Date: 2019-08-20 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Romance; Fantasy Romance; Elves; Fiction; Young Adult
Description: In the shadowed land of the Dark Elves, one young woman struggles to master her magic, and trust her heart… Prince Brannilon Luthinor and his mortal bride, Mara Geary, have returned to the Hawthorne Court, but despite winning the war against the Void, their own personal struggles are just beginning. Fragments of the Void remain in the realm, and Bran must hunt them down, leaving Mara to face the poisonous intrigues of the court. She soon discovers that the fate of Elhame is far more precarious than she first believed. While she grapples with mastering her own magic, and the depth of her feelin
Rights: Copyright 2019 Anthea Sharp. All rights reserved.

Hawthorne

Anthea Sharp

Fiddlehead Press

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Acknowledgments

Other Works

About the Author

HAWTHORNE copyright 2019 by Anthea Sharp. First edition published August 2019. All rights reserved. Characters are purely fictional figments of the author’s imagination. Please do not copy, upload, or distribute in any fashion.

Cover by S. Frost Designs. Professional editing by LHTemple and Editing720.

Visit www.antheasharp.com and join the newsletter for a FREE STORY, plus find out about upcoming releases and reader perks.

QUALITY CONTROL

We care about producing error-free books. If you discover a typo or formatting issue, please contact antheasharp@hotmail so that it may be corrected.

HAWTHORNE - From USA Today bestselling author Anthea Sharp, a richly-imagined fantasy romance uniting an adventurous young woman and a fearsome Dark Elf warrior, in a magical tale full of love and adventure.

In the shadowed land of the Dark Elves, a hero must risk losing everything…

Prince Brannilon Luthinor and his mortal bride, Mara Geary, have returned to the Hawthorne Court, but despite winning the war against the Void, their own personal struggles are just beginning. Shards of the Void remain in the realm, and Bran must hunt them down, leaving Mara to face the poisonous intrigues of the court. She soon discovers that the fate of Elfhame is far more precarious than she first believed. While she grapples with mastering her own magic, and the depth of her feelings for her enigmatic husband, Bran chases down the enemy – but his foe has grown more cunning than he ever imagined.

As treacherous schemes close in around the couple, they must learn to trust the power of their magic and their hearts… before both their worlds are lost forever.

For everyone persevering and thriving in long-distance relationships (especially B&A), this one goes out to you. Stay strong and true.

Prologue

The twilight halls of the Hawthorne Court were filled with purple shadows and low whispers. The heir, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, along with his strange mortal bride, had disappeared three palemoons ago, without a word to anyone in the court.

Except his sister, Lady Anneth.

Something was wrong—Anneth knew it deep in her bones. Knew it in the way the soft wind circled through the corridors. Knew it in how the glimglows had dimmed, the court gardens nearly deserted, lit with only a handful of their bobbing, light-filled forms.

Bran would never simply abandon Elfhame. Not after having defeated their ancient enemy, the Void, and making the realm safe for the Dark Elves once more.

As Anneth made her way to the dining hall for luncheon, she heard the whispers of the court, twisting and sibilant through the corridors.

Did you know? His horse returned to the stables, rider-less.

Now that the prophecy has been fulfilled, he ran away rather than face the truth that we are still doomed.

I heard the human murdered him. She destroyed the remains and fled back to her world.

Which was pure nonsense. Anneth knew the mortal girl, Mara Geary, and knew that the love between her and Bran was unmistakable, no matter how much they both tried to deny it.

But perhaps their stubbornness had been their undoing.

Anneth stepped through the arched doorway to the dining hall, though her appetite had fled. She made her formal curtsey to the head table, where her parents sat, regal and uncaring. At least her mother certainly seemed unconcerned, wearing her usual cold, remote expression. The Hawthorne Lord had a slight furrow in his brow that might mean he was worried about his son and heir.

Or it might simply mean his elderberry wine had soured.

Anneth took a seat at a half-empty table. Glowing spheres of blue foxfire hovered overhead, illuminating the brocade tablecloth and platters of food.

Although the lord and lady presided, luncheon at court was an informal affair. Diners were free to summon whatever dish they wished from the kitchens, though most were content to eat the array of delicacies laid out.

She took a slice of moonmelon and some cheese, and poured a small measure of wine into the silver goblet at her place. Though she might not feel hungry, she must eat something. The hazy worry inside her was clearing, leaving a purpose behind.

She knew where Bran had gone. It was her task to attempt to find him. As soon as she finished her lunch—

“I don’t understand how some people can eat in the face of this tragedy.” A high-pitched voice broke into Anneth’s thoughts.

Before she could protest, an ornately dressed lady took the place beside her, glancing at Anneth’s plate with smug superiority.

“Lady Mireleth,” Anneth said, offering no greeting or welcome.

“For myself, wine and honey is the only thing I can stomach.” Mireleth let out a dramatic sigh. “Alas, the prince has abandoned us. That mortal woman he was forced to wed has lured him into her world. Or killed him with her treacherous human ways. Either way, we’ll never see him again.” She sighed again, then fixed Anneth with her hard, bright stare. “I suppose you’re next in line for the Hawthorne Throne, ill-suited as you might be.”

The words sent a stab of panic through Anneth. Her, inherit the throne? Oh, stars forefend. She understood the line of succession, of course, but had never considered that her brother would not take the throne. Of course he would—he had his prophecy to fulfill.

“Bran will return,” she said. “And Mara too—you’ll see. They didn’t save Elfhame from destruction merely to abandon the realm. Besides, Bran is ever true to his duty.”

“His duty.” Mireleth sniffed in disapproval. “Better that he’d honored the betrothal bond he made with me. Dark Elf blood should not be tainted by associating with mortals. If that human woman never returns, none will miss her. Good riddance, I say. But we need the Hawthorne Prince.”

Anneth’s fingers tightened on the leaf-carved handle of her fork. Carefully, she set it down so that she would not stab Mireleth in the arm.

“You know as well as I do that your betrothal to Bran was a sham. A ploy, concocted by our fathers to activate the prophecy. And it worked.”

Mireleth turned a wounded look on her. “I’ve loved Brannonilon all my life! I would have married him in an instant. But no—he spurned me for that hideous mortal creature.”

There was no reasoning with Mireleth. Though Anneth strongly suspected the lady’s “love” was motivated by a fondness for power and the title of Hawthorne Lady, rather than any true affection for Bran.

Anneth took a bite of melon, tasteless on her tongue, and forced herself to patience.

“And now he has deserted us,” Mireleth said.

Anneth half expected her to fall into a despairing swoon so that she could be the center of attention, but Mireleth showed remarkable self-restraint, instead settling for yet another melancholy sigh.

“He’ll be back soon,” Anneth said, infusing her voice with a certainty she did not feel.

“I hope he returns, for all our sakes,” Mireleth said. “What good is it to save the Hawthorne Court only to let it fall into disarray?”

Anneth shot a quick glance at her parents at the head table. As long as Calithilon and his unyielding wife ruled, the court would be stable.

But what if Bran never returned?

Anneth swallowed back the panic that tried to rise, hot and sickening, in her throat.

Whatever had happened, she could sit idle no longer. As soon as luncheon ended, she would pack a traveling bag, fetch supplies from the kitchen, and go out in search of her brother.

Unlike him, she would leave a note, telling her family where she was bound: a place where the edges of the mortal world and Elfhame brushed up against one another, full of magic and dangerous mystery. A place her people called Erynvorn.

The Darkwood.

1

Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne throne, husband of the mortal woman Mara Geary, lay beneath the sheltering branches of an enormous cedar tree, his wife in his arms. Overhead, the palemoon was a bitten silver coin tossed against the dark. Stars flared in the sky, unthreatened by that half-light.

Exhaustion still pulled at him, tugging him down toward the blackness of sleep, but he fought it. Mara dreamed, and he would watch over her. A poor husband he would be indeed, to fall into slumber and let some enemy take them unawares.

Not that he trusted himself to be a particularly fine husband. He knew almost nothing of human ways and customs, and the strange girl sleeping in the shelter of his embrace was equal parts fascinating and confusing to him.

He let out a low, weary exhalation, echoed by the rustle of the wind through the feathery cedar branches. The prophecy was fulfilled, the great enemy of Elfhame defeated, and he felt like a boat unmoored, abandoned by captain and crew and left at the mercy of currents he could no longer chart.

Mara stirred sleepily, her fingers twined in the long, dark strands of his hair.

“Hush, love.” He patted her shoulder lightly. “All is well. You are safe.”

Even though his magic might be drained, his sharp sword was at the ready to defend her.

“Bran?” Her voice was hoarse with sleep.

“I am here.”

Her grip on him tightened. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“No, my heart. You saved me.”

Barely. He had walked close enough to death to see his own reflection in the gray shadows of the Beyond.

“Don’t ever go away again.” There was an endearing fierceness in her voice.

“You must promise the same.”

She sighed, warm against his neck. “I won’t insist you send me away again, if that’s what you mean. If I ever return to the mortal world, you must come with me.”

He blinked at the palemoon through the lacework of branches. Leave Elfhame? The thought was cold and strange. He’d lived his entire life in service to the prophecy that demanded he save his land. The realm had been the heart of him for as long as he could remember.

“Why would I leave Elfhame?”

She shrugged, a curiously mortal gesture, felt more than seen. “You never know what will happen.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Once, I always knew. It was simply a matter of reaching that point.”

“Poor love.” She lifted her hand to cup his cheek. “It must be hard, now that your prophecy has been fulfilled.”

It was so like her, to feel sympathy for him when she was the one trapped once more in his realm. A tremor of worry ran through him. A scant few moons ago, Mara had risked everything in order to return to her home world. Could she ever be happy here? Could she ever be happy with him?

He feared he knew the answer, and it was not kind.

“What will become of us?” he asked.

She slowly sat up and ran her fingers through her tousled brown hair.

“I don’t know. I suppose you’ll teach me more about the magic I carry, and the Hawthorne Court, and how to be a proper Dark Elf lady.”

“You could never be one of them,” he said, then cursed as he felt her stiffen beside him. He rose to his knees and placed his hands on her shoulders. “No, Mara, I did not mean that cruelly.”

“You Dark Elves are ever cruel,” she said, a bite in her voice, though he hoped she did not mean it. “In the fables we humans tell, it is part of your nature.”

“Do you truly believe that?” He touched her face, careful to keep his claws sheathed. “I meant only that you are too kind and brave and strong to be a simpering court lady.”

She stared at him a moment, her human features strange and lovely, lit by the soft purple glow of nearby dusk lilies. The hurt in her eyes faded, and a rueful smile crossed her face.

“And short-tempered and outspoken, too. You forgot to add those most admirable qualities of mine to your list.”

She could make him smile as no other could. He gathered her against him, just to marvel at the feel of her in his arms. He dropped a kiss into her hair, breathing deeply of the smell of her: moss and flowers and joy.

“You know those attributes are prized beyond compare,” he said.

“I’m lucky to have a moon-crazed Dark Elf for a husband, who believes such things.” Her voice held laughter.

The moment was broken by the sound of a scream.

In an instant, Bran was on his feet, sword in his hand. His attempt to summon light resulted in a sickly, gaseous shimmer in the air, and even that much effort left him nauseated.

Then Mara stood and slipped her arm about his waist, and the deep power of her magical wellspring poured into him. He laid his arm across her shoulders and accepted the gift. The light steadied, and he cocked his head, listening.

“What is it?” Mara glanced at the tall cedar trees surrounding them. “Is someone in trouble? That sounded like a Dark Elf.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is another trap set by the Void.”

“I don’t think the Void is clever enough for that.” She looked up at him, the reflection of their sphere of light sparking twin stars in her eyes. “It nearly succeeded in killing you—and would have, if I hadn’t returned. Why bother with more traps?”

He cocked up one shoulder and did not answer. Who knew the ways of the enemy? He had almost lost his life underestimating it. He would not make that mistake again.

Regardless, they must investigate. He drew on more of Mara’s magic, careful not to drain her overmuch, and sent a questing tendril into the dusky air.

It met a familiar energy, and he pulled in a quick breath. If he was not mistaken, his sister was roaming about Erynvorn—and she was in danger.

“Come, quickly.” He broke into a fast stride. Nearly a run, but if he sprinted away, he would leave Mara behind, and that, he refused to do.

“What? Where?” she asked, already breathing heavily as she followed his weaving path through the forest.

He could hear the edge of annoyance in her voice, but had neither the breath nor energy to answer. The compass in his mind was fixed at a bright point ahead, and the closer they drew, the more certain he was that Anneth was ahead. And engaged in some kind of battle.

Shadows take it, she was no battle mage. He prayed to the absent brightmoon that she still had the dagger he’d insisted she learn to use.

A spark of pain jabbed through him, and he winced at the evidence that his sister had been injured.

Mara drew in a sharp breath. She must have felt the same jolt through the magical bond they shared.

“Who?” she asked.

“Anneth.”

“Then hurry, Bran. Run!” He could not abandon his heart, his bride. But how could he leave his sister to face an enemy alone?

Anneth screamed again.

“Here.” Bran thrust Mara’s kitchen knife at her—her wedding gift to him, but he could not leave her unarmed.

She took it, then pushed him forward. “Go!”

Bran turned and ran, fleet-footed over the soft mosses. He must reach Anneth in time—and trust that Mara would come to no harm, and that she could fend for herself in her indomitable mortal way.

Poor husband, poor husband, his footsteps seemed to mock him.

Resolutely, he ignored them and sped through the silver-washed forest, fear and worry nearly breaking him in two.

2

It was ridiculously easy to sneak out of the Hawthorne Court.

Anneth left the note concerning her whereabouts carefully folded on the embossed silver table in her quarters, then slipped out to the stables. She took one of the prepared travel packs kept ready for the scouts, checking to make sure there were supplies enough for several moons’ worth of travel. Satisfied, she mounted on her mare, Silma, and rode out across the long-grassed meadows. Behind her, the elegant buildings of the Hawthorne Court shone faintly beneath the half-sphere of the palemoon.

After several turns of travel, she stopped and made camp, careful to cast protective wards about the small clearing. The night passed uneventfully, and the next moon, she approached the shadowy mass of Erynvorn. The forest reached up to cover the sky, and a shiver went through her. Her brother and Mara had entered that place moons ago—and never returned. She leaned back, and her mount halted obediently.

Despite Anneth’s brave hopes to the contrary, what if Bran and Mara had, in fact, come to a dreadful end? She did not think she could bear to discover their broken bodies, or stare into their empty eyes. And yet, there was no one else willing to discover the truth of what had become of the Hawthorne Prince and his bride.

The huge, dark trees closed over her head, as though she’d plunged into a pool full of blackest night. Their branches whispered, either stirred by the wind or remarking upon her presence. Pine, cedar, hemlock—the scent of the forest imbued the air with a wild flavor.

As her vision adjusted to the dusky light, the flowers growing within Erynvorn brightened. Glowing white petals starred the mossy forest floor, and the nodding bells of qille shed violet light where they grew in clusters.

Even better, nearly a dozen glimglows flitted between the tall columns of the tree trunks. They darted to her in a flurry of sparks, weaving light-trailed patterns in the air, and came to hover just above her head. If she squinted, she could see the small, winged forms inside each ball of light.

“Hello,” she said softly. “Have you seen my brother?”

To her immense relief, they seemed to understand her question. At least, she hoped their sudden whirl and rush into the forest meant they knew where to lead her.

General opinion was that the glimglows were not particularly intelligent, but Anneth had found that, if spoken to, they did respond. Not always in ways that made sense, however. She urged Silma forward and hoped that, in this case, the glimglows would not lead her astray.

They bobbed ahead, some darting off now and then, until only four remained. Those moved steadily forward, and Anneth followed, guiding her mount through the hushed and dim ranks of the trees. Her mare’s steps were silent, muffled by the carpet of needle-strewn moss. The only sounds were the whisper of the wind high overhead and an occasional chiming—the noise of the glasslike stalks of linque rubbing together.

A sudden coldness moved through the air. The glimglows halted, then winked out as if extinguished. The smell of burnt iron scorched Anneth’s nostrils, and she glanced, wide-eyed, at the shadows surrounding her.

Heart pounding, she drew the dagger at her belt.

“Who’s there?” she asked. Her voice trembled on the words.

With a sudden rush, a dark form lunged at her—red eyes glowing malevolently, savage teeth bared. A gyrewolf!

Anneth screamed and kicked Silma into motion. The mare leaped forward. Snarling, the wolf gave chase.

Breath ragged in her throat, Anneth tried to guide her mount through the trees, but this was no wide road or grassland where they could run flat-out. The snarls of the gyrewolf sounded just behind them, and panic clouded her senses.

Silma stumbled, and the wolf sprang. Its sharp claws raked Anneth’s back, and, with another scream, she tumbled to the ground.

Trying to ignore the pain, she jumped to her feet and faced the gyrewolf. It opened its jaws, as if laughing at her. Then it gathered its haunches and sprang.

“No!” she yelled, twisting to the side.

She thrust her dagger at the beast, wishing desperately she was better prepared—fully trained in weapons or magic to confront such a deadly foe. But no one had expected Princess Anneth to go into the forest unaccompanied, let alone face a gyrewolf.

It growled, low in its throat, and she saw her death reflected in its red eyes.

Then, as if from nowhere, a gleaming silver sword flashed out of the darkness, slashing the wolf across the flank.

With a screech of pain, the beast turned to meet its new foe.

“Bran!” Anneth cried, gratitude and love rushing hotly through her at the sight of her brother wielding the blade.

He was alive, thank the double moons. And there was none she would trust more to defeat the deadly beast.

“Get back,” he said, his black hair flying as he pivoted away from the gyrewolf’s attack.

She did, scurrying away to where Silma stood, nostrils flaring. Leaning for comfort against her mount’s warm bulk, Anneth gritted her teeth against the pain in her back and tried to concentrate on the fight.

Something was wrong with Bran. His skin held a grayish hue, and despite being the best battle mage among the Dark Elves, he did not cast a single spell.

He slashed at the wolf, nimbly twisting away from its attacks, but his movements seemed weighted with weariness. Fear crawled through Anneth again. She must help.

Gripping her dagger tightly, she crept forward. The smell of the gyrewolf’s blood hung rank in the air, its snarls interspersed with Bran’s grunts as he tried to land a killing blow. Never had she seen her brother struggle so to dispatch an enemy.

Hoping the wolf was too focused on Bran to notice her approach, Anneth rushed forward and sank her dagger into the creature’s back.

It let out a howl and whipped around to face her, adding distraction enough. With a mighty, two-handed blow, Bran cleaved through the gyrewolf’s spine. It collapsed in a heap of blood-matted fur, the red light fading from its eyes.

Anneth drew in a shaky breath. The beast looked much smaller, now that it was dead.

“Are you unharmed?” Bran asked.

“No—it clawed my back. But what of you? And Mara?” A horrible thought stabbed through Anneth. “Did she truly leave you, and go back to her own world?”

It would explain why he looked barely better than a corpse. But she could not believe that, in the end, Mara would do such a thing.

Although—everything Anneth knew of humans was taken from books, and the few moons she’d spent in Mara’s company. Perhaps Bran’s mortal bride had, indeed, abandoned him.

His face softened. “No—she is here in the Erynvorn. I must go find her. If one of these Void-spawned creatures is about, there might be others.”

With a look of distaste, he toed the corpse of the gyrewolf. Then, with two efficient swipes, he cleaned the blood from his sword on an unsullied patch of its hide.

The sound of something rustling through the forest made them both look up. Anneth wrenched her dagger out of the dead wolf and went to stand beside Bran. Her back burned, but she would face this new threat, undaunted.

“Bran?”

A smile broke over his face. “Mara. We are here.”

He strode forward to meet his wife, and a moment later, she was in his arms. Even from where she stood, Anneth could feel the intensity of emotion swirling between them.

Then Mara peeked around his tall form and saw her.

“Anneth, thank goodness,” she said. “We heard you scream and feared the worst.”

“Hello, Mara.” Anneth stepped forward to greet her, then winced as her back protested.

“But you’re hurt!” Mara pushed out of Bran’s embrace. “Where? What can we do?”

“The wolf caught my back,” Anneth said. “It’s not a grievous injury.” At least, she hoped not.

“Turn around,” Bran said sternly.

He lifted her cloak aside, and she heard Mara suck in a breath.

“Is it terrible?” Anneth asked, her heart pounding.

“No.” Bran gently let the cloak fall back into place. “But you need tending.”

“You can’t heal her?” Mara asked, glancing up at Bran.

“I have not that skill,” he said. “We must return to the Hawthorne Court.”

Mara nodded, though Anneth could see the reluctance in her eyes. So far, the court had not treated the mortal girl kindly.

“You both need seeing to,” Mara said. “The sooner, the better.”

With Bran’s help, Anneth mounted her horse and gratefully patted Silma’s neck. The journey back would be easier than if she had to make it on her own two stumbling feet.

They made a slow, sorry procession through the Erynvorn. Bran kept his sword at the ready, and Mara kept glancing at him with a worried expression.

“What happened to you?” Anneth asked her brother. She swayed, fighting against the pain and weariness threatening to engulf her.

“The Void,” he said shortly. “It seems, despite defeating our ancient enemy, they are not fully vanquished from our world.”

“The gyrewolf,” Anneth said.

“Yes.” His voice was grim. “And I fear that other Void-spawned creatures remain in Elfhame, despite closing the rift between our worlds.”

“There might be some shards, too,” Mara said, giving her husband a troubled look. “Like the one that lodged in you.”

Sudden despair washed over Anneth. “But we won the war.”

“The Void is cunning,” Bran said. “It will do anything to gain a foothold and spread into the realm. I must gather a band of warriors to root out any remaining traces.”

“Not until you’ve regained your strength,” Mara said sternly.

Bran made no reply—which meant he would pay no heed to her words. Anneth shook her head slightly. Her brother was ever stubborn, sometimes to the point of stupidity.

“Don’t be a fool,” Mara said, echoing Anneth’s thoughts. “Besides, I need your help at court.”

“Anneth can help you.”

“She has injuries to recover from, too,” Mara pointed out. “When you both are back to full strength, then you can abandon me, husband. Not before.”

A faint smile pulled the corners of Bran’s lips. “Very well, wife.”

Anneth’s brows rose. Very few people could make Bran listen. This mortal woman was a good match for him—even if the rest of the Hawthorne Court believed otherwise.

3

Despite Mara’s worry over her injured companions, she was sorry when they stepped from the shelter of the Darkwood. Although the realm of Elfhame was magical, the forest was particularly so, the mysterious shadows beneath the towering trees countered by the ethereal radiance of the flowers. And the glimglows, who had already proven themselves her allies.

Several of them floated overhead, their bobbing lights a small comfort against the ever-present night. She glanced over her shoulder into the lush darkness of the forest, her chest tightening with loss.

The gateway home is still there, she reminded herself—although she’d promised to remain with Bran in Elfhame.

Indeed, her heart demanded no less.

But still, it wasn’t easy to imagine leaving her world behind forever. She missed her family, and the solid footing of knowing where she stood with everyone in the village of Little Hazel. And, perhaps most of all, she missed the sun.

After several turns, they made camp, all three of them teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Grateful for Anneth’s supplies, they ate a hasty dinner and slept, then continued traveling the next day. Or what passed for day in Elfhame.

She glanced up at the palemoon riding low in the star-speckled sky. It was akin to the moon she knew in the human world, rising daily to mark the passage of time. At least Elfhame had the brightmoon, as well, to shed more light over the land. Now that she’d agreed to dwell in this realm, she must learn the cycles of the two moons, which did not move in tandem.

The motion of the moons, however, was the least of her worries.

Ahead lay the treacherous halls of the Hawthorne Court, which, she suspected, harbored more than one enemy. She scanned the rolling hills covered with purple grass, relieved to find no sight of the graceful palace. Yet.

“The palemoon sets,” Bran said, a hint of strain in his voice. “We must make haste.”

She gave him a sharp look, but bit her tongue. Although part of her wanted to plead her own mortal weakness and call a halt to rest, the sooner they arrived, the sooner Bran and Anneth could be tended to.

“Yes,” Anneth said wearily. “Bran, take Silma and ride ahead—”

“I won’t leave you.” He gave her a stern look. “And you are in no condition to walk.”

She gave him a crooked smile. “I thought you could summon help, while Mara and I rested.”

“It’s a good plan,” Mara said. “You could come back with horses, maybe a litter for your sister.” A thought occurred to her. “What happened to Fuin?”

She was a little embarrassed she hadn’t remembered his beloved horse until that moment. Though, in her defense, all her attention had been on Bran, and then Anneth.

“He returned to the stables,” Bran said, a thread of tension in his voice. “At least, that is my hope.”

Neither of them voiced the very real possibility that the horse had been killed by Void creatures.

“In any case, we will stay together.” Bran shot his sister a look. “All of us.”

Anneth made an exasperated noise and toed the side of her mount. The horse increased its pace, and Mara forced herself to keep up, although the breath burned in her chest. Dratted Dark Elves and their long legs.

She shot a look at her husband, and found he was watching her, his black eyes hooded.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile and ignoring the stitch developing in her side.

“Take care,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “I’ll carry you.”

“I know.” She found it touching, how solicitous he was of her—and a trifle annoying, that he did not take his own weakness seriously enough.

Just when she thought she might have to accept his offer, however unwise, they crested a rise and the shining spires of the Hawthorne Palace came into view. The arched doorways were framed by vines bearing white flowers, and even at this distance, their sweet scent reached her nose. Balls of foxfire illuminated the gardens and floated above the main gates. In spite of her worries, Mara let out a sigh at the beauty of the sight.

“Only a little further,” Anneth said, though it sounded as if she was encouraging herself more than the others.

Bran gave a nod and lengthened his stride. Luckily, it was downhill, and Mara managed a half-trot to keep pace. The last thing she wanted was to trail behind like a fool as they entered the court.

When they reached the outer walls, however, Bran halted.

“Let us catch our breaths,” he said.

Meaning her, of course, but Mara didn’t have the energy to argue. In truth, she could use a moment to gather herself before stepping into the palace.

“Everyone will be pleased to see you,” Anneth said, looking from her brother to Mara. “The rumors concerning your absence have been fierce.”

“Glad to see Bran, you mean,” Mara said. She had no illusions about her welcome at court.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back,” Anneth said staunchly.

“Thank you.” Mara gave her a wry smile. “It’s good to have at least one ally.”

“And what am I?” Bran asked, sounding slightly offended.

“My husband, of course.” Although in name only. Mara swallowed her rising apprehension about sharing living quarters with Bran. One thing at a time.

“Ready to go in?” He looked at her, his dark gaze intense.

“Yes.” Mara straightened her shoulders. As ready as she’d ever be.

He sheathed his sword and led the way. Not to the front gates, she was glad to note, but to a smaller door facing the gardens. No matter which entrance he chose, however, she knew that word of his return would spread quickly.

The guards at the arched doorway stared a moment as Bran stepped forward.

“Your Highness?” one asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

Mara wondered what the nature of the court rumors had been. Judging by the man’s reaction, they hadn’t expected Bran to return at all. Worry seeped through her. Did the Dark Elves think she had stolen him away into her world? Or, worse yet, done him harm?

Neither thought was very comforting. Obviously, the denizens of Elfhame distrusted her—and all humans. It was a wonder Anneth had taken Mara under her wing at their first meeting.

“Jedry.” Bran fixed the guard with a cool look. “Take Lady Anneth’s horse to the stables and see to his care.”

“Of course, milord.” The man went to stand beside the gray mare, giving Bran room to assist his sister from the saddle.

As Bran set Anneth down, she winced. His expression hardening, he gestured to the other guard.

“Fetch Avantor at once,” Bran said. “Tell him my sister is in need of healing. We will be in her rooms.”

Mara opened her mouth to add that Bran, too, needed mending, but changed her mind at his grim expression. She would inform Avantor himself, after he’d seen to Anneth.

“And Jedry…” Bran straightened, as if bracing himself for the answer. “Is Fuin in the stables?”

“Aye, my lord,” the guard said. “He returned two moons ago.”

“Good.” There was no hint of relief in Bran’s voice, but Mara could see the tension ease in his shoulders.

“I will find the healer,” the other guard said. He made Bran a bow, then hurried through the doorway into the blue-lit shadows of the corridor beyond.

They followed much more slowly. Mara could see Anneth clenching her jaw, and moved to offer her arm in support.

“Thank you,” Anneth said, accepting the help.

Bran stepped up to her other side, and, between him and Mara, they managed to keep Anneth on her feet. With the wave of a hand, Bran summoned a globe of foxfire to bob above their heads.

The hallway made a T, and they turned right. A pair of elegantly garbed ladies occupied that corridor and, seeing Bran and Anneth, gasped. They curtsied to the royal siblings, their ornate jewelry and silken skirts gleaming under the light.

Mara could not help but notice that their narrow-eyed stares lingered on her. The ladies’ whispers followed them down the hall.

“So much for quietly slipping back to my rooms,” Anneth said as they reached the arched doorway to her suite. “Lady Niona is one of the worst gossips in the palace.”

“The guards will have spread the word, too,” Bran said, waving them to precede him into Anneth’s parlor. “We could not have remained unseen. You know that.”

“Yes.” Anneth sighed. “But I don’t particularly want to face our parents just yet.”

Lips tight, Bran nodded. “They will give you time to recover. I’ll see to it. Now, sit.”

Anneth moved to one of the cushioned, backless chairs and slowly sank down upon it, her face drawn.

“What about you?” Mara shot Bran a look where he stood, arms folded, near the door. “At least sit down.”

From her previous encounters with the Hawthorne Lord and his lady, she knew that they were rigid and demanding. And that Bran’s mother, in particular, would be most displeased to discover Mara’s continued presence in Elfhame.

“I must speak with them,” he said.

“But surely not right away?” She wanted to go and wrap her arms about him, but the closeness they’d felt in the forest had faded the nearer they came to the Hawthorne Court.

Bran now had a stiffness about him, and she wondered if he regretted her return to Elfhame. She trusted their bond, but her presence represented so many complications. Not to mention that she was a constant reminder of the prophecy he’d fulfilled—and the fact that now he had no clear path to follow.

“My father must know that Void creatures still roam our realm,” Bran said. “Precautions must be taken, with all haste.”

Reluctantly, Mara nodded. His words made sense, though she did not like to see him go.

“Stay here with Anneth,” he said to her. “I’ll return as soon as I am able.”

“Wait for Avantor, at least,” his sister said. “Really, Bran. You know how difficult our parents can be. You’d do your cause—and Mara—the most good by meeting them with strength, rather than barely being able to stand.”

He looked at Mara, something softening in his expression, and unfolded his arms. She did go to him then, wrapping her arms about his lean waist and letting her head rest against his chest.

“I am sorry, indis.” His low voice vibrated beneath her cheek, and his long fingers stroked her hair. “I would wish your life here to be one of ease and comfort.”

“That wouldn’t be very exciting, though,” she said. Although at the moment she wouldn’t mind a bit of ease and comfort. For all of them.

A knock came at the door. “It’s Avantor,” the healer called.

“Come,” Anneth said.

Mara stepped back from Bran as the healer entered. She had met Avantor before, when she first came to Elfhame, and recognized his lean features. A strand of silver wove through his hair, plaited and looped through the darker braids.

“Bran!” Avantor paused a moment, the surprise in his face quickly changing to concern. “You are unwell.”

Bran shook his head and gestured to Anneth. “My sister is more injured than I. Look to her, while I attend to other business.”

“Wait,” Mara said, glancing at the healer. “Is Bran strong enough to go running off?”

“I am not some truant child—” her husband began, but Avantor held up his hand.

He frowned at Bran. “You are not well, either.”

Bran made a sharp movement with one hand, and Mara glimpsed the points of his claws. “I am well enough.”

“Let me at least sing a small healing upon you,” Avantor said. “The moment your errands are finished, I expect to tend to you. Understood?”

“Is that an order?” Bran’s voice was cool, but there was a glint of humor in his eyes.

“Yes, it is,” the healer said. “Now, stand still.”

He lifted his hands, palms facing Bran, and began humming. Mara watched, trying to sense Avantor’s magic with her own newly awakened wellspring, but could detect little more than a faint glow about the healer. When he had finished, he gave Bran a serious look.

“Do not neglect to send for me,” he said. “Whatever the nature of your injury, it is soul-deep. What I’ve done just now is only temporary.”

Soul-deep. Mara shivered. Surely they had rooted out the Void fragment that had lodged in Bran. She could not bear to lose him again.

“I’ll make sure to summon you,” she said to Avantor.

The elf glanced at her. “Good.”

He moved to where Anneth sat, and Bran reached for Mara’s hand.

“Stay here,” he said. “I know my sister will be glad of your company. I’ll fetch you when I’ve finished speaking with my parents.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she said. She was relieved to see that Avantor’s spell had improved the papery texture of his skin and restored some of the spark to his eyes.

He squeezed her hand, then turned and strode out the ornately carved door.

She stood there a long moment, staring blindly at the carvings: sickle moons, and some flower she did not recognize. Hope and worry roiled through her. She’d made the right choice to return to Elfhame, for Bran would have died without her. But truly, she was a stranger here. An unwelcome one.

Oh, stop. She gave herself a shake and touched the violet ring encircling the middle finger of her right hand. Her wedding band. This was her choice, and she was not without allies. She was the woman of the prophecy, after all—the one who had helped turn the tide of battle and defeat the Void.

If the Dark Elves of the Hawthorne Court tried to treat her poorly, well, she would remind of them of the fact that, but for her, their realm would no longer exist. Mortal she might be, but she’d faced danger unflinchingly, and would do so again.

Chin high, she turned to see if there was anything she might do to help Avantor or comfort Anneth.

4

Whispers followed Bran as he stalked through the halls. Formally garbed courtiers watched him, wide-eyed, as he passed. He paid them no heed. Whatever they chose to believe about his absence, and Mara’s, both of them had both returned to the Hawthorne Court and all gossip could be put to rest.

Too soon, he reached the wing of the palace where his parents resided. The guard minding the hallway bowed to Bran and stepped aside to let him pass.

“Thank you, Sindor,” Bran said. As commander of the Dark Elf forces of Hawthorne, he knew the names of all his soldiers, down to the lowliest trainee. “Is my father in his library?”

