. It weighed a thousand pounds, but he raised it, arms burning with effort. It had taken everything in him to channel his power to Mara, while also holding the confusion veil.
He would defend her to the death.
Beside him, Ondo pulled a knife from his boot, and at his other side, Owen scooped up an abandoned sword, looking dazed.
“Charge them!” one of the black-armored soldiers called.
The Athraig surged forward. Baring his teeth, Bran braced himself for a short, but brutal, battle.
He managed to incapacitate the first man to reach him, sidestepping the warrior’s blow and clouting him on the side of the head—but there was another just behind him.
The new enemy swung his broadsword at Bran’s chest. He parried, the shock ringing through him, and was slow to counterstrike, barely nicking his opponent’s arm. The man pivoted, blade arcing out, and Bran realized, with detached horror, that he was watching his death blow descend.
Dimly, he heard Mara cry out.
And then the Athraig crumpled as a strangely fletched bolt pierced his forehead. Blinking, Bran saw two more of the enemy go down in the same fashion.
Suddenly, they were surrounded by soldiers, led by the hard-faced guardsman Mara had freed. Yet they were still terribly outnumbered.
One of the castle’s men fell, then another.
Sobbing, Mara fell to her knees and splayed her hands wide in the air.
“Portal,” she cried, her voice raw with grief.
There was a pause, like a great ingathering of breath.
Then enchantment rushed up from the very ground—a deep magic full of the whispers of wildness. The splash of a streamlet over rocks, the seed-bright eye of a wren, the thin purple petal of an aster. The power grew, strengthened by the snap of a sharp tooth, the creak of wind-tossed branches, the cry of a raptor plummeting from the sky. Silver runes crackled to life in a dark clearing.
The Darkwood. And the Erynvorn.
The nearly vanished portal flared to eye-searing brightness. With startling quickness, the rest of the invading Athraig were pulled through.
Then, as abruptly as it had opened, the portal closed, winking out like a flame doused in water. Bran swayed, shaking his head. What they had just witnessed was unbelievable. How could the forest have woken, let alone called to the Erynvorn?
And yet, the Athraig were gone.
The human realm. Elfhame. Two separate worlds, more tightly twined than he had ever guessed.
Owen stumbled to his father, who had collapsed at the base of the wall.
“Can you help him?” Owen asked, looking up at Mara. “Please?”
He clutched the man’s limp hand in his, desperation etched on his face. Mara stood, swayed on her feet, then managed to make her way over to the wall. With a heavy breath, she went to her knees. Bran joined her, forcing the weary haze from his vision.
They had so nearly failed.
“I have no power left,” she said, but reached out a trembling hand and laid it on the fallen man’s head.
Bran sent her a worried look.
They were both spent, with only the barest dregs of magic remaining. He wished he could forbid her from draining her wellspring completely dry—but this was her world, and it was her choice.
Anneth knelt beside Owen, taking his other hand in hers. Watching them, Bran suddenly knew the source of the vestalevere he and Mara had sensed. Improbable as it seemed, his sister and this human shared a life-bond.
Mara’s face grew pale as she forced the last of her power into trying to revive the older man. After a strained moment, his eyelids fluttered open, and he gazed weakly up at them.
“Owen,” he said, his voice a mere creak, like wind rubbing two branches together. “You survived.”
“Yes.” Owen’s voice trembled with grief.
“Strong. You will make a good king.”
King? Bran glanced from father to son, further understanding the connection between his sister and Owen. Princess… and prince.
“Don’t leave me, father.” Owen clutched the dying king’s hand. “I need you. I can’t—”
His voice broke and he turned his head away, tears brimming in his eyes.
“You can. My blessing upon you.” The king turned his gaze on Anneth. “On you both.”
Then, with a look of weary serenity, he closed his eyes. They did not open again.
“No,” Owen gasped, folding over his father’s body.
Anneth slid her arms around his shoulders, holding him as he wept. She glanced up at Bran, fear in her eyes, and he knew she was thinking of their father, lying ill in the Hawthorne Court.
As soon as they recovered a semblance of their strength, they must return to Elfhame.
They’d lost one king. But, Bran vowed to himself, they would not lose another.
36
Despite the need to see her family and then enter Elfhame, Mara slept heavily through the night and most of the next day. She awoke in an ornate, unfamiliar bed, blinking at the afternoon sunlight sneaking in through imperfectly drawn velvet curtains.
It took a moment for her to recollect where she was: in one of the guest rooms at Castle Raine. What a strange turn her life had taken. She never would have predicted she’d be an honored guest of the crown prince in the very castle where she’d once scrubbed out fireplaces.
In the course of that journey, she’d helped save two worlds, finally mastered her magic, and, most importantly, married a horribly handsome, and astonishingly stubborn, Dark Elf warrior-prince.
Speaking of Bran, where was he?
She levered herself up on her elbows, scanning the room. The only signs of her husband were his pack in the corner and his cloak flung over one chair. The garment was ragged at the edges—much like both of them, after their recent adventures.
Suddenly ravenous, she rose and opened the curtains, letting golden summer light flood the room. To her relief, she discovered her freshly laundered clothing folded in a neat pile on the table near the door. Although she had a change of clothes in her pack, they were wrinkled and a bit grubby. It was difficult to keep up with laundering while escaping from temples and voyaging across the turbulent sea.
As she finished dressing, the door opened and Bran poked his head into the room.
