Elfhame (Skeleton Key) (18 page)

“When I squeeze your hand, we will say the Rune together,” he said. “Do not fear.”

Her gaze fixed on his, she made no reply, only waited. There was nothing but trust in his eyes.

He pressed her hand, and she opened her mouth, speaking the awkward syllables.

“
Gwedhyocuilvorn!
”

Their voices mingled, his strong tones overriding her slight mispronunciation. A searing light sprang from their clasped hands, and the air vibrated as though they stood within a giant bell that had just been struck. Mara squinted against the glare. Her hand felt as though it was on fire.

Then her skin prickled all over, and that strange feeling opened up inside her again: a rush of power filling her from her toes to the crown of her head. It spilled out, and bright azure flames leaped from her hand where it touched Bran’s.

His nostrils flared and he leaned forward.

“You must contain your power,” he said, his voice tight. “Pull it back in. I’m shielding the court, but I can’t continue for long.”

Mara dug her heels into the stone floor and concentrated on subduing the wild fire burning inside her.
Breathe. Calm
. Slowly, she felt the heat subside.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only seconds, the blue flame winked out, and her power curled in and down, settling back to whatever shadowy place it inhabited. She swayed, and Bran caught her, pulling her in to lean against his broad chest.

Their hands were still linked. His heart beat strong under her cheek.

She drew in a shaky breath and slowly uncurled her fingers. He did the same.

To her great relief, their hands were no longer attached. She pulled hers away and glanced at the ring encircling her middle finger. Where it had been plain silver before, it now glowed a deep violet-blue. Bran’s was the same, and she didn’t know if they were supposed to look that way, or if the ceremony had indeed gone awry.

“That was unexpected,” Bran said, quietly enough that only she could hear. His breath was warm against her forehead “Are you unharmed?”

“I think so.”

“Then you must stand beside me. Take my hand, like so. Now raise your ring so that all may see.”

Mara obeyed, though she felt a bit shaky on her feet. Bran shifted toward her, bracing her unobtrusively against him.

Her vision was still blurred by the flash of power, but she could see shock and wonder on the faces of the assembled Dark Elves. She was pleased to note the nasty Mireleth had lost her usual petulant expression, and Anneth was openly beaming.

“We have witnessed history in the making,” the Hawthorne Lord said from the dais. Even he sounded a trifle stunned. “The union between Prince Brannonilon Luthinor and the mortal woman, Lady Mara Geary, is complete. Let us rejoice.”

Anneth led the cheering, which was thin at first, then grew in volume until the entire court was calling out their approval.

Cutting above the noise, Mara became aware of a shrill, high keening. She glanced over at Bran, who looked exceedingly grim.

“To arms!” he cried, and the cheering abruptly cut off. “The Hawthorne Palace is under attack!”

T
he palace alarm wailed, then finally ceased as the members of the Hawthorne Court scrambled for the doors. Bran set his hand on Mara’s shoulder. His ring flared with blue light, reminding him that this woman was, now and always, his wife. Regret curled through him like smoke that they would never have a true partnership, or a future together.

For all her strangeness, and despite everything, he feared that he had learned to love his mortal woman. Not that he would ever speak such a thing to her. She would be disgusted, and presume he was only trying to hold her to Elfhame.

“What do we do?” she asked, turning to him. “Are Void creatures attacking?”

“Not quite yet,” he said. “The alarm is set to ring when enemies cross the palace boundary. We have a half-turn to prepare for battle before they are upon us.”

“I’m fighting, too,” Mara said, as if daring him to contradict her.

“Of course. We need you.”
I need you.

Anneth hurried up, and gave Mara a stern look.

“You’re not going to war in
that
.” She gestured to Mara’s silver gown.

“Then let’s get back to your rooms and find me something suitable,” his wife—
his wife!—
said.

Bran squeezed her shoulder and let go, though a part of him wanted to hold on to her and keep her safe, forever.

“I’ll be in the courtyard just inside the main gate,” he said. “Everyone willing to fight will muster there. Find me as soon as you’re ready.”

He did not bother telling her to hurry. It was clear that they had not a moment to waste.

She turned to go, and he caught her arm again.

“Take this.” He drew his dagger from his belt and handed it to her, hilt first. “I don’t want you to be unarmed.”

“Not giving back your groom-gift?” She gave him a crooked smile.

“Never. Now go.”

She and Anneth rushed off, and Bran turned to where Garon and few members of the nobility waited beside the dais. To his surprise, his father stood there as well, though there was no sign of Tinnueth. No doubt she was busy barricading herself in her rooms.

“Father.” He gave the Hawthorne Lord a nod of respect. The man had been a skilled swordsman in his day, and good enough with offensive magic. “Do you join us?”

“Of course,” Lord Calithilon said.

“Good.” Bran turned to Garon. “How many fighters?”

“Ten—plus yourself and Lady Mara and the Lord, makes thirteen. A few defenders will stay behind, too. Cerreth and her brother will take to the towers with fiery arrows.”

Bran surveyed the brave, grim faces staring back at him. “Put on your armor, fetch your weapons, and meet me by the gates as soon as possible.”

They nodded and dispersed, leaving Bran alone with his father.

“Well done,” Lord Calithilon said. “I am proud to call you my son.”

“The battle’s not yet won.”

