There was no music at Castle Raine, little light, and the fresh-quarried stones still bore the clammy chill of the earth.

A chill that Mara Geary was supposed to banish as part of her duties as one of the new maids. Not that she thought Castle Raine would ever be warm, not even in midsummer. It certainly was frigid now, in spring, with no hint of the softening air
outside penetrating the tall stone walls or creeping in through the narrow windows.

Mara’s tallow candle sent flickering shadows dancing over the grey walls, lighting the way as she and Fenna, who had only been hired two days ago, hurried to the Great Room to light the fires. Mara’s wooden bucket of kindling bumped against her leg and the whisk broom at her waist rasped over her wool skirts with every step she took.

“It’s not what I imagined,” Fenna said as they knelt to clean the ashes out of one of the great hearths. “Somehow I thought it would be more exciting, serving at the castle.”

“Well, Castle Raine has only been finished for a month,” Mara said. “Perhaps once the weather turns warm and more lords and ladies come to visit, it will be more interesting.”

Fenna frowned and cast a look over her shoulder at the dark recesses of the Great Hall. “Dunno why anyone would want to come visit here. The castle’s grim enough, and then there’s the Darkwood just outside.”

Mara refrained from pointing out that the King of Raine lived at the castle now, and soon enough it would become a hub of activity. Fenna was a sweet girl, but not quick to put all the pieces together.

Still, it was true that life as a maid in Castle Raine had been dreary so far. If she were honest with herself, Mara had to admit that she, too, had thought working at the castle would be less full of drudgery and more…

She tried to find the right word for it. More lively. More interesting, certainly.

“You don’t have to worry about the Darkwood,” she said to Fenna. “I know you’re from the coastlands, but the forest isn’t anything to fear.”

“But the stories…” Fenna trailed off, the sibilant echo of her words hanging in the air.

“Just old tales.” Mara finished sweeping up the last of the ashes and deposited them in Fenna’s bucket. “Nothing interesting has happened in the Darkwood for centuries. Not since the Dark Elves disappeared.”

“Were they real, then?” Fenna paused in laying the kindling and stared at Mara with wide eyes. “What if they decide to come out and murder us all in our sleep?”

Mara laughed. “Believe me, that won’t happen. There’s no magical doorway in the forest anymore. People have searched for generations.”

She didn’t mention that strange things still happened sometimes in the Darkwood.

No point in frightening Fenna any further. And strange didn’t necessarily mean dangerous.

She brushed off her skirt and rose to her feet. “That’s this fire done. One more in here, and then we move to the smaller rooms.”

Only one peculiar thing had ever happened to Mara in the forest, and even now she wasn’t entirely sure it had been real. It had been on her thirteenth birthday, nearly four years ago.

Mara had gone out with her siblings to fetch wood for their dwindling stores. Birthday or not, there was always work to be done.

As the middle child of five, she was used to being left on her own.

Her older brother and sister were twins, and always paired up, even when they were fighting. Sometimes it seemed that they lived in a different world from the rest of the family, a world full of the secret language of shared birth that no one else could penetrate.

Mara had tried for years, and when she’d finally given up and resigned herself to being nothing more than the tagalong, she’d found that her two younger sisters had made an alliance of their own, with no room left for annoying older siblings.

So there she was, the odd one out, quite literally.

The air had been cool that day in the Darkwood, and moist enough that dew still clung to the new leaves of the curled ferns. Mara practiced walking silently and smoothly through the trees, letting the moss cushion her steps. She’d become used
to her solitude, though she didn’t necessarily embrace it.

A few black-capped birds chirped and fluttered from bush to tree, their wings flashing whitely as they flew. She tried not to feel jealous that even the chickadees had companions when she did not.

Perhaps it was because of her birthday, or that the yearning inside her to belong somewhere was beginning to blossom into true misery, but she paused, tilted her head up to the feathery needles of the hemlock trees, and spoke.

“I wish that my life were different,” she said. “I wish something exciting would happen.”

There was no answer but the rush of the wind in the high branches. Sighing, Mara dropped her gaze back to the forest floor, searching for sticks to place in her burlap bag.

Then the breeze changed, murmuring down to pull at her brown hair and push against her skirts. The air felt thicker, as though filled with invisible mist, and she could no longer hear her siblings calling to each other through the trees.

Small, twinkling lights darted and danced in the shadows ahead, bright as candle flames. Mara’s breath hitched in fear, and in wonder.