“I believe so, my lord.”

With a nod of thanks, Bran strode down the corridor. Foxfire spheres bobbed at intervals, casting their cool light into the shadows. At the ebony doors of Lord Calithilon’s library, he paused to take a breath. If he was fortunate, his father would be within. And alone. Despite the renewed strength Avantor had lent him, Bran had no taste for dealing with his mother, who had never held him in any particular favor.

He rapped at the door. “It’s Bran.”

“Enter,” his father said.

Bran pushed open the door, then paused on the threshold. His mother, Lady Tinnueth, was seated across from her husband, two glasses of elderberry wine on the table between them. Starlight sifted in from the large window framing his parents, illuminating Lord Calithilon’s haughty features and gilding his mother’s silver hair.

“Don’t stand there gawking, Brannonilon,” Lady Tinnueth said. “It’s most unbecoming behavior in a prince.”

Schooling his features to register nothing of his feelings, Bran stepped into the room and made his parents a graceful bow.

“I’d heard you were back in the palace.” His father rose. “Do you care to explain your absence?”

Bran hesitated a moment. He didn’t want either of his parents to know that Mara had returned, briefly, to the human world, and then—impossibly—opened the gateway back to Elfhame.

“I felt a stirring of the Void within the Erynvorn,” he said. True enough.

“So you went to investigate, by yourself?” Lord Calithilon raised one dark brow. “Unwise, at the very least.”

“I was not alone,” Bran said stiffly.

“Ah yes, the mortal girl.” Lady Tinnueth’s voice was cold. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that she perished along the way.”

He clenched his jaw, refusing to give her the angry response she sought. “I’m pleased to say that my wife is quite well.”

“As to that…” His father waved to an empty chair, then moved to the sideboard to fetch another goblet. “Do join us for a cup of wine.”

It would be the height of rudeness to refuse, and Bran needed his father’s goodwill to offset his mother’s enmity. Despite his reluctance, he took the proffered seat and accepted the goblet his father handed him.

“I must inform you both of a continuing danger,” Bran said. “Creatures of the Void still roam our land. It’s imperative that we form a company of warriors at the earliest—”

“Did you not close the rifts the Void had opened?” His mother leaned forward, a sharp gleam in her violet eyes. “Did you not beat back their assault upon our court, and save all Elfhame from invasion?”

With effort, Bran kept his claws sheathed. “I did. But there is still—”

“Then the prophecy of your birth has been fulfilled,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”

Giving himself time to regain his temper, Bran took a sip of the wine. There was something in his mother’s expression he greatly distrusted. Yet what she said was true.

“The Void is not entirely vanquished from our world.” He set down his goblet, the tart taste lingering in his mouth.

Lady Tinnueth waved a hand, the tips of her claws just visible. “I’ve no doubt you will manage to dispatch the creatures.”

“Yes.” His father gave him a pointed smile. “It should be easy, compared to the battle we waged for the Hawthorne Court. And the other courts will lend their assistance, of course—this threat concerns us all.”

“Then I have your permission to form a coalition of warriors?” Bran gathered himself to rise. The sooner he was out from under Lady Tinnueth’s scathing stare, the better.

“No need to be hasty,” his father said. “Finish your wine.”

Reluctantly, Bran remained in his chair and braced himself for whatever his father was about to say. He hadn’t grown up in the Hawthorne Court without developing a highly attuned sense for trouble headed his way.

“I agree with your estimable mother,” Lord Calithilon continued. “The prophecy foretold at your birth has been fulfilled. Despite the negligible cleanup that remains.”

Bran bit his tongue. Voidspawn were never negligible to deal with, and it remained to be seen how many of the creatures still roamed Elfhame. But that was a topic better taken up with his warriors and battle mages. As soon as possible.

“What is your point?” He did not bother to hide his impatience.

“Why, that your marriage to the mortal can now be dissolved,” Lady Tinnueth said, her voice like a honeyed blade. “Her purpose here has been served. Send her back through the portal, and renew your promise to Lady Mireleth.”

His mouth twisted. Of course—his mother would do anything to remove Mara and put the poisonous Mireleth in her place. He wondered what promises Mireleth’s parents had made to the Hawthorne Lord and Lady in exchange for the sham betrothal.

A betrothal that, however unwillingly, he had agreed to. By the double moons, he’d been a fool to do so.

“It is the best course,” his father added.

“It is the only course.” Lady Tinnueth’s eyes were as hard as the purple-hued marble columns gracing the room. “We no longer need that human abomination at court.”

It was no secret that she regarded mortal blood as tainted, but Bran was taken aback by the viciousness of her words.

“No.” He pushed his goblet away and stood. “I have wed Mara, and I stand by those vows. I’ll hear no more of this. Good day.”

He bowed curtly, then stalked to the door.

“We are not finished with the matter,” his mother called after him. “The mortal does not belong here. You will come to see it, soon enough.”

He closed the thick ebony wood on her words, and wished he could block them from his mind as effectively. For a part of him feared that Lady Tinnueth was right. Mara was out of place in the Hawthorne Court—and out of time as well. The longer she stayed in Elfhame, the more years would slip past in the mortal world.

At some point, even if she wanted to return, it would be far too late. Everyone she loved would have turned to dust, and she would be alone in her world. As she was alone now, in Elfhame.

Not alone, he reminded himself fiercely. Mara had him, no matter how flawed a mate he might be. Anneth would stand by her as well, he was certain. And there were others, who had seen her bravery upon the field of battle, who admired her calm strength. She was not without allies.

But would they be enough to shield her from the Hawthorne Lady’s hatred?

5

As Mara hovered discreetly in the background, Avantor tended to Anneth’s wounds. She lay facedown upon her bed, her back bared. The bloody scores of the gyrewolf’s claw marks looked raw, but the healer pronounced the injury, while painful, not grievous.

He held his hands over her. This time, instead of humming, he began to sing; a liquid, soothing melody. Pale light radiated from his palms. To Mara’s amazement, Anneth’s skin began to knit, though the gouges did not heal entirely.

“There should be no scarring,” the healer said, giving Anneth a long look. “Provided you rest appropriately.”

She turned her head and gave him a faint smile. “Unlike my brother, I’m sensible about such things. Though if you want Bran to rest, you’ll have to chain him to his bed.”

Avantor smiled ruefully. “He takes his duties seriously.”

“Someone has to,” Mara said. “The remaining Void creatures must be dealt with. Who knows who else they might attack, and what damage they’ll do?”

From what she knew of his parents, she doubted the Hawthorne Lord and Lady would spring into action. Despite the recent battles against the Void, the elder Dark Elves did not seem to act particularly quickly.

Avantor glanced at her, his expression troubled. “It is worrisome, indeed. Nonetheless, our commander is in no condition to rush out and hunt the Voidspawn down. Please make him see sense until he’s regained his strength.”

“I’m not sure how much sway I have over Bran,” she said. The powerful Dark Elf commander was not so easily handled.

Anneth let out a quiet snort. “He is your husband. You have more power than you think.”

Maybe. But Bran had kept his promise to send her back to the mortal world. There were no more debts or obligations between them.

Only a marriage that was so new, she did not know if it would survive the Hawthorne Court’s frosty disapproval.

“I’ll try,” she told Avantor. It was the best she could do.

The door swung open and Bran stepped inside. He looked worse than when he had left, his eyes full of shadows, his expression grim. He glanced at Mara, then away, his attention focusing on where his sister lay.

“How are you?” he asked, moving to Anneth’s side.

“Well enough,” she said. “Avantor says I’ll heal completely, as long as I rest.”

The healer looked Bran up and down. “I must recommend the same course for you. What happened while you were gone from the court, to drain you so?”

Bran flexed his hands, his claws bared for a moment, then re-sheathed, though with slow reluctance.

“In the final battle, the Void managed to slip a fragment of its darkness into me,” he said. “It waited until I was weakened, then struck, sapping my life force. I would have died, but for Mara.”

Anneth regarded him, eyes wide. Then she shot Mara a glance, as if to say that Bran owed her a great debt.

He did not, of course. Mara’s insistence on returning to her own world had weakened his power to the point the Void could attack. Opening the gateway had taken almost all his strength. It was because of her that he’d been alone in the Darkwood and far from help when the darkness struck.

Avantor frowned. “You know as well as I that complete rest is the only way to refill a wellspring nearly drained dry.”

“I have no time.” Bran swung around and paced the length of Anneth’s bedroom. “While I take to my bed, who else will be mauled and killed by the creatures? I cannot let that happen.”

“Bran.” Mara stepped forward and set her hand on his arm. The muscles were corded, as hard as steel. “Surely a warrior party will not be ready to set out immediately? Can’t you let the other courts know to keep watch? Maybe even organize their own troops?”

She did not see why it all should fall on Bran’s shoulders. True, he’d carried the destiny of his realm his whole life, but hadn’t he paid enough price?

“Listen to your wife,” Anneth said, her voice partially muffled by her pillow. “It’s high time the other courts stepped up to face their own battles. Elfhame has relied on you long enough.”

“Perhaps.” Bran sounded far from convinced.

“Take a few days, at least,” Mara said.

“At the very least,” Avantor added. “Indeed, you should be resting right now. As should Anneth.” He gestured Bran and Mara toward the door.

Bran hesitated at the threshold and glanced at his sister’s prone form.

“Don’t worry,” the healer said. “A sound sleep, and she will be much restored. Now, go.”

Bran let out a deep breath and ushered Mara from the room.

Luckily, his rooms were located only a short distance from his sister’s, and before Mara could fret too much about him overtaxing himself, they reached his door.

With a somber expression, he ushered her through. In contrast to Anneth’s warmly decorated rooms, draped with bright swaths of cloth and illuminated with foxfire chandeliers, Bran’s rooms were austere. But, as Mara looked closely, she saw a few personal touches. A silver scrying bowl sat on a small wooden table, and cubbies filled with scrolls covered one side of the room beside a large map of Elfhame fixed to the wall in one corner. A stand held his ornate court sword, jewels gleaming on the handle, and another collection of weapons were racked nearby.

These were the rooms of a warrior, true, but also a prince, as the opulent materials proved. The few chairs and low couch, upholstered in a rich, velvety brocade, looked very comfortable. Thick, moss-colored rugs cushioned their footsteps, and while the lighting was not as ornate as Anneth’s, foxfire balls were cradled in curved silver bowls polished to a high sheen.

Bran halted in the center of what she took to be the sitting room—at least, that was what she would call it in the mortal world. He gazed at her a long moment. Despite his stern expression, she thought she detected something stricken in his eyes.

“I did not think to make other arrangements for you,” he said. “Forgive me. If you wish to stay elsewhere…”

Did he want her there? Did he want her to live somewhere else? The ground felt unstable beneath her feet.

She searched his gaze. “Among your people, is it usual for a husband and wife to share quarters?”

“It is. In most cases. However, if you do not wish—”

“I’d prefer to stay with you.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I didn’t come back to Elfhame and pull you from death’s doorstep just so that we could live apart.”

His expression eased. “I would not want to make you uncomfortable, wife.”

“I’m not,” she said. It was mostly true. “Although…” She could meet his eyes no longer.

“What is it?” He crossed the space between them in three short steps. Gently, claws sheathed, he raised her chin and studied her face. “What frightens you?”

“Not frightened, exactly, but—” She gave a small, wry laugh. “Among humans, the wedding night is, er… Well. The bride and groom share a bed.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the next room, where the corner of the low bed was just visible.

“You are afraid I will roll over in the night and crush you in my sleep?” He shook his head. “Fear not. Your safety is my priority.”

Heat rushed into her cheeks. Did she really have to explain such things to her new husband? She had assumed Dark Elves mated much like humans did, but perhaps she’d been mistaken. Not that she felt ready for such intimacy. Even with Bran.

“Then I won’t worry.” She mustered up a smile, privately resolving to speak with Anneth about the subject as soon as possible.

Bran swayed on his feet, and her embarrassment quickly transformed to concern for him.

“I think, speaking of beds, that you ought to lie down.” She took his arm and led him to the next room.

It was, indeed, the bedroom. To her relief, she saw that the bed was quite large, and festooned with pillows. Bran sat with a grunt, tossed several pillows to the floor, and then lay back.

In mere moments, his eyes closed, and his breathing deepened to a faint snore. Sleep pulled him into its undertow, and Mara bit her lip at how weary he looked in repose. It reminded her too much of how she’d discovered him, lying all but lifeless in the Darkwood.

Carefully, trying not to disturb him, she sat beside him and reached out to cup his cheek. At her touch, his eyelids fluttered open.

“Mara,” he murmured, reaching up to cover her hand with his.

“Rest now,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

He nodded, his intensely purple eyes shuttering closed once more. For several long minutes she sat there, watching him breathe, etching his starkly handsome features into her memory. Brannonilon Luthinor, Prince of the Hawthorne Court, fearsome Dark Elf warrior mage.

Her husband.

6

Once Bran had fallen into a deep slumber, Mara rose and went back into the sitting room. She settled on the low couch, her mind whirling. What had she done? And what was she to do now?

It was all very well to agree to dwell in Elfhame when she was saving Bran in the Darkwood, but the reality of her choice rose starkly before her. She was the only human in a land where, as far as she could tell, mortals were held in low esteem.

But though single-handedly changing the minds of the Dark Elves seemed a daunting task, it was where her path led. If she could eke out even a little respect, it would be enough to make her life bearable.

Power—that was what it came down to. Mara had a wellspring of magic, if she could learn to harness it. And she would, she vowed, closing her hands into fists. For her sake, and for Bran’s.

Bran. There was a whole different problem. They came from such disparate worlds, and she had no idea what he expected of her. She had the unsettling feeling that he’d never looked past the prophecy and considered what it might mean to have a mortal wife.

Well. They’d muddle through together, she supposed.

In the meantime, he had a wellspring to recover, and she had a world to accustom herself to. In truth, Elfhame was magical and mysterious. Even with worries of the future weighing on her mind, the dreamlike wonder of her surroundings muted her fears. She had slipped into a fable and married a prince, and surely that was not such a terrible thing.

A knock sounded at the door, and she went to answer it. No doubt it was Avantor, coming to check on Bran.

She opened the door, and then wished she hadn’t. The noble lady named Mireleth stood there, elegantly gowned and with a disdainful expression on her sharply drawn features. Seeing Mara, her lip curled.

“What are you doing, answering the prince’s door?” she asked.

She made to step inside, but Mara didn’t move, continuing to hold the door half closed. Nothing could entice her to step back and allow this woman into Bran’s rooms.

“I’m his wife, as you might recall. And he’s currently not seeing visitors.”

“He will see me.” Mireleth leaned forward, trying to peer past Mara. “Be a good little servant, and inform him I’m here.”

Trying not to grind her teeth at the courtier’s arrogance, Mara narrowed her eyes. “I’ll tell him you called. Good day.”

She made to close the door, but Mireleth inserted her foot in the jamb.

“Mortal girl,” she said, her voice low and poisonous, “you have no place in our world, let alone marrying our prince.”

The hateful words echoed Mara’s earlier thoughts. Resolutely, she pushed them away.

Lifting her chin, she met the courtier’s gaze steadily. “Nonetheless, here I am.”

“It’s not too late for you to leave.” Mireleth modulated her tone, attempting sweetness. “Surely you miss the mortal realm, your family, your life. Don’t you want to return?”

Mara had already gone back once—but she wasn’t about to tell the Dark Elf her secrets.

“No,” she said. “I am here to stay.”

Mireleth’s expression hardened as she dropped all pretense of politeness. “You will regret it. Prince Brannonilon will see his mistake soon enough. He has no more need of a human bride, and will cast you aside. Then you’ll wish you’d gone when you had the chance.”

The woman’s motives were painfully obvious.

Mara shook her head in mock pity. “Believe me, even if I were gone, Bran would have no interest in wedding you. Goodbye.”

She shoved the door and, reluctantly, Mireleth removed her foot rather than risk having it crushed.

“We are not finished, mortal,” she spat.

“I am.” Mara shut the door as forcefully as possible. For a moment she considered barring it—but she didn’t want to prevent Avantor from entering if she were to fall asleep.

She let out a breath and leaned back against the carved wooden surface. Mireleth’s threats had unsettled her, reminding her all too clearly that she had enemies in the Hawthorne Court.

I am the woman of the prophecy, she reminded herself. She had helped Bran beat back the Void and save Elfhame. Mireleth might try to intimidate and bully her, but Mara was strong. She would not let a poisonous elven courtier get the better of her.

Still, it would be good to start her magical training sooner, rather than later. So far, her use of power had simply been by instinct. It would be a very good thing to be able to direct her magic at will, the way Bran did.

Weariness shuddered through her, and she couldn’t help yawning. Despite Bran’s assurance he would not roll over onto her, she did not quite feel ready to share a bed with him. The couch was draped with a soft blanket. She pulled it over herself and settled in for a rest. Just a short one…

* * *

A knock at the door roused her. She blinked sleepily, the foxfire lights in their curved bowls reminding her where she was. Elfhame. Bran’s rooms.

“Who is it?” she called, pushing off her blanket. She wouldn’t make her earlier mistake of simply opening the door.

“Avantor.”

Good. She went to let him in.

“How is Bran?” the healer asked, stepping inside.

“Sleeping, I think.” She glanced toward the bedroom. “I admit, I fell asleep out here.”

Avantor nodded sagely. “You both need a good deal of rest. Your wellsprings are depleted, and Bran’s life force is too low for my liking.”

“How long does it take for wellsprings to refill?” she asked, trailing him into the bedroom. She was glad to see Bran was still deeply asleep.

“It depends on how much power you have, and how much you’ve used.” The healer moved to stand beside the bed and held his hands out over Bran’s prone form.

Mara watched him anxiously. Avantor’s face remained calm, and she took that as a good sign.

“Is Bran recovering?”

Avantor frowned slightly. “Yes. Though, as usual, our beloved prince has pushed himself to the limits of his strength.”

“When I found him, he was barely breathing.” Her voice caught on the memory of how close she’d come to losing him.

“Do not worry.” The healer dropped his hands and turned to her. “Bran is not currently in danger of dying. I predict a full recovery within a doublemoon.”

She let out a relieved breath. “How long is that, precisely?”

The two moons of Elfhame danced about one another, the palemoon and the bright, but she had not yet spent enough time in that world to know how often they rose and set in tandem.

Avantor gave her a faint smile. “My apologies. I forget you are not accustomed to our realm. The next doublemoon will occur in roughly six risings of the palemoon.”

Six days? “I don’t think Bran will be happy about staying in bed that long.”

“In that, I must agree with you.” The healer shook his head. “I rely upon you to do what you can to keep him resting.”

Mara folded her arms across her stomach. “I don’t have that much sway with the prince.”

“Of course you do.” Avantor regarded her steadily. “He is married to you. What’s more, he cares deeply about your opinion.”

She wasn’t so sure, but there was no point in arguing. Time would tell, she supposed.

“We should let him rest.” She glanced down at Bran’s sleeping form. Their conversation had not roused him in the least—proof of his soul-deep weariness.

“Yes.” Avantor turned to the nearby bowl of foxfire. “Gwath,” he murmured, and the light dimmed.

“Oh.” Mara looked from him to the now-extinguished light. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“Of course. It takes no particular skill or magic. Just speak the word gwath.” He gestured to the other bowl illuminating the room. “Try it.”

Practicing the shape of the word in her mouth, Mara went to the light. It was all very well for Avantor to say it took no skill, but what if she could not do it? What if the foxfire only responded to Dark Elves? How humiliating that would be, having to ask anytime she wanted the lights off. Or on, for that matter.

“Gwath,” she said softly.

The blue flame flickered, its reflection wavering in the silver curve of the bowl—but it did not go out. Her spirits plummeted. She could not even perform this one simple task.

Then the ball of foxfire slowly faded, and relief blossomed inside her.

Smiling widely, she turned to the healer. “I did it.”

“I had no doubt.”

She thought he smiled in return, but in the dimness, it was impossible to tell. The room was nearly dark, no light sifting through the curtains covering the tall, arched window on the far wall. The only illumination spilled from the sitting room.

“How do you summon the light again?” she asked.

“Calya,” he said.

Immediately, a small blue glow kindled in the center of the bowl, growing in strength until it shed a steady radiance.

With a glance at Avantor, she moved to the other bowl and murmured the word. A ball of foxfire formed in answer, and a thrill went through her. Magic, at her command.

“Thank you,” she said.

Avantor nodded. “I know this is not the life you are accustomed to, Mara Geary. Whenever you require assistance, please call on me. But for now, I recommend you rest. Perhaps…” He glanced at the bed where Bran lay, unmoving. “Perhaps near to your husband.”

“And not on the couch?” She raised a brow.

“I do not know the customs of humans,” he replied, a bit stuffily. “But it is advisable to remain close, in case he needs your help.”

“Ah, yes.” He did have a point. And though she would not promise to sleep beside Bran all night, she would not insist on bedding down in the sitting room, either.

“I will check on you both on the morrow,” the healer said.

“I’ll see you out,” Mara said. “And practice turning on and off the lights.”

Another faint smile crossed Avantor’s face. “Good.”

As soon as he’d gone, Mara spent a few minutes speaking the words he’d taught her. The foxfire went out and rekindled until she felt completely secure in her knowledge of gwath and calya.

She was eyeing the couch, and debating whether to pull the cushions into the bedroom, when Bran made a noise somewhere between a shout and a groan.

“Bran?” she called, running to the other room.

His eyes were closed, his face nearly chalk white. His hands clenched and unclenched over the covers, his half-extended claws leaving marks on the opulent fabric.

“Mara?” he whispered hoarsely.

She did not think he was quite awake.

“I’m here.” She sat beside him and carefully took one of his hands in hers.

He quieted, his claws retracting, and let out a deep, shuddering breath. Watching him battle for sleep, a wave of weariness washed over her. When she tried to remove her hand from his, he clutched at her, murmuring something in elvish.

“It’s all right.” She smoothed a lock of his dark hair from his forehead. “I’ll stay. But you have to move over.”

Eyes still closed, he released her hand and half rolled. She lay down beside him, pulling the corner of the satiny quilt up to cover her. The bulk of his body was solid and comforting, and she recalled resting in his arms in the Darkwood. Half of her yearned to return there with him—to run away into the forest and dwell beneath the shadowy trees, far from the complexities of the court.

“Gwath,” she said quietly to the bowl of foxfire. It dimmed obediently, and she sighed into the dark. At least she’d mastered this small part of the Dark Elves’ world.

One step at a time.

* * *

Twice in the night—or what Mara took to be night in the strange, dim world of Elfhame—Bran thrashed in the grip of dark dreams. When she touched him, his skin was cold to the touch, icier than even his usual coolness.

She put her arms around him and pulled him close, trying to warm him with her body. Both times, her presence seemed to ease him, and together they fell back into fitful sleep.

At last she opened her eyes, to discover the room was gently illuminated by a tiny ball of blue light hovering over the bed. She glanced at Bran, to find him awake and propped up on one elbow, regarding her.

“Good morning,” she said, then blinked. “Do you even have mornings here?”

He laughed, a low chuckle that shook the bed slightly. “We do. Especially when the brightmoon rises, as it does today.”

“How do you feel?” She studied his face, glad to see the strain about his eyes had eased.

“Better.”

“Avantor gave me strict instructions that you rest until the next doublemoon,” she said.

One of his brows rose, a slash of ebony. “We both know that’s not possible.”

“Yes, but please try.” She reached over and gripped his arm. “I can’t lose you.”

His expression softened. “For your sake, then, I will rest—for half that time. But Elfhame requires me.”

“Surely your warriors need some time to prepare before leaving the court,” she said.

His lips firmed, but he gave a grudging nod. “I will send messages to the other courts to stay alert for Voidspawn, in the meantime.”

With a graceful motion, he rolled from the bed and went to the window. He pushed the curtains open, letting a golden glow into the room, and Mara let out a breath. It was not sunlight—but the brightmoon’s light was a welcome change from the cool silver of the palemoon.

“Are you hungry?” Bran asked, turning toward her.

“Yes. Should we eat in here?”

He glanced about the room, then shook his head, a regretful tilt to his mouth. “We will show ourselves at the midday meal in the dining hall. No doubt the court is rife with speculation about our return.”

Mara bit her lip, and his gaze focused on her.

“Is there something I should know?” He raised one eyebrow in question.

“It’s just… Mireleth called last evening.”

His expression hardened. “Did she insult you?”

“Not too badly,” Mara lied.

She could fend for herself, and didn’t want to distract Bran with needless worry for her. He had his own burdens to bear. Once he’d returned from patrolling Elfhame, they could deal with any problems remaining at court.

“You will tell me if Mireleth is unbearably discourteous.” He leaned forward, meeting her gaze.

“I’m not going to come running to you every time some courtier is rude to me,” she said.

“Perhaps not. But you will wear a weapon.” It was not a question.

“If you think it’s wise.” She didn’t like the implication that she might be in physical danger—from Mireleth, or anyone else.

He nodded sharply and went to one of the weapons racks mounted on the wall. Slowly he moved past the wickedly curved swords, shaking his head until he reached a smaller dagger, its handle sparkling with green and blue gems.

“This one.” He lifted it and brought it to the bed, where Mara still sat. “No one would dare attack my bride—but it is better if you are armed, all the same.”

She pushed the silken coverlet aside and rose, eyeing the ornate weapon. It seemed far too grand for the bumbling attempts of a beginner.

“Can’t I just use my kitchen knife?”

“No. You need a blade with balance and a good edge,” he said. “A weapon, not a tool. Take it, and wear it at all times.”

Reluctantly, she reached out and accepted the dagger. It was heavy, the gemstones cool to her touch. “I’ll need a sturdy belt.”

“We will have several made for you.” He looked at her, his slitted pupils narrowing. “As to that, we both ought to dress. Perhaps Anneth has something you might borrow.”

Mara glanced down at her homespun skirts, wrinkled and grubby, with a few spots of Anneth’s blood staining the cloth. No wonder Mireleth had been so dismissive.

“Maybe.” Mara didn’t want to disturb Bran’s sister, but she certainly couldn’t enter the dining hall in such a state.

Well, she could, but it would reflect badly on Bran. She owed it to him—to both of them—to take her new station seriously. After all, she was wed to the Hawthorne Prince.

And no matter the intricacies of court etiquette, the rumors and whispers, she would not change that fact for the world.

7

An hour later, as Bran escorted Mara into the dining hall, she was not quite as confident. Everything in the Hawthorne Court seemed designed to make her feel small and inelegant, from the arched hallways to the ornately braided hairstyles of its inhabitants.

Despite Anneth’s suggestions, issued from her propped-up position in bed, Mara had no hope of emulating the coiffures, let alone the poised grace, of the Dark Elf courtiers. She’d done what she could, but her wayward hair refused to stay in place, let alone fall like shining sheets of water about her shoulders, as Anneth’s did.

At least Bran’s sister had lent Mara a lovely silken azure gown, with jewelry to match. A tapestry belt wrapped about her waist, where her new dagger hung in its silver-scrolled sheath.

The moment she and Bran stepped into the room, heads turned and courtiers halted in the act of eating and drinking. A hush fell, then was quickly filled with the low buzz of speculation. Mara felt their sharp-eyed gazes, their sibilant whispers lodging just under her skin.

“Do not fear,” Bran said in a low voice, his hand covering hers where it rested on his arm. “You look every bit a princess.”

Up to a point, she supposed. But there was no disguising her blunt mortal features, round-pupiled eyes, and clawless hands, which were viewed with disgust by most of the Dark Elves.

Not all of them, however.

As Bran let her toward the high table where the Hawthorne rulers sat, Avantor caught her eye and gave her the faintest of smiles. Bran’s lean second-in-command, Hestil, inclined her head in respect as they passed.

“My lord. My lady,” she murmured.

Lord Calithilon and Lady Tinnueth watched Mara and Bran approach. Bran’s father gazed at them impassively, but the cold hatred in his mother’s eyes nearly made Mara miss a step. If Mireleth was a poisonous little spider, Lady Tinnueth was a sleek and deadly viper. Mara was suddenly glad for the weight of the weapon hanging from her belt.

They halted before the Hawthorne Lord and Lady, and Bran made them a formal bow. The weight of the courtier’s regard heavy on her shoulders, Mara performed her best curtsey—careful not to make it too low. She was not some supplicant come groveling to the court, after all.

When she straightened, she caught a flash of amusement in Lord Calithilon’s eyes. His wife’s nostrils flared, and she kept her eyes upon her son, not deigning to glance Mara’s way.

“You seem much recovered,” Lord Calithilon said, nodding to Bran.

“Thank you, my lord. I am,” Bran replied, as if he were in perfect health.

Mara resisted the urge to jab him with her elbow. Why must he be so stubborn? On the other hand, it didn’t seem wise to show any weakness in front the Hawthorne rulers.

“Good.” His mother’s voice was cool. “Then you’ll be delighted to hear that we have approved your plan to patrol Elfhame. You may depart as soon as your soldiers are ready.”

Bran’s eyebrows twitched, but he made her a small bow. “Thank you.”

Mara wanted to protest, but it was not the time or place to voice her concerns. She hoped he would listen to reason—or at least to Avantor—when it came time to leave the Hawthorne Court. Which, no matter what Lady Tinnueth implied, would not be immediately.

“Sit,” Lord Calithilon said, gesturing to the chair on his right. “I have messages for you to give the other courts.”

“Of course.” Bran settled Mara in the chair beyond, then took the indicated seat beside her.

The narrow-faced courtier on Mara’s right gave her a swift glance, then looked pointedly away, lip curling.

“It’s all very well for the prince to have saved our realm from the Void,” he said to the lady seated next to him, clearly meaning for Mara to overhear. “But ultimately, it’s of no use.”

“Indeed,” his companion replied, her voice melancholy. “Alas, we are doomed to perish.”

Mara blinked, trying to absorb what they had just said. She looked at Bran, to see if he’d caught the words, but he was already engrossed in conversation with his father, discussing the Nightshade Court and the losses they’d sustained in the war against the Void.

A server paused beside her place, offering slices of melon and a dish of some unfamiliar grain. Mara accepted both, but after a few bites, her curiosity got the better of her.

“Pardon me,” she said, turning to the courtier. “What did you mean, when you said defeating the Void was useless?”

He let out a sigh and gave her a sidelong glance. “Prince Bran prefers to keep you in ignorance, I suppose—and I cannot blame him. There’s little you can do about it.”

“About what?” She wanted to take the fellow by the shoulders and shake the information out of him.

“The prince pampers his new pet,” the woman beside him said. “Unlike some of us, he chooses to ignore the fact that fulfilling his prophecy only prolongs our decline. Elfhame’s enemy is defeated, true. Nonetheless, we are fated to die.”

“To die? What do you mean?” Mara curled her fingers in her lap, her heartbeat accelerating.

Was some disease ravaging the courts, or a new invasion on the horizon? What fate had she consigned herself to, when she’d agreed to turn her back on the human world? And why hadn’t Bran told her?

The woman gave her a pitying look. “Tell me, mortal creature. Do you see any children here?”

Mara glanced over the dining hall. The bobbing spheres of foxfire illuminated a crowd of Dark Elves that ranged from young adults to the elderly. No one appeared younger than perhaps twelve years of age, by mortal reckoning.

“I assumed your children took their meals elsewhere,” she said.

Upon reflection, though, she realized she’d seen no youngsters dashing about the palace, heard no high-pitched laughter issuing from nurseries and schoolrooms.

The thin-faced courtier shook his head. “No Dark Elf child has been born for over two hundred doublemoons, when our people were struck barren by some mysterious malady.”

“Prince Brannonilon might have beaten back the Void,” the woman said, leaning forward and meeting Mara’s eyes. “But perhaps it would have been better had he not. We are dying out. For myself, I prefer a quick end as opposed to a lingering decay. In a generation, only a handful of Dark Elves will remain, waiting for extinction.”

“That’s terrible,” Mara said. She couldn’t imagine living with the knowledge that humanity was destined to die out. “Surely some cure can be found?”

The woman slowly shook her head. “We have tried everything. Nothing has allowed us to once more conceive offspring.”

Mara wanted to argue that surely there must be something. But it was not her place—and besides, the Dark Elves, with all their magic, must have done everything they could.

“It would have been better had you not come,” the thin-faced courtier said, giving Mara a cold look. “It would be ended, now. Our people gone, devoured by the Void. Instead, we must gradually waste away.”

“Yes,” the woman said. “We have nothing to look forward to but a dreary future of loss and emptiness.”

The Dark Elves had a taste for the overly dramatic, it seemed, and Mara’s patience had worn thin. She’d grown up with two younger sisters, after all. The courtiers’ fatalistic attitude, and their inability to honor Bran’s victory, set her teeth on edge.

“Maybe fate has something else in store.” She couldn’t help the tartness of her tone. “Do you really think the prophecy is finished? That conviction seems foolish, to say the least.”

The woman pulled in a sharp breath and turned pointedly away. The other courtier simply gave Mara a scornful look and went back to his food.

Well then. Mara poked at the melon upon her plate, her appetite gone. No wonder she’d had such a cold reception at court, if the majority of the courtiers still thought the Dark Elves were doomed. As soon as dinner was over, she and Bran were going to have a long talk.

At last, the meal came to an end. Bran turned to her, apology in his eyes.

“I fear I’ve neglected you,” he said.

Mara squeezed his arm, the muscles hard beneath her hand. “You had much to discuss with the Hawthorne Lord.”

After the narrow-faced courtier had gone back to ignoring her, she’d listened to Bran and his father. It seemed to her that Lord Calithilon was humoring his son instead of treating him with the respect that a warrior mage deserved. Especially one who’d won the war against the Void.

Did the rulers of Hawthorne also wish Bran had been unsuccessful?

Mara glanced at Lady Tinnueth, to find the woman watching her, catlike eyes narrowed in malice. Throat dry, Mara swallowed and refused to look away. Finally, Bran’s mother gave a slow blink and turned to Bran.

“I believe Lady Mireleth would like a word with you,” she said to her son.

“So I understand,” Bran said stiffly.

“Do not treat her with discourtesy.” Lady Tinnueth’s voice held a note of warning.

