Elfhame (Skeleton Key) (15 page)

“We will feast tonight in your honor,” Lord Calithilon said. “Until that time, feel free to tour the palace. Prince Brannon will serve as your guide. Tomorrow is a day for celebration. So that we might all make ready, I declare our court hours at an end today.”

He raised one finger, and the sound of the dismissal gong rang through the room.

Mara curtseyed again to the lord and lady, then took a step backward. Bran caught her elbow as she began to turn.

“Wait,” he said. It was the height of rudeness to turn one’s back on the rulers before they stood from their thrones.

He bowed to his parents, aware of the look of warning in his mother’s eyes. Tinnueth would pounce upon any misstep Mara might make, and they would both pay the price.

The Hawthorne Lord and Lady rose and regally paced to their private door behind the thrones. Sometimes they stepped off the dais to mingle with their court. Bran was relieved it was not one of those days.

Smoothly, her pulled Mara’s arm through his, then turned them back toward the tall doors of the throne room. Beside him, he felt Mara take a quick breath. None of the assembled court had departed yet. Oh no—they wanted a good look at his mortal woman.

Anneth came up to them and took her place on Mara’s other side. Approval shone from her eyes. She would not praise Mara here, in front of the court, but Bran could tell she was pleased.

As was he. His future bride had a core of strength that would serve them both well in the coming days.

An awkward circle of space formed around them, with no one willing to step close enough to have to speak to Bran or Mara. Despite that, the pathway to the exit was blocked. It would be unpleasant to have to force their way forward.

Then his old master-at-arms, Garon, strode forward, his blackthorn cane knocking on the floor with every other step. He bowed stiffly, and Bran held out his hand.

“No need for such formality,” he said.

“It’s not you I’m honoring.” Garon turned to face the mortal woman beside Bran. “Lady Mara, it is a pleasure to meet you. I know I speak for everyone when I say I’m glad to see the prophecy fulfilled in such a satisfactory manner.”

He sent a fierce look toward the bystanders, and most of them had the grace to nod and murmur their agreement. All except Mireleth, who glared at Bran, and a few other members of the nobility who clearly sided with her.

“Thank you, sir,” Mara said.

The edge in her voice implied she didn’t think being found “satisfactory” much of a compliment.

“Not all of us are so easily satisfied.” Mireleth stepped up beside Garon. Her claws were unsheathed, and malice glittered from her narrowed eyes.

Bran set his hand to his dagger, and called his magic to his fingertips. If Mireleth had the gall to physically attack Mara, he would not hesitate to defend her.

“Lady Mireleth,” he warned, “consider your actions carefully.”

“Is this so-called Mara Geary actually a mortal?” Ignoring him, Mireleth whirled to face the crowd. “How do we know this is truly the woman of the prophecy, and not some trick meant to deprive me of my betrothed?”

Her few supporters voiced their approval, and Bran could see questions arise in the eyes of some of the nobles. He clenched his jaw. Trust Mireleth to stir up trouble.

“Your accusations are ridiculous,” he said. “Be careful whom you call a trickster.”

Mireleth stared angrily a moment, then raised her voice. “Members of the court, consider this. How is it that this
mortal
newly come to Elfhame is fluent in our language? And would a real human be able to stand before the Hawthorne Lord and Lady without quivering in fear? I think not.”

Garon tapped his cane on the floor. “Now see here—”

“Everyone knows Prince Brannon is the strongest magic user in the land,” Mireleth continued. “He’s quite capable of casting a glamour none could see through.” She pointed at Mara. “How do we know this isn’t simply some Dark Elf girl in disguise?”

Before Bran could speak in her defense, Mara set her hands on her hips and took a step forward.

“Truly?” she said. “You’re upset because now Bran won’t marry you? I can understand why.”

This drew a few laughs, quickly suppressed.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Mara continued, “you can have him. The two of you deserve one another.”

Bran knew he must speak, but somehow his tongue was frozen inside his mouth.

“And what of the prophecy?” Garon asked.

“Who would willingly put herself through all this?” Mara waved at the assembled courtiers. “Who would come here to be looked down upon by your lord and lady, insulted and sneered at, forced to obey some prophecy she’s never even heard of? I’d happily leave you all to your fate, if there was any way for me to return home.”

Her words rang with unmistakable truth, and Bran could see the effect they had on the crowd. No Dark Elf would ever speak so. And although he was dismayed at Mara’s words, he was equally pleased to see Mireleth withdraw her claws and slink back into the crowd.

“Well said.” Anneth linked her arm through Mara’s. “Excuse us.”

She strode forward, not waiting for the assembled nobles to clear a path. Those courtiers between her and the door scrambled to get out of the way.

Bran almost followed. He would like nothing better than to remove himself from the room. But first, he must sever his betrothal to Mireleth.

She had sequestered herself in a circle of her supporters. When they saw him approaching, however, they parted like water.

“Lady Andion,” he said formally, paying no mind to the poisonous look she turned on him, “speaking of trickery, you were well aware that our so-called betrothal was a ploy to activate the prophecy. I am pleased that it succeeded, and am here to officially break our bond.”

Her nostrils flared, but she could not deny the truth.

“Then I repudiate our vows,” she said bitterly. “By fire and storm, pale moon and bright, star and shadow, I want no part of you, Prince Brannonilon Luthinor.”

She shook her arm, and her silver betrothal bracelet opened and fell to the floor with a clang.

