Elfhame (Skeleton Key) (6 page)

T
he only redeeming feature of the Hawthorne Court’s formal dinner was that Bran was seated beside his sister. Although it was rude, he ignored the woman on his left and spent the meal conversing with Anneth.

During the soup course, she made him smile with tales of her escapades in the court, including raiding the library and making off with as many lurid tales of mortals as she could carry.

“One of us needs to know what you’ll be getting into when your human woman finally appears,” Anneth said, giving him a teasing look. “Did you know that mortals prefer strong light—even stronger than our brightmoon—and like to eat snails?”

“That sounds most unappetizing.”

“What, the light or the slugs?”

“Both.” But the prophecy demanded he bear with honor whatever challenges a mortal wife would bring.

“What is afoot with our parents?” Anneth glanced to the head of the table, where the Hawthorne Lord and Lady presided over the feast. “Mother looks as though she’s swallowed something surprisingly pleasant, and Father is absolutely gloating.”

Bran leaned back to let the servant take his bowl, and did not speak until the man had moved away down the table.

“They have a scheme that they hope will force the prophecy to manifest.”

Anneth frowned. “I was afraid of that, from the tidbits Father let drop. But is it even possible to make a prophecy happen? Can you tell me more?”

Bran paused again as the fowl course was served, and took the opportunity to take a deep draught of elderberry wine. His father was correct: it was one of the finest vintages yet.

Anneth took a bite of pheasant, patiently waiting until Bran was ready to speak. It was one of the reasons he was so fond of her. She never pressed, never scolded, but simply accepted him as he was.

Which was more than their parents had ever done.

Bran made himself eat, though he’d lost his appetite. He needed all his strength for his return to the front, and it would be foolish to refuse the food set before him.

As soon as conversations rose about them, he leaned toward Anneth.

“They think that making a formal announcement of my betrothal will activate the prophecy,” he said.

She stared at him a moment, her dark eyes flaring with sympathy. “So they
do
want you to marry someone. That’s absurd. You didn’t tell them yes, did you?”

“I did.”

Her expression turned to dismay. “Bran, no. Was that wise? What if the prophecy abandons us altogether? I’m sure such things don’t like to be dictated to.”

“Something has to happen.” He could not entirely suppress the note of urgency in his voice. “The battles are getting desperate.”

He took another swallow of wine. By all the stars, he should be there now, not enduring a formal banquet while his parents gloated over forcing his hand. His mother, in particular, had always hinted that she did not quite believe in the foretelling that had accompanied his birth.

Anneth laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I trust we’ll prevail. Surely the fates would not desert us altogether.”

“I wish I shared that trust.” He took another bite of tasteless meat, made himself chew and swallow.

“But who is the lucky—”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Anneth.” The syrupy-sweet voice came from just behind him. “I need to borrow your brother for a moment.”

Bran turned in his chair to see Mireleth standing there, a predatory look in her eyes. Anneth’s gaze met his, and her eyes widened. She knew how he felt about Mireleth, and he read horrified sympathy in her expression.

“Lady Mireleth.” He set his napkin aside and rose smoothly. “It would be my pleasure to attend upon you.”

“Good.” She twined her arm through his, and he felt the delicate prick of her claws through his shirt.

As soon as they stepped out of the dining hall, she turned to him. Her pale cheeks were flushed with emotion, and her eyes glowed dangerously.

“Do you think so little of me,” she said in a tight voice, “that you force me to seek you out in the middle of dinner?”

“My most sincere apologies,” he said. “I was busy in strategic meetings until the dinner bell rang. I had every intention of finding you after the feast, to discuss matters between us.”

“Discuss matters?” The words came out in a hiss. “You have a duty to me now, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor. Our fathers signed the agreement.”

Cold twisted in Bran’s chest. “You
are
aware that we won’t actually be married.”

“Oh, Bran.” She ran one hand possessively up and down his shoulder. “Who’s to say what might happen? Now, I’ve brought the vow bracelets. You must say the words.”

Bran closed his eyes briefly. Of course, he should have guessed that Mireleth and her politically grasping father would take every advantage to seal the betrothal as tightly as they could. He’d hoped it would be a mere formality—a tactical error on his part.

Now he had no choice but to ask Mireleth to become his fiancée, and even wear the cursed bracelet. But no way under the moons would he allow the full betrothal bond to be forged. Luckily, even Mireleth would not overstep protocol by dragging him away from the rest of the feast to put her permanent claim upon him.

“Here.” She handed him the smaller of the silver-runed bracelets.

“Lady Mireleth Anion,” he said, reluctantly taking it in his palm, “will you pledge your future to mine, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm?”

“Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne.” Her voice was exultant. “I will do so, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm. Until the day we are wed, let these bracelets seal the depth of our vow.”

She held up the bracelet meant for him, kissed it, and then slid it over his hand. He was hard-pressed not to make a fist to keep it from encircling his wrist. The veins in his hands corded, and he forced himself to breathe evenly.