“I will seek her out tomorrow.” Bran stood. “And now, I must beg your leave. My wife is weary.”

He held his hand out to Mara, who quickly rose. From the dark smudges beneath his eyes, it was Bran who needed to rest, but she would willingly bear the burden, if it meant they might depart the dining hall immediately.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been a tiring day.”

Lady Tinnueth’s lip curled in disdain, but Lord Calithilon nodded.

“You have our permission to go,” he said. “We know you have much to do to make ready for your departure, Prince Brannonilon.”

“Thank you,” Bran said.

Mara dipped another curtsey, and then took Bran’s arm as they moved away from the head table. She could feel Lady Tinnueth’s stare boring holes in her back, and forced herself not to shiver.

After what seemed like miles, they reached the silver doors and stepped out of the hall. Bran let out a breath, and she felt his steps drag the moment they were out of sight.

“You’ve pushed yourself too much,” she chided him.

“It had to be done.” His voice was hoarse with weariness.

“Bran,” she said. “At lunch, I heard—”

“Prince Bran,” Avantor called from behind them.

Bran paused, and the healer caught up to them, his brow creased with concern.

“I hope you are on your way to rest,” Avantor said. “And not preparing to march out at moonrise tomorrow.”

Bran slanted a look at the healer, then away. “I’ve duties to attend to.”

“Then have one of your deputies arrange matters.” Avantor’s voice held a note of annoyance, and Mara sympathized.

“Please.” She squeezed Bran’s arm. “Let’s go look in on your sister, and then you can send for Hestil. Surely it’s her duty, as your second-in-command, to assist with such things?”

“It is,” Bran said, giving her a look of reluctant agreement. “But if she organizes the patrols, she will expect to come. It was my intention to leave her here to watch over your safety.”

“Isn’t it more important to hunt down the Void creatures?” Mara asked. “Surely I don’t need a personal guard here in the Hawthorne Court?”

“I will not leave you unprotected,” he said, his tone uncompromising.

“You have other skilled warriors who might watch over your wife,” Avantor said. “Take Hestil.”

Bran made an exasperated sound. “Very well. I cannot stand against both of you.”

Mara exchanged a glance with Avantor, glad of the support she saw in his eyes.

“Are you going, too, as healer?” she asked.

“I would prefer to.” His words were measured. “If our commander agrees, of course. There is more need of me on the battlefield than in the court.”

Bran shifted and began walking down the corridor once more. “It won’t be a war, Avantor. I don’t intend to put my soldiers in undue danger.”

“But Void creatures are on the loose,” Mara said. “Surely there is plenty of risk. Look what happened to Anneth.” She glanced at the healer. “How is she feeling?”

“I am pleased to say she’s recovering well so far,” Avantor said. “Indeed, it’s time for another visit from me. I will accompany you to see her.”

“Good,” Bran said. “And I warn you now, my sister needs your tending more than I need you to accompany my warriors into the field. If you insist I bring Hestil along, then you must remain at the Hawthorne Court. For all our sakes.” Bran lengthened his stride, putting an end to the matter.

Avantor’s expression soured, but Mara smiled at him, even as she was forced nearly into a trot to keep up with her husband.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” she said to the healer. “I find Hestil rather… severe.” The warrior was downright intimidating, if she were honest.

“Sicil, the third-in-command, is just as formidable,” he replied. “I do wish the prince would be more sensible and let me accompany him.”

Mara shot him a rueful look. “We both know it’s almost impossible to change his mind once it’s made up.” Witness her own inability to make him rest, let alone delay his departure until the doublemoon.

When they reached Anneth’s rooms, Bran knocked on her door, then entered without waiting for an answer. Anneth lay propped on her side upon her low couch, a tray of partially eaten fruit on the table before her.

“Look who’s charging in,” she said, a lopsided grin softening her words. “A whole entourage come to visit. How lucky I am.”

“Are you well?” Bran went to his sister and knelt, taking her hand.

He clearly was still wracked with guilt over her injuries, and Mara couldn’t blame him. Anneth had come into the Darkwood looking for them, after all.

“I’m sore,” Anneth said with a grimace. “Avantor tells me I’ll be able to start moving about in another day, though.”

“Not without some pain, I am sorry to say.” The healer glanced from her to Bran. “At least one of my patients is wise enough to listen to me, and remain abed as advised.”

Bran shook his head. “Our realm can’t afford that luxury. I will not be damaged for life if I neglect my healing—but Elfhame may well bear scars if I fail to act.”

“You’ve always put your people’s needs before your own,” Anneth said. “When will it be your turn, Bran?”

Mara couldn’t help but agree. The Hawthorne Prince took his duties too seriously. But perhaps growing up under the shadow of the prophecy as he had, it was understandable.

“When our realm is safe.” His tone was hard, and it was clear that no argument would sway him from his course. “I must go and meet with my second-in-command as soon as possible.”

“Hestil is almost as bad as you are,” Anneth said. “But what are you going to do about Mara’s training?”

Bran glanced at Mara, his expression softening, and her annoyance with him faded. He was doing his best under trying circumstances. They all were.

“I’ve not forgotten you,” he said. “My own tutor, Penluith, will meet with you in a half turn in my rooms.”

“Will you be there?” Mara shifted, not wanting to sound demanding, but she had to admit that she was a bit apprehensive.

And more than a little excited. Who would ever have thought that she possessed magic? Back in Little Hazel, such things were the stuff of stories and fables, not reality.

“I will come, when I may,” he said.

He took her hand, his claws sheathed, and dropped a quick kiss upon the back of it, then turned and strode from the room.

Avantor let out a sigh. “Our prince is ever single-minded.”

“It’s what allowed him to save Elfhame in the first place,” Mara said in Bran’s defense.

“He’s not entirely focused on the realm,” Anneth said. “He’s clearly in love with you, and those divided loyalties make him more terse than usual.”

Mara felt her brow quirk. “Maybe—but I don’t want to stand in the way of him doing what he needs to.”

“Don’t forget your needs,” Anneth said archly, and Mara felt her cheeks flush.

The words reminded her of the questions she meant to ask. Eventually. She flicked her gaze to Avantor, unwilling to broach the subject in his presence.

“I suppose I should go back to Bran’s rooms,” she said. “I don’t want to be late for my first lesson in magic.”

“Wait a bit.” Anneth reached out, then winced as the motion pulled at her injury. “Distract me while Avantor changes my bandages. You have plenty of time before Penluith comes.”

“What’s he like, the tutor?” Mara settled in the low chair facing Anneth’s couch. “Did you have him as a magic teacher, too?”

“Yes.” Anneth’s nostrils flared as Avantor began tending her injuries, but she staunchly continued speaking. “He’s been the nobility’s teacher for as long as anyone can remember. He even tutored my parents in the use of their wellsprings.”

Mara blinked. “He must be very old.”

How much longer did Dark Elves live than humans? Would she wither and age while Bran remained youthful? She shifted uncomfortably, not sure she wanted to know the answer.

“He has seen thousands of moons,” Avantor said, glancing up at her as if sensing her worry. “But his wellspring also sustains him. Magic extends our lives. As it will yours.”

Which reminded her…

“I heard something distressing in the dining hall,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Is it true that no more Dark Elf children are being born?”

Avantor stilled, and Anneth’s eyes turned sad.

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “No one knows why.”

“That’s terrible.” Mara swallowed. She did not know how to give condolences to a people destined to die out.

“You see why I’m annoyed with Bran, though.” His sister smiled crookedly. “If we are all fated to fall to dust, why not enjoy what we have in life right now? Chasing the Void creatures won’t save us.”

Avantor cleared his throat. “Some think otherwise. Once the Void is entirely defeated and Bran’s prophecy fulfilled, there are those who believe our fertility will return.”

“Do you think so?” Mara glanced at him.

“I am not certain. The prince’s prophecy did say he would save Elfhame. Surely that includes the people that dwell within the realm.”

“Or maybe Bran and Mara will repopulate Elfhame.” Anneth’s grin turned impish.

Mara felt herself blushing again. “Surely we couldn’t do that single-handedly.”

“I’m only teasing.”

“Um.” Mara bit her lip, then looked at Avantor and charged ahead. “Can Dark Elves and humans even produce children together? Are we… compatible in that way?”

The healer looked at her over Anneth’s shoulder, his expression thoughtful. “I believe that such pairings have resulted in offspring in the past. Dark Elves have been known to slip through the gateway, sometimes bringing mortals back with them, sometimes spending the span of a human life in your world before returning to Elfhame. There have been several instances of half-elf, half-human children.”

“It’s probably why you have magic,” Anneth added. “Some Dark Elf ancestor passed the gift on to you.”

“If I hadn’t come here, I never would have known,” Mara said. Although—that wasn’t entirely true.

She pressed her lips together, recalling that a part of her had always been different. She’d felt the pull of the Darkwood, had seen the flitting lights of glimglows before she’d even known what secrets the forest contained.

Dark Elf magic ran in her blood. Why else had she found the magical key that opened the gateway to Elfhame? Why else had Bran’s prophecy chosen her?

“Might it be possible to bring humans with Dark Elf blood into Elfhame, to help repopulate?”

She was grasping at straws now, she knew, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her newly adopted people ceasing to exist. They, and their magic, could not simply fade away.

Anneth’s expression turned melancholy. “Even if such a thing were possible, do you really think other humans would welcome the experience, knowing how the court has treated you? You are the woman of the prophecy, and it was difficult enough for you, in the beginning.”

It was difficult still. Despite herself, Mara heard the echo of Mireleth’s cruel words, recalled the hatred in Tinnueth’s eyes. But there was no point in complaining. Anneth would only worry, and there was very little she—or anyone—could do about it. Mara would endure the animosity and hope that, in time, she would be accepted at the Hawthorne Court.

She had more questions to ask—but as Avantor hummed a song of healing, Anneth’s eyes closed. Soon, she was fast asleep. Quietly, Avantor and Mara left the room, parting ways in the corridor.

“Good luck with Penluith,” the healer said.

“Thank you.” Mara bit her lip. It was probably too much to hope that learning magic would come easily.

8

As it turned out, working with her wellspring was, indeed, more difficult than Mara had hoped. After returning to Bran’s rooms—she supposed they were hers now, as well—she had distracted herself by turning on and off the lights until Penluith arrived.

He was a tall, elegant Dark Elf, his silver hair intricately braided, his eyes a deep indigo. The only signs of his age were the deep creases that formed about his eyes and mouth when he smiled. Which, thankfully, he did rather frequently. She was relieved that his personality was not as aloof as his appearance might indicate.

“Excellent,” Penluith said after Mara demonstrated her ability to control the lighting. “Has Bran given you any other instruction in the use of your wellspring?”

“Not particularly—beyond helping me sense its presence.” She set her hand to her chest, as if she could somehow feel the magic dwelling within her. “I tried summoning foxfire once, with no success.”

No need to tell Penluith about helping Bran open the gateway back to the mortal world. Or her own struggle to return to Elfhame and those bleak moments when she feared she’d lost Bran forever.

“Then we shall begin with the basic lessons,” the tutor said. “You have a strong natural ability—evidenced by your assistance during the battle against the Void—but a properly channeled wellspring will allow you to do much more.”

Mara nodded. “Can I learn to create something like a magical cloak or shield?”

Having the ability to protect herself physically would make her feel much better whenever she encountered Mireleth about the court. Not to mention the Hawthorne Lady. From the thinly disguised hatred in Tinnueth’s eyes, Mara wouldn’t put it past Bran’s mother to try slipping a dagger between her ribs while Bran was away.

The tutor pursed his mouth. “Do you feel unsafe here? I assure you, no one wishes you harm.”

Clearly he hadn’t been paying attention. Mara gave him a tight smile.

“Still, I wouldn’t mind the knowledge, being so far from my own home as I am.” She was careful not to ask about offensive spells. Implying she would attack members of the court, even in her own defense, was not something she wanted to share with the royal tutor.

Bran would show her something of battle magic if she asked. In fact, it might help ease his mind to know that his wife was equipped with some sort of ability to inflict damage. Just in case.

“Once your show satisfactory progress, I can teach you how to cast a ward about yourself,” Penluith said solemnly. “It is a dangerous magic, however, as it drains your wellspring in proportion to the protection it gives. You must take care with its use.”

“What happens if my wellspring is emptied?” Her mind flashed back to Bran, lying nearly lifeless in the embrace of the Darkwood. “Will it kill me?”

Penluith frowned. “Not kill you, no. The danger is that you will permanently lose your magic, or a large part of it. A wellspring, once drained, has difficulty regenerating. Not to mention that, if your power is depleted while you’re under an active attack—say, from a Void creature—you will not be able to survive for long.”

“I see.” Mara pressed her lips together, thinking.

Perhaps it was different for her, as her wellspring had been dormant most of her life. And if she was drained of it, well, living without magic would be nothing new. She suppressed a pang at the thought that then she would, indeed, be nothing more than a mere human in the land of the Dark Elves.

“For now,” the tutor said, “let us work on calling foxfire. Unlike kindling and extinguishing the lights, which are already summoned and tied to their chalices, creating foxfire uses a portion of your own magic.” He gestured to the low couch. “When you succeed, you may well feel a bit tired. Now, settle yourself into a comfortable position and focus on your wellspring.”

Mara stuck a pillow behind her, set her feet firmly on the floor, and closed her eyes, trying to sense her magic. After some concentration, she thought she detected a fizzy feeling in her chest. It was nothing like the fierce blue fire she’d felt before, first when she’d lent her power to Bran in battle, and later, when she’d forced the gateway between their worlds to open and let her back into Elfhame.

But perhaps a small fizziness, as opposed to a sheet of azure flame, was a good thing. There was no need to engulf half the palace in fire.

“Are you ready?” Penluith asked.

“I think so.” She hoped so, at any rate.

“Watch closely.” He leaned forward, one hand raised. “The word of summoning is calma.”

As he spoke, a flickering ball of foxfire sprang into being above his fingertips. Mara studied it, trying to memorize the sound of the word in her mouth.

“Try it,” Penluith said encouragingly.

She lifted her hand, mirroring his gesture, then squeezed her eyes shut, holding the image of foxfire steady in her thoughts.

“Calma,” she said, and opened her eyes.

The air flickered slightly, but no hovering ball of light appeared over her hand. Spirits sinking, she glanced at Penluith, who regarded her steadily, no hint of disappointment in his lean face.

“Did I pronounce it wrong?” she asked. There was a subtle lilt to the word that perhaps she hadn’t spoken correctly.

“Try saying it a few times, without attempting to summon foxfire.” The tutor’s tone was thoughtful. “I should have realized—you are not used to the cadence of our language. Calma.”

Mara repeated the word after him several times, until he gave her a satisfied nod. Then she attempted to reach for her wellspring, and spoke the summoning again.

“Calma.”

This time, there was not even a hint of shimmer in the air.

“Again,” Penluith said patiently.

“Calma.” She tried inflecting the word up.

Nothing.

After a dozen tries, Penluith held up his hand to stop her. “Let us try something else.”

She nodded, swallowing back the bitter taste of failure. How could a word that sounded like “calm” be such a source of frustration?

“What other spells do Dark Elf children learn?” she asked, then winced as a desolate look crossed Penluith’s face.

Of course—there were no children now. The tutor must feel that loss deeply.

“I mean,” she hurriedly added, “perhaps I need to start with something simpler.”

He nodded, grief still shadowing his eyes. “Yes—perhaps foxfire is too ambitious. Let me think…”

After several heavy, silent moments, he raised his head, held out his hand, and spoke a word she did not quite catch. A slender white flower appeared in his palm, the leaves furled closed.

“I will teach you the rune of opening,” he said. “Edro. Try it.”

She blinked, trying not to reveal that she already knew this word, and had used it to pry open the gateway between the mortal world and Elfhame. At the very least, she knew her pronunciation was correct.

“Edro,” she said obediently.

“Very good. Now, concentrate on the flower, on coaxing the petals open. Breathe deeply, connect with your wellspring, and speak the rune.”

Mara tried to do as he said, but the tickle of sensation she thought she’d felt in her chest seemed to have gone entirely. Still, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, searching vainly for the fizz of her wellspring.

“Edro,” she said, then tightened her hands and tried again. “Edro.”

The flower lay motionless on Penluith’s palm.

She attempted the rune of opening several more times, with no result. Finally, the tutor shook his head and banished the still-furled flower. He did not sigh, at least not audibly, but Mara thought she detected disappointment in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” She grimaced. “I didn’t think I’d struggle this much. Maybe it’s because I’m a human.”

“Perhaps so. Learning to use one’s wellspring does not always come easy,” the tutor said. “Sometimes it takes longer than one hopes.”

It was kind of him to say, but they both knew she’d had no trouble accessing her power to help combat the Void. Why was it now so difficult? Was Bran’s presence somehow the key to her abilities?

She certainly hoped not—she was dependent enough on him as it was.

“We will meet again on the morrow,” Penluith said. “In the meantime, practice sensing your wellspring.”

“I will.”

She also intended to spend as much time as possible trying to summon foxfire and open flowers. Surely it was not that difficult. She could master the use of her wellspring.

Indeed, if she meant to secure her place among the Dark Elves, she must.

9

Bran bent over the map of Elfhame spread out across Hestil’s table. He had the same maps in his rooms, of course, but it was better to do the planning at his second-in-command’s and leave Mara undisturbed for her session with Penluith.

She would make a brilliant student, he was certain. Aside from his own power, he’d never felt such a strong wellspring, and he looked forward to hearing how her tutoring session had gone.

But for now, he must turn his attention to the realm. With one sheathed fingertip, he traced the road to the Nightshade Court.

“Our first stop,” he said. “I have no doubt the Nightshade Lady will spare what warriors she can.”

“It won’t be many,” Hestil warned.

Bran nodded grimly. Nightshade had sustained heavy losses during the last days of the Void attacks leading up to the final battle. “We must ask all the courts for assistance.”

He frowned at the map. Moonflower and Rowan, as well as the inner courts, had not faced the Void directly—but it was imperative that the warriors of Elfhame scour the land and make sure their ancient enemy was eradicated.

“Our fighters will be ready to leave first thing tomorrow,” Hestil said.

“Good.” Bran lifted his hand, letting the map roll up.

The sooner they were gone, the sooner he could return to Mara and face his next challenge: becoming a worthy husband. In truth, fighting Voidspawn was a more appealing task. At least he knew how to vanquish such foes. But how could he even be sure of his mortal bride’s love? She had wed him under duress and was a stranger to his land and his people.

She returned to save you, he reminded himself.

But what if her love was misguided? He could not help the premonition that she would be desperately unhappy in Elfhame. His emotions twisted at the thought. Mara was the only brightness in his life. But could he give her what she needed?

Perhaps he should spurn her, for her own good. Even though it would mean ripping his own heart from his chest and trampling upon it.

No. He shook his head. Such games were below him. When he returned from chasing down the last of the enemy, he would deal with his marriage as best he could.

“I wish you would remain here,” he said, glancing at Hestil. “I trust no one better to look after my wife.”

Hestil snorted. “You could no more leave me behind than you could leave your sword. Sicil will make a fine interim commander. And you know as well as I that your mortal wife is made of strong stuff. She will weather the Hawthorne Court until we return.”

He hoped so. “I’ll have Sicil give her some instruction in knife work.”

“Wise.” Hestil sent him a narrow-eyed look. “With all due respect, Commander—you should go rest. You look as wilted as a second-bloom moonflower.”

Bran gave a reluctant nod. They had finished planning, and although he’d done his best to hide his weariness, his second was not so easily fooled.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he said. “I’m certain my father will want to make some kind of inspiring speech before we set out.”

The Hawthorne Lord was ever fond of such gestures, though Bran preferred action to talk.

“No doubt,” Hestil said dryly. She was not overfond of court protocol, herself.

Bran took his leave and strode down the corridors. Pale moonlight flowed in through the high, arched windows to pool on the polished flagstones, providing enough illumination that he didn’t bother summoning a light.

Unfortunately, the shadows were deep enough to hide the figure waiting for him until she stepped directly into his path.

“Bran,” Mireleth said, her voice honey-smooth. “I was so hoping for a private word.”

“I know what you hope for—and you must seek it elsewhere. Excuse me, my wife is waiting.” He stepped around Mireleth.

She nimbly moved in front of him, forcing him to draw up short. Despite his urge to trample over her, he was the Hawthorne Prince. A certain etiquette must be maintained—though he let a scowl settle on his face.

“I understand you’re leaving tomorrow.” She shook her robe back, revealing the betrothal bracelet clamped around her wrist. “I was hoping to say farewell to the man I am pledged to.”

He folded his arms. “Take that blasted thing off. I’m already wed.”

It was a ridiculous show on her part. He had publicly broken the betrothal bond between them. The metal clamped about Mireleth’s wrist was a desperate attempt to assert a connection that had been severed moons ago.

“Yes…” Her delicately arched brows rose. “But have you consummated that union?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

She gave a contrived shudder. “I cannot say that I blame you. The thought of lying with a mortal is quite distasteful.”

“Step aside.” He all but growled the words, trying to push down the hot anger threatening to fog his vision.

Ignoring the threat in his voice, she swayed closer and placed an elegant hand on his arm. “Whatever happens, I am here for you.”

With a snarl, he brushed her away her. “Our foolish betrothal is over, Mireleth.” He cursed the absent stars that he’d ever agreed to such a thing. “Begone. I am not changing my mind.”

“Of course, my lord.” She stepped away, a smug tilt to her lips. “You are a man of honor, after all. But the mortal cannot give you what you need. Remember that.”

And with that, she was gone, slipping back into the shadows like a dark whisper.

Bran rubbed the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted to do was storm into his rooms prickling with anger at Mireleth. She was best put out of his mind—and his marriage—entirely.

10

“Calma,” Mara said, for what felt like the thousandth time.

Her throat was hoarse, and frustration gnawed at her, yet she persevered. Just one last time.

Or one more.

And one after that.

She’d vowed not to sleep until she conjured up a dratted ball of foxfire, no matter how tiny or misshapen.

Gritting her teeth, she held the image of flickering blue light in her mind. Her wellspring waited; she knew it did. Why wouldn’t it respond? Irritation itched like sand under her skin.

“Calma!” She infused the word with an afternoon’s worth of desperation.

Whoosh. A wind rushed through the room, pulling Mara’s hair over her face. Then, with a force that knocked her back against the couch cushions, an immense ball of foxfire appeared in the center of the room.

Mara threw her arm up to shield her eyes from the brightness. Well! Triumph sang through her, and she grinned, though no one could see her. It seemed she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.

“By the moons!” Bran’s voice sounded from the door. “What are you doing, Mara?”

She jumped to her feet and went to where he stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowed against the blue inferno. The brightness made his skin look ashen, his hair black as polished onyx.

“I… summoned foxfire.”

“So you did.” He closed the door. “But why so much?”

“I wish I knew. I’ve been trying all day to conjure it up—and was only just now successful.”

He glanced at the sphere of blue fire taking up his sitting room, then winced away from the light. “While I’m impressed with your display of power, perhaps you should dampen the foxfire—or dispel it altogether.”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know how.”

“What?” His brow creased. “I thought Penluith would teach you better than that.”

“Don’t blame him. When he left, I hadn’t succeeded in summoning anything, so there was no need to teach me how to un-summon it.”

“That was careless.” Bran shook his head. “Say uscalma, and imagine the light extinguishing.”

Mara took a breath, then did as Bran instructed. Immediately, the foxfire went out. The room plunged into shadows, and Mara had to blink several times to adjust her vision. A sudden, sharp longing for sunshine made her nearly gasp, and she swallowed the sound. That bright, mortal fire was not for her. Not anymore.

“That’s better,” Bran said. “I’ll have a word with Penluith. He’s too accustomed to pupils who obey and don’t think to practice on their own.”

“Speaking of which…” Mara cleared her throat. “I understand that Dark Elves can no longer bear children.”

He froze, then shot her a cautious look. “This is true.”

“You didn’t think to mention it before?” Exhaustion lent a sharp edge to her voice. “When we defeated the Void and closed the rift, I thought we’d saved your people! Imagine how it felt to learn that I was gravely mistaken and there is more to contend with. You should have told me.”

He watched her warily. “It does not matter.”

“Of course it matters.” She clenched her hands and tried not to sound peevish. “How can I be the woman of the prophecy if we didn’t actually save your people?”

Bran looked away from her, his expression suddenly weary. “My prophecy was to save Elfhame. Together, we accomplished that task.”

She wanted to pound her hands on his chest. “What good does that do, if the Dark Elves are destined to die out as a people?”

“Mara.” He reached and took her hands, gently unfolding her fists. “Who knows what else the future holds? It is enough that you are here, that we defeated the Void.”

“Maybe for you.” She tried to breathe past the tightness in her chest. “But apparently the rest of the Hawthorne Court feels differently.”

His face tightened. “Pay the gossips no mind.”

“How am I supposed to do that, when my own husband pays me no mind?”

Immediately, she wanted to bite her tongue, but the words were said. A small, sorry part of herself was glad of it, of the flash of momentary pain in his indigo eyes.

“There are others…” He hesitated, rubbing his cool fingers softly over her palms. “Others who believe the prophecy is only half fulfilled. That once the remaining Void creatures are dispatched, our fertility will return.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

“I hope it is.” He stared down into her eyes. “I cannot believe that all of this has been in vain, Mara. Please, do not lose faith in me. In us.”

Her heart squeezed, and she clasped his hands tightly. “I’m sorry for what I said. It’s just… it’s difficult for me here.”

“I know.” His voice was solemn. “And I, in turn, am sorry for that. You have an ally in Anneth, do not forget. And Avantor. I depart on the morrow, and when I return, everything will settle out as it should.”

Her breath snagged. “And when will you return, Brannonilon Luthinor? How long will it take to vanquish the remnants of the Void?” How long must I molder away in the Hawthorne Court, waiting for you to come back? At least this time, she left the hurtful words unsaid.

Regret twisted his mouth. “I will not give you comfortable lies. It may well be several doublemoons.”

She made a quick calculation, her dismay rising. “Months? What am I to do in the meantime?”

“Spend time with Anneth. Study magic with Penluith—and knife work with Sicil.”

“I’ll miss you.” She felt hollow inside, the beginnings of panic shortening her breath. “I didn’t come back from my world just to watch you ride off with your soldiers. I should come with you.”

He cupped her cheek, his claws carefully sheathed. “Your magic is too untried—and you are too important.”

“My magic was tried enough to help win the war!”

“Mara. We will be riding for long hours, hunting down the creatures. Even my best warriors will be hard-pressed to maintain the pace. And cornered Voidspawn are vicious. I will not risk you.”

“Yet you risk yourself by not letting me come along. We are better together—we’ve proven that.” Hot tears sprang to her eyes, and she turned away. She almost wished she’d never returned to Elfhame. Almost.

He set his hands on her shoulders, but did not force her to turn back toward him.

“I am a poor husband,” he said, his voice low. “I know it—but I promise, when I come back, we will forge some happiness between us. I love you, my mortal wife.”

She sighed, then pivoted. “And I love you, Bran.”

For the first time, her traitorous heart wondered if that would be enough.

11

It was all Mara could do to sit through another feast in the Hawthorne Court’s dining hall. At least this time, Bran made a clear effort to include her in conversation with his parents—though Tinnueth markedly ignored every word she spoke, and Calithilon seemed only to humor her.

A different courtier was seated on Mara’s right—a noblewoman who gave Mara a single, disdainful look, then pointedly turned away and only spoke to her companion for the rest of the meal.

Mireleth presided further down the table, a mocking smile upon her lips whenever she glanced toward Mara—which was too often for comfort.

“Bran,” Mara said, when she’d finally had enough. “Will you give me a sip of your wine?”

He looked at her full cup, but said nothing, only raised his own goblet to her lips. When she finished drinking, he rotated the cup and placed his mouth where hers had just been. Warmth flashed through her, and she met his gaze.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Always,” he said. “Do not think I’m unaware of the difficulties you will face here.” His eyes brightened with pride. “I know you are strong enough to prevail.”

Her heart eased, and after that, Mara paid Mireleth no mind.

At the conclusion of the meal, the Hawthorne Lord stood. Quiet rippled into the room. Clearly everyone expected a speech from Bran’s father.

“Tomorrow, our prince rides out,” Calithilon said. “Our hopes and good wishes go with him as he seeks to finally put an end to our ancient enemy, and bring his prophecy to its ultimate fulfillment.”

The listeners stirred, and Mara read dissatisfaction in the faces of several of the courtiers. Despite what Bran had said about his supporters, it was clear that many in the Hawthorne Court thought that he’d failed—that this final attempt at chasing down the Void was a useless gesture.

“I know that Brannonilon will succeed in this, as he has succeeded before,” Calithilon continued. “And I know, too, that the brave warriors of Elfhame’s courts will not rest until they have eradicated this threat.”

However long that might take. Mara kept a smile on her lips, and pushed the thought into the background.

The Hawthorne Lord rested one hand on his son’s shoulder and raised his ornate goblet in the other. “Join me in a toast. To victory. To Elfhame. To Prince Brannonilon Luthinor!”

“To Prince Brannonilon!” the court echoed.

The raised goblets winked with reflected light, and for a moment, Mara was reminded of the surface of a lake, chased with sunlit ripples. She thrust her cup in the air, then drank the sweet elderberry wine. To Bran. Her impossible, beloved husband.

“I will come back to you, as soon as I may,” he murmured, slipping one arm about her waist.

“I know.” She gave him a smile. “I’ll be here. Waiting for you.”

* * *

That night, Bran paced restlessly in the sitting area. Mara, her feet tucked up under her on the couch, watched him.

“Are you always so on edge before a campaign?” she asked.

She didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. Annoyed, she decided. He needed his rest, after all.

“It helps me think.” He tugged at the thin braids framing his stark cheekbones.

“I think… you’d do best with some sleep.”

He gave a sharp shake of his head. “I’d only twist and turn, my mind filled with details. It’s better this way. Eventually, I’ll tire.”

As if his words conjured up her own weariness, Mara tried to hide a yawn behind her hand.

Bran halted. “You don’t have to stay awake and keep me company.”

“I want to. It’s my last chance to see you for… well, however long.”

He came to sit beside her. “Tell Penluith to teach you how to scry. Do you know what that is?”

“I’ve seen you do it, I think. In a bowl of water, yes?”

A slight smile softened his mouth. “Yes. The first time I ever saw you was in my scrying bowl. You were running through the Darkwood.”

“I was?” She tried to think back to the time before she’d met Bran. It seemed very long ago. “In my world, or yours?”

“It was not Elfhame—though there were glimglows.”

“It must have been my birthday eve. I don’t think I ever told you. Glimglows beckoned me out into the forest.” To a magical destiny she would never have believed. Even now, it almost seemed a dream—except she was living it.

“I am glad.” He enfolded her hands, his smile widening as she yawned again. “You should sleep now.”

“I’ll just curl up here,” she said, pulling a pillow over to tuck under her head.

“If you wish.” He brushed a kiss across her forehead, then stood. “But if my pacing disturbs you, I will not blame you for seeking the bed.”

“You won’t disturb me.” In truth, she loved watching him move. Even in his weariness, every step was filled with elegant, powerful grace.

He nodded, then resumed his movements, concentration drawing his features taut.

Mara must have slept, for she was dimly aware of Bran gathering her up in his arms and carrying her into the dim bedroom. He set her down and drew a blanket over her.

“Sleep well, beloved,” he said quietly.

She meant to wake more fully, to tell him not to worry, that she would not expire of frustration, or boredom, while waiting for him to return. But the blanket was soft, the room warm, and she slipped back into slumber.

When she next awoke, it was to find that she was still alone in the bed. Her questing hand found a warm hollow beside her, though, suggesting that Bran had risen only recently. She hoped he’d gotten enough sleep.

“Bran?” she called groggily.

“I am here.” His voice came from the other room.

“Is it time?”

“Nearly,” he replied. “We meet at the gates in a half turn.”

“I’ll get dressed, then.” She certainly wasn’t going to let her husband ride off without bidding him a proper—and public—farewell.

“Calya,” she said, rising on her elbows, and the foxfire obediently sprang to life within its silver bowl.

She hadn’t realized how convenient that tethered magic was. Were there smaller lamps that could be used portably? Or was every Dark Elf capable of calling foxfire if they wished?

She glanced at the sand-filled glass on the low table beside the bed, wishing for the normalness of a human clock. The hourglasses the Dark Elves used were confusing—and, of course, they didn’t count hours at all, only turns. One more thing reminding her how far she was from home.

She rose and surveyed the few outfits Anneth had lent her. It had been kind of Bran’s sister, but it was increasingly imperative that Mara procure some clothing of her own. Silken wrap-dresses were well enough for formal court dinners, but seemed impractical beyond that. She wanted some sturdy homespun—though she was unsure if the Dark Elves even created such humble material.

After wrapping herself in a swath of gold-embroidered green, Mara went to join Bran in the sitting room. He set down the satchel he’d been packing with scrolls and strode over to envelop her in an embrace.

She leaned against him, breathing deeply of his spicy scent.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, trying not to sound too forlorn.

“My body might go, but my heart remains here.”

It was one of the most romantic things he’d said to her, and she wanted to cling to him and beg him not to go. She had come back to Elfhame for him, and it was almost too much to bear that he was riding away.

But she would bear it—for his sake, as well as hers. And for the future of Elfhame.

A soft chime sounded, and his arms tightened about her for a moment before he let go.

“Stay safe, wife of mine.” His voice was rough with emotion.

“I am not the one fighting gyrewolves and spiderkin,” she replied. “You’d best return to me, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you.”

“I swear it.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “This is not goodbye, Mara.”

The chime sounded again. Bran stepped back and scooped up his satchel.

“Is that all you’re taking?” she asked.

“The servants already carried my bags out. Fuin and the other horses are saddled and waiting.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Lifting her chin, Mara laced her arm through his and let him lead her through the door. They went quietly down the silver-lit hall, but as they passed Anneth’s rooms, her door opened and she stepped out.

“I was waiting for you,” she said. “You’re almost late.”

“Are you certain you should be up?” Bran gave her a stern look.

She gave him a tilted smile. “I can’t let my brother ride off without wishing him safe journeys. Besides, I thought Mara might like a bit of company once you go.”