Something was happening.

The dark evergreens shivered, like animals sensing danger. Mara didn’t know whether to run toward the glimmering motes, or dash away in panic. Her heart thudded beneath her simple woolen dress.

Not yet.

It was a whisper of regret, rolling through the Darkwood.

The breeze quieted and let go of her dress. The air grew lighter. The glowing lights abruptly winked out. Loss ached through her, but for what, she did not know.

“Mara, aren’t you done?” her older sister called, her tone sharp. “We’re ready to go.”

Mara wanted to shout back that they should leave without her. Maybe if she stayed, she would rediscover whatever little bit of magic she’d just seen.

But it was the cardinal rule of living beside the Darkwood: no one ventured there alone until they were well of age. The forest might not hold uncanny dangers any longer—though after what she’d just experienced, Mara wasn’t so sure—but there were plenty of other threats lurking in the wild depths of the woods.

Bear, boar, and even wolves who howled in the winter at the far-distant moon. Not to mention poisonous mushrooms and spiders, sinkholes where a body could disappear forever, treacherous snags, and deep ravines.

Heaving a sigh, she turned and lugged her sack of branches back toward her family.

She sent a single glance over her shoulder, but there was nothing to be seen but empty underbrush and ancient trees.

Later, she’d tried to tell her next-youngest sister what she’d experienced, but Pansy only looked at her.

“There’s nothing special about the Darkwood,” Pansy said. “I can hardly wait until I’m grown up and can marry a rich merchant and move away from here. Do you want to rot in Little Hazel forever?”

Mara didn’t know what she wanted, beyond a future that felt important and real.

And though the idea of seeing the wider world was appealing, she was fairly certain her life wouldn’t feature a rich merchant.

“Where do we take the ashes?” Fenna’s question jolted Mara back to her work.

She blew out a breath and turned her mind back to tending the cold hearths of the castle. Back to a life that felt small and exceedingly unimportant.

***

In the double-mooned realm of Elfhame, the halls of the Hawthorne Court were hushed, the dim corridors even more shadowed than usual. The Hawthorne Prince,
Brannon Luthinor, strode in and out of patches of starlight thrown from the high windows onto the flagstones.

Although he was not pleased to be summoned to his father’s court, Bran let no hint of his feelings show. For this audience, he had replaited his black hair into formal warrior’s braids on either side of his face, and donned a court tunic of indigo silk embroidered with silver.

He’d even washed the mud off his boots. Court opinion was brutal, and though he was protected somewhat by his rank and power, it was always best to give the gossips nothing to fasten upon.

Just outside the ornately patterned silver doors of the throne room, Bran paused. He’d rather face the gyrewolves and twisted spiderkin threatening their border than set foot inside this room filled with courtiers speaking untruths and twisting their actions to suit their ambitions. But the robed servant standing outside the room was watching him expectantly, and there could be no escape.

Settling his jeweled sword more firmly at his hip, Bran took a deep breath, then nodded at the doorman. The servant waved his hand, summoning the small magic that would open the double doors.

“His Highness the Hawthorne Prince, Brannonilon Luthinor!”

The doorman’s voice rang out, and Bran stared impassively at the far wall as all eyes turned to him. A few gazes held admiration, others envy, but the worst were the ladies who viewed him as a means to an end, either for themselves or their daughters. That end being the Hawthorne Throne.

Their court was not the most powerful in Elfhame, but it was one of the oldest, and well placed among the seven ruling families.

Luckily, the circumstances of his birth provided an easy answer for why he was not yet married. It did not, however, provide him with a reasonable excuse for not taking mistresses—a fact that many of the women of the court liked to remind him of.

He’d had his share of dalliances, of course, but had no interest in weakening himself or his mission with misplaced attachment. Need for love made one vulnerable. He’d grown up learning that lesson and had no desire to repeat it.

At the far end of the hall stood a raised dais, and upon it sat the Hawthorne Throne, occupied by Bran’s father, Calithilon Luthinor. The years lay lightly on his face, as was the way of their people, but silver threaded his once midnight hair, and his dark eyes held a weary cast.

Beside the ornately carved Hawthorne Throne stood a smaller, less elaborate chair where Bran’s mother, Tinnueth, sat. There was no trace of warmth or greeting in her expression, but that was no different from the reception he’d received from
her all his life.