“Mara.” He smiled and entered, quickly coming to her side.
She slipped her arms about his waist. He made a contented sound and pulled her close. For a long moment they stood there, hearts beating in unison, savoring the simple fact that they were alive. That they were whole, and safe.
“Did you rest well?” His breath was warm against the top of her head.
“I did.”
She looked up at him, studying his face in the strong light. The lines of tension and worry on his forehead had eased, she was glad to see—though there was now a strand of silver threading through his hair. It gleamed against the blackness of his braids, a testament to their hard-won victories.
“How long have you been awake?” she asked.
“Not long,” he said. “I had something to eat, and the maid is bringing up a tray for you. I’ve also been making arrangements for our travel into the Darkwood.”
The responsibilities of the world came rushing back—along with the choice she must make—and she heaved a sigh. “Won’t we just portal to the gateway?”
“No portal,” he said. “We must conserve our power to open the gateway between our worlds. Horses will take us to the stones—we’ll bring a few riders, who can return the mounts to the castle while you, I, Anneth, and Ondo continue into Elfhame.”
She nodded slowly. “That seems the wise choice.”
“Besides,” he said, quirking one eyebrow, “this way we can make a quick stop at your cottage. I have a certain family to meet.”
Her heart thumped, and she squeezed him tightly. “Thank you.”
“I did promise,” he reminded her, bending to drop a kiss on her hair.
“Yes.” And she hoped her family would be on their best behavior, though with Lily, one never knew. “We should leave today. Your father…”
“Time is short, but we’ll depart tomorrow, after breakfast.”
“I slept too late.” She frowned, wishing she could call back those lost hours.
“No—we both needed to recover. Especially if we’re to succeed in opening the gate.” He scrutinized her face. “Is your wellspring regenerating?”
Closing her eyes briefly, she reached for her power. It stirred sluggishly, without the sparkling blaze of magic she’d grown used to.
“You’re right,” she said. “We’re not yet strong enough to return to Elfhame.”
She could only hope that by tomorrow, they would be.
Or perhaps the forest would, yet again, lend its aid.
She glanced out the window at the shadowy expanse of the Darkwood. Wind stirred the branches into motion, and a bird darted overhead, a bright streak of blue, before diving back into the dimness. Already the sun was lowering, the light slanting to warm gold.
Melancholy stirred through her, bittersweet.
This might well be her last afternoon in the mortal world.
The stone hallways of Castle Raine were pleasingly dim, Anneth thought, as she walked beside Prince Owen. Wall sconces shed light at distant intervals, leaving pools of shadow between. She found it comforting rather than oppressive.
Although the escort of Captain Crane, striding a pace behind them, was less reassuring.
The prince—or rather, the new king—had knocked on her door after she’d taken luncheon in her room, and asked if she would like to see the castle. His intent gaze carried the unspoken message that they had much to discuss.
“Yes,” she’d said, stepping out, then drew up at the sight of the captain of the guard.
“Captain Crane insists on accompanying me,” Owen said. “Even though he’s apprehended the Athraig agent. The true one, this time.”
She raised her brows at the captain.
“My duty is to protect the rulers of Raine,” he said, without apology. “And you still owe us an explanation of your part in all this. Not to mention your strange allies, and the fact that his highness says you’re a princess of some foreign land—”
“No need to interrogate her,” Owen said. “I’m certain Lady Anneth will reveal everything, as soon as she may. But for now, let our tour of Castle Raine commence.”
With a bow, he offered his arm. She rested her hand on his forearm, co
nscious of the little prickle of warmth the contact sparked.
It was overpowered, however, by a rush of nervousness. Owen was confident that she would share all her secrets with him. And she wanted to, but…
Even the fact she was a Dark Elf?
Despite their undeniable connection, if she showed him her true face, she knew he would recoil, thinking her hideous or terrifying. The prospect sent a wrench of pain through her.
For a brief time, earlier that day, she’d considered trying to live the lie. Invent a distant kingdom, constantly maintain her rune of illusion—anything, so that she could continue to be with him. Owen would invite her to stay at the castle; she knew it, as surely as the stars filled the sky.
They would talk, and flirt, and friendship would lead to more. If, that was, he thought her a mortal woman. One of his own kind.
The temptation to continue the charade pulled at her. You will be so happy, her treacherous heart insisted. Just keep pretending to be human.
But that was a sure route to misery. She’d seen it in her own parents’ marriage: the brittle façades, the pretenses that neither could admit to. The strain of ruling together had only made it worse, fracturing what had once been a true union. Even as a girl, she’d vowed never to follow that path.
No matter how much her emotions might try to lead her astray.
Sorrow swamped her. She knew that her friendship with Owen was drawing to its inevitable end. She’d face it bravely, just as she’d faced certain death in the moment before the crossbow fired.
This time, however, there would be no reprieve.
No matter how wounded her heart, she wouldn’t die of it—though she would never fully recover. Her time in the mortal world had permanently marked her, for good and for ill.
She had decided she’d go back to Elfhame and, if Prince Deldarinnon still wanted an alliance, she would tell him yes, making it plain that it would be for purely political reasons.
There was no point in thinking she would find love. Not when a green-eyed mortal prince was all she’d ever yearn for.
Enough, she told herself firmly. She must leave the dark clouds of misery on the horizon and turn her face to the present—to the precious time she had with Owen before the storm arrived.