Mara sent her a grateful glance. “I would—thank you.”

It would be far easier to bear the scathing looks of the court with Anneth at her side.

Bran firmed his mouth, but did not try to argue with his sister. Still, he slowed his pace slightly, and Anneth didn’t urge them to hurry. The unspoken compromise carried them to the front doors of the palace.

In the courtyard before the gates, a dozen warriors were making their farewells to families and loved ones. Their mounts stamped restively, ready to be off. Calithilon stood there, his silver circlet resting regally on his brown. There was no sign of Tinnueth.

Mara was relieved not to have to bear the Hawthorne Lady’s silent scorn, though she felt a pang for Bran, that his own mother didn’t bother coming to see him off.

But his father was there, and Anneth, and a few others. The small crowd cheered as their prince descended the wide steps.

Bran nodded to his warriors, then turned to Hestil. “Is everyone ready?”

“Yes,” his second-in-command said.

The groom brought Fuin, and Bran set his hand on his steed’s shoulder, making ready to mount.

“Good luck,” Anneth said, going on tiptoes to kiss her brother’s cheek.

He nodded, his face stern, but his gaze softened as he looked at Mara.

“Bran,” she said, then went into his arms.

She raised her face to his, and their lips met in a kiss she felt all the way down to her toes. A faint whisper ran through the onlookers, but she didn’t care. This was her husband, her chosen one—no matter that the prophecy had forced them together.

“Beloved,” he whispered against her lips.

Then he stepped away and swung up on Fuin. Mara’s heart was hot with fierce love for him, heavy with sorrow.

“Fight well, my son.” The Hawthorne Lord raised his hand. “We shall scry for you.”

Bran gave him a short nod, then signaled to his riders. Almost as one, they wheeled their horses and rode out through the tall, pale gates of the Hawthorne Palace. As befitting warriors, none of them looked back.

12

The arched gates of the Hawthorne Palace shone under the wan light of the palemoon, and the rising radiance of the brightmoon. The small crowd gathered there watched the warriors ride into the silver-misted air until they disappeared in the haze of distance.

Mara was the last to turn away, Anneth’s hand on her shoulder.

“He’ll be back soon,” Bran’s sister said in an encouraging tone.

“Or not.” Mara faced the elegant palace. Knowing that Bran was no longer within made it seem a hollow, cheerless place.

“We have much to do while he’s gone.” Anneth smiled at her. “Starting with your wardrobe.”

Mara glanced down at her silken dress. “That would be good. I wanted to thank you again for giving me a few things to wear.”

Anneth waved a hand. “That’s just a start. Come back with me to my rooms. I’ll rest, and you can look through my wardrobe.”

“I can’t steal all your dresses!”

“I won’t let you, don’t worry. Whatever takes your fancy, we can ask the seamstresses to make something similar.”

Mara nodded, then lent Anneth her arm for balance as they mounted the stairs. Bran’s sister paused at the top, her breathing fast.

Mara gave her a sharp look. “How is your healing progressing?”

“Very well. Truly, it is—you don’t need to frown at me as if you were Bran. By the morrow, Avantor says I can be up and around.”

“But not today,” Mara said pointedly. “You’re my last ally here—I need you in good health.”

Anneth tsked. “I would not have missed Bran’s leave-taking. And as far as allies, plenty of people in the Hawthorne Palace support you.”

“Who?” Mara glanced around the deserted courtyard. “Almost none of the courtiers, I’d wager.”

She held the door for Anneth, then offered her arm again. Slowly, they made their way toward her sister-in-law’s rooms.

“Perhaps not a great number of the nobles,” Anneth conceded. “But some think well of you—Avantor, for one. And many of the craftspeople do, too. Of course, the soldiers are firmly with you.”

“With Bran, you mean.”

“And with you,” Anneth said. “Everyone who was on the battlefield knows that without your help, Elfhame would have been lost.”

“I’ve been informed by certain members of the court that our victory doesn’t matter.”

Anneth made an annoyed sound. “They are idiots. Or Mireleth’s flunkies, who foolishly pinned their hopes on seeing her become the next Hawthorne Lady.”

“She doesn’t seem to have given up,” Mara said as they stepped into Anneth’s rooms. She was happy to have the solid door between their conversation and any listening ears.

“Mireleth is blind to anything but her own ambitions. Even the obvious fact that Bran loves you.” Anneth sank down onto her couch with a sigh. “She’s irritating, but harmless.”

Even if that were so, it seemed to Mara that Tinnueth remained her most dangerous adversary. But how did she mention such things to the woman’s daughter? Especially when Anneth was doing her best to help Mara navigate the intricacies of the court?

She didn’t. Perhaps a better time would come, or perhaps her fears would amount to nothing. In the meantime, she had a wardrobe to select.

Anneth directed her to the tall, carved wardrobe in the corner, and bade her remove armloads of dresses. As Mara began sorting through them, her belly let out an inelegant rumble.

Anneth glanced at her. “I’d wager Bran didn’t bother to feed you! Let me send for a tray.”

The privileges of being a princess. Mara didn’t argue—and she supposed she could do the same. Except for the fact that she needed magic to contact the kitchens. Which reminded her…

“Is it difficult to scry?”

“That depends.” Anneth tilted her head. “How far apart the scrying parties are is a major factor, as is the strength of their bond.”

“Bran told me he saw me in the mortal world.”

Anneth’s eyes widened. “Between the worlds! That’s impressive. Of course, he’s the strongest warrior mage we’ve had in eons. And the two of you are deeply connected via the prophecy.”

The dratted prophecy. Mara was growing weary of bumping up against it at every turn.

“So, reaching the kitchens is simple,” Mara reasoned. “But once Bran is several days away, it will be harder to contact him.”

“Not for you, I don’t think.”

Mara wondered if the dreams she’d had of Bran dying, the ones that had drawn her back into Elfhame, had been a kind of scrying. She could ask Penluith—or no, she couldn’t. The secret of her departure, and return, must remain between herself, Bran, and Anneth. If the knowledge became widespread, it would erode all sympathy among her handful of supporters, who were fiercely loyal to Bran. The mortal bride tried to abandon her prince? Unthinkable.

The fact that she’d returned would not matter to the rigid honor of the Dark Elves. One did not selfishly turn away from prophecy. Or the Hawthorne Prince.

The food arrived from the kitchens, providing a welcome distraction. Anneth joined her in nibbling a few honeycakes and a slice of moonmelon, but shook her head when Mara encouraged her to eat more.

“I had a large breakfast, I promise.” Anneth covered her mouth, attempting to hide her yawn.

“And now you need a large nap.”

“Yes.” Bran’s sister sounded suddenly weary. “Take the rest of the cakes with you, though. I can summon more when I’m hungry again.”

Mara finished up her slice of melon, then wrapped a napkin about the remaining honeycakes. This way she could skip lunch—and uncomfortable interactions with the court. At least, until dinner.

“I’ll check on you later,” she said. “If you’d like.”

“I would. And I’ll make arrangements for the seamstress to send you a selection of clothing, based on the items you’ve picked out here. Meanwhile, take the purple dress—yes, that one. It looks well on you.”

Mara scooped up the soft, billowing length of fabric. She wasn’t sure she could arrange it around herself nearly as artfully as Anneth had, the first time Mara had worn it. But she’d manage.

“Rest well,” she said, and left Bran’s sister to her much-needed sleep.

Once again, Mara was thankful that Bran’s rooms were nearby, and that the royal siblings were housed in a less-traveled hallway of the palace. She gained the safety of his rooms without meeting anyone, and added the purple gown to her small collection of clothing.

The rest of the day stretched before her. But Penluith would come after lunch, and she supposed that at some point Sicil would speak to her about the knife lessons Bran had insisted upon.

Still, loneliness ached beneath her ribs. She wished for her sisters, no matter how annoying they could be. And her books. Did the Hawthorne Palace have a library? She supposed she might explore—but she’d rather do that with a companion who knew the lay of the court. Once Anneth fully recovered, she’d prove a lively guide, Mara had no doubt.

The door to the gardens was nearby, if she recalled—but again, she hardly wanted to go wandering about the palace, opening random doors. That was a sure way to get herself into trouble, especially as she barely grasped the rudiments of court etiquette.

The unfamiliarity of everything hit her all at once, and she sank down on the low couch with an intake of breath that was close to a sob.

Stop it, she told herself, clenching her hands together. I am strong enough for this.

If only Elfhame was not so dim. Everything would be easier if the sun shone in this magical land.

Shutting her eyes, Mara conjured up memories of how it felt to stand in that warm light. She imagined the way brightness threaded through the green-leafed trees outside her family’s cottage, the hot, dusty scent of the road in late afternoon, the sun-warmed stones of the low wall where she and her sisters would sit, braiding flower crowns.

After a while, the tightness in her chest eased. Yes, she no longer dwelt in the human world—but it still lived inside her, for as long as she could recall it.

13

As Bran rode away from the Hawthorne Palace, he could feel Mara’s gaze on his back. I am sorry, he thought, though he knew she could not sense it.

She was brave, his little mortal, and he knew she would face the future unflinchingly. He wished he could be beside her, but his duty called.

“Stay alert,” he said to his warriors. “I will cast a net of sensing over the area. We must let no Void creatures escape our patrol.”

The elves under his command nodded, and beside him, Hestil loosened her curved swords in their scabbards, as it was her preference to fight double-bladed.

Closing his eyes briefly, Bran spun his magic out, the tendrils of sensing similar to those guarding the borders of Elfhame, though not on such a grand scale. They formed an invisible net, moving out in a slow ripple over the countryside.

He turned to his second. “After we finish dealing with the Voidspawn, we must inspect the boundary wards and reinforce any thin places.”

Hestil gave him a cool look. “Might I remind you that you promised to return to your wife as soon as possible?”

He winced slightly. “I am not succeeding very well at being her husband.”

“Perhaps you do not need to carry the entirety of Elfhame’s safety on your shoulders any longer,” she said. “I am not one to give advice about love, but it seems to me that Lady Mara is equally deserving of your loyalty. Others can mend the wards, but you are the only one who can be husband to your wife.”

But could he, truly, give Mara what she needed? For so long he’d been solely focused on his role in the prophecy—which meant focused on Elfhame’s safety. He wasn’t sure who he was without that driving force. Certainly not the kind of mate his brave, beautiful wife deserved.

“I lied to her,” he said.

“Did you?” Hestil’s tone was mild.

“I did not tell her that Dark Elves are now infertile. That many in the court think we are a doomed race.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I cannot,” he said fiercely. His legs tightened over Fuin’s sides, and his horse danced forward a few startled steps. “I cannot believe that everything we have fought for is in vain.”

Hestil glanced over at him, her expression calm. “And so you are here, scouring the land for answers.”

“And for Voidspawn, don’t forget. We still have a score to settle.”

“I am with you, Commander.” She shot him a tight smile. “Garon’s death will be avenged with every gyrewolf I impale, every spiderkin who dies on my blade.”

Bran bowed his head as a quick blast of grief for the old soldier blew through him. “We lost many good people on the field.”

“And many more remain.” She nodded at the warriors scattered before and behind them.

Bran was about to respond when he felt a quiver go through the sensing he’d cast. He held up his hand and brought Fuin to a halt. His warriors stopped a heartbeat later, and Hestil slid her blades free.

“That way,” Bran said quietly, tipping his head toward a thicket of wireweed.

The fighters fanned out, weapons and spells at the ready. Their battle-trained mounts stepped softly through the underbrush.

They rounded the thicket, but no enemy awaited. Bran frowned as he focused on his magic.

“They are fleeing. Two… no, three Voidspawn. This way.”

He nudged Fuin into a trot, then a loping canter. No use in trying for stealth when their quarry knew they’d been found. Up a silver-grassed hill, then down. Not much further now…

As he crested the next rise, he saw them: two red-eyed gyrewolves and a skittering spiderkin, heading toward the distant trees of the Erynvorn. Without urging, his mount broke into a gallop. The thud of his riders’ hoofbeats sounded to either side.

As soon as the distance had closed enough, Bran conjured up a bolt of flame and flung it toward the rearmost gyrewolf. Sizzling blue fire scored its side. Snarling, it spun to face them, as did the spiderkin. The second wolf continued running.

“I’ll take him,” Hestil said, steering her mount on a course to intercept.

“Go with her,” Bran directed two of the other warriors, keeping his eyes fixed on the enemy.

He raised his hand, readying another bolt, but held his fire as two of his younger fighters swooped in. Their swords flashed as they bent from their horses to strike the Void creatures. One hit the spiderkin, and green ichor spurted from the wound. The rider bit out a curse as the caustic liquid sizzled against his arm.

Then his warriors were clear, and Bran flung more azure flames at the spiderkin. The wolves were fast and dangerous, but spiderkin blood could maim even more quickly.

“Look out!” another of his fighters cried, a touch of panic in her voice.

Bran wheeled Fuin, his heart hardening into stone as he saw four more Void creatures bearing down upon them. Two lumberers—who could freeze the soul with a single touch—and two more of the blighted spiderkin, many-legged and poison-fanged.

It had been a trap—and he’d foolishly led his warriors into the heart of it. Instead of four fighters to an enemy creature, the odds had now tilted perilously against them. Somehow, the Voidspawn had been able to shield themselves from his magic. Very worrisome—but he had no time now to dwell upon it.

Drawing his blade, Bran urged Fuin forward. A lucky swipe damaged one of the lumberers, and his horse nimbly stepped away from the creature’s counterattack.

All around him, blades slashed and blue fire sizzled. Bran’s focus narrowed to the essentials—flame and fight, stab and swerve. The woman who had first sighted the ambush fought at his side, and together they brought down the lumberer.

Privately, Bran had to admit he was not at his best; his spells lacked their usual searing focus and his blade work was slow. Avantor would have scolded him mightily—another reason he was glad he’d left the healer behind. And while it might have been foolish for Bran to depart the Hawthorne Court before he was fully recovered, it was clear that the countryside was in danger. He could not have delayed another turn.

It was brutal, difficult fighting, but one by one, the Void creatures were vanquished. Hestil delivered a killing blow to the gyrewolf she’d chased at the same time as two of Bran’s warriors cut down the last spiderkin.

In the aftermath, the silence was as loud as a ringing bell. Bran drew in a ragged breath and surveyed his troop. One warrior cradled her arm to her chest, and several of the fighters sported acid burns, but he was relieved to see that no one was gravely injured. Avantor’s most gifted journeyman healer moved from person to person, humming softly as she performed quick spells of soothing and repair on burns, gashes, and bites.

“Well done,” Bran said, pitching his voice to carry. “The creatures are growing clever, but you are all skilled enough to prevail against them. I am proud and pleased to number you among my very best.”

He did not mention that, had they been one fewer, or the Voidspawn numbered any more, they might well have all fallen, their blood staining the silvergrass and seeping into the soil.

“Take a few moments more,” he continued. “And then we make for Nightshade.”

Where, he hoped, there would be enough time for his fighters to recuperate—and for him to regain the powers that were returning far too slowly.

“I could not help but notice that you have lost your edge,” Hestil said softly as they regained the main road. “What happened?”

“Later,” he said.

He had not wanted to admit to anyone but Mara how close he’d come to death—but his weakness on the field was a liability his second-in-command must be informed of. He blew out an annoyed breath. In truth, he should have told her earlier, but he had been hoping that his powers would return more quickly than they had. The Voidspawn had put him to the test, unfortunately, and there was no denying the weakness that still lay over him.

Still, telling Hestil was one thing, and letting his warriors overhear it, quite another. As Commander of the all Dark Elves’ forces, it was imperative he project nothing but strength. Aware of Hestil’s speculative gaze still resting on him, he forced himself to sit up straight and ignore the echoing ache of his wellspring.

14

Several turns later, Bran and his troop reached the Nightshade Court. They were welcomed warmly, and the injured warriors immediately sent for healing. As Bran followed the Nightshade Lady through the mostly empty corridors of her palace, he could not help a shiver of premonition. If he could not find a way to make his people fruitful again, every court was doomed to waste away, the halls desolate, the rooms deserted.

No. He must not succumb to such despair. His prophecy was to save Elfhame, and he must believe that included the people that dwelt in the realm, as well as the land itself.

“It is quiet,” the Nightshade Lady said, as if sensing his thoughts. “We lost many during the Void invasion.”

“Your court has given much for the realm.” Bran glanced down at her thin face. “I am sorry to ask for some of your warriors.”

She waved away his words. “Hawthorne provided sanctuary when we most needed it. Whatever we have here is yours.”

“I will only take a few fighters. You must have a force left to defend yourself from the remaining Voidspawn, should they attack.”

He did not suggest that she evacuate the palace. That would be to surrender to fear. Besides, surely he and his warriors would be able to eradicate the last of the Void. Even if the enemy had grown surprisingly cunning.

“We will strengthen the wards about the palace,” she said.

Bran gave her a short nod. “Scry to me, should you fall under attack again.”

He hoped that would not be the case. Nightshade had borne too much.

They entered the dining hall, and he was relieved to see that, with the addition of his warriors, a respectable number of the tables were filled. Of course, the room was smaller than Hawthorne’s, and when he looked closely, he could see that the tables were widely spaced, as though some had been removed and the room rearranged to close the gaps.

The meal was subdued, the courtiers discussing what it meant that a half-dozen Void creatures had been lurking in the area. Bran and the Nightshade Lady spoke of small things at first until, between the last courses, she mentioned Mara.

“I am surprised your wife is not with you,” she said, regarding him steadily with her clear indigo eyes.

“I could not risk her,” he said.

One of the lady’s eyebrows tilted up. “She seemed capable enough of fending for herself on the battlefield.”

“Still, she must have some tutoring in the use of her wellspring. She remained at Hawthorne to receive the proper training.”

“Why don’t you teach her?”

“I am not a skilled teacher.”

He took a swallow of mead, trying to wash away the taste of failure. If anyone could guide Mara, it ought to have been him, but his attempts had been woefully inadequate.

“Perhaps humans learn our magic differently,” the Nightshade Lady said. “Have her efforts with other teachers been successful?”

“Yes.” He did not elaborate on the fact that Mara was struggling, even with the venerated and experienced Penluith as her tutor.

And he did not want to think too closely on Nightshade’s words—for, if they were true, then he had no real reason to leave his wife behind. Except his own selfishness in trying to keep her safe.

“How long may we offer you our hospitality?” the lady asked.

Bran firmed his mouth. He’d meant to take a few hand-picked soldiers from among the Nightshade Court’s fighters and depart for Moonflower as soon as they broke their fast. But the Voidspawn attack had taxed his troop, and they needed more than one sleep to recover.

“On the next brightmoon,” he said reluctantly. “In the meantime, we can help strengthen the magical protections about the palace.”

Too late, he remembered that his own powers were depleted. He’d have to fashion some reasonable excuse. That, or admit a portion of the truth.

He would have done so with no other ruler, but if anyone knew how to keep secrets, it was the Nightshade Lady. Her court had a long and troubled past, and he suspected the other courts, with the exception of the nearby Hawthorne, knew little of Nightshade’s hidden history.

“We are glad to shelter you here as long as necessary,” she said. “I will have my steward show your people to their rooms.”

“Thank you.” He had spent the last turn battling back his weariness, and knew that his warriors were in no better shape.

She rose, signaling that dinner was at an end, then turned to Bran. “Perhaps tomorrow we can speak more of the Void threat. And of the future.”

“I would like that.” He made her a slight bow—not a strictly necessary protocol between an heir and a ruler, but she had earned his respect several times over. Then, trying to keep his steps energetic, he followed his warriors from the room.

* * *

Mara ate her leftover honeycakes for lunch, but could not dispel the restless anxiety that settled on her shoulders. There was no need to worry for Bran—he was only traveling from the Hawthorne Court to the Nightshade—but a sense of foreboding seemed to linger in the shadows.

To banish it, she practiced summoning foxfire. Or tried to, at any rate. As before, her efforts amounted to nothing.

“Drat it!” she finally exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

When Penluith came, she’d ask him to teach her something else. Perhaps scrying, or the ward he had mentioned. What other magics did Dark Elves learn in the early stages? She had no idea what constituted the basics as opposed to more advanced spells.

A knock came at the door. Mara opened it cautiously, to find an unfamiliar Dark Elf woman standing there. She was garbed in the leathers of a warrior, with a long blade and short dagger belted on either side of her waist. Her black hair, braided back from her face, held glints of russet.

A scar ran down one of her cheekbones. Mara didn’t realize she’d been staring at it until the woman spoke.

“I chose not to let the healers erase it,” she said. “It is a badge of honor to me. I am Sicil.”

“Hello. I’m Mara.”

The elf nodded, as if it weren’t obvious. “Are you ready to begin your knife training?”

Clearly Sicil wasn’t one to mince words, or waste time on niceties. Which, Mara reflected, was a hallmark of most of the warriors under Bran’s command. She was glad to see the warrior, despite Sicil’s brusque manner. It brought Bran closer, somehow.

Mara glanced down at the length of scarlet silk draped, somewhat inexpertly, about her. “I suppose I should change.”

“It is not necessary. May I enter?”

Mara stepped back, giving Sicil permission to stride into the sitting room. The elf took in the room with a glance.

“We’ll need to move the couch back,” she said, pushing the table out of the way.

Mara helped her move the furniture until the center of the room was cleared. With brisk efficiency, Sicil rolled up the ornately pattered rug, revealing smooth wooden planks the color of a pigeon’s wing.

Did Elfhame even have pigeons? Mara thought not. The only flying things she’d encountered were the glimglows, and a dark-winged owl in the depths of the Darkwood. Of course, she hadn’t seen very much of Elfhame. There might well be all kinds of creatures dwelling in the realm that she had no notion of.

“I understand you have a knife,” Sicil said, glancing with disapproval at the lack of weapon at Mara’s waist.

“It’s in the other room. I’ll fetch it.”

Mara forced herself not to scurry to do Sicil’s bidding. The woman had a forceful personality, but that didn’t mean Mara should bow to the warrior’s every command. She’d stood up to Bran, after all, and she could think of no one more forbidding than the Hawthorne Prince in one of his moods.

She returned from the bedroom with the dagger Bran had given her, the gemstones cool against her palm. It was a better weapon than her old, trusty kitchen knife, but she felt a pang of longing for the plain wooden handle and nicked blade.

Sicil held out her hand, and Mara gave her the weapon.

“Hm.” The Dark Elf turned it back and forth, giving the haft a close inspection. She tested the blade with her thumb, and frowned.

“Needs a sharper edge, but the balance is good, the workmanship solid. You should wear it at all times.” She handed the dagger back to Mara.

“Even when I’m alone in these rooms?”

“Of course.” Sicil’s voice held an impatient note. “What good is giving you lessons in blade work if you have no weapon handy when you need one?”

“And why shouldn’t I change into something more practical?” Might as well ask all the annoying questions at once.

“If you are called upon to use your blade, it will not come at an opportune time. Your enemies will not wait for you to don proper fighting garb. You’re not joining the ranks of the fighters.” Sicil paused. “At least, that is not the instruction Prince Brannonilon gave me.”

It was a somewhat laughable thought.

“He’s right,” Mara said. “I have no intention of becoming a warrior.”

Sicil nodded. “Then we shall proceed as planned. Now, hold the dagger firmly, with your thumb wrapped about the handle, like so.”

She demonstrated the proper grip, and Mara tried to emulate her. Sicil reached over and adjusted her fingers until she was satisfied with Mara’s grasp.

“Now, your stance. Spread your feet wider and bend your knees.”

Mara complied. At least the Dark Elf dresses were roomy enough to maneuver in. As long as she avoided tripping over her skirts, she supposed she could learn to fight in court clothes.

Sicil took her through a pattern of lunges and swipes, some high, some low, pausing at intervals to reposition Mara’s arms.

“Where to strike depends on the size of your attacker,” the elf said. “Whether they are wearing armor or silk, how skilled they are. A gut wound will slow your enemy, but a throat stab is better.”

Mara halted, taking a moment to catch her breath.

“What kind of enemies do you think I’ll face here, in the Hawthorne Court?” she asked.

And why hadn’t Bran discussed such things with her, instead of informing her she’d be training to fight, and then leaving her behind?

Sicil’s expression grew remote. “I cannot say, my lady. One never knows where danger lurks.”

Wonderful. When Bran returned, Mara planned on having a serious discussion with him about the dangers of Elfhame.

“Do you think the prince is being overcautious?” She watched Sicil closely.

The Dark Elf’s face remained impassive. “It is his duty—and mine—to ensure your safety, whether in the court or elsewhere. Shall we resume?”

“I suppose.” Mara wiped her forehead with her sleeve, then took up her stance again and raised her blade.

By the time Sicil declared the practice session at an end, Mara was sticky with perspiration. She could tell her arms were going to be sore later, and probably her legs as well.

“Good work,” the warrior elf said. “You will rest on the morrow, then alternate between working with me and lessons with Penluith.”

Mara firmed her mouth. “I suppose Bran decreed this schedule?”

Without once discussing it with her. Clearly her husband had forgotten that theirs was supposed to be a partnership of equals.

Sicil must have heard the annoyance in Mara’s tone, for her voice held a sympathetic note. “The commander sometimes forgets that we are not pieces to be moved about on a game board. If anyone can help remind him of that fact, my lady, it is you.”

Mara blew out a breath. She hoped Sicil was right. And in his defense, Bran had been distracted, trying to recover from the edge of dying while also mustering his soldiers for their quest. Not to mention worrying about his sister and facing off against his parents.

“We shall see.” And she would bide.

For now.

15

It took longer for Bran and his warriors to recover than he would have liked. By the doublemoon, he was restless and impatient at the thought of Voidspawn loose throughout Elfhame.

He sat with the Nightshade Lady in her private study over breakfast, where they had taken to discussing the threat to Elfhame, and how best to face it.

“Sobering news,” the lady said, pushing aside her plate. “There have been reports of a spiderkin spotted near Moonflower, a gyrewolf killed at the border.”

“Nothing from the inner courts?”

“No.” The Nightshade Lady sounded thoughtful. “Do you find that odd?”

“Not particularly. The main rifts were all in Hawthorne and Nightshade territory. Why should the Voidspawn disperse from the area?”

“Still, you intend to visit all the courts,” she said.

Bran gave her a terse nod. “I must, to ensure the entire realm is free of our old enemy. I’ll sweep the surrounding countryside as I go, of course.”

“I have no doubt you’ll succeed in your quest.” She leaned forward, giving him a searching look. “And your wellspring? Is it replenished?”

“Well enough.”

That had been a difficult conversation, admitting to the Nightshade Lady that the Void had injured him so deeply. But it was better than pretending all was well and continuing to drain himself dry. An exhausted commander did his warriors no good.

He shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. “Once I’ve returned to the Hawthorne Court, I hope I might bring my wife here for a visit.”

“I would like that very well.” Her face softened. “What I saw of your lady, I admired.”

Bran felt his lips lift in a slight smile. Yes, his wife was remarkable, and he was glad that Nightshade recognized her worth.

Unlike his own parents. His smile evaporated. “I hope that visit will come soon.”

“As do I, Hawthorne Prince. But now, I see you are ready to depart.” She pushed her chair back and rose. “I will not wish you a safe journey, for that would defeat its purpose, but I do wish you all success. May your sword fall true and your magic burn bright.”

He bowed. “Thank you, my lady. Next we meet, the Voidspawn will be gone from our land, forever.”

She nodded gravely, her fingers tight on the back of her chair. Neither of them spoke of the other threat hanging over the fate of the Dark Elves.

I will conquer that, too, Bran thought fiercely. Our future depends on it.

* * *

The palemoon and the bright cast double shadows as Bran and his warriors—their party now numbering sixteen—rode out from the Nightshade Palace. The mood was cautiously cheerful, and he felt his spirits rise as they rode into the purple-hued meadows.

His wellspring, though still not at full strength, was recovered enough that he could once again wield his battle magic. His troop numbered enough to make up three scouting parties, so that they might cover more ground. And the Nightshade Lady respected his wife.

That, perhaps most of all, gave him heart.

The cold reception Mara had received at the Hawthorne Court angered him. He’d wanted to take the nobles by their collars and shake them hard, until they saw Mara’s value. Wasn’t it enough that she’d played a pivotal role in the battle against the Void? They were fools, all of them.

Especially Mireleth.

He gritted his teeth at the memory of his ex-betrothed waving her bracelet about as if it were some kind of promise, instead of a broken bond. She must have retrieved the bracelet after he’d severed that foolish betrothal. It was unheard of, for one party to continue to wear an empty promise, but then again, Mireleth was always looking for advantage and was happy to bend the rules to do so.

Once he returned to Hawthorne, he’d have to do something about her—and her ambitious father. There could be no more angling for a position at his side. Mara was the next Hawthorne Lady, and in his heart there could be no other.

At least Anneth understood. He knew that his sister would help Mara settle into the ways court. And once his wife mastered her wellspring, a greater acceptance must follow.

“Shall we break off?” Hestil asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Yes.” He glanced at the five hand-picked warriors that would go with her, taking point as they made for Moonflower. “Contact me if you sense anything.”

“Aye, commander.”

She signaled to her fighters, and the six of them spurred their mounts forward. The moons illuminated them as they rode away—the bright glints of metal on their weapons and padded armor, the locks of raven and silver hair flying behind them from the wind of their passing.

“My lord.” Turut, the leader of the second scout troop, guided his horse beside Fuin. “Shall we turn aside as well?”

“Not yet. We’ll give Hestil some time to flush out our prey.” If, indeed, any Void creatures lay in their path. Bran watched the riders until they disappeared over the crest of a purple-hazed hill.

He’d cast a net of sensing over the entire party. If his second-in-command engaged in a fight, the magic would alert him immediately. So far, all was quiet. Although, the Voidspawn had managed to elude his perceptions until the last moment during their previous encounter—further proof that they had grown in cunning.

“If she hasn’t encountered any Voidspawn within two turns, I’ll send you on your way,” Bran said.

“Very good, my lord.”

Turut fell back to ride with his scouts. Their party also numbered six, leaving Bran with three warriors. And his own powerful magic, of course. He planned to stay on the main road, while Turut and Hestil ranged ahead and to the sides. It would take them five sleeps to reach Moonflower, where he hoped to gather another half-dozen warriors, at least.

Then on to Rowan, which circled back to share a border with Hawthorne, though their courts lay almost as far apart as Hawthorne and Moonflower. The proximity of Nightshade to the Hawthorn Court was unusual.

But then, their two courts shared the Erynvorn and guarded the portal within. Rowan and Moonflower had ever been removed from such things—and the inner courts even more so, preoccupied with etiquette and artistry rather than facing any threats at their borders.

No, the four outer courts had borne the brunt of shoring up the barrier that protected their small realm. Hawthorne and Nightshade most of all.

Bran flexed his hands, extending and retracting his claws. He was not certain what kind of reception he’d find once he turned to the center of Elfhame. His parents sat on the Courts’ Council, as he would in turn, but the seven courts did not always agree.

At least they’d all sent warriors once the Void started breaking through in earnest. Bran had found no fault with their fighting skills.

The nobility, on the other hand…

He let out a heavy breath. He’d turn that glass when he came to it. Meantime, he had Voidspawn to hunt.

16

As Mara had suspected, her arms were sore the next day from her training with Sicil. The ache helped distract her from the deeper pain of waking alone in Bran’s bed. Did he miss her? How long would it be until he returned?

Such thoughts only served to hone the edge of her unhappiness, and she scolded herself for wallowing in them. Better to turn her mind to the new day. Determinedly, she rose, stretched, and decided to visit Anneth instead of going in search of breakfast.

But what to wear? Pursing her lips, she stared at the colorful lengths of silk hanging in the closet. Was it considered vulgar to don the same outfit twice in as many days? Probably. Good thing the seamstress was scheduled to deliver an assortment of new gowns after lunch.

She wrapped a length of turquoise silk around herself and tied the ends together behind her neck to anchor the garment. The skirts billowed about her legs, but despite the free-flowing fabric, the dress was not immodest. At the last minute, she recalled Sicil’s instruction to wear her dagger at all times.

After a bit of searching through the wardrobe, Mara found a woven belt that seemed to match her dress. Or at least didn’t clash with it. She looped the sash about her waist and slipped on the sheathed dagger. A polished silver mirror hung on the far wall of the bedroom, and she went over to inspect her reflection.

The turquoise fabric brought out the green of her eyes, and she thought she’d done an adequate job of dressing herself. She might yet master the knack of donning the Dark Elves’ clothing, but it would never feel as familiar as her old homespun dress. She went back to the wardrobe and ran her hand down the coarse weave. It felt like home, and she couldn’t help sighing before she closed the door and went to visit Anneth.

Bran’s sister was delighted to see her, and Mara was glad to find that her friend was up and moving without apparent pain.

“Are you all better?” she asked, stepping into Anneth’s sitting room.

“Avantor has pronounced me fit enough to resume my normal activities,” Anneth said with a grin. “No vigorous riding for a bit longer, though. I must say, you’ve done a fair job with your dress. Let me just pull this bit out, here, and re-tuck it… Yes, like so. You see? And then this part goes over here.”

Mara twisted about, trying to discern where Anneth had folded the fabric upon itself and where she had tucked it in. Whatever she’d done, the dress flowed more gracefully, and Mara felt a bit less like she was wearing her elder sister’s castoff.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get it right,” she said ruefully, meaning more than just the Dark Elves’ style of dress.

“You will, with my help.” Anneth gave her an encouraging look. “I was getting ready to go to breakfast. Come with me?”

Mara nodded. Truly, it was time to stop sulking in Bran’s rooms. She could face the dining room with an ally by her side.

“How are the lessons going with Penluith?” Anneth asked as they stepped together into the hall.

“I am not the most talented of students,” Mara said, unwilling to confess that she was, apparently, terrible at magic. Despite the fact that, according to Bran, she possessed an amazing wellspring. It did not seem to be a very obedient one, unfortunately.

“It will come.” Anneth squeezed her arm, then glanced at the blade belted at Mara’s waist. “I hear that Sicil is giving you weapons training.”

“The rudiments of how to use a dagger, that’s all. I’m not sure how useful it will be.”