According to the gossip, the moment the prophecy had been pronounced over his newborn head, his mother had distanced herself. Although even with his younger sister, Anneth, their mother had never displayed an excess of affection.

“A heart like ice,” the nursery servants used to say after Tinnueth paid her obligatory visits to her young offspring.

Bran wasn’t supposed to understand, but he did. He’d grown up thinking he was flawed, unworthy of his mother’s care, and perhaps it had made him hard, but all good weapons must be made of stern stuff. Without that core of stone, he
would not be half the warrior he was.

A warrior who held the fate of Elfhame on his shoulders—and that fate was growing more perilous every day.

From his dais, the Hawthorne Lord lifted his hand in a clear summons, his eyes meeting Bran’s. Letting no hint of his reluctance show on his face, Bran made his way toward his parents.

He murmured greetings to the courtiers as he slid past them like water. Most let him go with a nod or reply, but his passage was halted when a particularly cloying young woman named Mireleth gripped his sleeve.

“I’m so glad you’re back at court, milord,” she said, in a low voice that was meant to be seductive.

He nodded and disengaged himself from her hold. Despite their few dalliances, he was not interested in pursuing a connection with the woman. She, however, seemed unable to grasp that fact.

“I’ll visit you later,” she called as Bran strode away.

He did not respond. Even if he’d fancied Mireleth, the prophecy was very clear concerning his fate. He was destined to marry some ungainly mortal.

There was no escaping it, but his life would be a little less miserable if he did not fall in love in the meantime.

Soon enough he reached the dais and dipped into a formal bow before his parents.

“Prince Brannon, you took your time in coming,” his father said. “I sent that summons a quarter moon ago.”

“Your pardon, my lord.” Bran kept his tone level. “I could not leave the front until we’d closed the current breaches and reinforced the barrier.”

Even then, it was risky for him to be gone. As one of the leaders, and the strongest magic user among the Dark Elf forces, they couldn’t afford for him to be away from the battle for long. But ignoring his father’s summons would have been
worse.

His mother gave a delicate sniff, conveying her disapproval and disappointment. Bran ignored her.

“Is the fight going well?” his father asked.

“Well enough.”

It was an outright lie, but Bran would say no more where the sharp ears of the courtiers might hear. Later, in the privacy of his father’s chambers, he would confide the desperate position the Dark Elves were in.

And although he’d been dreading the fulfillment of the prophecy his entire life, if it didn’t happen soon there would be nothing left to save. The Void creatures infiltrating their world would destroy Elfhame and all its courts. By now, Bran almost welcomed his fate. Almost.

“It’s good to have you back in the Hawthorne Court,” his father said. “Meet with me later in my library, and you can recount to me your glorious tales of battle.”

The look in Lord Calithilon’s eyes promised that Bran would know then why he’d been summoned. It was not something he looked forward to hearing—though if it had to do with the prophecy, then perhaps the news would not be so unwelcome.
The fate of Elfhame was paramount to his own wishes.

“My lord.” Bran bowed again, then stepped away.

He hated the dance of protocol, the layers of meaning hidden behind veiled words. And he hated to wait, especially when the barrier was not nearly as strong as everyone thought. As soon as he could escape the court for the haven of his rooms, he’d contact the front and see how they were holding.

Halfway across the throne room, he glimpsed his sister standing near the wall and altered his course to meet her. She was alone, a glass of nectar in her hand. As he approached he could see her struggling to keep her features composed in the cool expression required of court protocol.

“Lady Anneth.” He bowed before her, and could not prevent the corner of his mouth from curling up into a brief smile. His sister was the one person at court he truly cared for, and missed.

“Bran.” She held up the golden glass of nectar to hide her grin. “I’m so glad you’re home. How long can you stay?”

He glanced about, checking to make sure no eavesdroppers hovered nearby. “Not long, I’m afraid. They need me back at the battle.”

Anneth’s blackberry-colored eyes lost their merry sparkle. “Truly?”

“Don’t look so unhappy. I’ll sup with you at eventide, and you can tell me all the gossip of the court. Have you any suitors?”

A faint blush stained her pale skin. “Not to speak of.”

Bran arched a brow at her. “We’ll see about that.”

“You have your own future to think about, as well. Now that father…” She busied herself with her glass of nectar.

“What?” Cold foreboding swept through him.