Bran caught his as it slithered off his wrist, then held it awkwardly, for once at a loss. He would not offer Mireleth an empty apology.

“I wish you well with your horrid little creature,” Mireleth said.

She tossed back her hair and stalked away, kicking the bracelet aside as she went. Her allies scurried after her.

“I’ll take charge of the bracelets,” Garon said, limping up to Bran. “Nasty business.”

Bran didn’t know if he meant Mireleth, the bracelets, or the entire sham betrothal. Likely all three. He held his discarded bracelet out.

“My thanks,” he said.

“You’d best go clear up matters with Lady Mara,” the old soldier said.

“Indeed.” He clapped Garon on the shoulder, then strode out of the room.

What a tangle. He was only glad his mother hadn’t been there to witness the entire thing—though no doubt Mireleth was already on her way to tell Tinnueth her own slanted version of events.

By the pale moon, at times like this he wished for the simplicity of battle.

Boot heels ringing over the patterned stone floor, he made for Anneth’s rooms, and the mortal woman he had lied to—not once, but twice over. He hoped she would not despise him for the rest of their days.

M
ara’s fury carried her all the way to Anneth’s rooms before subsiding to a dull smolder.

“I made a mess of things,” she said, perching on the silk-draped couch in the sitting room. “The court must hate me now for speaking so bluntly.”

“Not in the least,” Anneth said. “You were wonderful. I’d venture to say you even won the respect of the Hawthorne Lord—no mean feat.”

“Your father.” Mara crossed her arms. “I can’t believe Bran didn’t see fit to mention the fact that he was a prince.”

Anneth let out a sigh. “Getting my brother to part with words is like prying gold coins from a dragon.”

“You have dragons here?” Mara leaned forward, temporarily distracted by the thought.

“They are very rare, and possess cloaking magic that cannot be penetrated by Dark Elves. No one’s seen them for nearly a century. But enough of that. I think we both could use some refreshment.”

“I can’t remember the last time I ate anything.”

In fact, the knot of anxiety in her belly had been replaced by gnawing hunger. She recalled that Bran had handed her some hard bread and dried fruit during their ride to the Hawthorne Court, but that had been eons ago.

Anneth closed her eyes and spoke a few words Mara didn’t understand.

“There,” she said after a moment. “I’ve ordered nectar and cakes from the kitchens. We must clear a space on the table.”

Mara helped tidy the low table set in front of the couch, and less than a minute later a tray materialized there. She blinked at it, understanding more clearly the lack of servants at the palace. Why employ people to transport such things as trays of refreshments when one could simply make them appear by magic?

Anneth sat in the chair next to the couch and kicked off her jeweled sandals.

“Fruit nectar and Amaranth cakes,” she said, offering a goblet and plate to Mara. “I hope you like them.”

Mara took a bite, and sighed. The cake tasted like sunlight on her tongue. The nectar was a perfect blend of tart and sweet.

When she’d finished the cake and drained half her goblet, she felt better. She wiped her fingers on one of the linen napkins, then glanced at Anneth.

Ever since the scene in the throne room, where that nasty Dark Elf woman had stepped up and started throwing accusations about, a horrible suspicion had wormed through Mara. Although her mind shied away from the thought, she could not run from it any longer.

“Was Bran really planning to marry that dreadful woman?” she asked, hoping to discover her answer in a roundabout way. The stark, unvarnished truth was too awful to contemplate.

Anneth coughed and set down her goblet. “How much did my brother tell you about the prophecy?”

“He said my presence was essential to saving Elfhame, and that he’d known of the prophecy all his life.”

“He didn’t quote the exact words to you?” Anneth’s tone was strange.

“No.” Foreboding prickled over Mara’s skin and she feared she’d been terribly right in her suspicions. “I take it he neglected to tell me something else of importance.”

Please, no.

“One might say that.” Anneth glanced down and busied herself with breaking one of the cakes into smaller pieces.

“So he isn’t going to marry that woman?” Her heart beat fast with the implications.

At that moment, Bran opened the door and strode into the room. Clearly he’d heard Mara’s last question, for he fixed her with his violet gaze.

“No,” he said clearly. “I am not going to marry Mireleth. The only woman I plan to wed is
you
.”

She jumped up, overturning the tray. It was as awful as she had feared.

Juice splattered on the floor, and cake crumbs scattered over the table and couch cushions. Bran’s sister rose and hurried off to fetch a towel, but Mara simply stood there, staring at the Dark Elf prince before her.

“I am marrying you,” Bran repeated. “As soon as possible.”

“No.” She clutched her skirts in her fists, no doubt rumpling the fine fabric beyond repair, but she didn’t care. “I’m not wedding you.”

Bran’s gaze flicked away from her, then back. “I know you find my appearance distasteful, my manner overbearing, and my land full of shadows. Nonetheless, I’m afraid the prophecy is very clear. If Elfhame is to be saved, I must marry the mortal woman who opens the door between our worlds. That woman is you.”

She shook her head so hard some of the golden lights tumbled from her hair. “I won’t.”

Her adventurous dream had truly become a nightmare.

“I am sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I’m much to blame for not better preparing you for your fate.”

“I feared you were going to kill me, but this is worse than I ever imagined.”

She crossed her arms tightly in front of her, wishing she could wake up, wishing she had some place of refuge to flee to. Instead, she was trapped in the Hawthorne Palace, required to shackle herself to a monstrous Dark Elf.