“Being able to wield a weapon of any kind is important,” Anneth said, her voice somber. “After being attacked by the Voidspawn, I’ve vowed to work on my archery. Perhaps we can train together.”

“Where?” Surely Anneth wasn’t going to practice shooting her bow and arrows inside. “The gardens?”

“That’s a marvelous idea. I’d thought the training arena, but the gardens are even better. There’s a secluded corner near the old wall that will be perfect. When shall we start? After breakfast?”

Despite nearing the dining room’s doors, and the no-doubt disapproving members of the court, Mara smiled. Clearly Anneth was feeling better, if her exuberance was any indication.

“Very well,” Mara said. “As long as you don’t laugh at me. I’m not very skilled.”

“Of course you’re not—you’ve just started. Whereas I am horrid with bows, despite having used them for years.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Avantor said, catching up to them from behind, having clearly overheard Anneth’s last words. “You just haven’t cared to excel.”

“Well, I care now,” she replied.

The healer gave her a stern look. “You may practice your archery, but no sessions longer than a quarter turn until the next brightmoon.”

Anneth made a face, but didn’t argue. For her part, Mara was glad of the time constraint. She wasn’t certain how much stabbing and lunging she could do, with the muscles in her arms and legs protesting with every movement.

The three of them entered the dining hall, and Mara was relieved to see it was not very full. The Hawthorne Lord and Lady’s places were empty. A few nobles browsed the food set out on the long tables, and others clustered together, taking their meals.

“Is it always this quiet?” she asked Anneth in a low voice.

“Mostly—except when there’s an event or special visitors.” Bran’s sister gave her a knowing look. “No one would remark upon it if you came to breakfast by yourself.”

Mara firmed her lips. She supposed she could always fix a plate for herself and retreat, if the company became unpleasant. Meaning, if Mireleth or one of her cronies cornered her.

A quick glance around the room showed no sign of the Dark Elf lady in question, and a bit more of the tension drained from Mara’s shoulders.

“It’s not as formal as I’d expected,” she said.

“Luncheon is similar,” Avantor said. “Although perhaps you did not notice, having so recently come to the Hawthorne Palace. Our court protocols have been rather upended lately.”

“Epic battles and prophecies fulfilled tend to shake things up.” Anneth winked at Mara. “Come, I’ll show you my favorite things to eat.”

More than simple honeycakes and moonmelon awaited on the long tables. Anneth guided Mara through the array of fruits and pastries, the thinly sliced meats and baked grains. Even though she only took a small sample of the dishes, Mara’s plate was nearly spilling over by the time they reached the end of the array.

Avantor, who had deftly made his selections, beckoned from a nearby table, and Anneth and Mara went to join him.

Once seated, Mara found that she was ravenous. Despite the unfamiliar flavors, she ate steadily while Avantor, after a series of questions to Anneth, decided she was sufficiently healed and released her from his care.

The talk turned to Bran and his route through Elfhame.

“He will be in Moonflower by now,” Anneth said, glancing at Mara. “Our realm is not so large, truly. He’ll be back at Hawthorne in a few more doublemoons.”

“Provided he does not encounter unexpected complications,” Avantor added.

Mara tried not to let the healer’s doubts shadow her own mood, and instead turned to Anneth with a determined smile. “Where is he headed after Moonflower?”

“The inner courts, and then Rowan,” Anneth said. “At least, I think that is his course.”

It was time to study the maps in Bran’s rooms again. Mara was not sure where Rowan lay in relation to Hawthorne. To the northwest, she thought, where the two courts shared a distant border.

As they finished their meal, Mireleth swept into the room, accompanied by her retinue. She surveyed her surroundings imperiously, and when her gaze landed on Mara, her eyes glittered with satisfaction.

“Brace yourselves,” Avantor said softly, and took a sip of his tea. “She’s headed this way.”

Hidden by the table, Mara brushed her fingers over the handle of the weapon attached her belt. Brandishing a dagger at Mireleth would probably not be within protocol, but she took comfort in the fact that she was armed, and at least had the option of drawing her blade.

“My dear Anneth,” Mireleth said, arriving at their table in a swirl of skirts and smirking courtiers. “How marvelous that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence once more.”

“Perhaps you’re unaware that Lady Anneth was injured.” Avantor’s voice was cool. “She was resting, on my orders.”

Mireleth widened her eyes in mock innocence. “Oh yes—supposedly the country is overrun with Void creatures, despite Prince Brannonilon’s declaration that we vanquished the enemy.”

One of the Dark Elves standing behind her tittered. “Not much of a triumph, then, was it?” she said in loud whisper to another of Mireleth’s companions.

“I’d like to see you venture out from the Hawthorne Court,” Mara said, swiveling in her seat to glare at the courtier. “Perhaps you’d like to fight one of the Void creatures yourself.”

“No need for any of us to do so.” Mireleth flicked her fingers dismissively. “I’m certain my prince has such matters well in hand. A pity he had to go running off so very quickly after your marriage. One might almost think he no longer wanted to remain at court.”

Again a spate of laughter. Anger bubbling through her, Mara scraped her chair back and stood, confronting Mireleth directly. The Dark Elf’s face tightened, and she took a small step back. Mara counted that as victory enough.

“I believe my husband is tired of the petty squabbles and silly maneuverings of the nobility,” she said. “I can’t say I blame him—I find such things tiresome, myself.”

Lifting her chin in dismissal, she pushed past Mireleth and strode away, hoping somewhat desperately that Anneth and Avantor were right behind her.

“Well done,” Bran’s sister said at her shoulder.

Mara drew in a breath of relief, and glanced to her other side to find Avantor keeping pace. The three of them stepped into the hallway, and she paused a moment to gather herself.

“Thank you for following me,” she said.

“Of course!” Anneth shot her a sly smile. “Mireleth deserves to be taken down a notch, and you’re just the one to do it.”

“Still, you must take care,” Avantor said, his expression serious. “Lady Mireleth has many connections at court, and her family is powerful. You do not want to antagonize her too much.”

“Spoken like a true courtier.” Anneth shook her head. “What about Mara’s connections, her power? She is to be the Hawthorne Lady. I believe she’s right to put Mireleth in her place—and anyone else who insults her.”

“I don’t want to play such games,” Mara said. “I just couldn’t take another spiteful word.”

Although she’d called such things tiresome mostly to irritate Mireleth, Mara found that the words were true. She was a village girl from Little Hazel, not a princess raised in a grand palace, groomed for the intricacies of rulership.

“Don’t fret.” Anneth reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Bran will be back soon, the rest of the Void vanquished, and you will find solid footing at court. I know it.”

Despite her friend’s optimistic words, Mara was not so sure. The more time she spent at the Hawthorne Court, the more she knew she wasn’t suited for such a life. But what else could she do?

She’d married the prince, after all, and abandoned her home world. The only place she had left was here, in the graceful prison of the Hawthorne Palace.

17

As the doublemoons curved down toward the horizon, Bran’s warriors came together to make camp. They had covered much ground in the last several turns and found no Voidspawn. Hestil reported a few blighted areas where it seemed the creatures had lingered, but beyond that, there was no sign.

“Do you think they are hiding from us?” she asked as they ate their rations of bread and dried meat.

Around them, the warriors pitched small tents, tended the mounts, and arranged for sentry duty. Bran watched them, chewing slowly and pondering Hestil’s question.

“I would have said no, before that last skirmish,” he said. “But something has changed. The creatures have grown cunning.”

Hestil frowned. “I do not know how, or why, but it seems the Voidspawn have somehow become more than mindless minions. With the rifts closed, they should be simple to fight, but now…” She trailed off, her brow furrowed.

He had the same thoughts, and hearing Hestil confirm them sent a chill down his back. They knew so little about their ancient enemy—only that the Void was eager to devour new lands, sending its army in through rifts between the worlds to cut down any resistance, before slithering in to feast.

His people had legends of once-vibrant realms turned to dust, teeming worlds left arid and lifeless after the Void descended. Elfhame had stood fast, with magic and might. Until now.

“After the battle…” He paused. It was difficult to speak of his weakness, but in light of the Voidspawn’s new behavior, he must tell his second some of what had transpired.

He would not share Mara’s determination to return to her home world, and subsequent return, however. That secret would jeopardize her standing in the eyes of his soldiers. Even Hestil, although she might understand, would not think well of his mortal wife for attempting to abandon her husband.

Hestil watched him without demanding answers. She knew to let the silence lengthen, and that he would fill it when ready.

“Just before Mara and I struck at the heart of the Void and sealed the rift, something escaped,” he finally said. “It lodged within me, depleting my wellspring and stealing my life force. I was very nearly dead. Mara saved me.”

He suppressed a shiver at the memory of that icy malevolence.

“Did she kill it?” Hestil’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

“I believed so. But my recollection of that time is hazy.” He’d been exhausted, drained of hope, of magic.

“What if the Void shard survived?”

“And is directing the remaining Voidspawn?” he finished for her. “That would fit with what we’ve seen so far—the ambush, the ruined areas.”

“And means the threat is far greater than we feared.” Hestil’s voice was hard.

“Indeed. We must redouble our tracking efforts.” He frowned. “The Void shard, if that is truly what it is, would be seeking to strengthen itself, so that it could reopen a rift.”

“It will find us difficult prey, as ever.”

Bran took a bite of bread, letting his thoughts coalesce as he chewed. The stars overhead spread their soft radiance, and the night seemed peaceful—to those who didn’t know of the dark threat roaming the land.

Every Dark Elf knew of the danger the Void and its creatures posed. As Hestil said, Elfhame and its people were capable of protecting themselves. Even, he hoped, with an inimical piece of the Void slithering about the realm.

But what if the Void sought easier victims? The bread he’d swallowed caught in his throat, and he coughed, trying to dislodge the uneasy thought along with his food.

Hestil thumped him on the back, and he nodded his thanks. Still, apprehension ran through him.

“What if the Void is making for the gateway in the Erynvorn?” he asked in a low voice, as if the enemy could overhear.

“How would it know to do so?” Hestil gave him an appraising look.

“Mara healed me there,” he confessed.

His second raised a brow, clearly sensing there was more to the story, but she did not press him.

“Would it even be able to pass through into the mortal world?” she asked. “It takes great magical strength to open the portal.”

“Perhaps my fear is unfounded.”

“And perhaps not.” Her brows knitted together. “Do we split our fighters, sending some into the Erynvorn, while the rest continue on to Moonflower and Rowan?”

“It is not a decision to take lightly.”

He set aside the rest of the bread, his hunger gone, and crossed his arms. Breaking the party up would be risky. They were under strength as it was, and if he’d guessed incorrectly, the odds would favor the now-clever Voidspawn. He suspected the only reason the party hadn’t been attacked since leaving Nightshade was due to their numbers.

“We continue to Moonflower,” he said, thinking aloud. “They should be able to lend us a dozen fighters, at least. There, we’ll split into two parties. You will take half to the inner courts, scouring for the Void along the way.”

Hestil’s mouth tightened with displeasure.

“I will take the rest,” he continued, “and make for Rowan. From there, we will close the circle of the outer courts and head into the Erynvorn.”

Without more information—which he was unlikely to get—it was the best he could do. Even with his magic, there was no way to read the intent of the Voidspawn, or to know if their guess about its dark intentions was correct, or only fearful speculation.

A good commander did not make decisions out of fear. But neither did they ignore a possible threat. He did not like separating the warriors into two parties, but the Void could not be allowed to flow unchecked into the mortal world.

“I do not like it,” Hestil said. “But I see no better way.”

“If you find one, tell me.”

The burdens of command lay heavy on his shoulders. He watched as the palemoon chased the brightmoon out of the sky, leaving faded twilight in their wake, and wished for answers he did not have.

18

As promised, Anneth took Mara out to the far corner of the gardens for their weapons practice. A few glimglows trailed them, bobbing up and down like flames that had floated free of their candles, and the soft air carried the scent of flowers.

As they continued along the blossom-starred hedges, Mara’s spirits rose. It took her several moments to realize why: the air was luminous with the light cast from both the brightmoon and the pale. Despite the strange double shadows cast by the moons, she smiled in relief.

It was a sheer pleasure to be out of the Hawthorne Palace—and the confines of Bran’s rooms. When he returned, things would improve, she reminded herself. They must.

“Here.” Anneth halted at a stretch of well-kept silvergrass.

The hedges continued on either side, giving them privacy. The spires of the palace were just visible over their dark leaves. A target had been set up at one end, and Anneth strode to it, leaving Mara to practice her knife drills.

The handle of her dagger felt awkward in her hand, and without Sicil’s example, she moved clumsily through the moves, but she persevered. For her sparring partner, she chose a dark-leaved bush with dangling blue flowers.

While Anneth sent arrows careening toward her target, Mara practiced slicing petals off the flowers. Neither of them were particularly successful. When their allotted time ended, Anneth set the end of her bow on the manicured grass and laughed.

“We are not very formidable, are we?”

“Not yet,” Mara answered.

She was determined to master something, however—and since her magic was proving elusive, knife work seemed the better choice.

Anneth nodded. “I’m sure we’ll improve, over time. Speaking of which, how are your lessons with Penluith going?”

“We have another session later today. I’m still working on summoning foxfire.” Mara tried not to let her discouragement show in her voice.

“Perhaps it’s difficult because you didn’t grow up surrounded by such things.” Anneth gave her a thoughtful look. “Once you become accustomed to life in our realm, magic should come easier.”

“I hope so.”

When she’d chosen to abandon the mortal world for Elfhame, Mara hadn’t exactly envisioned spending her days failing at almost every task she was set. Or penned up in the Hawthorne Palace, waiting for her husband to return from his own quests.

As if reading her thoughts, Anneth patted Mara’s shoulder. “I’m sure that once my brother returns, he will help. Are you ready to go in?”

Not particularly, but Mara recalled Avantor’s instructions for Anneth to limit her training. So she nodded her assent and sheathed her blade, then helped Anneth gather up her stray arrows, and they left the gardens behind.

The corridors were depressingly dim, and Mara tried not to sigh as they moved deeper into the palace. She really must master the trick of summoning foxfire, and soon.

“I’ll come visit after your lessons with Penluith,” Anneth said encouragingly as Mara left her at her door. “Surely they’ll go better this time.”

Bran’s sister was eternally optimistic—a quality as endearing as it was annoying.

“Thank you,” Mara said, trying not to sound too glum.

Either her lessons would progress, or, more likely, they wouldn’t.

Once she reached Bran’s rooms, she stood and inhaled deeply, trying to catch a trace of his spicy scent. Trying to remember the wry crook of his lips when he smiled, the way his eyes narrowed when she perplexed him once again with her strange mortal ways. There was only the faintest hint of cloves in the air, and a pang of loneliness squeezed her heart.

How strange, that she should pine for the man she’d once thought monstrous—her clawed, pale warrior who wielded magic as easily as he did his fearsome curved sword. But fate had brought them together. Though she did not understand the Oracles and their divinations, she could not dispute that their prophecy had proven true. At least, so far.

Her ample breakfast carried her through lunch, and Mara spent the time before Penluith arrived trying to harness the power of her wellspring. When she closed her eyes and reached deep inside, she thought she felt it, like a quiet blue pool. But sensing it was one thing, and activating it quite another.

Penluith arrived, and once again demonstrated ample patience as Mara struggled to conjure foxfire. After half their time had run, with no success, she turned to him.

“What about casting a shield? Or, what did you call it—a ward?”

The tutor frowned faintly. “As I said earlier, it is a dangerous magic to harness.”

“Well.” Mara shrugged. “Since I probably won’t be able to cast that magic either, it doesn’t matter. Will you at least let me try?”

Penluith studied her a long moment. “Very well—but you must take care in its casting. The word is turma.”

She practiced saying it aloud, without trying to summon any magic. Once the tutor nodded his approval, she concentrated on connecting with her magic.

“Turma,” she said fiercely.

As usual, nothing happened. She swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to let Penluith see the despair creeping over her.

“Hm.” He twisted his mouth in thought, then rose from his customary chair. “Let us see if a change of venue might help. Come.”

Mara hoped he was leading her back into the gardens, but instead he took a circuitous route through the corridors. Despite her unfamiliarity with the palace, she thought he was leading her down hallways she’d never traversed before.

At last, they stepped through a graceful arch into a large, round room that shimmered with light. The center of the room held a pool filled with pale blue water, and the roof overhead was open to the sky.

“The Room of Reflection,” Penluith said as Mara glanced about. “Some find that it helps focus the mind.”

“So, the water’s not for bathing?”

She didn’t think so, and the tutor’s shocked expression confirmed her guess.

“No,” he said, sounding faintly horrified. “The pool is blessed by the Oracles. It symbolizes the wellspring, and the radiance that shines within us all.”

Even humans? she wanted to ask, but bit her tongue on the words.

“Sit here,” he said, leading her to a bench carved of pale stone.

Flat pillows adorned it, covered in blue silk that matched the water, and Mara settled, facing the pool. The water was as still as glass, the double spheres overhead just visible at the edge of the reflection.

“Breathe slowly,” the tutor said. “Empty your mind of striving, of worry. Feel the peaceful center of your own wellspring.”

It was surprisingly easy to follow his directions. The pool seemed to shimmer slightly, and Mara thought she felt an answering flutter deep inside.

“Call foxfire,” Penluith said softly.

Trying to retain her fragile sense of peace, Mara opened her hands.

“Calma,” she said.

A small blue spark ignited above her right palm, and she gasped in surprise.

“Look!” She lifted her hand to Penluith, only to see the tiny ball of foxfire snuff out.

Still, he gave her a nod of approval. “Try again.”

She did, and succeeded about half the time. The tutor watched her closely, his indigo eyes inscrutable.

“Enough,” he said, after Mara had failed a half-dozen times in a row. “I think I see part of the difficulty.”

“What is it?” She folded her hands in her lap and tried not to hold her breath as she awaited his answer.

His lips quirked, possibly with annoyance. “You seem best able to call upon your wellspring when you do not try.”

“But… how else am I supposed to do magic?”

“Without trying,” he said dryly. “That is, let your wellspring open without attempting to open it.”

It seemed quite contradictory. She stared at the pool, frowning, and tried to pick apart the why and how of her ability.

When Bran drew upon her power in battle, it was not an active attempt on her part to reach her wellspring, so she supposed that made sense. And when she opened the gateway, she’d been driven by desperation and panicked need. There had been no time to try—she’d simply had to act.

The time she called foxfire in Bran’s rooms, she’d managed just as he entered—and she dimly recalled being distracted by his arrival. She supposed that, for a brief moment, she had not been pushing so hard to create it, and thus the foxfire came.

But having only intermittent access to her wellspring seemed worse than having no power at all. She needed to be able to rely on her own abilities.

“What if I must summon my magic right away—in case of emergency or attack?” she asked.

“If you know your runes by heart,” Penluith said slowly, “then I would hope your casting would become automatic. In cases of emergency.”

It was not the answer she hoped for—but the tutor had given her a key to why she was struggling. Now she must unlock the door. First, though, she had to find it—that elusive place in her being where her wellspring dwelt.

The twinned spheres of the palemoon and the bright floated serenely in the basin of the pool. Then, as Mara watched, they shivered as though a low wind moved over the water. The reflections broke into a half-dozen slivers of light, and she leaned forward, trying to make sense of what she saw.

Foxfire, flickering in a dark forest. No… torches. A glimpse of upraised swords and the rounded, blunt faces of human soldiers. Bran, turning with a look of surprise, as a black arrow flew out of the dark and lodged itself in his chest.

“No!” Mara cried.

The echo of her shout broke the peace of the room, and Penluith sprang to his feet.

“What is it?” He set his hands on her shoulders and peered into the water. “What did you see?”

“A battle. The Darkwood, and Bran in danger. I must go to him!” Leaving out the part about seeing her own kind, she sprang to her feet.

“Calm yourself,” Penluith said. “What the water shows here is not events in the present.”

She gave him an accusing look. “You didn’t tell me this was a scrying pool.”

“It is not.” He shook his head at her. “At least, it is not used for such a purpose. But any reflection can be the vehicle for a scrying—and this water is Oracle-touched. You are not the first to see future visions within it.”

“Who else has?” She sent a wary glance at the now-quiet pool.

“Prince Brannonilon.”

“And what did he see?” She thought she could guess the answer, however.

“He saw you,” Penluith replied, proving her right.

“He was being attacked.” Her throat tightened. “I must warn him.”

“He is commander of the Dark Elf forces and heir to the Hawthorne throne. Danger has always walked beside our prince. He knows to take care.”

“But—”

“If the water has chosen to show you a vision, then you will be able to act in some way.” He gave her a gentle look. “When that time comes, you will know. But for now, our lesson is at an end. Do not fret over Brannonilon, or what you have seen.”

Very well—she would try not to dwell on it. But, for whatever reason, it seemed the prophecy was not yet done with them. Danger lurked, cloaked in the mists of the future.

As she left the Room of Reflection, she turned to give the water an accusing look. It did nothing more than placidly reflect the stars—but she could not escape the feeling that fate was laughing at her.

19

Mara returned to Bran’s rooms, her thoughts heavy. The chilling vision aside, there was the whole problem of how to access her magical power. It would be difficult to try to reach her wellspring without trying. Might as well ask a bird to fly without moving its wings.

She let out a gusty sigh and pushed open the door to Bran’s rooms. At least the calm quiet of the reflecting room had given her a place to begin.

Just inside the door, an ornate chest sat, with a smaller box stacked on top. She blinked at them, confused, then cautiously lifted the lid of the box.

Jewelry, hairpins, and silver-shot woven belts gleamed up at her. It seemed her new wardrobe had arrived. Well, that would make a welcome distraction.

She was partway through sorting the jewelry when Anneth knocked at her door—a single rap, followed by three shorter ones. They had agreed on the signal, so that Mara would not have to worry about opening the door to unwanted visitors.

“Come in,” she said, admitting Anneth. “Look—my clothing’s here.”

“Wonderful.” Anneth clasped her hands. “You must try everything on, of course. What do you think of the gowns? Do they suit?”

“I haven’t opened the chest yet,” Mara admitted. “I was enjoying looking over the jewelry.”

The low table was spread with winking jewels and intricately wrought metal. It was adornment fit for a queen, and Mara had to keep reminding herself that here, in Elfhame, she actually was a princess.

“Well, let’s open it.” Anneth took one end of the chest, and together they moved it to the center of the room, beside the low couch.

“I don’t think there will be room enough for my gowns.” Mara glanced at the heavy wardrobe set against one wall. “Bran’s clothing and gear takes up most of the space.”

Anneth shook her head. “You will need to move into a bigger suite, once he’s done traipsing all over Elfhame. You’ll each need a sitting room, and a place to store your clothing and personal items.”

Not that Mara had many possessions. Certainly not enough to need an entire room of her own to house them. Although the chest of new dresses was a promising start. She pushed open the lid and drew out the first gown, a soft length of pearl-colored silk that seemed more like a dawn cloud than an item of clothing.

“That’s lovely,” Anneth said approvingly. “The cut will look very well on you.”

Mara couldn’t see that the garment was shaped at all. To her eye, it was all pleats and billows. But with Anneth’s help, and one of the long belts, it began to make sense.

“Now go admire yourself in the mirror,” Anneth said, after affixing an opaline comb in Mara’s hair. “In fact, let’s fetch it—there’s one in the bedroom, is there not?”

There was: a tall, heavy thing that barely fit through the doorway. Once they’d positioned it to Anneth’s liking, Mara took her place before the reflection. For an instant, the memory of her scrying overlaid the mirrored surface, and she shivered in memory.

Then the moment passed. Mara’s vision cleared, to show an elegant woman garbed in a dress that seemed something from a legend. The shimmering fabric clung flatteringly about her chest and flowed into graceful skirts that did not hamper her movements in the least. Sicil would approve.

“Do you like it?” Anneth asked from her perch on the couch.

“I do. Though I still wouldn’t wear it to pull weeds.”

Anneth laughed. “That’s what the gardeners are for. Though if you really wanted to do such a thing, I’m sure they’d let you join them.”

“The warriors mostly wear trousers and tunics, I’ve noticed.” Mara turned toward her friend. “Do you think I might have some of those made, as well?”

She didn’t want to be too demanding, but, honestly, she couldn’t imagine wearing nothing but the gossamer clothing of the Dark Elf nobility.

With an impish grin, Anneth waved at the chest. “I thought you might ask. There should be two sets of them, down at the bottom.”

“Is it too eccentric of me?” Mara bent and began rifling through the silky, jewel-toned fabrics.

“No. You are a human, after all. It is probably a good thing, not to try to make yourself entirely into a Dark Elf courtier. A bit of oddity will go in your favor.”

Mara’s questing fingers found a heavier weave. She pulled out a dark blue tunic and shook it open.

“Ack!” Something scuttled over the cloth, and she hastily dropped the tunic. “There’s a bug.”

“There should be no insects in the clothing.” Frowning, Anneth stood and nudged the cloth with her foot.

A white spider the size of a coin rushed out from the edge of the tunic, making for the shadows under the couch.

“Kill it!” Anneth shrieked, leaping back.

Mara grabbed a scroll from the table and whacked the spider, hard. It curled into a small ball and lay motionless on the carpet.

“Hit it again,” Anneth said, her voice shaking.

Mara did, whacking until the spider was, without a doubt, dead.

“I didn’t know you were afraid of spiders,” she said, looking about for a kerchief or something to use to pick up the body and dispose of it.

“Don’t touch it.” Anneth let out a shaky breath. “It’s an unquale. Deadly poisonous.”

“Oh.” Mara swallowed and eyed the lifeless spider. “Are they common?”

Anneth shook her head vigorously. “No. There never should have been one in your clothing. They dwell in the distant vales outside the Cereus Court. I have not once seen one in Hawthorne.”

“Do you think… someone put it there on purpose?” Mara felt ill at the thought. If Anneth had not been there to warn her, she wouldn’t have a known a deadly spider was loose in her rooms.

“It is the most likely explanation, though it distresses me greatly.” Anneth shot her a worried look.

“Not a very foolproof plot, though. There was no guarantee the spider would remain in the chest, let alone leap out at an opportune moment.” It seemed just the kind of thing Mireleth would do, though—a hasty, ill-conceived plan to inflict harm.

Not that Mara had any proof. Just a dead spider curled on one corner of the carpet.

“We must inspect the chest fully,” Anneth said. “And each room. Then I will set a ward at the doors and windows, to keep any harmful person—or creature—from entering. I should have remembered that, without Bran here to renew them, the protections have faded.”

Mara pressed her lips together. Anneth may have forgotten, but someone else surely had not.

“Show me how to cast the wards,” she said.

She would not try, of course, but if her safety depended on it, she hoped her wellspring would respond.

To her relief, after Anneth showed her the simple protection spell, Mara was able to duplicate it. They scoured the rooms and, satisfied no more danger lurked, set the wards at the windows and doors. Anneth insisted on warding the door between the bedroom and sitting room, too. Just in case.

“I wish Bran were back,” Anneth said when they were finished.

“I do too.” Mara folded her arms across her chest, and tried not to think of black arrows flying out of the dark.

20

As Bran had hoped, the Moonflower Court was able to provide enough warriors to swell their ranks to over thirty fighters. The rulers expressed dismay at the news that Voidspawn still roamed Elfhame, but did not seem unduly alarmed.

“You saw no sign of the creatures as you traveled here from Nightshade?” the Moonflower Lady asked, her voice holding only mild curiosity, as they lingered over their breakfast of fruit and cheese.

“We saw blighted areas,” Bran said. “But none of the actual Voidspawn.”

It had been worrisome, to suspect that the creatures were moving about Elfhame and yet managing to avoid the scouting parties.

The Moonflower Lord blinked sleepily at him. “Are you even certain that such blight is caused by the Void?”

“Not entirely.” Bran bit out the words. “But I can see no other reason.”

He wished he could inject more urgency into the languorous court, but Moonflower had ever held themselves slightly apart. Perhaps it was due to the proximity of the Oracles, who dwelt not far away, at the place where Moonflower and the lands of Cereus and Jessamin intersected.

He’d considered visiting the enigmatic seers, but they only ever spoke once to any single person, and that included saying the prophecy for each royal child. Belatedly, he realized that Mara was one of the few people in all of Elfhame whom the Oracles would see. As soon as he returned to Hawthorne, he’d plan a journey to take her to the place of prophecy.

“Perhaps there is a drought,” the lady said. “Or an affliction of the soil. Such things have been known to occur.”

Bran frowned. Not in his lifetime, or that of his parents, however. But there was no point in arguing with the rulers of Moonflower.

“Thank you for lending your support,” he said instead, pushing aside his silver plate. “Your fighters are much appreciated.”

“It is good for them to travel a bit,” the Moonflower Lord said, as if Bran were taking the soldiers on a pleasure jaunt instead of a possibly deadly reconnoitering mission. “Gives them renewed perspective once they return home.”

His wife nodded placidly. “Good journeys to you, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor.”

With a tight smile, Bran took his leave. He did not envy Hestil her task of visiting the inner courts, though she’d protested his division of their forces.

“It’s foolish for you to take fewer than ten warriors,” she’d said, giving him a hard look.

“Rowan will give me more. If you keep the bulk of the force, you’ll be able to patrol the inner courts that much more quickly, and then join me.”

She’d frowned, but Bran knew his reasoning was sound—in this, at least.

In the light of the half-full palemoon, the soldiers gathered outside Moonflower’s gates.

“We will come to you as soon as we may,” Hestil said as they shared the traditional warrior’s clasp, wrist to wrist. “Good luck, Commander.”

“And to you, my second.” He released her and raised his hand, signaling the riders to make ready.

For some reason, the lassitude of Moonflower made him want to make a show of this departure. Rather than simply riding out, he’d prepared the warriors for a battle charge across the open meadows surrounding the court.

It might do nothing but make him feel better, but perhaps the sight would stir Moonflower’s blood. He could hope so, at any rate.

With a fierce yell, he swept his hand down.

The warriors echoed his cry, surging forward with their blades raised. After the initial charge, Hestil led her troop in a graceful curve to the southeast. They would enter Cereus near the Oracle’s haven.

Bran’s fighters continued north. He grinned at the sensation of the wind combing through his hair, the thud of hooves vibrating in his chest, the glint of blades sparking in his vision. He did not call a halt until the Moonflower Palace had receded behind them to a pale blur in the distance.

They made camp as the palemoon set, having encountered no trace of the Void. No corroded patches of bare ground marred the way, nor any hint of their presence in his magical sensing. The fighters were in good spirits, telling tales around the flickering campfire and sharing skins of mead. Still, Bran posted lookouts. Although the enemy didn’t seem to be close, he’d learned caution early on. He would not risk his people by being lulled into a false sense of security.

After an uneventful sleep, they broke camp and continued on. They would reach the border with Rowan in a few turns, and the court itself on the morrow. As they rode, Bran practiced extending the range of his magical net. His wellspring was almost entirely restored after several moons of almost no spell casting.

Behind them, he could just barely sense the glow of Moonflower, and likewise with Rowan, ahead. To the west, his power brushed against the solidity of the barrier that enclosed Elfhame. It hummed softly, its protections unbroken.

East and north, the Erynvorn pulsed with living magic.

He could not discern the gateway, but knew it was there, tucked in a clearing hidden deep within the shelter of the ancient trees. The portal itself held no magic, and he hoped that would render it invisible to the Void. Even if the shard that had lodged within him had sensed the gateway opening and closing, perhaps it had been too embattled to understand what was happening.

It was a thin hope, and he knew he was foolish to cling to it. But the thought of the ravenous Void descending on the weak and unsuspecting mortal world made his stomach clench, and distracted him from his immediate purpose.

He turned his sensing away from the forest and back to the surrounding vicinity. For a moment, he thought he felt a flicker of black—but it was gone before he could reach for it.

Frowning, he turned in the saddle, but the silvergrass stretched calmly on either side of the road, broken by a few stands of pale birch trees where ashdoves cooed contentedly.

Still, he would set an extra watch that evening, and cast wards of protection about the camp himself.

Their sleep proved uneventful, and the palemoon dawned in a wash of lilac and silver. The party had just broken their fast and were packing up bedrolls, when the wards Bran had set blazed with blue fire.

“Gyrewolves!” one of his youngest fighters cried, scrambling for his bow.

Bran drew his sword and flung one hand out, casting a magebolt at the lead wolf. There were five of them against his seven. Not the best odds. His warriors would be victorious, but not without taking injuries. Luckily, they could count on their mounts, who were already lashing about with hooves and teeth.

Gyrewolves used the vicious tactic of attempting to separate a single fighter and tear them to bits. Already his archer, Brethil, was hard-pressed, one of the wolves facing him while a second circled behind, sharp teeth bared.

“To Brethil!” Bran cried, sprinting to the fighter’s aid.

Two of his other warriors engaged the lead gyrewolf and were backing toward the embattled archer, who was slashing desperately with his short sword. The last three elves faced the two remaining wolves. One of the creatures rushed forward, snapping, and the other tried to slide between his fighters and the rest of the group.

“Stay together,” Bran called.

Whirling, he struck at the beast menacing Brethil. The gyrewolf turned with a snarl, eyes glowing a menacing red.

“Bran, duck!” one of his warriors called.

He went to his knees, barely avoiding the lead wolf’s flying leap. Vicious teeth snapped the air where Bran’s neck would have been.

Brethil managed to score its side as it flew past. Hot blood spattered down onto Bran’s hands. Luckily, gyrewolves did not secrete the same toxic compound as spiderkin.

A shout of pain came from the group of three. They’d beaten their attackers back, but one of the wolves had managed to charge in, sinking its teeth into one warrior’s leg.

Time to end this.

“Keep them at bay,” Bran said, then reached deep into his wellspring. “Coronnar!”

Flame shot from his fingertips, knocking the two closest gyrewolves back. They howled and twitched, no longer any danger to Bran or his men, and he turned to the remaining three. The lead wolf, again showing unexpected intelligence, had already taken flight, its companions trailing.

Bran invoked his fire again, sending a ball of flame at the fleeing creatures. It hit the back of the trailing gyrewolf, who yelped and redoubled its speed. An arrow, lofted from Brethil’s bow, followed, but fell short.

The archer turned to Bran. “Do we pursue?”

“No. We’ve wounded to tend.” Mouth set, he watched the gyrewolves flee into the distance, heading northeast.

