Elfhame (Skeleton Key) (14 page)

B
ran hesitated before Anneth’s door. He had set events in motion for the wedding on the morrow, and alerted his parents that the woman of the prophecy had arrived. The entire court was now waiting impatiently for him to produce her.

What would they think of the bedraggled, mud-haired creature he’d rescued? For a moment he imagined the looks of shock and pity on their faces, and his stomach twisted. He’d spent his life making himself into someone that would never be pitied or looked down upon. Except by his mother, but there was no salvaging that relationship, ever.

Wedding Mara was his fate, and he would accept it gracefully. He’d do anything to save Elfhame, and there were worse sacrifices than a blow to his pride.

Bran squared his shoulders. No matter Mara’s appearance, he resolved to be stoic in his reactions. It would shame them both if he were seen to be a reluctant bridegroom.

“Anneth?” He rapped on the door. “It’s me.”

“One moment,” she called.

He could hear whispering and the rustle of skirts. Then the lock chimed and the door swung open.

Despite his resolution to remain unmoved, Bran was struck dumb at the sight of the mortal woman standing before him.

She was gowned in a purple dress that emphasized her mortal curves. A half cape flowed from her shoulders, and amethysts sparkled at her neck and wrists. Her hair was woven with strands of glowing gold, transforming it from mud-colored to the dark amber of winter honey. Her round-irised human eyes were accentuated with purple gems affixed at the corners. Instead of drawing attention to her strangeness, they made her look exotic and mysterious.

“Don’t just stand there like a lump,” Anneth exclaimed. She caught his arm and pulled him into the room.

He could not stop staring at Mara. His woman of the prophecy. His soon-to-be mate. For the first time, the prospect did not seem a dreary one.

She gave him a shy smile, and something strange happened to his heart: a sudden squeeze, and then surge of blood, similar to the battle rush he felt upon the field, yet different. His gaze went to the ornate gold belt at her waist, and he let out a surprised laugh to see her homely human knife hanging there.

“By the bright moon, he laughed!” Anneth said. “Call the historians, quickly, so they might set it in the record scrolls.”

“Mara.” He found his voice again. “You look lovely.”

She smiled again, color rushing into her cheeks. He did not find it unbecoming.

“You see.” Anneth sounded very self-satisfied. “I told you he’d be stunned.”

“I am not,” he said. “Merely admiring your handiwork. Well done, sister.”

Anneth raised a brow at him. “Afraid she’s going to outshine you now, aren’t you?”

He did not bother to reply, only held his arm out to Mara. “The court awaits. Are you ready?”

“I suppose.” She pulled in a deep breath. “Is it all right if I wear my knife?”

“It is a blade that’s seen honor in battle. Wear it with pride.”

Too, it was a reminder that she was not entirely helpless. He’d already spread the story about her wounding the spiderkin, and the knife added to the mystique that Anneth had woven around her.

He had to admit his sister had worked wonders. And though he would never tell her, “stunned” was the perfect description of how he’d felt when he looked upon Mara’s transformation. Wedding her would be an honor, despite all their differences.

It was not just the physical change that a formal court gown and well-dressed hair made. Her determination and bravery, her resilience, even the way she chattered on—all these facets were like a gemstone polished in a tumbler.

She had been Mara from the first, but now something had shifted inside him, and, somewhat to his consternation, he could truly see her shine.

Mara thought she saw a flash of approval in Bran’s eyes when Anneth opened the door. His sister seemed to think he was impressed, and he
had
told Mara she looked lovely. She didn’t think he was the type to give empty compliments. He’d also laughed at the knife tucked through her ornately woven belt, though it had been an approving sort of laugh.

Why she was so worried about what Bran thought of her? She should be far more concerned about the Hawthorne Lord and his lady. Anneth had not said much about them, her expression clouding when Mara asked, so she hadn’t pressed the matter. She didn’t want to alienate the only other person she knew at court by insisting on speaking about what was a clearly a painful subject.

As Bran led her down the corridor, thoughtfully providing a blue sphere of fire for illumination, Mara couldn’t help but fret. Anneth had evaded her question about the rulers of the court. She could only assume that they were dreadful indeed.

“Do not be afraid,” Bran said, as if sensing her thoughts. “No one will harm you, and if they try, they will have to deal with me.”

It was a comforting thought, and she gave him a quick, grateful glance. She might be wearing her kitchen knife, but she noticed he had a bejeweled sword at his hip and a dagger hanging from his belt, as well as a second blade tucked into his boot. He had changed his attire, too, and was wearing a midnight-black tunic with gold embroidery around the sleeves and neck. His hair hung in thin, even braids on either side of his severe face.

“You could go a little faster,” Anneth said from behind them. “I’m sure the court is in a frenzy by now.”

“Give Mara a few moments,” Bran said. “This won’t be easy for her.”

“I’ve no doubt she’ll carry herself well.”

“I’m right here,” Mara said dryly. “No need to speak as if I’m absent—or hang back on my account.”