“But the prophecy is fulfilled, and I was wrong to ever doubt it. I am certain we’ll win. Afterward, I’ll ensure that your mother never meddles with the mortal girl.”

Bran gave him a short nod. This was no time to explain that Mara would be departing Elfhame. When she learned of it, no doubt Tinnueth would be delighted. As would Mireleth. The knowledge left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Off to prepare,” Lord Calithilon said, a note of anticipation in his voice. He stepped onto the dais and headed for his private door.

For the first time, Bran wondered if perhaps his father was bored. He should have invited the Hawthorne Lord to come to the front, perhaps take part in a few skirmishes.

Well, there would be excitement enough in the coming turn. And, he feared, the worst parts of war as well: wounded warriors, pain, death.

With those gloomy thoughts for company, he strode back to his rooms to don his leather armor and fetch his sword.

Garon and two others were waiting when he entered the courtyard, and soon enough the rest of the fighters joined them. Lord Calithilon’s eyes glowed, and Bran could feel his father gathering his magic in preparation.

Mara was the last to arrive, wearing a heavy tunic, leggings, and her mortal boots, which still shimmered slightly with Anneth’s glamour. If his wife had chosen to stay in Elfhame, he would have commanded a set of the finest armor to be made for her.

Instead, he would be her shield and her sword.

“Something’s coming,” one of the fighters said, pointing at the pale road winding away from the palace gates.

The hiss of swords leaving scabbards filled the air, but Bran held up his hand. “Wait. Those are no Void creatures.”

He sent a ball of glowing foxfire forward. Its blue light illuminated a line of Dark Elves straggling down the road. At the front strode the Nightshade Lady, her expression grim.

“We’re here,” she called back to her people. “Hurry—the Hawthorne Palace awaits.”

Bran and the other fighters stood aside as the people of Nightshade came through the gates.

“Welcome.” Lord Calithilon raised his hand in greeting. “Enter, friends, and seek food and shelter within. Our hospitality is yours as long as you need it.”

“My thanks, Hawthorne,” the Nightshade Lady said, stopping beside Bran’s father.

“You would do the same,” he said. “How many?”

“Not enough.” Her voice was hollow with weariness. “Our best fighters fell in the first attack. I fear Nightshade is lost to us.”

“Not for long,” Bran said.

Whatever happened, the war with the Void would be over soon. And if the Dark Elves were defeated, then the fate of the courts of Elfhame mattered not at all.

He watched as the stream of refugees trickled in. Nightshade was a small court, smaller than their own, and after a dismayingly short time the road was empty again.

“The creatures are not far behind,” the Nightshade Lady said. “I would stay with you and fight, but I fear my magic is spent.”

“Recover as you can,” Lord Calithilon said. “You traveled fast, to reach us this soon.”

“The Rune of Quickness has its uses.”

Bran shot her a look of respect. No wonder her powers were exhausted. To cast the Rune on one person was challenge enough. The Nightshade Lady had done so for all her court, and several times over, if he was any judge.

A faint sound reached Bran, and he stiffened.

“The Void creatures come,” he said. “Spread out in front of the gates. Mara, stay close by me.”

He’d wanted to ride out and engage the enemy further from the palace, but it was too late. The creatures that had attacked Nightshade were closer than the ones Hestil was retreating from, and he prayed his small band would be able to dispatch them before the fighters from the front arrived.

Between one breath and the next, the enemy was upon them. Red-eyed gyrewolves leaped and snapped, and one spiderkin jumped over them all and headed for the palace.

Bran shouted a warning, and saw his father blast the creature with a bolt of power before drawing his sword. Then all his attention turned to fighting the wolves swarming toward him and Mara.

As he’d guessed, somehow the Void sensed her presence. The battle soon became not a defense of the palace gates, but a circle of fighting around him and his bride.

A wolf came too close while he pushed back a spiderkin. Mara cried out and slashed at it with the dagger he’d given her. It growled and prepared to leap, then was taken down by a swing of Garon’s blade.

Bran’s heart pumped furiously. That had been far too close. He raised one hand, summoning his power, and let out a blast. It knocked back the current attackers, but by its light Bran could see more approaching, including two of the lumbering creatures. These ones were twice the size of the lumberer he and Lieth had dispatched, and he could not help a twinge of dismay at the sight.

“Now what?” Mara asked. One of her braids had come loose, and her mud-colored hair straggled across her face.

He gently tucked the strand behind her ear.

“We hold fast,” he said. “This is a skirmish. I fear the real battle is yet to come.”

“Something’s happening yonder,” Garon said, lifting his blade and staring toward the rise above the palace.

Bran looked, and saw the telltale glow of magic flickering against the starlit sky.

“It must be Hestil.” He raised his voice in command. “Fighters, move position to the ridge!”

He sent another blast of power to keep the Void creatures at bay and give their small band enough time to scramble for the rise. He caught Mara’s hand. Despite Garon’s lame leg, the old soldier kept pace on her other side. It seemed he’d appointed himself her bodyguard, and Bran was glad of it. As they vacated the area before the gates, arrows hissed from the towers toward their enemies, burning green and orange with magical flame.

They crested the ridge to see scores of Dark Elf warriors holding back a wave of gyrewolves and spiderkin. Lieth’s bolts of magic flew true, and the glows of lesser magic users bloomed and faded over the trampled silvergrass. Bran scanned the fighters, finding Hestil in the process of dispatching a gyrewolf.