Toward the Erynvorn.

The stink of scorched fur hung in the air. Bran toed one of the dead gyrewolves, then turned to his fighters.

“We need to incinerate them,” he said. Though they were dead, he wanted to leave no stain of the Void upon Elfhame.

All but his injured warrior joined him in a rough circle around the bodies. Bran spoke the rune for cleansing fire, and the others added their magic—helpful, as his own wellspring had dipped with his use of battle magic. A clean white blaze sprang up, covering the gruesome bodies, and he watched them burn, narrow-eyed.

Fortune had favored his warriors, and he knew Hestil would not be pleased when he told her of the attack. Still, despite their small numbers, they had fought well.

Brethil, who had the most healing talent of those present, tended to the wounded fighter’s leg, then performed soothing magics on the smaller injuries. Two of the horses bore claw marks, but they were mostly unscathed.

The fire burned until the gyrewolves were nothing but blackened ashes on the ground. Then, grimly, Bran and his fighters finished breaking camp, mounted their horses, and made for the Rowan Court.

21

Mara dodged Sicil’s dagger thrust, only to have the warrior pivot and bat the weapon from her hand. The little blade landed point-first in the deep moss of the garden, the hilt sticking up like a reprimand.

“Counterattack,” Sicil said with a stern look. “Do not evade—it puts you at a constant disadvantage. You want your opponent to worry, not toy with you.”

“I’m trying.” With a sigh, Mara bent and plucked her dagger from the ground, then wiped the blade on her azure skirts.

“Back to lunge drills,” her instructor said. “Take your stance. Now thrust.”

At least the muscles of Mara’s thighs didn’t protest too much as she followed Sicil’s instructions. Her body was toughening up, even though she wasn’t yet performing to the warrior’s exacting standards. A quiet life in Little Hazel and her stint as a chambermaid in Castle Raine hadn’t given Mara much need to defend herself, let alone go on the offensive.

The magic was going better, at least. Although she failed more often than she succeeded, she could now call foxfire and cast rudimentary wards. Every night, she fell into bed exhausted in both mind and body. She welcomed the dark, dreamless embrace of sleep, and pushed herself during the day so that she would not have to think about her precarious place in the Hawthorne Court.

And to drive back the ache of missing Bran.

Anneth had promised to help Mara scry for him after her training session with Sicil was finished. Her own efforts along those lines had been fairly unsuccessful. She had not been able to summon Bran to a scrying. Once, she glimpsed her husband’s face, set and unreadable, where he paced in an ornate courtyard ringed with pale flowers, and then the silver water had shimmered back into her own reflection.

“That is the Moonflower Court,” Penluith had said, from where he was observing over her shoulder.

“He didn’t seem happy.”

The tutor pursed his mouth slightly--just the faintest thinning of his lips. “Moonflower is not quick to action.”

Poor Bran. She hoped he met with less frustration as he continued on to the other courts.

“Where is he going next?” she asked, thinking of the maps hung in one corner of Bran’s sitting room. “Rowan?”

“Likely,” Penluith said. “But you would do better to inquire of Sicil about such things.”

When asked, Sicil had given her a long look, then confirmed that Bran would be headed to Rowan. The knowledge comforted Mara. Instead of staring at the entirety of Elfhame, at least she’d have some notion of where in the land he was.

“Enough,” Sicil said as Mara finished her last set of lunges. “On the morrow, we will resume sparring against one another.”

Mara straightened and wiped her sleeve across her sweaty forehead.

Although at first it seemed ridiculous to train in court gowns, the dresses were surprisingly easy to maneuver in. The fabric had proven durable, despite its gossamer shimmer, and resistant to stains. Not quite as practical as homespun, but perhaps that was her own inability to imagine such garb as everyday wear. The rest of the Hawthorne Court seemed unbothered by such things.

Mara had seen them go for pleasure rides wearing ornate costumes, eat without a care for their exquisitely embroidered sleeves, and, in the case of the more simply clad warriors, spar without removing their elaborate jewelry. Such things were the Dark Elves’ way.

After the encounter with the spiderkin, Anneth had insisted Mara send all her clothes for laundering. Since then, Mara had eyed the dark blue tunic, but not put it on. Perhaps she would do so on the morrow.

She bade Sicil farewell and returned to the rooms she was beginning to think of as hers. If one could fit themselves around the edges of a magic-wielding warrior prince, that was.

Still, Mara found that the ways of the Dark Elves had begun to seem less strange. The flavors of the food, though not what she’d grown up with, were now familiar on her tongue. She’d figured out the knack of winding her dresses about herself. And her progress in calling upon her wellspring was heartening.

As long as she did not imagine herself trapped in the Hawthorne Court for the rest of her life, she thought she could bear the future. If Bran ever came back…

The kitchens had sent a plate of fruit while she’d been training with Sicil. After freshening up, Mara took a slice of moonmelon and a handful of red berries. The tart berries provided a pleasant counterpoint to the sweet melon. As she chewed, she went to stare at the maps on Bran’s wall.

Rowan shared a border with Hawthorne, but the courts were at opposite corners from one another. Her hopes that Bran might stop to see her were dashed as she traced the distance with one berry-stained fingertip.

A sharp cramp in her belly made her gasp and double over. It passed quickly, but was followed by a wave of nausea that had her running to the commode.

Several shaky minutes later, after emptying the contents of her stomach, she felt better. She rose, washed out her mouth, and went back to the sitting room. The couch felt particularly comfortable, and she sank back into the pillows. She’d just rest until Anneth came.

Anneth’s knock at the door woke Mara from a light doze.

“Yes?” she called out sleepily, the tatters of a restless dream still misting her mind.

“It’s Anneth.”

“Come in.” Mara sat up and rubbed her eyes. She felt strangely drained, her limbs numb and heavy.

Bran’s sister opened the door and stepped in, the smile falling from her face when her gaze fell upon Mara.

“Whatever is wrong? You’re quite pale.”

“Am I?” Mara looked down at her hands, which seemed normal, despite the slight tingling in her fingertips. “I think maybe the fruit went bad.”

She gestured at the silver platter set on the table, noting that the red berries had, strangely, turned to black. That would explain her sudden illness and the lingering aftereffects.

Anneth glanced at the fruit, then gasped, a sharp inhalation edged with fear. “Where did this come from?”

Anneth’s fright was contagious, and Mara shivered at the stark look on her friend’s face.

“It was here when I returned from training—I assumed the kitchen sent it up. Why?”

“Did you eat any of the berries?”

“A few. Anneth, what—”

“I must fetch Avantor.” Anneth whirled to the door. “Those are marlock berries. And they’re deadly.”

She was gone before Mara could ask anything more. Shaken, Mara slumped back on the couch. Someone had tried to poison her—and very nearly succeeded. But how had they managed to pass the wards?

Someone at the Hawthorne Court wanted her dead. The knowledge was like shards of ice through her belly. As to whom it might be? Both Mireleth’s threats and Tinnueth’s hatred were tangible, and Mara knew that one, or both of them, must be at the heart of the attacks.

She closed her eyes as a wave of weary bitterness washed over her. If only she could return home. She would give almost anything to be in her own bed, her mother’s warm hand on her forehead.

The sound of the door opening roused her again. Avantor entered first and sprinted to her side, Anneth following. Mara noticed that she locked the door behind her.

“Lie still,” the healer said, taking Mara’s hands in his. “This is not going to be comfortable, I’m afraid. But I must drive the poison out of your system as quickly as possible.”

“That’s all right,” Mara mumbled, her tongue thick in her mouth.

Avantor began chanting, and the tingling in Mara’s hands intensified. The sensation turned to a blazing fire, sweeping up her arms and into her chest. It took all her self-control to keep from crying out in pain as her body was engulfed in magical flames. Tears sprang to her eyes and she pressed her lips tightly together. Surely it would be over soon.

Finally, the heat faded. She pulled in a wavering breath.

“Done?” she asked.

Avantor nodded, his expression grave. “The marlock has been purged from your system, but you will feel weak and listless for at least another day.”

The tear tracks on her face itched, and she pulled her hands from the healer’s grasp in order to swipe her palms over her cheeks. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

Anneth let out a squeak of dismay, but neither she nor Avantor tried to argue otherwise.

“How did they come into the room?” Mara continued, looking at Anneth. “I thought the wards prevented such things.”

“They protect from malice and threatening creatures,” Avantor said. “But if an innocent person entered, even bearing such poison, the wards would not be activated.”

“And marlock berries could be made to look like something perfectly innocent, with a small illusion spell,” Anneth said.

That would explain the color shift.

“I’m not safe here,” Mara said. “I have to leave.”

“Not… back to the human world?” Anneth’s voice was desolate.

“No.” Not yet, anyway. She had promised Bran she would stay.

“Perhaps Nightshade,” Avantor began.

“Not there.” Conviction crystallized inside Mara. “I’ll go join Bran.”

“I don’t think that is advisable,” Avantor said.

“Why?” Mara scowled at him. “Don’t try telling me it’s too dangerous. Obviously the Hawthorne Court is worse.”

He tucked his chin back, affronted. “I only meant that you should not depart immediately. The marlock poison—”

“Then come with me, to make sure I don’t fall off my horse.”

“Take Sicil, too,” Anneth said. “You need a warrior with you.”

Avantor shook his head. “Bran placed her in charge here. She will not abandon her post. But perhaps Ondo, the leader of the scouts, will come.”

“I will see to your provisions myself,” Anneth said, giving the fruit platter another wary glance.

“How soon can we leave?” Mara asked. “I don’t want to spend another night within these walls.”

Avantor gave a sigh of disapproval. “I will speak with Ondo, and scry to Bran, asking him to wait for us at the Rowan Court. I warn you, he will not be pleased.”

Mara struggled to sit up, her mind already racing with plans—and relief.

“Trust me, he’d be even less pleased to return to Hawthorne and find me dead. Anneth, help me change into that tunic and trousers, if you would.”

“And I will take this away.” Gingerly, Avantor scooped up the platter, keeping his fingers well away from the marlock berries. “I will return as soon as I speak with Ondo.”

Mara nodded at him. Soon enough, she would leave the Hawthorne Court behind. She could hardly wait.

22

As Bran and his troop approached the Rowan Court, the summons for a scrying tugged at his attention. He glanced at the pale walls of the palace ahead, then sent out a quick sensing. This close to the court, he was satisfied there was no danger.

“Go on without me,” he said to his warriors, turning off the roadway and reining Fuin in. “I must take a moment to scry.”

“I will keep watch,” Brethil said, lifting his bow.

Bran nodded his assent, and the archer rode a short distance away, giving his commander a modicum of privacy. Wind riffled the tall silvergrass around Fuin’s legs. As soon as the small party had ridden on, Bran quieted his mind and focused on the summons.

Avantor’s face shimmered in the air before him, and the sight of the healer sent a stab of apprehension into his gut.

“What is it?” Bran demanded. “Is Mara well? Anneth?”

“Both are… well enough.”

Bran frowned at Avantor’s hesitation. “Tell me.”

“Someone slipped marlock berries to Mara.” The healer held up his hand, stilling Bran’s startled interruption. “Her own body knew enough to rid itself of what it could, and my healing did the rest. She is recovering and will be back to full health soon.”

“Someone tried to poison my wife?” Bran tensed with anger. “I will return immediately.”

“No. We are coming to you. Mara wants to leave the Hawthorne Court, and I cannot persuade her otherwise.”

Despite the black tide of anger rising in him, Bran could not hold back a tight smile. His beloved was strong-willed—one of the things he cherished about her. “In that case, come to Rowan. We’ve just arrived. She will be safe here.” And with him.

“We will be on our way soon.” Avantor’s image faded.

Frowning, Bran turned to survey the graceful pillars of the Rowan Court rising from the meadows ahead. Behind the palace, a grove of birch trees whispered. The sight was not enough to ease the tight knot from his throat.

Marlock berries. He had not imagined needing to warn Mara about them. What other dangers had he overlooked?

He’d been a fool to leave her behind. Would she forgive him for believing that the Hawthorne Court was safer than traveling with him? He should have listened to her.

“I won’t fail you again, Mara Geary,” he said softly into the breeze. “That, I promise you.”

* * *

The palemoon had set by the time Mara felt well enough to leave the Hawthorne Court. Despite her strong words to Avantor, she was not fool enough to set out while her body still trembled and fatigue fogged her mind. Still, she was resolved not to sleep again within the treacherous walls of the palace.

In any case, it was better to depart while most of the courtiers were asleep. The fewer people who knew she’d left, the safer she would be.

She’d considered staying at the court and coming up with some intricate plot to unmask her enemy. But, in truth, she did not have the allies or resources to do so. Her naivety about Elfhame had already put her in mortal danger, first with the spider and second with the berries. What else was she unaware of that might be her undoing?

Avantor had suggested she remain in Bran’s rooms under heavy guard until the prince returned. She’d quickly rejected that idea. The Hawthorne Court was prison enough. Being trapped in a small set of rooms for who knew how long would surely drive her mad.

Besides, Bran had been informed she was coming to Rowan. Surprisingly, according to Avantor, he hadn’t argued.

So she had rested for a time under the healer’s watchful eye, and then, with Anneth’s aid, gathered a small bundle of her belongings, donned the tunic and trousers, and belted on her dagger. After helping her, Anneth had slipped down to the kitchens to fetch them provisions.

“Go make ready,” Mara told Avantor, who was hovering about her in an annoyingly solicitous manner. “I’ve got my dagger, and I promise not to open the door to anyone but you or Anneth.”

“Keep it locked,” the healer said, clearly reluctant to leave her alone.

“I will.” She let a touch of exasperation edge her voice. “Now, go. The sooner we are away from here, the better.”

He gave her a tight nod, then cracked the door open and surveyed the hallway. Satisfied that no one was lurking, he slipped out. Mara shot the bolt home as soon as the door closed.

Despite her brave words, she did not feel entirely comfortable being alone in the palace. But whoever was trying to kill her had used subtle means, thus far. Surely she was not in any immediate danger.

She spent the minutes looking at the map of Elfhame mounted on the far wall. The Darkwood covered the northeast section, depicted on the map in deep purple. The parchment did not hint at the fact that the gateway back to her world lay hidden in the depths of the forest.

And although it seemed all of Elfhame knew of the portal, mostly they did not care. The human world was of little interest to Dark Elves—all except Anneth, who had made a study of all things mortal. A hobby that was, apparently, mocked by the denizens of Hawthorne.

A flame of anger flickered in Mara’s chest. Without that gate, and her own presence, Elfhame would have been consumed by the darkness of the Void.

Her temper cooled as she recalled that they were still a doomed people. The end was coming. Slowly, but inexorably, until the last of the Dark Elves grew old and faded away.

No. She clenched her hands into fists. It was not right, that she had given up her world in order to save Bran’s, just so that he could watch his people die. The prophecy could not be finished yet.

Though she had no notion how to reverse the infertility of an entire population. If it could be done by magic, surely the Dark Elves would have done so. But what else was left?

Avantor’s return pulled her from such unhappy musings, and Anneth followed soon after. She distributed the neatly wrapped packets of food, along with three full water skins.

“This should be enough to get you to Rowan, with extra to spare,” she said. “Is Ondo meeting you here?”

“No,” Avantor replied, tucking away the extra provisions. “He is gathering the horses. We are to meet him behind the stables when we’re ready to depart.”

“Which we are.” Mara looked to Avantor. “Yes?”

The healer gave her a short nod, and Anneth stepped forward to embrace Mara.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Please, be careful.”

“I will—and it’s not that far to Rowan. Avantor can scry you with our progress.” At least, Mara assumed he could.

Quietly, they walked down the dimly lit corridors. Mara warily eyed the patches of shadow between the foxfire balls, but no one skulked there, waiting to leap out at her.

When they reached Anneth’s rooms, she squeezed Mara’s hand, then slipped inside. The fewer people moving about the halls, the better chance they’d go undetected. Mara felt even more lonely once she was gone. Avantor was not poor company, exactly, but she would sorely miss Anneth’s light spirits and the impish sweetness of her smile.

Silently, Mara and Avantor made their way to the door leading to the gardens. Outside, a faint wash of starlight lay silver on the closed buds of the flowers, and a soft breeze murmured in the leaves.

A single glimglow roused as Mara passed, rising to bob in the air like a small beacon. Avantor gave her a wide-eyed glance. They could not risk discovery.

“Shh,” Mara told it, waving the glowing creature away.

As if understanding their urgency, the glimglow sank back and tucked itself under a spray of ferns, its light dimming to a soft golden pulse.

Swallowing with relief, Mara followed Avantor past the furled blossoms and dark-leaved hedges until they reached the back of the stables. Ondo awaited them, as promised, with three mounts.

Her heartbeat echoing in her ears, Mara glanced up at the tall creature meant as her mount. Sudden yearning for Bran stabbed through her as she recalled her first ride to the Hawthorne Court, perched before him on Fuin. It had not been comfortable, riding with a forbidding warrior mage, but now she missed his strong, taciturn presence with every inch of her body.

Soon. She would see him in a few moons, according to Avantor.

Ondo made quick work of stowing their bags and provisions behind the saddles, then glanced at her.

“Milady,” he said in a quiet voice, indicating that she should mount.

Clenching her jaw, Mara took hold of the pommel and, with a boost from the scout, managed to land atop her horse. Unlike riding in the human world, the Dark Elves used no reins or bridle. Mara set her hands on the pommel and hoped her mount knew what to do. Mostly, it just needed to follow Ondo, who guided his horse ahead of hers. Avantor, expression unhappy, took up the rear.

The scout led them single file through the hushed grounds to an arch in the wall. It was high enough for them to ride beneath, and between one breath and the next, they were through.

As she emerged beyond the walls, tension ebbed from Mara, and she looked back over her shoulder at the shimmering stones of the palace. The arched windows, curved columns, and graceful towers rose into the star-speckled sky like an enchanted dream.

With a poisoned heart.

Letting out a low breath, she turned her back on the Hawthorne Court and let the stillness of the realm of Elfhame enfold her.

23

“Prince Brannonilon.” Pharne, the primary Rowan Lord, greeted Bran with a weary smile. “We have been expecting you. Welcome.”

“Is all well?” Bran glanced at the party who had gathered to greet him at Rowan’s gates.

The black-haired Lords, their quiet daughter, who had been born to Pharne’s mistress just before the Dark Elves became unable to conceive, and a handful of warriors. Even here, in the court, their stances were wary.

“My scouts have encountered Voidspawn recently.” Lord Pharne shook his head. “It is troubling, to say the least.”

“Very,” Lord Indil agreed.

“Are the creatures behaving strangely?” Bran asked. At least he wouldn’t have to try to convince Rowan of the danger, unlike his experience with the leaders of Moonflower.

“Yes.” Rowan’s commander, Nehta, stepped forward—a soft-voiced woman who was reputedly fearsome in battle. “Twice now, they have set ambushes for our scouts—but if outnumbered, they disengage and flee.”

“Toward the Erynvorn?” Bran asked, though he knew the answer.

“Aye.”

Unease settled on his shoulders. “Troubling, indeed. I have received word from my second-in-command—and confirmed it with my own magic—that the inner courts are free of all traces of the Void. Whatever creatures remained after the Void’s defeat, they seem to be gathering in the forest.”

“To mount another attack?” Nehta asked, fingers tightening on the pommel of her sword.

“Perhaps.” Bran looked from her to the Rowan Lords. “We should speak more of this, privately. Also, my wife will be arriving in three moons.”

Lord Indil’s dark brows rose, perfect arches of surprise. “The mortal woman?”

“Her name is Mara. I expect you to treat her with all courtesy.”

“Of course we will.” Lord Pharne glanced at his husband, then back to Bran. “Is there… any particular reason she is joining you?”

“It is time for her to leave Hawthorne, but she is not coming here because we expect a battle at Rowan,” Bran said, offering what reassurance he could. “The Void rift has been closed, beyond a doubt. And there are not enough remaining Voidspawn to overrun a court.” He hoped.

Lord Pharne gave him a tight nod, but the Rowan commander’s pale blue eyes slitted thoughtfully. Nehta was a clever woman, and Bran could see her coming to the same conclusion he had: there might not be a fight coming to the Rowan Court, but nonetheless, one loomed.

It was up to him to eradicate the Void creatures, with whatever reinforcements Rowan could lend. Hestil was on her way too, but it would be at least a doublemoon before she arrived—which might well be too late.

He hated to think of Mara’s reaction when he told her of the threat to her world. There would be no stopping her from riding into battle with him—and, in truth, he was glad of it. They had been too long apart.

“Come, refresh yourselves,” Lord Indil said, gesturing Bran and his party forward. “Prince Brannonilon, let us meet in the royal library in a turn, if that suits?”

“A half turn will suffice.” The sooner they discussed strategy, the better.

The Hawthorne Lord nodded and held his arm out to his partner. The couple led their guests through the arched entrance of the Rowan Court. As they strode the foxfire-lit halls, Bran took note of the difference between Rowan and Hawthorne.

In keeping with its namesake, the ceilings of the Rowan Court featured carvings of bright berries and branched leaves, the sprays trailing down to wind about the foxfire sconces. The corridors were a hand span narrower than those of Hawthorne, and as they walked, Bran calculated the distance of his sword swing.

If pressed, there would be just enough room to fight. Not that he was anticipating needing to do so. And he always had his magic, of course, but a warrior’s training kept him on the alert.

Nehta led Bran’s soldiers to their guest quarters, and the Hawthorne Lords ushered him deeper into the palace.

“We hope you are comfortable here.” Lord Indil halted, indicating a door inlaid with silver moons.

“I’m certain I will be.” Bran nodded his thanks.

“Then we’ll see you in a half turn.” Lord Pharne gave him a tight smile. “I look forward to discussing how to deal with this current threat.”

“As do I.”

* * *

“I am not certain it is necessary to pursue the Voidspawn into the Erynvorn,” Lord Indil said, leaning forward with an earnest look on his face. “As long as they are not attacking the courts, why risk our warriors?”

With effort, Bran kept his claws from extending, though he wanted to shred the plush upholstery on the armchair he was occupying. The Rowan Lords’ library was full of opulent furnishings and gilded scrolls—too soft a place to be discussing strategy, in Bran’s opinion. But there was nothing he could do about it, except try to rein in his temper.

“It is our duty to eradicate the remaining Voidspawn,” he said tightly. “Elfhame is not safe until they are gone.”

“That is the point,” Lord Pharne said. “If we wait, the problem may well take care of itself.”

Bran frowned at him. “Are you honestly suggesting we let the creatures roam freely, until they expire?”

A sly expression crossed Lord Pharne’s face. “We both know there is another way to expel the creatures from Elfhame, without sustaining more losses.”

Surely the Rowan Lord wasn’t implying they let the Voidspawn invade the human world? Yet, as Bran studied his face, it was clear that Lord Pharne meant precisely that.

“No.” Bran clenched his hands. “I cannot believe you are suggesting such a thing. The gateway between our realm and the human world must remain closed.”

“We cannot lose more of our people,” Lord Indil said, leaning forward. “Prince Brannonilon, you know as well as I that we are doomed. The life of every Dark Elf is more precious than ever, now. Why not open the portal and let the Voidspawn depart?”

“Because humans are completely unprepared for an incursion of the Void,” Bran said tightly. “We have magic to keep the darkness from tearing another rift into our world—but the mortals do not. They would have no idea how to combat the Void.”

Lord Pharne shrugged slightly. “The Void has eaten many realms. What happens outside of Elfhame is not our concern.”

His husband nodded. “We cannot save every world. It is enough that Elfhame is safe, no matter that our people might be dying out. Prince Brannonilon, surely you see that the Dark Elves cannot be protectors of all other realms?”

Bran clamped his mouth closed on the shouts of protest thundering in his chest. The Rowan Lords were right… and wrong.

“If the Void overruns the human world,” he argued, “they will gain enough strength to force the gateway open into our world once more. Elfhame will not be safe.”

“But how long will that take?” Lord Indil asked, his voice mild. “The last of us may well be gone by that point, and thus it will not matter if our realm falls into shadow.”

Unable to sit a moment longer, Bran rose, breaking protocol. He didn’t care if he loomed over the lords. They should be glad he wasn’t sending mage bolts sizzling into the shelves.

“This is the thanks you give me, and my human wife, for saving our world?” He didn’t bother to control his temper any longer. “I thought you had more honor than that.”

Lord Indil had the grace to look ashamed, but Lord Pharne simply cocked a brow. “We are not saved, Hawthorne Prince. The end is simply delayed.”

“Are you saying you no longer trust the Oracles?”

Lord Pharne rose, his graceful movements marred by tension in his shoulders. “Your prophecy promised to save Elfhame, Prince Brannonilon. It did not explicitly say you would keep our people from perishing.”

“Surely the prophecy meant the Dark Elves as well as our lands!”

“We cannot know that.” Lord Indil stood, joining his partner in facing Bran. “You are welcome to our hospitality, but we will not send our warriors with you into the Erynvorn.”

Bran narrowed his eyes. He wanted to throw their so-called hospitality back in the Rowan Lords’ faces and storm out immediately, but he must think of his own soldiers. They needed a respite from the road. A pity it would be shorter then they’d anticipated.

“We will not overstay your hospitality,” he said stiffly. “On the morrow, we will depart.”

He and his warriors would rendezvous with Mara on the road. If he could, he would keep the information from her that Rowan was content to let the Voidspawn loose on the mortal world. She was already unhappy in Elfhame, and knowing that the Dark Elves cared nothing for the plight of humans would not make her any more kindly disposed toward his world. Rather the opposite.

“As you wish,” Lord Pharne said. “Your party is, of course, welcome to join us for the evening meal.”

Although Bran was inclined to sulk in his rooms, his position as Hawthorne Prince dictated otherwise. He inclined his head in an attempt at graciousness. “We will.”

The food would be tasteless, the conversation strained, but he and his soldiers would take what nourishment they could before setting out once more in pursuit of the Voidspawn.

24

The palemoon rose as Mara and her companions rode through dappled birch groves and meadows of silvergrass. Ondo led, following a narrow trail just wide enough for the horses to traverse. It seemed traveled enough that no branches crossed the pathway, no underbrush covered the trail.

Mostly, they rode in silence. The scout was a quiet fellow, and although Avantor answered Mara’s questions about various foliage and the small animals they encountered, such things did not lead to long conversations.

She supposed they were worried about the attempt on her life—as was she.

“Do you think Anneth is safe, remaining in Hawthorne?” she asked, craning her neck back to address Avantor.

The healer lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I see no reason why she would be in danger.”

Mara pressed her lips together. He was probably correct, but she still did not like leaving her friend behind.

She’d asked Anneth to come with them, but Bran’s sister had shaken her head.

“One of us must stay and try to uncover who it is that means you harm,” she said. “I am the best candidate. After all, no one else knows that I’m aware of the attempts on your life.”

She’d pressed Mara’s hand and told her not to worry, and nothing Mara said would sway her.

And now, the court was several hours’ ride behind them and all questions of staying or going were past answering. Mara took a deep breath of the flower-scented air and tried not to fret. Elfhame was not the human world, but its ethereal beauty was soothing.

“Are you weary?” Ondo glanced back at her. “We can make camp soon.”

She shook her head, denying the wave of exhaustion washing through her. “I’ll ride as long as you think necessary.”

His eyebrows drew together slightly. From behind her, Avantor let out a short laugh.

“Do not wait for Mara to call a halt, Ondo. She is as tough as a stone, and will ride until the brightmoon rises, if you let her.”

“Hm.” The warrior’s brow smoothed. “We’ll take a short rest to eat, then, before continuing on. The more time we make now, the shorter our journey will be.”

That didn’t quite make sense to Mara, but she didn’t argue as Ondo led them to a small clearing beside the path. She slipped down from her mount without help, though her legs protested as she jarred down to earth. It seemed riding called for different muscles than dagger training, and she winced at the thought of the aches ahead.

It was worth it, though. Not only to be free of the Hawthorne Court, but to be riding toward Bran. The prospect of seeing him again lifted her spirits.

“I need to relieve myself,” she told Avantor, a bit shyly. “Is there a place…?”

“Behind that coppice,” the healer said, gesturing to small grouping of trees. “Do not stray too far, however.”

She nodded and went into the trees. To her surprise, there was a tiny building tucked in the shadows, with adequate, though limited, facilities. The Dark Elves must use the clearing as a regular stopping point, she guessed. No matter how tiny the trail seemed, it was the main road between Hawthorne and Rowan, after all.

When she was finished, she stepped outside and took a moment to stretch, relishing the solitude of the woods.

A twig broke, and she whirled.

“Who’s there?”

Only silence greeted her. The birds had fallen silent. A shiver crawled up her back, and she dropped her hand to the handle of her dagger.

Between one breath and the next, a figure draped in gray charged at her from the left, sharp blades flashing in each hand.

Mara yelled and whirled to meet the attack, pulling her own blade free. Everything slowed, and with terrible clarity, she saw the sharp-edged steel descending.

Clang! Against all reason, she was able to parry the first blow with her own dagger, though her arm felt almost numb from the impact. But the attacker’s other knife was sweeping in, and she had only an empty hand to meet it with.

Blue flame gathered in her belly, and without conscious thought she flung up her palm.

“Turma!” she cried, invoking the shielding spell Penluith had drilled into her.

Unlike the weak flicker that was all she’d been able to cast previously, the air around her ignited, the light so bright that Mara had to squint to see anything. Although heat poured from her hands, nothing but coolness enveloped her.

Her attacker let out a cry and dropped his now-burning blades. The gray cloak he wore wisped away into flame, then smoke, revealing a figure Mara did not recognize.

“Mara!” Ondo burst from the trees, Avantor close behind.

Mara’s attacker glanced at them, then fled, melting into the woods as fluidly as he’d appeared.

As suddenly as the shield had flared to life, it extinguished. Mara’s legs went out. With a gasp, she toppled, managing at the last moment to turn her fall into an inelegant cross-legged sprawl upon the leaf-strewn ground.

“Are you injured?” Avantor went to his knees beside her and hastily waved his hands over her body.

“No.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “At least, I don’t think so. He didn’t land a blow.”

Avantor exchanged a quick look with Ondo.

“Go after him,” the healer said.

The warrior pivoted and ran, fleet-footed, in the direction her attacker had gone. Despite Ondo’s speed, Mara doubted he would be able to catch her would-be assassin.

“How was he able to follow us?” Mara asked as Avantor finished checking her over.

His face hardened. “Strong magic. Both Ondo and I should have sensed them. And we never should have let you go alone. I beg your forgiveness, Lady Mara.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. How could you have known?” She pulled her knees up to her chest. “We took all care to leave the court undetected. Who would have magic so strong that they could shadow us for hours, undetected?”

The healer looked at the ground and would not meet her eyes when he spoke. “The rulers of the courts.”

A chill moved through her. “That wasn’t the Hawthorne Lord or Lady. Are you saying there are other heirs? Or that my attacker was someone from Rowan?”

“No.” Avantor was quick to correct her. “It is possible to imbue a talisman with magic. A spell of concealment, in this case. But only those of royal blood have the power to create such things.”

She wanted to bury her head in her hands. The more time she spent in Elfhame, the less she knew.

“So it probably was someone from Hawthorne,” she mused aloud. “Someone sent by Bran’s parents.”

His expression troubled, Avantor’s gaze once again went to the scuffed soil.

“How were you able to summon such a shield?” he asked, clearly changing the subject.

Mara didn’t press him. How could he admit that at least one of his rulers wanted her dead? Tinnueth seemed the obvious choice. Had the Hawthorne Lady been behind the other attacks on her? Somehow, Mara didn’t think so. If Tinnueth wanted a thing done, she succeeded. The only reason Mara’s assailant had failed was because of her unexpected ability to conjure a mighty shield—something that no one, herself included, knew she was capable of.

“Penluith taught me the rune,” she said, answering the healer’s question. “Although it was… a little more intense than I’d planned.”

“That intensity saved your life.” He gave her a long look. “Most attacks can be blunted by casting turma, but in your case, you turned it into weapon of its own. At least, from what I could see. And from those.”

He nodded at the blackened blades discarded upon the ground. The metal still smoked. When he prodded one knife with a nearby stick, the blade flaked away into ash.

Mara swallowed. It was gratifying that she could, in fact, protect herself so powerfully. Gratifying, and a bit disturbing. Fighting the Void was one thing. Being able to turn weapons, and potentially, people, into a crisp was something altogether different.

“When I was working with Penluith, I could barely cast the shield.” She spoke slowly, searching for more answers to her wayward manifestations of power. Even after her visit to the pool, that particular spell had proven elusive. “I suppose… if my wellspring had responded fully, it would have been extremely dangerous.”

She winced at the thought of the royal tutor on the receiving end of that magical blaze.

Avantor nodded thoughtfully. “Bran told me your wellspring is one of the deepest he’s ever felt. It makes sense that it must be called upon carefully. Even if you did not realize that you were doing so.”

“Are you saying my power is smarter than I am?” She gave him a rueful smile. “I suppose we should all be grateful for the fact.”

Ondo reappeared, his expression harsh.

“I pursued, but was not able to catch the attacker,” he said. “He had a horse waiting, and I did not want to leave the two of you. Seeing you safely to the Hawthorne Prince is my sworn duty.”

Avantor gave him a terse nod. “Then we had best be on our way. And on our guard.”

He offered Mara a hand up, and soon they were mounted and riding the forest trail—though this time with far more caution.

25

That evening, after the Rowan Court’s feast, Bran accompanied his warriors back to their quarters and informed them they’d be departing Rowan on the morrow. They sent him curious looks, but made no argument.

He was sorry to deprive them of their well-earned rest, but there was no help for it. As soon as they had some distance from the court, he would explain—but he knew all too well that walls had ears, and courtiers’ whispered gossip was seldom still.

He made his way back through the halls to his own room, mulling over the fate of the realm. Both Elfhame and the mortal world were intertwined, no matter how much the Rowan Lords might deny it. Perhaps the answer to his people’s infertility lay beyond the gate, as strange as that notion was.

Despite being deep in thought, he sensed someone waiting in a shadowed alcove ahead. He dropped his hand to his sword.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. “I have little patience for games.”