“It’s not for me to say—and besides, he’s only dropped hints here and there.” She gave him a wide-eyed look. “I don’t know anything for certain. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I will.” The sooner the better.

Bran glanced at the dais, to see Lady Tinnueth watching them with a calculating expression. What scheme were his parents brewing?

“I’ll see you at supper.” Bran made his sister a bow of farewell, then strode from the hall.

He did not slow his steps until he’d reached the privacy of his rooms in the family wing. Although he was not much in residence lately, everything was kept clean and ready for his arrival.

He wanted to throw the bedroom shutters wide to the dusky air and fill his lungs with freshness instead of the stultifying formality of court. Instead, he made sure they were firmly latched. To counter the dimness in the room, he conjured a flickering ball of foxfire. The pale blue light bobbed at his shoulder as he checked the door, then went over to his saddlebags. On his orders the servants had left them undisturbed, though the head houseman had frowned mightily when Bran
requested they leave the unpacking for him to do.

He drew out his silver scrying bowl, then poured a measure of water from the ewer on the nightstand until the bottom of the bowl was covered. Slowly, he sank down on the forest-green carpet in the center of his bedroom. It was not as soft as the
mosses he was used to perching upon, but it did have the advantage of being dry.

With the ball of foxfire hovering above his head, Bran took several deep breaths to focus his magic. He held the bowl between his cupped hands. The surface was lit with pale blue, and the dark shadow of his silhouette.

He spoke the Rune of Scrying. The hiss of the word of power twisted round the bowl. Light flared up and Bran squinted against that brightness. When it faded, he bent over the surface.

“Show me Hestil,” he said.

The face of the second-in-command of the Dark Elf forces appeared, shivering over the top of the water and then coming into focus: thin nose, narrow eyes the color of malachite, dark hair braided back from a battle-weary face.

“Well met in shadow,” Hestil said.

“And in starlight,” Bran answered, the code words assuring her that he was alone and not under duress. “How goes the fight?”

Her lips tightened. “We’re holding, but your magic is sorely missed. How soon can you return?”

Bran gave a sigh that fluttered the surface of the water, making Hestil’s reflection waver.

The Dark Elves could not win.

Every time they threw back the invaders, another breach opened and more twisted creatures flowed out of the crack between the worlds. Even if Bran revealed how dire the situation was and brought every magic-wielding elf to the front, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

But he would not share such hopeless thoughts with his second.

“I meet with my father later,” he said.

“Well, I hope your precious prophecy chooses to manifest soon. Doesn’t it say that during Elfhame’s greatest need, a doorway will open, bringing help?”

“That’s one interpretation.” Other than specifying that Bran must wed whatever mortal opened the door, the prophecy was annoyingly vague.

Hestil’s eyes narrowed. “I’d say the moment of need is fast approaching—especially if you dawdle overlong in your father’s court.”

“I’ll return as quickly as I can. I know how desperate our situation is.” He made his voice cold. It was not for Hestil to question her commander.

She dipped her head in apology. “I must go.”

“Of course. I’ll come soon.” He waved his hand over the bowl and Hestil’s image disappeared. His own reflection stared up at him, skin pale as moonlight, slitted eyes filled with violet shadows, dark slashes of eyebrows drawn down in a frown.

Though he knew it was useless—he’d tried it hundreds of times—he spoke the Rune once more. Silver light flared about the circumference of the bowl, and he gave his command.

“Show me the woman of the prophecy.”

As usual, the water remained a blank pool of light, revealing nothing. Bran stared into it, willing something, anything, to appear. The force of his need and frustration burned through him.

“Show her to me,” he demanded again, pulling deeply on his wellspring of magic.

The surface of the water shuddered.

He leaned forward, barely breathing. As if through a mist, he made out the figure of a mortal woman running through a forest. Her long mud-colored hair was tangled, and he glimpsed her face for one moment—the smooth curve of her cheek, a
stubborn tilt to her chin, desperation in her strange blue eyes.

Then she was gone.

Only empty water stared up at him. His power subsided and the tremble in his fingers sent a faint ripple across the surface.

Bran passed his hand over the bowl, dismissing the magic, then gently set the silver bowl aside. Closing his eyes, he fixed the glimpse of the woman firmly in his mind.
She did not seem old or disfigured, and even through the scrying bowl he sensed the determination of her spirit.

Thank the double moons.

Now if he could somehow drag her through the sealed doorway, there might be hope for Elfhame.

***