The cold metal closed over his skin, latching with a click that reverberated through him like a slammed door.

“My turn,” she said, a hint of threat in her voice.

Dutifully, Bran raised her bracelet to his lips, then pushed it onto her hand. It slithered over her skin like a metal snake, eagerly snapping shut the moment it reached her wrist.

The bracelets flared in tandem, and Mireleth gave him a smug smile. “Now there will be no doubt when our betrothal is announced at the end of dinner.”

“As you say.” He felt numb.

If this betrothal did not call the woman of the prophecy, he would be shackled to Mireleth for life. Fortunately, that life would be very short as the creatures of the Void overran Elfhame and destroyed everything in their path. It was a bitter consolation.

“I’ll come to your rooms tonight, after moonset,” she said, lifting her hand to caress his cheek. “We’ll seal the bracelet bonding then. Leave your door unlocked.”

His heart was a stone, his mouth full of pebbles. He said nothing.

“You could show a little more emotion,” Mireleth said, huffing out a breath. “After all, we’ve been companions already. This will only formalize things.”

“We ought to return to dinner,” he said, catching her arm and deftly steering her back inside the dining hall.

He could not bear another moment in her company, and he absolutely refused to bond their bracelets by welcoming her to his rooms later that night.

He escorted Mireleth to her seat, bowed and kissed her hand, then hastily retreated to his place.

“Oh dear,” Anneth said, once he sat down. “She’s determined to get her claws into you, isn’t she?”

Bran glanced at the pinprick holes in the arm of his linen shirt. “I’m afraid she already has.”

His sister grimaced. “And making you wear the vow bracelets, too. Does she really think she’s more important than the prophecy that will save our realm? Oh, don’t answer that. Cleary she does.”

The fruit course was served, and Bran made his decision.

“I’ll be leaving right after dinner,” he told his sister in a low voice. “I must return to the front. I’ll leave a note.”

“She’ll be furious.” Anneth glanced down the table, to where Mireleth sat, showing off her bracelet to anyone whose attention she could catch.

“Stay well out of her way until she calms down,” he said. “And send for me at any sign of trouble. So far we’ve been able to keep the border secure, but I fear some creature might slip through. Do you have the dagger I gave you?”

She nodded. “I wear it at my belt, always.”

“And are you still practicing the moves? Go to Garon at the first hint of danger—he may be old and lame, but the man still knows how to fight.”

“Yes—he complains constantly to anyone who’ll listen that he ought to be out fighting with the rest of the warriors.”

“He’s needed here as captain of the guard. Remind him of that next time he grumbles. And that I’ve entrusted my sister’s safety to his hands.”

“Surely it won’t come to that?” Anneth ate a slice of moon melon, but he could hear the fear in her voice.

Before he could reply—and really, he had nothing but empty reassurances to give her—Lord Calithilon stood from his place at the head of the table.

“Attention,” he said, his voice enhanced with magic to fill the room. “We have a very important announcement to make.”

The clink of cutlery and babble of conversation faded. Tinnueth rose to stand beside her husband, her expression austere and regal.

“It gives us great joy to announce the betrothal of our son, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne, to Lady Mireleth Anion. Let us toast to their happiness!”

A shocked murmur ran through the room, and Bran heard the questions rise:
What of the prophecy? Does he love her that much? Is the Hawthorne Lord mad?

He ignored the buzz of speculation and concentrated on not openly scowling.

“You look very forbidding,” his sister murmured.

“It’s the best I can do,” he replied.

In contrast, Lady Mireleth was smiling broadly. She lifted her arm so everyone could see the betrothal bracelet.

“I’m so delighted that Bran has asked me to marry him,” she said in a voice pitched to carry. “I’m sure you all know we’ve been madly in love for years.”

Anneth nearly choked on her wine, and Bran tried not to wince at the outright lie. If he hadn’t already decided to leave immediately, Mireleth’s words would have sent him running.

So much for the brave warrior
, he thought cynically. He was fearless in battle, but in the face of Mireleth’s court-sanctioned grasping, he felt like an untrained youth facing his first enemy in the field.

“Congratulations!” one well-wisher shouted, and the toast was taken up through the dining hall.

Bran raised his goblet and wet his lips with wine, acknowledging the cheers. He needed a clear head to travel on, despite the impulse to drain his cup.

He was gratified to note that several people sent him looks filled with commiseration, however, rather than congratulation. Not everyone believed Mireleth’s fabrications, or thought the betrothal was wise.

The Hawthorne Lord and Lady resumed their seats, and the musicians in the gallery struck up a jaunty tune on flute and cittern. As people’s attention returned to their food, Bran considered how quickly he could depart.

He’d make it through the last course, pen a note for Lady Mireleth saying he’d been unexpectedly called back to the battle, fetch his mount, and be well away from the Hawthorne Court before the palemoon set.