“Your pardon, prince.” Nehta stepped forward, hands open before her to show she held no weapon. “I wanted a word.”

He raised a brow. “And skulking in the corridors is the best way to get one?”

“In this instance, yes.” Her lips tightened. “I understand you plan to depart Rowan in the morning and make for the Erynvorn.”

Word traveled fast in the Rowan Court. Too fast. He scowled at her, but she did not flinch from his gaze. Strong—as all good commanders should be.

“It does not concern you,” he said.

“Anything that threatens Rowan’s domain—and all of Elfhame—is my concern. When you go, I and a small cohort of warriors will join you.”

He blinked, not expecting her answer. “I do not think your lords look kindly upon my mission.”

“They have not spoken against my course of action.” Her voice was bland.

Which meant that she had not told the Hawthorne Lords of her plans, and they had not thought to expressly forbid it. Bran bit the inside of his lip, whether to hold back a smile or a reprimand, he was not certain. Perhaps both.

“I see. In that case, I will not forbid it, either.”

She tilted her head. “I shall see you on the morrow, my lord.”

As silently as she had appeared, Nehta was gone. Bran narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want the commander to jeopardize her position with Rowan, but all the same, he was glad of the support. At least someone in the blighted place was being sensible.

Back in the privacy of his guest room, he set out his scrying bowl and summoned an image of Avantor. The healer’s face wavered in the water, and he looked tired. From the pattern of interlaced branches moving against the stars behind his head, it was clear the party was still on the move.

“Why have you not made camp?” Bran asked, after exchanging a short greeting.

Avantor glanced away a moment. “It seemed best to continue. Your wife wishes to see you with all possible haste.”

Bran peered at Avantor’s dim image, wishing he could see the healer more clearly. Unease prickled the back of his neck. “What’s wrong?”

Avantor hesitated a heartbeat. “Nothing.”

Clearly it was more than nothing, but Bran trusted Avantor’s discretion. He let the matter drop—for the time being.

“You will need to adjust your direction,” he said. “Tell Ondo to make for the western edge of the Erynvorn, where the Dragon Stones lie.” It was a solid landmark, and he knew the experienced scout would be able to lead his party there without difficulty.

“Why the change in plans?” Avantor gave him a close look. “Is anything amiss?”

“No.”

Clearly they were both hiding information—but soon enough they would be face to face, away from unfriendly allies and the machinations of court, and able to speak freely.

“Let me see him.” Mara’s voice.

Bran smiled to hear it, though he let no trace of emotions show on his face. Growing up under Tinnueth’s baleful scrutiny, he’d learned that lesson long ago.

“It is not easy to shift a scrying,” Avantor said, glancing to one side—presumably at Mara.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Try it anyway.”

“Bran?” Avantor turned to him.

“One moment.”

He closed his eyes, calling up the image of his wife’s face. Mara.

“Now,” he said, opening his eyes.

The water in his silver scrying bowl shimmered, and then Mara was there, staring intently back at him. She looked weary, and with alarm, he noted the pallor in her usually ruddy human face, the heavy shadows under her eyes.

“You should rest,” he said curtly.

Her lips twitched with amusement. “I’m glad to see you too, husband.”

It went without saying that he felt the same, of course. He shook his head slightly. He’d never understand his human wife.

“We have been too long apart,” he admitted.

“Yes.” There was a weight of meaning in that single word, and Bran wondered if she would ever forgive him for leaving her behind.

He had an apology to make, for certain—but it was best done in person.

“I will not keep you longer,” he said. “Travel safely.”

She winced slightly at his words, and he leaned forward, suspicion flaring. Something had happened while they were upon the road.

“We will,” she said quickly. “How soon until we meet?”

He firmed his lips, calculating. “Two moons for my party to reach the Erynvorn. Tell Ondo he must be reasonable, and not push you too quickly.”

“I’ll tell him.” She regarded him a moment longer with her clear blue-green eyes—a color unknown among his people.

Bran wished he could reach through the scrying bowl and gather her into his arms, smooth the exhaustion from her face, inhale her scent of dew-dappled mint.

Her reflection shivered, then disappeared.

“I love you,” he said, to the now-silent water.

* * *

Despite Mara’s urging to press on, Ondo was maddeningly obedient to his commander’s wishes.

“We will make camp here,” the warrior said, after they had ridden less than an hour from the place they’d spoken with Bran.

Mara opened her mouth to protest, but Avantor shot her a pained look, and she subsided. Very well. The sooner they rested, the sooner they could set off once more. Grimly, she dismounted and tried to make herself useful as they tended the horses and set up camp.

Once the tents were pitched and a small supper consumed, Ondo seemed satisfied.

“I will take the first watch,” he said. “Get what sleep you can, Avantor. I’ll wake you when it is time.”

“What about me?” Mara glanced between them. “I can watch, or keep you company.”

“No.” Avantor’s tone was firm. “You must replenish your wellspring. Not to mention finish recovering from the marlock poison.”

She wanted to argue that she felt perfectly fine, but she knew the healer wouldn’t believe the blatant lie. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to roll into her tent and sleep. And wake in Bran’s arms. Unfortunately, that last wish would have to wait. Soon, she reminded herself.

“Very well,” she said. “But I want to depart at moonrise.” Would she ever accustom herself to the fact that, in Elfhame, the palemoon replaced the sun?

The elves exchanged a look, and she tried not to scowl at both of them.

“We will depart when ready,” Ondo said, which was no kind of promise at all.

Under Avantor’s watchful eye, she made ready for bed and crawled into the first tent. At least the Dark Elves understood comfort, even when on the road. The bedroll that had been attached behind her saddle turned out, through some enchantment, to grow into a reasonable mattress, and the thin coverlet was surprisingly warm.

Despite the weariness running through her, though, she could not sleep.

She replayed her short conversation with Bran, smiling into the darkness as she recalled the sharp planes of his features. And the expression on his face, just as their scrying ended. It seemed clear her husband had missed her as much as she’d longed for him.

What had happened at Rowan, though, for him to depart so quickly?

And, even more troubling, why were they headed for the Darkwood?

* * *

When Mara awoke, a silvery wash of moonlight shone brightly through the sloping fabric over her head. Blinking, she scooted out of the tent to find that the palemoon had climbed several hand spans into the star-specked sky.

“You should have woken me.” She frowned at Ondo, who was tending a small, smokeless fire.

“Avantor needed to rest, as much as you,” he said, nodding to the second tent where, presumably, the healer still slumbered.

“Did you sleep at all?” She peered at the warrior. He didn’t seem unduly exhausted, but with his impassive bearing, it was hard to tell.

Instead of answering, he offered her a mug of strong tea and a hunk of bread studded with seeds and dried fruits.

“Break your fast,” he said. “Avantor will rouse soon.”

She had not yet finished her bread when the healer emerged from his tent, proving Ondo correct. He shot the warrior a sharp look, but said nothing.

“You seem well rested,” Mara observed as Avantor settled beside her on a mossy log. Though the healer would never admit it, it had been clear that tending to her and then scrying with Bran had taken a toll on his powers.

He looked her up and down. “As do you. And though we might both take issue with Ondo’s decisions, you must admit they are well made.”

She sighed into her mug, then drained the last bit of the warm beverage. There was nothing more annoying than being proven wrong. At least Ondo, if he overheard, showed no sign of gloating.

In the time it took for Avantor to eat his breakfast, Ondo packed up the camp, loaded the horses, and brushed away the obvious traces of their presence.

“Do you think the assassin is still following us?” Mara asked.

Ondo lifted one shoulder. “Whether or not he is, there’s no need to draw undue attention to our passage. Elfhame holds other dangers.”

Like the renegade Voidspawn. Mara tried not to shiver at the thought of encountering a gyrewolf or spiderkin. Although, unlike her first experience with the creatures, she now had a wellspring of magic to draw upon.

Which reminded her…

“Avantor,” she said, as they set out on the path, “will you teach me the words to cast a fireball?”

He shot her a startled glance. “I think such things are better left to the tutor. Didn’t Penluith—”

“No. He was waiting for me to control simple things, like the shield and summoning foxfire—but we now know that my power operates rather differently.”

Which was an understatement. In fact, would summoning foxfire work as an offensive spell, given the force of her wellspring? If Avantor refused to teach her, she would try that instead, the next time they were attacked.

Her heart gave an uncomfortable bump at the thought. There would be a next time—she was, unfortunately, certain of the fact. Whatever reason Bran wanted to meet them at the border of the Darkwood, it couldn’t be good.

Avantor took a moment to respond. Mara guessed he was wrestling with the answer, but at last he spoke.

“I will,” he said. “Against my better judgment, might I add.”

“A wise choice,” Ondo remarked from his position in the lead.

Mara exchanged a look with the healer. Apparently Ondo’s ears were sharp enough to catch even their quietest conversations.

“To summon a ball of flame, the casting is coronnar,” Avantor said.

Mara tasted the word under her breath, fixing the shape of it in her mouth. Coronnar.

“I pray you, do not practice it now,” Avantor added, somewhat dryly.

“Don’t worry,” Mara said. “I’m not planning to set the grass on fire. Once cast, how do I banish the fireball?”

“In the event that it has served its purpose and not yet burned out, the word is firnar.”

She filed that word away, too, hoping she wouldn’t be called upon to cast the spell too soon. It felt good, knowing she had the ability to do more than lend the strength of her wellspring to Bran. Being a source of power for his admittedly more advanced magic had been essential in defeating the Void, but she liked being more than a stick of firewood waiting passively for the flame.

The rounded edge of the palemoon curved against the sky, and the unfamiliar stars overhead sent a pang of homesickness through her. Ah, but she missed the sun.

“When does the brightmoon rise again?” she asked.

“In two more passes of the palemoon,” Avantor said.

“After we meet Bran, then.” Her heart warmed at the thought.

Not only would she be reunited with her husband, she would have light enough to not feel so drab-spirited. At least for a short time.

“If we are entering the Erynvorn, the doublemoon will be a good thing,” Ondo said. “The forest is well named.”

The Darkwood.

His words made Mara’s thoughts skitter to the one thing she’d been trying to avoid. The gateway back to her world, and her growing suspicion that the Void was hungry to force it open.

Surely she and Bran could stop it, though. The fragment she had cast from him had not been so very large.

That makes it no less dangerous, her thoughts warned, and she found she could not quiet them.

26

Bran woke, restless, in the starlit quiet hours of the slumbering Rowan court. Nothing external had roused him—only his mounting concern over the destination of the Voidspawn.

Still abed, he reached into his wellspring and summoned a sensing spell. His strength had returned enough that he could send the casting out to the edges of Elfhame. The magic skimmed along the boundary protecting the realm, then circled, sweeping up from Moonflower through the inner courts. Eyes closed, he stayed alert for the slightest ripple of malice that would signal the presence of the Void and its creatures.

Nothing…

Until he encountered the blot of malignancy gathering near the Erynvorn.

The presence of a few dozen Voidspawn was unmistakable. And festering beneath, the coldness warning him that a shard of the Void still remained in Elfhame.

Suppressing a shiver, Bran rose and set out his scrying bowl. Although Hestil could not match his range or power, she would be able to confirm that the southern part of the realm was clear of Voidspawn.

She answered the scrying clear-eyed, her braids neatly binding her hair back. If he’d roused her, she gave no sign of it.

“Commander,” she said. “What news?”

“Have you found any trace of the Void in the inner courts?”

“None at all—and not for lack of looking.” She firmed her mouth, then continued. “There are troubling reports of Voidspawn moving northeast, however.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.” He frowned. “My sensing confirms that the Void is gathering just inside the Erynvorn.”

Her eyes widened in immediate comprehension. “Do you think they plan to mount an attack on the gateway to the human world?”

“Yes—and do everything they can to force their way through.” His throat was tight on the words. “Make all haste to meet me. We are under strength and need your fighters.”

“What of Rowan?”

He gave a quick shake of his head, trying to rein in his anger at the court’s inaction. Thank the stars for Nehta and her handful of trusted warriors.

“We depart the court here in a few turns,” he said. “How long will it take you to reach the Erynvorn?”

She tilted her brows together, and he could see her making some quick calculations. “One rising after the doublemoon, if we push hard.”

“Come find us, when you reach the forest. I will try to delay the fight until then.” They needed Hestil’s forces to keep from being seriously outmatched, but if the Void attempted to open the gate, he would have to act.

“Understood. I will rouse the warriors now and make haste for the Erynvorn.”

He gave her a terse nod, then waved his hand over the scrying bowl, dismissing her image. Before picking it up to pour out the water, however, he paused.

“Show me Mara,” he said, once more passing his hand across the still water.

The silver reflection of his own face shimmered, then re-formed to show the image of his wife, fast asleep.

The cords of tension winding about him eased as he watched her. No matter what happened, they would be together soon.

“I’m coming,” he murmured, then banished the scrying.

Despite the early hour, he suspected his warriors would be awake and making ready to go. It would not hurt for their commander to join them. Bran quickly gathered up his few belongings, then sent a quick magical summons to the kitchen, requesting a hearty breakfast be delivered to the warrior’s quarters.

Outside the guest chambers, he was unsurprised to meet Nehta, accompanied by a half-dozen warriors.

“Prince.” She made him a half bow in greeting.

“Commander. Thank you for joining us.” He waved her to precede him into the soldiers’ quarters. “Have you yet eaten? You are welcome to join us.”

“Thank you—we will.” She lifted her brows slightly, acknowledging the fact that warriors who broke bread together shared a deeper kinship in battle.

It was probably why they’d arrived at that hour, which reinforced Bran’s already high estimation of Rowan’s commander. If joining him resulted in her losing her position at the Rowan Court, he would find a place for her, and her warriors, at Hawthorne.

Provided they all survived.

* * *

Mara woke from dreams of her husband.

“Bran?” She rolled over, for a moment certain he was there beside her, but found only the empty pallet and the cold fabric of the tent.

Outside, she heard Ondo’s quiet movements, the hiss of water boiling over his conjured fire, the shuffle of a horse shifting position. They had ridden well past moonset before making camp. She had no idea what time it might be—not that the passage of time in Elfhame made much sense to her human notions of day and night.

But based on what Bran had said, she thought they would arrive at the meeting point by the end of the day. The thought was enough to get her up and moving, despite the weary protest of her muscles.

Avantor and Ondo both looked up as she emerged from the tent.

“Did you rest well?” the healer asked.

“Yes.” She stretched, surprised to find that the words were true, then shot Ondo a suspicious glance. “You didn’t let me sleep too long, did you? I intend to see Bran today.”

The warrior gave her a pointed look. “You rested as much as necessary. And do not fret—we will reach the Dragon Stones before the palemoon leaves the sky.”

“Good.” She blew out a breath, then twisted her tangled hair into a makeshift bun, uncomfortably aware of the stickiness of her skin, the smudges of grime on her hands. “Is there any way I might wash up?”

It would be nice to make herself presentable before reuniting with her husband.

Avantor gave her a half-smile, as if aware of her thoughts. “I believe our path leads beside the Celebronen—the silver lake—for a time today. Perhaps there might be time for all of us to bathe.”

Ondo frowned, but nodded a grudging assent. “One at a time, of course.”

“Of course,” Mara echoed. None of them wanted a repeat of the assassination attempt.

While she ate, Ondo packed away her bedroll and tent, and soon they were on the move once more. Perhaps it was the knowledge she would see Bran soon, but the air seemed lighter, the beauty of Elfhame striking her to the core.

The sky overhead was dark purple at the edges, the lilac palemoon washing out the nearby stars. Glowing flowers peeped from dark-leaved thickets as they passed, and the silvergrass waved in the light breeze.

As promised, after about an hour of riding, the trail rounded the crest of a hill to reveal a shining expanse of water below. The lake, Celebronen. Mara smiled at the sight of the moon reflected on its rippled surface.

The trail descended to curve alone the shore. Wavelets lapped the stone-strewn beach, making a gentle hushing noise. A wild, sweet scent reached Mara’s nose, and she sniffed appreciatively.

“Lissalma,” Ondo said, gesturing to a bush laden with pale yellow blossoms. “It blooms by the waterside.”

“It smells lovely.” A thought struck her and she eyed the flowers askance. “They’re not… poisonous, are they?” She’d learned her lesson about appreciating the apparent bounty of her new land.

“No,” Avantor said. “Sometimes, during celebrations, we weave the blossoms into our hair.”

It was a lovely thought. Perhaps, once she’d bathed, she’d do the same.

They followed the water for what felt like hours. The soft air and quiet sound of the waves lulled Mara into a waking doze. When Ondo called a halt, she was surprised to find that the palemoon had begun to dip toward the horizon.

“Lunch,” the warrior said.

“And then a bath, I hope.” She glanced longingly at the lake.

“Aye.”

She was first to finish the small meal of dried fruit, cheese, and seed bread. Ondo directed her to where a spit of grassland jutted out into the water.

“We cannot give you privacy,” he said apologetically. “But I will avert my eyes.”

“I understand. I’ll be fast.”

He gave her a short nod, then unsheathed his sword. Just in case—though unless the assassin could breathe under water, Mara did not see how she could be in danger. Still, she had no idea what magics the Dark Elves were capable of. Better to be safe, than dead.

Avantor brought her a square of cloth to use as a towel, and a thin disc of soap. She supposed, as a healer, he’d be prepared with such things.

“Thank you,” she said.

The water was chilly, which helped speed her bathing process. She tried not to yelp as she dunked her head under and finger-combed out the worst of the tangles. Avantor’s soap smelled medicinal, but it did its job. She emerged feeling much cleaner, then quickly dried off and donned the fresh tunic she’d had the foresight to pack.

“That’s better,” she said, rejoining her companions.

“I’m next,” Avantor said, twisting his hair into a bun high atop his head.

Ondo gave him a curt nod. “Do not linger. Prince Brannonilon waits.”

Mara pulled in a breath, aware of a prickling excitement running through her. While Avantor bathed, she plucked a few of the lissalma flowers. Unlike the Dark Elves, she did not sport intricate braids to tuck the blossoms into. Instead, she settled on braiding the long stalks together to fashion a makeshift crown.

“Most fitting,” Avantor said, donning his clothing and shaking his hair free. “You are a princess now. Never forget.”

She gave him a strained smile. “I’m not sure I want to be. Especially not within the walls of the Hawthorne Court.”

He sobered. “Your husband will not allow you to step back into danger. Once we meet with Bran, we will make a firm plan for your safe return to the Hawthorne Court.”

“We must defeat the remaining Voidspawn first,” Ondo reminded them.

He swung up on his horse and gave them an expectant look. Trying not to groan with stiffness, Mara let Avantor boost her onto her own mount. Single file, with Mara again in the middle, they set off once more.

The path curved away from the water, and she was sorry to leave the shimmering expanse of the Celebronen behind. Not only had the quiet ripples of the water soothed her, but the reflected light had offset the encroaching darkness as the palemoon set.

Now, lavender shadows sifted over the land. The tall grasses shone purple, and in the distance, a dark mass of trees arose, just visible on the horizon.

The edge of the Darkwood.

27

Bran’s spirits rose as his party approached the Dragon Stones. The sliver of the palemoon was nothing more than a sharp tip slipping below the horizon. Despite the hulking shadow of the nearby Erynvorn, and the battle that surely awaited within, he was filled with anticipation. Soon, he would be reunited with Mara.

Their time apart had been a dull ache in his side, a sense of missing a part of himself. He did not want to experience it again. Whatever happened in the next few moons—and beyond—he would spend them by his wife’s side.

“There,” Nehta said from where she rode beside him. She gestured at the ridged rock of the meeting place. “I see movement.”

He closed his eyes and sent out a searching tendril of thought. His magic sensed two Dark Elves—and the unmistakable feel of a human presence. Mara. He leaned forward, and Fuin responded to the movement by picking up his pace.

“Prince,” Nehta said, urging her mount into a trot. “Do not go alone.”

“It is not Voidspawn.”

She gave no response, merely pressing her lips into a line and loosening the spear strapped in its holder beside her saddle.

“Your caution is commendable,” he said dryly. “But there is no need for your weapon.”

He kindled a small ball of foxfire and sent it to hover just above his shoulder, so that his dark-blind wife might see who approached.

Not that there should be any question. Her wellspring was attuned to him, and he was certain she knew of his presence, just as he sensed hers. But something had made her and her companions wary, and he wanted to reassure Avantor and Ondo that no danger approached.

The movement near the jagged spine of stones stilled for a long moment as he and Nehta rode forward. Then foxfire blossomed ahead, shedding light over the three figures gathered there.

“Bran!” A glad cry burst from Mara’s lips and she nudged her mount forward.

In turn, he urged Fuin into a faster pace. Just as they met, he guided his horse slightly to the side and plucked Mara off her mount, pulling her into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a scolding laugh in her voice as she laced her arms around his neck to secure her perch.

“Greeting you properly.” He bent his head and breathed deeply of her human scent and the flowers woven into her hair.

“Well, don’t drop me.”

She looked up at him, her strange round-pupil eyes smiling, even as she tried to keep her features stern. Ah, would she ever know how precious she was to him? Once again, he cursed himself for leaving her behind.

In a few short paces, they reached the rest of her party. Bran, still holding his wife, threw one leg over Fuin and gracefully slid to the ground.

“You should put me down,” she said, though she still held tightly to him.

Reluctantly, he set her gently upon her feet, but could not help keeping one arm around her shoulder. Deep inside, his wellspring sighed, then settled.

“Commander.” Ondo made him a bow, then turned to acknowledge Nehta.

Avantor, his expression carefully blank, made his greeting, and Bran narrowed his eyes. The healer was clearly hiding something.

“What happened?” he demanded, his gaze fixed on Avantor’s face.

Avantor winced and opened his mouth to answer, but Ondo stepped forward.

“The fault is mine, my lord,” he said. “I carelessly allowed your wife out of the campsite, and she was attacked.”

Fear and anger swept hotly over Bran, and his hand went to his sword.

“Attacked? By all the stars, you should have told me! Was it Voidspawn?”

“No.” Ondo’s mouth screwed up in repentance. “It was an assassin.”

The fear won, then, and he whirled to Mara. “Is he dead?”

She shook her head, and Ondo grimly continued.

“We were fortunate that Mara’s magic repelled her attacker, but he was able to escape. Since then, we’ve kept a close watch.”

Bran’s thoughts raced. He did not ask how Ondo had failed in his duties so miserably, for clearly a greater magic had been at work. A power that could only be wielded by one of the rulers. But who wanted Mara dead?

For a moment, his mind skittered to his parents, but he could not begin to think of what that might mean. Not now, with another fight looming. And surely even Tinnueth would not be so cruel.

She would, though—he’d known since birth that his mother cared for little but herself and her own power.

“Forgive me.” He took Mara’s hands in his, anguish tightening his throat. “I placed you in more danger than I ever would have guessed.”

“You didn’t mean to,” she said softly, and her lack of recrimination made his guilt twist all the more tightly inside him.

“I will not lose you,” he vowed.

In answer to the strength of his words, the azure rings of binding on both their hands flared to life. The blue light limned her hair and sparked in her eyes, turning her into an ethereal creature. His heart ached at the sight of her, and he nearly wanted to weep at the thought of losing her once more.

Then the rings returned to their quiescent state, and she was back to being his beloved human wife.

“Just don’t leave me behind ever again,” she said, a tart note creeping into her voice. “Where you go, I go.”

“Aye.” He glanced down at their linked hands, steeling himself for what he must say next. “I must tell you. The Void is gathering here, in the Erynvorn.”

She drew in a quick breath, as though she’d guessed the same. “All of them, in the whole realm?”

He gave a single nod. “My sensing says it is so—and Hestil has confirmed it.”

“What about…” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “What about the fragment we drove out of you?”

“It is… elusive, but I believe it is directing the Voidspawn. They are acting with a purpose and intelligence I cannot otherwise explain.”

“Then…” She locked gazes with him. “Then they mean to force the gate open and invade my world.” Her voice shook, ever so slightly.

“It seems so.”

A flash of panic crossed her face. “We have to stop them!”

“We will.” He tried to project more confidence than he felt.

She leaned to the side and peered around him. “How many soldiers have you brought?”

“Hestil is on the way to meet us, with her forces,” he said, evading her question. “And we have the best of the Rowan Court’s warriors with us, as well as their commander.”

He nodded at Nehta, who had been watching the interaction between him and Mara with quiet interest. She stepped forward and made Mara a short bow.

“I am pleased to meet you, Hawthorne Princess.”

Mara winced at the title, but, to Bran’s relief, did not try to deny it.

“Thank you for coming,” Mara said, then glanced back at Bran. “How soon until Hestil arrives?”

He let out a relieved breath that his wife understood the danger of charging immediately into the forest.

“After the doublemoons rise. I will scry her once we make camp.”

“Not until tomorrow?” Mara was clearly dismayed by the delay.

He could not blame her—he knew the soul-clenching fear of the Void threatening his world and all he held dear, and wished she could be spared that particular horror.

“The Voidspawn have not yet reached the gateway,” he said. “Let alone attempted to interact with it. And the passage between our worlds is not without its protections.”

He gave her a significant look, a reminder of the immense strength needed to open the portal, let alone hold it for more than a few heartbeats.

“Very well,” she said unhappily. “I suppose we’d best make camp.”

“There is a sheltered place at the far side of the rocks,” Ondo offered. “And a spring nearby.”

“Show me,” Bran said. He would sweep the entire area with his magic, to ensure that no Void creatures waited to ambush them.

Or assassins.

By the moons, his troubles mounted on either side, and he could not help the cold certainty that a battle lay ahead.

Then Mara slipped her hand into his. The warmth of her human touch steadied him, beat back the foreboding icing his blood. They would triumph once more. He could believe nothing less.

28

Delight over being reunited with Bran warred with Mara’s fear for her own world, mixing uncomfortably in her belly. They settled into the camp, quickly pitched on the far side of the Dragon Stones, but she had little appetite for the simple stew Ondo fixed for their supper. Every few bites she would pause and stare at the huge shadow of the Darkwood ahead, panic tickling the back of her neck.

The village of Little Hazel lay on the other side of the gate.

Not right outside it, but it was the closest human habitation to the center of the forest, tucked as it was on the outskirts of the Darkwood. If the Void creatures forced their way through…

She shuddered, unable to banish the terrible image of the gyrewolves and spiderkin descending on her unsuspecting family. Her sisters, her brother. Their village devoured.

“We will stop them,” Bran said, sensing her thoughts. “Here, drink.” He held out his goblet of wine to her.

“It won’t make me forget the danger,” she said, eyeing the silver cup. “Unless you’ve bespelled it—in which case I won’t drink.”

She did not need her husband cosseting her, and ever since the marlock berries, she was wary about what she let pass through her lips.

“I would not attempt to enchant you without your knowledge.” He sounded affronted. “It is only wine, but perhaps it will help blunt your worries.”

“I’m not one to drown my sorrows in drink,” she said, but she accepted the goblet and took a swallow anyway.

The tart, flowery taste lay on her tongue, and she tried to think of other things. The quiet beauty of Celebronen’s waters, the tilt of Anneth’s grin.

“Tell me of your studies with Penluith,” Bran said. “I expect you have proven an apt student.”

“Somewhat.” She blew out a breath and went on to describe her troubles harnessing her magic reliably. “I don’t know whether it’s because I’m human or something else, but even the simple magics don’t always work for me,” she finished.

“They protected you well enough when needed,” he said grimly. “I have never heard of a simple shielding spell behaving in such a fashion as you described, when that assassin attacked. I will work with you to harness your wellspring once the realm is safe once more.”

“Both our realms, Bran.” She took another swallow of wine, her gaze once more drawn to the waiting Darkwood.

“Of course.” He touched her shoulder. “I would not leave the human world in danger.”

He said no more, as if voicing the thought that the Void might enter her world would make it come true.

“What did Hestil say?” Mara asked. “Will she be here on the morrow?”

He glanced at her, then away. “No.”

“Why not?” Mara clenched her fingers around the silver goblet. “We have to catch the Void! I’ll go alone, if necessary.”

“You will not. And Hestil is making all speed, but she cannot wear her forces ragged if we wish them to be any use in the coming fight.”

Misery tightened Mara’s throat. “You can’t force me to stay in the camp—not when the enemy is mounting an attack on the gate.”

“I will not make you stay here,” he said quietly. “I only said you will not go alone.”

“Oh.” She took a gulp of wine, then handed the goblet back to him. “Then will we go, tomorrow?”

He glanced at the web of stars stitched overhead—constellations Mara had yet to learn—then drained the goblet.

“When the brightmoon rises on the morrow,” he said, “we will strike camp and follow the Void into the Erynvorn.”

“Good.”

It wasn’t good, of course, but the knowledge that Bran was with her eased the knot in her stomach.

“We should rest,” he said, rising gracefully and offering his hand. “My lady, will you join me in my tent?”

“Yes.” She managed the wisp of a smile for him and let him draw her to her feet.

* * *

Despite the comfort of Bran’s solid body beside her, Mara slept fitfully. After the third time she woke and lay rigid, staring up at the fabric of the tent, Bran reached over and stroked her hair.

He offered her no empty words of comfort or promises of victory. Just the simple reassurance of his touch, his presence. She pulled in several deep, wavering breaths. Then, finally, she went into the dreamless dark.

When she woke, brightness filtered through the tent. The sun! She sat up, filled with joy for a fleeting moment—then realized her mistake. To her light-starved eyes and homesick heart, she had mistaken the rising brightmoon for the light of her home world.

She was not surprised to find the tent empty, the spot where Bran had lain cool to her touch. No lying abed for the commander. She felt a twinge of remorse that her insistence on entering the Darkwood had no doubt drawn him to his duties at first light.

Despite his assurances that he was fully healed, she saw the faint shadows in his eyes, and had noticed that he had summoned only the smallest balls of foxfire the night before. Perhaps he was conserving his strength for the battle to come, but she feared that his wellspring was not yet returned to its full power.

She was with him, though, and her wellspring seemed as potent as ever. As before, he could draw on her magic if necessary.

And she feared it would be necessary.

With a grimace, she pushed back the soft blue coverlet, shook out her tunic, and twisted her hair into a messy bun at the back of her head. Anneth had given her a hairpin fashioned of silver and inlaid with a flat, shining purple stone. It seemed too fine to wear into battle, but Mara had nothing else to keep her hair in place.

Well, she supposed she could jam a stick through her bun, as she’d used to do when rambling about the woods, but that was equally foolish.

With a fortifying breath, she ducked out of the tent. The camp was all but struck. A few of the warriors sat on the tumbled rocks, finishing their meals. She turned slowly, making a count by the golden illumination of the brightmoon, and her heart clenched as she numbered the soldiers. There were so few!

“Mara!” Avantor hailed her from a nearby jut of stone. “I have porridge for you.”

She joined him, bidding him good morning. Despite her lack of hunger, she set herself to scooping up the spiced grains from the bowl with a flat wooden spoon. At least Bran and his warriors had their healer with them once again. Avantor’s skills would be a welcome, and necessary, addition when the fighting began.

As she chewed, Mara watched Bran stride about the camp. He paused to speak with Nehta, the Rowan commander, and her pitifully small force.

“Why so few?” Mara asked Avantor in a low voice. “I know that Nightshade could not send many fighters, after losing so many in the last battle. But why did Rowan not provide more?”

The healer shifted uncomfortably. “You must ask Bran.”

“I will.” She set her bowl down and met Avantor’s gaze. “But I’m also asking you. Why do you think there are only a handful of fighters from Rowan?”

He frowned, his gaze going to the Rowan contingent, then back to Mara. “At a guess—and it is only a supposition, nothing more—I would say the Rowan Lords did not think it necessary.”

Lords? She noted that bit of interesting information, then tucked it away to puzzle over later.

“Not necessary?” She looked quizzically at Avantor.

When he said nothing more, she made herself think, and the answer dawned, cold and awful.

“They are content to let the Void invade my world if it means the enemy is gone from Elfhame?” The words were bitter in her mouth.

Avantor hunched his shoulders and could scarcely meet her eyes. “Aye. But not all Dark Elves—”

“Let them hang!”

She rose and grabbed the empty bowl, then stalked over to where Ondo was finishing the washing up and deposited the dish with him. Part of her wanted to condemn all Dark Elves for consigning her world to the Void without a fight—but that was unfair.

Bran’s forces might number only two dozen warriors, but he was here, ready to pursue the Voidspawn into the forest. And, if Avantor’s guess was true, Nehta and her fighters had gone against the wishes of her rulers to accompany him.

Mara blew out a breath, letting some of her anger go. Not all Dark Elves were so careless of human lives. A grudging part of her even understood why the rulers of Elfhame might turn their backs, as long as their own people were safe. Wouldn’t many human kings do the same?

Bran strode toward her, his tall form outlined in the warm golden glow of the brightmoon, and the last of her temper ebbed away. She could not afford it—not now, when their whole focus must be turned to the task ahead.

“Are you ready to ride into the Erynvorn?” he asked. His hand rested on his sword, and he looked every bit the warrior commander he was.

Mara checked that her own blade rested comfortably at her waist, then lifted her chin and met her husband’s inhuman gaze.

“Yes, my Hawthorne Prince. I am.”

29

They did not make a triumphant charge into the shadows of the Darkwood, however. Mara reminded herself there was nothing to charge at, after all. Not yet. And despite the driving need to protect her home, she was not eager to meet the fierce gyrewolves and skittering spiderkin the Void used for its army.

Bran and his warriors filtered through the forest. Mara was in the middle of a rough circle, fighters to either side of her riding swiftly and silently through the trees. Bran led the party, and Nehta rode at the back, scanning constantly for danger that might come upon them from behind.

To Mara’s relief, Avantor and Ondo stayed near. While they traveled deeper into the Darkwood, she silently reviewed her small store of spells. Foremost among them was coronnar, the fireball. The shielding ward would be useful as well, and possibly calling foxfire. That, and the dagger at her side, were the sum of her weapons.

She hoped they would be enough.

After what felt like hours, Bran halted, holding up one hand. The rest of the warriors brought their mounts to a soundless stop, and Mara belatedly followed suit. Without a word, Bran pointed ahead and to the right, then pulled his sword.

The hiss of blades leaving scabbards made the back of Mara’s neck prickle with apprehension. She scrambled to pull her dagger, then nudged her horse to follow as the entire party veered in the direction Bran had indicated.