The sooner they arrived, the sooner she could dispel her looming apprehension. Surely the reality of the Hawthorne Court couldn’t be worse than her fearful imaginings.

Their footsteps echoed over the mosaic floor. Mara wore her boots, though Anneth had flicked her fingers over them, and they’d not only gained a high polish, but turned the exact hue of the gown she wore.

“It’s a temporary spell,” Anneth had said. “A small glamour that will fade by tomorrow.”

“That’s a handy bit of magic. Are you as powerful as your brother?”

Anneth had let out a short laugh. “Not nearly. No one in all of Elfhame can match Bran—though don’t tell him I said that. He’s already too proud of himself as it is.”

Bran did not seem overly prideful to Mara. Rigid and exacting, perhaps, but she’d wager he demanded more of himself than of anyone around him.

“Nearly there,” he said, laying his hand over hers where it rested on his arm.

“Ignore the gossips,” Anneth said. “They’re petty and spiteful. Pretend you don’t hear a word they say.”

Mara pressed her lips together. She hadn’t grown up in a court, learning to harden herself against hurtful words—but she would do her best.

The hallway opened into a crescent-shaped foyer dominated by tall double doors made of some glowing silvery metal. They were decorated with a design featuring the blossoms and thorny spikes of hawthorn branches. Mara hoped the gossips of the Hawthorne Court would not be as sharp as their namesake thorns.

A Dark Elf dressed in a flowing robe stepped forward as they approached, and gestured at the doors. They swung open by themselves, and Mara swallowed back her impending panic. Bran pressed her hand, as if he understood her anxiety, but did not slow his steps. She was carried along with him as they crossed the threshold of the Hawthorne Court.

“Prince Brannonilon Luthinor, heir to the Hawthorne Throne,” the doorman announced. “Lady Anneth Ithilden Luthinor. And the mortal woman called Mara Geary.”

Shock swept through Mara, clearing the fog of fear rising in her brain.
Prince
Brannonsomething? Heir to the throne?

“You’re a prince?” she hissed at Bran. Curse him for being so closemouthed! “What else haven’t you told me?”

He gave her a look tinged with apology. “The court is watching.”

To perdition with the Hawthorne Court, and its lying heir. Mara pulled her arm free of Bran’s and held her head high. These Dark Elves were no better than humans, no matter how fearsome they looked, and she would not be cowed by them.

“Good girl,” Anneth murmured from behind Mara. “Go straight forward, then stop a pace from the dais and curtsey. Ignore everyone to either side.”

Fueled by her anger, Mara marched forward. She didn’t care if Bran kept up with her. The crowd murmured as she passed, but she paid them no mind. Her attention was fixed on the two thrones set upon the dais, occupied by the Hawthorne Lord and Lady.

Bran’s parents.

She could see the stern cast of Bran’s features in his father’s face. His mother assessed her coldly from eyes the same violet hue as her son’s.

She should have wondered why he had a prophecy surrounding him. Why he was given such deference at the camp, and why his magic was so strong. She’d been a fool, imagining him to be, at best, a member of the minor nobility.

No, she was a prisoner of the Hawthorne Prince himself. No wonder he’d been so possessive of his prize. The connection she’d felt building between them evaporated like mist under strong sunlight. Bran only wanted to use her to save his kingdom. She was nothing but a pawn on the board of Elfhame’s future, and she resented it bitterly.

She halted in a swirl of purple skirts before the dais and made the rulers her most formal curtsey—the one she and her sisters had practiced in front of the mirror for hours, pretending they were going to visit the queen. Mara held the pose for a heartbeat to show her respect to the Hawthorne Lord and Lady. Their son might be full of deceit, but she was in their court now, and at their mercy.

She refused to be trapped in this wretched dark land for the rest of her life, however. Someday, somehow, she would find a way to escape Elfhame and return home.

S
tanding just behind Mara, Bran made a formal bow to his parents. Though he kept his gaze low, he was monitoring their reactions closely. His father seemed amused, his mother taken aback, by Mara’s fearless demeanor. No doubt Tinnueth expected a meek and cowering human, not this fierce girl with a bare blade at her belt.

By the seven bright stars, he was proud of his mortal woman for marching so boldly into the throne room. He supposed he should have told her he was the Hawthorne Heir—although the moment had never seemed right—but ultimately her anger at him had proved to be well timed.

A buzz of whispers rose as Bran’s father welcomed Mara to Elfhame and the hospitality of the Hawthorne Court. Tinnueth looked like she’d bitten down on something sour, but she could hardly deny the prophecy any longer.

“A hideous creature,” someone said, loudly enough for Bran to hear. The voice sounded suspiciously like Mireleth’s.

Bran glanced down at the silver bracelet shackling his wrist. He’d seek her out immediately after court to dissolve their false betrothal.

The flush of color on Mara’s cheeks was the only sign she’d heard the malicious words.

“Thank you,” she said to his parents once the welcome speech ended. “I am honored.”

This prompted another wave of murmuring when the Dark Elves realized Mara could speak their tongue, as well as understand what was said. A flash of satisfaction went through Bran, though he kept his expression impassive.