One moment there was nothing but the dimly lit underbrush on all sides. Then, with an ominous rustle, a dozen Void creatures emerged from the trees and swarmed toward them.

“Guard Mara,” Bran called over his shoulder at Ondo, then raised his sword and urged Fuin forward.

Mara watched, her heart clenching, as he beat back a gyrewolf leaping for his throat. Then the soldiers surrounding her blocked her view as two spiderkin scuttled forward in attack. The forest was suddenly loud with the sounds of battle: the Void creatures snarling and screeching, the thud of blows falling, the grunts and cries of the Dark Elf warriors.

“Stay back,” Ondo said, maneuvering his mount between Mara and a gyrewolf that had sprung from a nearby thicket.

He was hard-pressed, the wolf nearly biting his arm several times. Pulse pounding, Mara gripped her dagger tightly, preparing to rush to his aid if she saw an opening. She did not trust her ability to cast a firebolt at such a close range without scorching Ondo into the bargain.

Then Nehta was there, deftly blocking the wolf’s attack with her spear. It snarled and turned to face her, and Ondo managed to stab it in the side. Together, they dispatched the creature, short, brutal work that made Mara flinch, despite her experience on the battlefield.

All around them, small, desperate fights were being waged. But where was Bran?

Mara turned her horse in a tight circle, searching desperately for a glimpse of her husband. Blue fire flared, and she tracked it to where he and two other warriors were battling one of the spiderkin.

She closed her eyes briefly, thankful to see him unharmed.

A rustling overhead made her open her eyes and look up, even as she drew her dagger. What came hurtling down at her from the sturdy limb was not a Void creature, however, but the dark-cloaked figure of the assassin.

Her mount shied. She managed to slide off, then stumbled over a protruding root and dropped her dagger. Her attacker gave a soundless laugh and flowed forward like ink spilled in water, bright blades flashing.

Mara flung up her hand and cried, almost without thinking, “Coronnar!”

Even as the knife descended to her throat, a jagged bolt of blue flame struck the assassin square in the chest. His eyes widened as he fell backward, fire coruscating over his body. The deadly knife landed point-first in the soft loam, and a tendril of Mara’s hair, neatly sliced from beside her neck, floated down beside it.

“Mara!” Bran yelled, full-throated and full of anguish.

She brought her hand up to her throat and pulled it away, expecting to see blood. The assassin twitched and shuddered, thrashing beneath the trees, then stilled. Mara blinked at her unstained fingers, at the unmoving body.

Then Bran was there, gathering her against him. She pulled in a shuddering breath and clung fiercely to him. Death had stared her in the face once more, and she had barely escaped it this time.

“Are you hurt?” Bran thrust her away and scanned her, head to toe. Satisfied she bore no injury, he clasped her close again.

“I’m all right,” she said, even as a wave of shivering gripped her.

Ondo had arrived moments after Bran. He toed the body, assuring himself the assassin was dead.

“Do you recognize him?” Bran asked.

The scout shook his head. “No—but those who choose the deadly blade are careful not to be known, especially among fighters.”

Shouts broke out at the vanguard of the fighting, and Bran’s mouth twisted.

“I must help my warriors,” he said, then gave Ondo a fierce look. “Do not stir from her side.”

“I swear it.” He drew his sword.

“Let me help,” Mara said, looking up at Bran. “My strength—”

“Will be needed later,” he said grimly. “Look. The creatures are already on the run.”

It was true. The Dark Elves had beaten back their attackers. Even as Bran ran to lend his aid, the spiderkin skittered back into the depths of the forest. He sent a bolt of fire after a fleeing gyrewolf, and the creature yelped and collapsed.

A hush followed the fighting, thick silence where Mara could hear her heartbeat still thudding frantically in her chest. The fighters were cleaning blades, taking stock of injuries—which, thankfully, seemed few.

Bran directed them to collect the two bodies of the fallen Voidspawn, then tramped back to where Mara stood.

“We will burn the assassin, as well,” he said. “A cleaner end than he deserves.” He gestured at Ondo. “Check the body for anything that will help us identify who sent him, and from where.”

“There is probably nothing,” Ondo said, grimly bending to his task.

“Aye. But we must look.”

Mara turned away from the gruesome sight of the person she had killed. Yes, it had been to save her own life, but it still shook her deeply.

“Once again, I have failed you,” Bran said, his eyes full of self-recrimination.

She met his gaze. “You can’t be all places at once. And, as you can see, I can protect myself.”

“I do not want you to have to.” He cupped her cheek briefly.

“I know.” She managed a wan smile. “We’ll just keep muddling through.”

It was all anyone could do, she supposed. At least they were together.

Ondo straightened from checking the body.

“Nothing to identify it, Commander,” he said.

“Disappointing, but not unexpected.”

Bran motioned for Ondo to grab the body’s feet, and together they moved it to where the dead Voidspawn lay. Mara followed—not too close, but near enough so that Bran would stop fretting.

Once the bodies were magically ablaze, she turned to her husband.

“How far are we from the gate?” she asked in a low voice.

He peered into the depths of the Darkwood for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Less than a turn—provided we are not set upon again.”

She looked at the small group of fighters. How many more attacks would they be able to face before their strength flagged and they began to fall? Dark Elf warriors were hardy, she knew, but they could not fight endlessly.

“Hestil?” she asked.

From the shadow that crossed Bran’s face, she knew that his second was too far away to aid them.

“Given the choice, I would wait for her, but…” His gaze unfocused for a moment, then snapped back to her. “The Void is at the gate.”

30

A look of anguish crossed Mara’s face. Bran wished he could gather into his arms again, murmur reassurances into her hair—but there was no time. His sensing had shown the remainder of the Voidspawn gathered at the gateway to the mortal world, along with an oily black shadow that could only be the Void shard.

The enemy might not be strong enough to crack open the gate. But he could not take that chance.

“Ride!” he called to his warriors, then boosted Mara into her saddle.

The formation was not pretty as his small troop raced through the forest. But despite navigating thickets and fallen logs, the party kept Mara safely in the middle, surrounded on all sides by keen-eyed fighters.

There was little time for speech, not that there was any need for elaborate planning. They would charge into the clearing holding the runed gateway and battle whatever Voidspawn were present.

As for the shard, all he could think of was to focus the might of his magebolt upon it, in hopes he could incinerate it to nothingness. If that were not enough, he must then draw upon Mara’s wellspring.

And if that was still not sufficient?

He thrust the thought away and bent low over Fuin’s neck, urging his horse to greater speed. The glowing bells of qille flashed beneath his mount’s hooves, and the radiance of the doublemoon fell in shafts between the trees.

The sensing he had cast thrummed with danger, and with gut-wrenching dismay he realized that the Void had begun to cast its malignant magic over the gateway.

With every breath, his urgency grew. The fabric of Elfhame shivered under the Void’s assault.

“Faster!” he called.

Their pace was already reckless, but thanks to the doublemoon, there was enough light to avoid the tangling briars and treacherous dips. Mostly. Mounts still stumbled, and even surefooted Fuin had a moment of unsteadiness—but they could not slow.

The brightness increased, and Bran glanced up in surprise to see dozens of glimglows streaming overhead. Their light evened out the crooked shadows and illuminated obstacles in the path ahead.

Mara rode slightly behind him, and he glanced back every few paces to make sure she was not falling behind. She stared up at the glimglows in wonder, then met his gaze, her eyes wide.

Whatever impulse had called them forth, the glowing sparks continued to light their way until, ahead, the huge trunks of the Erynvorn thinned.

Without slowing Fuin, Bran drew his sword. Around him, his warriors followed suit. Nehta grasped her spear tightly, teeth bared, and Brethil nocked an arrow to his bow.

They burst into the clearing housing the gateway.

Fewer than a dozen Voidspawn clustered around the standing stones marking the portal. Two of them were the hulking lumberers, however—the most formidable of the Void’s creatures.

Three gyrewolves turned, snarling, and launched themselves at Bran’s party, while the spiderkin spread out, skittering to position themselves at intervals around the gateway. Bran’s warriors slowed to meet the enemy, and Bran pulled Fuin to a halt, his attention fixed on the gateway ahead. Mara drew up beside him, her breath coming in small gasps.

The space between the portal stones glowed, and Bran’s heart clenched. Slowly, the Void was forcing the gate open. A shadowy presence hovered over the stones, and he felt its malignant intelligence as it tried to insinuate itself into the mortal world.

“No!” Mara cried.

She flung out her hand and cast coronnar at the darkness.

It flinched as the fire flew at it, then somehow opened itself and extinguished the blaze of blue flame, sucking it down into the icy blackness of the Void.

Mara stretched her fingers out to cast again, but Bran caught her hand.

“Do not spend your power recklessly,” he said. “It will only devour whatever we send at it.”

“But—we drove it out once before,” she said, her eyes wild.

“It was weaker then—don’t you sense its renewed strength? I do not know what will stop it now.”

“We will,” she said grimly.

About them, his warriors fought. One of the wolves was dead, and a spiderkin as well, but his troops were hard-pressed. Avantor sang a continuous song of healing, keeping the worst of the injuries at bay—but his power would run dry soon, and the odds were still against them.

The gateway flickered, and Bran glimpsed the fierce light of the mortal world beyond. Strangely, the landscape was covered in white, as though a blight had settled. Had the Void already begun to sap the human world’s strength?

One lumberer broke off its attack and, ignoring the arrows Brethil sent after it, shambled to the glowing gateway. The darkness roared soundlessly, and between one moment and the next, the lumberer passed through into the mortal world.

“No!” Mara cried, urging her mount toward the gate.

Bran chased after, dimly aware of his fighters redoubling their efforts. A spiderkin skittered forward to block his path.

He reached deeply into his wellspring, bringing all his fear, all his determination to the fore.

“Coronnar!” he yelled.

The spiderkin ignited, spraying its toxic blood in a wide arc.

Bran ducked, cursing as a few specks spattered his hands. He hastily wiped them on his cloak, then veered Fuin around his downed foe.

Ahead, Mara dismounted beside one of the tall stones marking the gate. A dark tendril lashed out at her, but she stood fast, summoning turma.

The shield blazed with light, and the Void shard recoiled. Even under attack, though, its magic held the gate open, allowing a gyrewolf to slip into Mara’s world. Bran slipped nimbly from Fuin’s back and joined his wife, sword raised.

“Bran.” Her voice was heavy with heartbreak. “They’re getting through.”

The remaining gyrewolf made a dash for the gate, but Nehta sprinted forward. With a mighty throw, her spear went through the creature’s shoulder, throwing it off course. Three of Bran’s warriors sprang forward, and the malignant shard of the Void howled as the wolf perished under their blows.

That victory was offset by a spiderkin scuttling furiously toward the portal. Bran lunged in front of it, landing a blow to its carapace. It let out a chittering cry, then gathered itself and leaped over him. He stabbed upward, felt his sword connect, but even as he ducked away from the toxic blood, the spiderkin passed through the gate.

“We will fight them on the other side,” he said. Under no circumstances could he allow the threat of the Void to run loose in Mara’s world. She had helped him save Elfhame—a debt that he could never repay. But he could try.

“No,” Mara said, tears tracking down her cheeks. “You can’t cross. I saw a vision… you were attacked by humans. I must go alone.”

“Never.” He would save her world—even if it meant his death.

The Void pulsed overhead, and he knew that he must forge his own way through the gate. To pass through the sticky blackness of the Void would be sheer folly.

“Edro!” he shouted. The clean blue light of his magic sliced through the portal, opening a thin path for him to follow.

“Bran, no!” Mara reached to stop him, but he stepped into the whirl beyond her grasp.

He could feel the clash of his own power against the Void—a humming instability that vibrated through his bones. The portal wavered, threatening to disintegrate and trap him between the realms.

Then he was through. The cold air of the mortal world pierced his lungs, and he blinked, closing his inner eyelids against the painful brightness.

Light flashed, and with a thunderclap, the portal between the worlds closed—leaving Mara on the other side.

31

“Bran!” Mara cried as the gateway clapped shut.

She threw her hands up, ready to call upon the rune of opening, when Ondo thrust her aside.

“Back, my lady!” he cried, raising his sword to defend her against the huge Voidspawn lunging toward them.

She took a single step, then summoned a ball of flame to fling against the lumberer. It staggered, but continued to attack. Overhead, she was aware of the pulsing black blot of the Void shard.

Whether it was gathering itself to attack them, or to reopen the gateway, she did not know. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest, but she could not voice her sobs.

Bran.

She must believe that his death by human hands was not imminent. Her vision had shown a full-leafed forest, at night, and she clung to the fact that she’d glimpsed a daylit winter landscape through the portal.

Nehta joined the fight, nimbly wielding her spear, and slowly she and Ondo beat the lumberer back. In the corner of her vision, Mara saw the last spiderkin expire, and then the rest of Bran’s fighters rushed to help them battle the lumberer.

With a sound like metal scraping on stone, the creature shivered, then folded in on itself and collapsed.

The black cloud of the Void shrieked.

Not only at the demise of its minions, but at the swarm of glimglows descending upon it. One of Bran’s archers shot an arrow at the Void, but it passed through the oily shadow, doing no harm.

Despite Bran’s earlier failure with casting magic against the thing, Mara took a deep breath and spoke the rune of fire.

“Coronnar!”

She poured her heart, her love, her fear into the spell, blasting the darkness with light and power. The warriors shaded their eyes, and the glimglows whirled like a golden vortex about the fragment of the Void.

A dark malevolence pushed back, and she felt the drain upon her wellspring as she continued to channel fire through her outstretched hands. Behind the Void shard a vast hunger seethed, driven by a malignant intelligence.

“No,” she said fiercely. “This realm is mine, and you may not have it.”

The darkness shuddered, and she redoubled her efforts. For Anneth, for her sisters, for the beauty of both their worlds, her magic blazed. And, most of all, for Bran. Her beloved. She would not let his world fall, even as he protected hers. Together, they would vanquish the dark.

The Void shard withered under the onslaught, the darkness dimming until, with a last shrill screech, it was gone. A moment later, Mara’s spell winked out.

She swayed, feeling like a vessel with all the water poured out. It seemed her wellspring was not inexhaustible after all.

“Mara!” Avantor was at her side in an instant, propping her up.

Ondo took her other arm, and she sagged between them.

“I must go to Bran,” she said, her voice a hoarse croak.

Avantor glanced at the portal, then back to her, his expression tight with worry. “The gate is closed.”

“I will reopen it.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were foolish. She had not the strength to cast a wisp of foxfire, let alone open the gateway back to the mortal world.

“He will come back to you, my lady,” Ondo said.

“The vision.” She looked at Avantor. “In the Room of Reflection, I saw Bran attacked in the mortal world. We cannot wait.”

“You must,” Avantor said gently. “You are in no condition to work magic.”

“How soon?”

“One sleep, at least.”

She sighed, her head heavy, as though she wore a crown of iron. “I will rest for one night only. And then, will you help me open the gate?”

“I will,” Avantor said.

“As will I,” Ondo added.

“All of us,” Nehta said, clearly having overheard. “We cannot leave the commander to battle the Voidspawn alone in the mortal world.”

The other fighters nodded in agreement. No one pointed out that by the time they opened the gateway, Bran might well have been defeated.

No. Mara refused to even consider it.

“Sit.” Avantor guided her to a moss-covered stone at the edge of the clearing.

She stumbled to it without complaint and watched in a daze as the Dark Elves burned the Voidspawn corpses and made a hurried camp just within the shelter of the trees.

In the center of the clearing, the two gateway stones stood, silver runes shining in the light of the setting doublemoons. Had the day run already?

She blinked. and ate the stew Ondo brought her. Blinked again, and crawled into the shelter of her tent. The bedding smelled like Bran, and she wept into the starlit dark.

* * *

Bran stared at the closed gateway for one stark moment. Then he whirled, sword raised, to meet the leaping attack of the gyrewolf. He beat it back with magebolt and blade, drawing upon all his formidable skill. Thankfully, the spiderkin had crawled some distance away, writhing in its death throes.

Of the lumberer there was no sign, but Bran did not have a moment to spare wondering at its fate. Twisting, he parried the savage snap of the gyrewolf’s jaws. The power of his wellspring faltered, already depleted by opening the gate and crossing over. Gritting his teeth, he reached deep and flung a last, mighty bolt at his foe.

The gyrewolf collapsed mid-leap, the red light fading from its eyes.

Panting, Bran turned in a slow circle. The clearing stank of burned fur and spiderkin ichor, but both the Voidspawn were dead.

The lumberer, though—where had it gone?

Ice crunched beneath his boots, and he glanced down, perplexed. In Elfhame, the mountains at the far edge of Rowan bore frost, but the cold stayed in its place and did not venture forth into the summerlands of the courts.

At least the frost bore the sign of the lumberer’s passage. The brushed trail led into the forest. Bran cleaned his sword on the dead gyrewolf’s body, then headed into the trees of the mortal Darkwood. Their trunks grew thinner than those in his realm, their reaching branches not quite as majestic.

A cold wind stirred the branches, and a dark shadow seemed to flow past. Bran glanced up, unable to suppress a shiver. Had that been the Void shard, loosed into the mortal world? If so, it must be seeking the last of its creatures.

Despite the weariness wrapping him head to foot, foreboding pushed him forward. The intense brightness of the mortal world faded, and he sighed in relief as dimness descended. Small creatures chirped and rustled, seemingly unconcerned by his passing. There were no flowers, as he was used to in the Erynvorn. Only frost-edged leaves of darkest green, and brown tangles of dormant thickets.

Too late, he realized he had lost the lumberer’s trail.

Weariness dragged at his limbs and blurred his vision as he scouted back and forth. Finally, he admitted defeat, if only temporarily. He must rest—but on the morrow, he would find and dispatch the creature, and return to Elfhame.

As he slipped into slumber, however, his fate whispered that it would not be that simple…

32

To Mara’s dismay, it took two more days for her wellspring to regenerate to the point where Avantor agreed to attempt opening the gateway. In truth, though, she’d barely had the energy to argue with him. The first palemoon had slipped away in slumber, and it was only on the second that she roused enough to mark the passage of time.

The bustle of the camp around her had increased so much that she poked her head out of her tent in alarm. Ondo sat cross-legged just outside. He looked up in relief when she spoke his name.

“What is happening?” She gestured at the commotion.

“Hestil has arrived,” he said.

“Finally.” Mara scanned the camp. “Could you bring her to me, please?”

“I will send for her,” he said, clearly unwilling to leave his post. “And Avantor, as well.”

She nodded, then ducked back inside to make herself presentable. Urgency simmered just under her skin, but she was now clearheaded enough to know that they must make plans.

No matter how much she wanted to go charging back into her world to find her husband.

There was just time enough for her to settle outside with a cup of hot tea before Hestil arrived.

“My lady.” The hard-faced warrior made her a bow. “Avantor has told me what happened. We owe you another great debt, for vanquishing the Void once more. It is my deepest regret that I was too late to join the battle.”

“But not too late to help open the gateway,” Mara said. “I am going after Bran.”

If he could draw upon her strength, she reasoned, then why could she not do the same with the other Dark Elves? It was worth a try, at any rate.

“I will go with you into the mortal world,” Hestil said, just as Avantor arrived.

“That is not wise.” The healer frowned. “Would Bran agree to rob Hawthorne of both its commander and its second? What if you never return?”

Hestil’s eyes narrowed, but she did not argue. “I could say the same for you, Avantor. If I stay behind, then you must as well.”

“Bran must have a healer—”

“Then we will send Brethil,” Hestil said.

“And Ondo,” Avantor replied. “And perhaps—”

“Stop.” Mara held up her hands. “I’m not taking an entire troop with me. Who knows what we’ll find once we open the gate? With luck, Bran will be waiting to step back into Elfhame.”

The memory of her vision rose, and she clenched her jaw to keep her fear from spilling forth.

Avantor and Hestil exchanged a look, and then the warrior offered her a hand up.

“Our people are gathering at the portal stones,” she said. “Let us make the attempt and, as you said, see what lies on the other side.”

Mara gulped the last of her tea and then took Hestil’s calloused hand, glad of the assistance.

Nearly two dozen Dark Elves stood in a loose circle around the gateway. They bowed to Mara as she passed, and some offered words of thanks and encouragement. Hestil and Avantor strode beside her, Ondo just behind, and all too soon, she stood before the stones marking the gateway.

A hush fell. Mara bit her lip, then turned to Avantor.

“Everyone must take hands,” she said, with far more confidence than she felt.

What if her plan failed? What if it did not, only to reveal tragedy on the other side?

Avantor reached to Hestil, who linked hands with Ondo, and on down the line to the last warrior. Once they were all connected, Mara took a deep breath and set her hand on Hestil’s shoulder. She had no notion if this idea would work.

True, she’d opened the gateway by herself once before, but that was after weeks of letting her wellspring lie quiescent in the mortal world. She did not have that depth of power now.

Now, she and the rest of the Dark Elves stood arrayed before the silent gray stones of the portal. The air between was still, showing only the clearing beyond. Three glimglows flitted overhead, and Mara sent them a grateful glance. They had always been her allies.

With a deep breath, she held her free hand, palm open, toward the gateway. Recalling Penluith’s admonition not to try, she focused instead on the thought of Bran there, beyond the gate. The azure ring on her finger pulsed with her heartbeat.

“Edro!” she cried.

Blue light flared, and the runes inscribed on the portal stones blazed to life. The view of the clearing between the stones flickered, but did not change.

She squeezed her eyes shut and poured herself into channeling the spell of opening. Already, she could feel her wellspring’s power dipping.

“Open!” she yelled, and tightened her grip on Hestil’s shoulder.

A surge of power flowed through her, and the wavering strength of her wellspring roared back to fullness. The gateway shimmered, then cleared to show the trees of the mortal Darkwood.

Mara sucked in a breath of dismay. Instead of the frosted winter landscape she’d glimpsed when Bran went through, the fresh green of spring brightened the forest beyond.

Still holding the portal open, she glanced at Avantor. “It is a different season than before.”

She’d forgotten that time moved differently between the realms, and panic tightened her throat. How many months had passed in the mortal world, while she had rested? At least two, judging by the season.

“Look.” Avantor nodded to the clearing in the human world. A glowing scroll lay on a flat rock just outside the gate. “Can you reach it?”

Mara reached, her hand coruscating with light as it passed between the stones. Her fingertips brushed the curl of paper, and she strained forward, managing to grasp one edge.

The gateway crackled as she pulled the scroll through. Once it was in her hands, she realized that it was not paper, after all, but bark. She guessed Bran had fashioned it somehow, using magic and ingenuity.

“What does it say?” Hestil asked.

One-handed, Mara held the scroll up. It unrolled, and for a moment, the elvish markings were unintelligible. Then the writing blurred and re-formed, and she read the message aloud.

“Beloved. I must pursue the Void further into your world. Find me.”

“To the point,” Hestil said dryly. “How much longer can you hold the portal?”

“A bit,” Mara said, though she felt the strain of channeling their combined power. “I am going through it, of course.”

“I am with you,” Ondo said, and Mara noted the pack of supplies at his feet. “I swore to our commander that I would protect you, and I will not break that vow.”

She could not argue with him, though she’d prefer to go alone.

“Very well,” she said.

“Take Brethil, too,” Avantor urged, but Mara shook her head.

“You’re lucky I’ve agreed to Ondo.” Her hand trembled, the gateway wavering. “We have no time to argue. Besides, I’m not certain I can transport even the two of us safely through.” She glanced at the scout. “Are you ready?”

He nodded and stepped forward.

“Be careful,” Avantor said, his expression sober. “Return to us safely, Princess Mara Geary of the Hawthorne Court, and bring our prince home.”

“I will.” She could feel her strength ebbing.

“Now,” she cried, letting go of Hestil and grabbing Ondo’s hand. She dashed forward, pulling him behind her into the fading light of the mortal world.

33

Breathless, Mara stumbled into the clearing. The surrounding evergreens rustled, as if in surprise. Ondo gripped her hand tightly—the only sign of his apprehension.

She glanced over her shoulder. For a heartbeat, she glimpsed the glowing violet sky of Elfhame, the stars of the flowers scattered beneath the huge trees. Then the gate closed, a sigh of blossom-scented air brushing past them. Mara’s connection with the linked elves cut off, and she swayed as exhaustion slammed into her.

“My lady!” Ondo dropped her hand and rushed to prop her up.

“I’m all right,” she said through gritted teeth. “Help me sit.”

She must rest—but first she must attempt to locate Bran.

“Did you bring a scrying bowl?” She glanced at the pack of supplies Ondo had brought. Thank goodness he had been thinking ahead, even if she had not.

He helped her settle with her back against one of the portal stones, then fetched a small silver bowl and poured a measure of water into it. The scrying bowl shook in Mara’s hands, the liquid shivering. But no matter her exhaustion, she must reach her husband.

Bending over the bowl, she spoke the rune of scrying. “Show me Bran,” she whispered.

Her wellspring responded sluggishly, and the surface of the water continued to reflect the dusk sky overhead. A stab of fear went through her. What if she were too late? What if her vision had come true, and she had lost him?

No. She took a steadying breath. Bran lived—she felt it, a steady glow deep inside.

She touched her wedding ring with the tip of her thumb. Instead of trying to force the scrying, she focused on her yearning for her husband, the bright, steady warmth of the love they shared between them.

“Bran,” she said again, her voice taut.

The silvery water shimmered, then an image formed in the center. Bran’s face, gazing back at her, his features shaded by a deep hood. She slumped in relief.

“Mara.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I knew you would come. Are you well?”

“Well enough. Ondo is with me. Where can we find you?”

A crease formed between his brows, and he glanced over his shoulder. “I have traveled a distance, beloved. It will be no easy thing for us to meet.”

“I would go through fire and flood for you,” she said, her heart clenching. “But where are you?”

“Far beyond the borders of Raine, I fear. In a place called Parnese.”

Parnese? She frowned, trying to place it on a map. Didn’t it lie beyond the sea, to the south?

“What of the Void?” She curved her shoulders forward and shot the forest an apprehensive glance.

He frowned. “I am still following its trail. It eluded me, easily crossing the great water while I had to search for a passage over.”

The surface of the bowl flickered back to reflecting the sky for a moment, then cleared again.

“The scrying is fading,” he said urgently. “Ondo must remain in the forest, guarding the gateway. Our kind is much feared in your world.”

“Yes.” Her throat dried with fear. “Are you safe? Unharmed?”

“I am managing.” He gave her a crooked smile. “The sight of you heartens me greatly.”

“We will speak again, soon,” she said. “After I rest.”

“Take care, my heart. I cannot bear to lose you again.”

His image blurred, until only the tree-edged sky remained. Mara swallowed back tears and looked at Ondo.

“You will find him.” The scout sounded certain of the fact.

“Yes. And together we’ll banish the Void.”

She and Bran had faced impossible odds before. And this was her world. She would fight fiercely to defend it.

“Must I remain in the forest?” Ondo asked, a stubborn look in his eyes.

“You heard the prince’s command,” she reminded him. “You must stay in the Darkwood. But, perhaps, you can escort me to where the forest ends before returning here.”

She rose, one hand braced on the rough granite portal stone.

I’m coming, Bran, she thought into the descending dusk.

Three glimglows swooped overhead, then danced to the edge of the forest. They bobbed up down impatiently, as if expecting her to follow. Gathering herself, she stepped forward.

“Where are we going?” Ondo asked her. “You must replenish your strength.”

“I will.” She glanced up, to where the first familiar stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky.

The Darkwood hushed and rustled, but she was not afraid.

She was home.

34

Bran drew his hand across his face, tasting dust.

At last, Mara had crossed back into her world. His spirits felt lighter than they had in moons. Although he had known it would take time, he’d begun to wonder, with an edge of despair, how long he would have to wander the mortal world alone.

No longer. The tight band of worry about his ribs eased. Mara had crossed into the human realm, and all would be well.

He settled his sword more firmly over his hip, then strode from the quiet alleyway back out into the busy marketplace he’d been browsing when the scrying summons came. The scent of spices tickled his nose, and the heat of the lowering sun beat through his cloak.

Despite that warmth, he kept the hood drawn up. He’d quickly learned to mask his true appearance with magic, but it took some effort. Easier to let the shadows aid the softer blur he cast over his features.

It had not been easy, learning to navigate the human world.

His first encounter with a human had left them both shaken. He hadn’t meant to take the woodcutter by surprise, but the man had yelled and charged at Bran with his axe. Startled, Bran had tried to speak to him, but the woodcutter continued to brandish his weapon, yelling, “Away with you, monster! I swear I’ll hew you limb from limb unless you return to the place you sprang from, demon!”

Despite the man’s bold words, his eyes had been wide with fright, his skin pale. It seemed more prudent for Bran to withdraw than to try to convince the fellow he meant no harm. Belatedly, he recalled Mara telling him that humans did not dwell within the forest, but at its edges. He had not realized that a Dark Elf was a frightful thing for a human to behold.

His respect for Mara grew even greater as he realized how much of her own fear she’d had to battle upon their first meeting.

After that, Bran had lingered in the forest and practiced altering his appearance, softening the stark lines of his face and rounding his pupils. He hunched over to make himself appear shorter, and hoped that some humans came in a larger stature.

He had no supplies except his sword, the small eating knife at his belt, and, of course, his magic. It had been enough to keep him fed and sheltered for two nights and days within the Darkwood. Finally satisfied that he could pass among mortals as one of their own, he sought human habitation.

Luckily, whether it was his magic or his marriage, he was able to speak and understand the human tongue. When he emerged from the forest, he took on the semblance of a mortal man, and concocted a story of being from a far-off village and becoming lost in the woods.

A nudge of spell-work kept those he met from questioning his story too closely. He was able to barter most of his jewelry—all except his wedding band, which he would never part with—for the supplies he needed. Including a horse, though the chestnut gelding was no match for Fuin.

He followed the Voidspawn’s trail, able to track it with a spell of sensing once his wellspring regenerated. The creature was moving southward, and he pursued, gaining ground.

Until he reached the shore, where the strange, endless waves lapped. The lumberer’s path led directly into the water. Frustrated, Bran rode back and forth along the shoreline. His mount balked when he tried to ride it into the waves, and he quickly abandoned that notion. But how to follow?

It was not until he spied the strange wooden contraption floating against the horizon that he understood there was a way for him to cross the wide waters.

He traded some of his store of silver coins for passage aboard a ship—a strange experience, to journey borne by wood and wave. When he once more stood upon land, the Voidspawn’s trail was faint.

With much effort, he traced the creature to the city of Parnese, where the trail once again faded. He’d been trying to find it again when the scrying from Mara had come.

Now, half of him wanted to turn back to the cool green land of Raine. He wanted nothing more than to take his wife in his arms, inhale the scent of her, and remind himself of everything good in both their worlds.

But, as ever, duty and honor bound him to a different course. No matter how much his heart might cry otherwise.

Mara would find him, he had no doubt, even as he continued his pursuit of the Voidspawn. It would be easier for her, moving through her own, familiar, world—and their ability to scry with one another would make it that much simpler for her to catch up and find him.

Soon, my love, he thought, sending his love flying northward, across the water.

Soon.

With a deep breath, he strode from the marketplace to the small inn where he’d taken rooms. The sun was setting, and in the blessed dimness of the human world’s twilight, he vowed to turn all his power to tracking the Voidspawn down.

Meanwhile, he must content himself with the memory of Mara’s sweetly human face, the light in her eyes, the steadfastness of her spirit.

On the far horizon, the sun of the mortal realm sank slowly in a blaze of crimson and gold. Surely, in all the worlds, light would prevail, and vanquish the darkness of the Void.

He could believe nothing less.

* * *

THE END

Bran and Mara’s story finishes in RAINE, releasing spring 2020 – and begins in ELFHAME, Book 1 of the Darkwood Chronicles. Grab your copy today!

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my fabulous editor, Laurie, for catching chapters as I flung them at you, and keeping pace with me to the finish line. You are a treasure.

Another big tip of the hat to Arran for the fine work and quick turn-around, not to mention cleaning up my comma abuse.

Special thanks to S. Frost Designs for the cover, and branding match.

I’d like to acknowledge the work of Leonard and the wonderful folks who compiled Parf Edhellen, a free online dictionary of Tolkien’s languages. The Dark Elf language is deeply inspired by Sindarin, with many thanks to this excellent resource. https://www.elfdict.com/about.page

Final thanks to my sibs, Colin, Jake, and Alexis, for their patience during our Alaska adventures (and a late-night final-chapter reading), and Patrick at Northern Alaska Tour Company for driving the bus (literally). I finished this book while crossing the Arctic Circle on the Dalton Highway. Enjoy!

Other Works

THE DARKWOOD CHRONICLES

ELFHAME – Book 1

Hawthorne – Book 2

Raine – Book 3 (coming Spring 2020)

THE FEYLAND SERIES

The First Adventure (Prequel novella)

The Dark Realm – Book 1

The Bright Court – Book 2

The Twilight Kingdom – Book 3

Faerie Swap – Book 3.5

Spark – Book 4

Brea’s Tale – Book 4.5

Royal – Book 5

Marny – Book 6

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

Tales of Feyland & Faerie

Tales of Music & Magic

Stars & Steam

Comets & Corsets

The Faerie Girl & Other Tales

The Perfect Perfume & Other Tales

Feyland Tales: Volume 1

Chronicle Worlds: Feyland

About the Author

~USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of Fantasy and SF~

Growing up on fairy tales and computer games, Anthea Sharp has melded the two in her award-winning, bestselling Feyland series, which has sold over 200k copies worldwide. She loves to write immersive fantasy and fantastical worlds full of adventure and a touch of romance.

Her novels have won or placed in the PRISM, the Maggie, the National Reader’s Choice Award, the Write Touch Reader’s Award, the Heart of Excellence, The National Excellence in Romance Fiction, The Judge a Book by its Cover, and the Book Buyer’s Best contests

Anthea lives in the Pacific Northwest, where she writes, hangs out in virtual worlds, plays the fiddle with her Celtic band Fiddlehead, and spends time with her small-but-good family.

Join her newsletter for a FREE STORY, plus find out about upcoming releases and reader perks – she never spams.

Facebook