Elfhame (Skeleton Key) (17 page)

“W
e must go,” Mara said, moving away from the mirror while Anneth still fussed over her hair. “I won’t be late to my own wedding.”

If she had to go through with this terrible event, she was resolved to do it with as much poise as possible.

“Let me just put a few more flowers in,” Anneth said.

“I look well enough.” The irony was not lost upon her that she’d considered those words an insult mere hours earlier. But everything had changed.

It was fortunate that Dark Elf gowns were not tailor-made, but constructed more loosely. Anneth had done wonders with folding and tucking until the gauzy silver dress fit Mara comfortably, though the skirts were still too long. She picked them up and went into the sitting room to fetch her knife.

Anneth followed, managing to jam one last spray of the sweet-scented white flowers into Mara’s ornately braided hair.

“You look amazing,” Anneth said. “I’ve never worked so quickly in my life.”

“And I thank you for it.” In another time and place, Mara suspected they might have become friends. “You’ve been very kind to me.”

“Of course.” Anneth gave her a look of mild surprise. “You’re the woman—”

“Of the prophecy. Yes, I know. But you were under no obligation to take such care of me.”

“Bran likes you,” Anneth said, which made Mara blink in doubtful surprise. “And I like you as well. Now, do you remember everything I told you about the ceremony?”

“Let’s review it while we walk,” Mara said, opening the door.

The air in the hallway seemed to vibrate with urgency, and for once the corridor was well lit. A noble couple hurried past, pausing to bow and curtsey before going on their way. As they made their way to the throne room, Anneth reviewed Mara’s role as bride in a low voice, and she attempted to keep it all fixed in her mind.

Normally, according to Anneth, the ceremony began with a procession and attendants waiting upon both the bride and groom, then moved to speeches from the heads of the families, and then a selection of recitations.

In this case, however, the wedding would be stripped down to its essentials. There would be no preliminaries: no procession, no speeches, no poems. She and Bran would stand together in front of the dais. With the Hawthorne rulers and the court bearing witness, they would exchange vows, give one another gifts, do something slightly unclear with a pair of rings, and speak the Rune of Binding together to finish the ceremony.

Mara mouthed the strange syllables silently to herself, desperately trying to imprint them on her tongue. Though Anneth had been encouraging, Mara knew she hadn’t yet been able to pronounce the Rune correctly.

As they approached the court, she caught the scent of competing perfumes: musk and roses, cinnamon and burnt wine. The silver doors stood open, and a hubbub of urgent conversation poured out. The robed doorman bowed to them, then moved to stand just inside the doorway. He raised his hand, and a chime rang through the air. Into the pause that followed, he spoke.

“Lady Anneth Ithilden Luthinor. And the Hawthorne Bride, Lady Mara Geary.”

Every bone-pale face turned to Mara as she stepped over the threshold. Slitted eyes and sheathed claws, sharp-edged features and hair ranging from midnight to moonlight; all the nobles of the Hawthorne Court were there, arrayed in their finery. Watching her.

Fear leaped upon her like an attacking beast, but she stood her ground. It was not the first time today she had walked this path. Although instead of having Bran at her back, he waited at the front of the court, before the dais where his parents sat.

She raised her chin and fixed her eyes on him. He wore a tunic of deep indigo with tiny white gems winking from the cuffs and neckline, and his expression was forbidding, as usual.

He turned to face her, and something flashed in his violet eyes. When his gaze dropped to her kitchen knife, stuck through the pearl-stitched belt of her gown, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch up.

A pang of regret went through her as she made her way past the waiting nobles. Just as she and Anneth might have been friends under different circumstances, so, too, might she and Bran have forged something more than a friendship. Given trust, and time.

But the shadow of war swept across Elfhame, and they did not have that luxury. Instead, duty and honor must carry the day.

When she reached Bran, she made him a curtsey, then turned and paid her respects to his parents. The Hawthorne Lord nodded his approval, but his Lady only gave her a narrow-eyed look from her hard violet eyes.

So be it. Mara would not dwell long enough among the Dark Elves for the Hawthorne Lady’s opinion of her to matter overmuch.

“Members of the Hawthorne Court.” Bran’s father stood, his voice carrying through the room. “Every generation, a prophecy is pronounced over each heir to the ruling courts. Sometimes, fate treads lightly, or leave messages that cannot be clearly interpreted.”

There were a few quiet snorts of laughter at this, and Mara guessed that in many instances, the prophecies were completely obscure or could be ignored altogether.

“In the case of our son, Prince Brannonlon Luthinor, his prophecy has guided him his entire life,” the Hawthorne Lord continued. “And we are here to witness the fulfillment of his fate, as it was spoken.”

He drew in a breath, and then intoned in a deep, singsong voice,

“
Evil lurks and soon will fall,

A door long closed must open wide,

Elfhame’s greatest need will call,

A mortal woman as the bride

The Hawthorne Prince must surely wed,

Else all our kind shall perish, dead
.”

A hush fell over the court, and Mara swallowed, taking in the meaning of the words. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Bran, growing up with such a shadow over him, aware since childhood that the fate of his people was in his hands. And she had to admit the prophecy was very clear as to her role.

She shot him a glance, to find that he was watching her, his expression impassive. She narrowed her eyes slightly. If he’d told her everything from the first, instead of lying to her…

He dipped his head in the barest acknowledgement, but his brow rose in a question.

What would have happened, had he told her the truth? Would she have smiled sweetly and said,
Oh yes, of course I will marry you, you terrifying, hideous creature, since I have nothing better to do, and the fate of your world depends upon it?
Or would she have run screaming into the forest, desperate to find her way back home?

For a moment, Mara dropped her gaze to the patterned tile floor beneath her feet. Today, her boots had been enchanted to glitter with silver and pearls, but it was only an illusion.

And this was only a short-term marriage. Bran’s prophecy was going to be fulfilled. First, the wedding, and then they’d somehow defeat the Void. And then he would reopen the doorway and she would go home, her terrible adventure over at last.

Holding that thought close, she lifted her head. Just a little while longer.

“Are you ready, Prince Brannonilon?” Bran’s father asked.

“I am,” Bran answered. Obviously, he’d been ready his whole life.

The Hawthorne Lord gave her an intent look. “Are you, Mara Geary?”

“Yes,” Mara said, her throat tight. She cleared it and tried again, the word coming out more strongly the second time. “Yes, I am.”

What other choice did she have?

“Then let the ceremony begin.” The Hawthorne Lord seated himself on his throne one again, and the crowd murmured and shuffled, everyone trying for a better view of the bride and groom.

Bran turned to face her, and held his hands out, palms up.

Mara placed her hands over his, and he clasped her wrists. She could feel the prick of his claws against the delicate skin where her pulse ran.

“You clasp hands, like so,” Anneth had demonstrated when she was explaining the ceremony. “And then extend your claws. Um. Well, dig your fingernails in, I suppose. It’s to represent that you trust one another enough not to rip each other’s throats out.”

Mara pressed the tips of her fingers down, all too aware that her poor mortal fingernails were no weapon at all. The only way she could rip Bran’s throat out was if she attacked him with her blade in the middle of the night, and even then she suspected his warrior’s instincts would have him awake and her disarmed in a heartbeat.

Not that she would ever put it to the test. Nor did she want to. Despite his looks, Bran was not a terrible monster, and she did not wish him dead. Simply for him to be in his world, and her to be in hers.

“Mara Geary,” he said, his violet eyes staring deep into her own, “I pledge my future to you, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm. I shall stand at your side, my blade yours to call upon, my magic at your command, until time and fate sunders our bond.”

She could hear the sincerity resonating through his voice, and it made her feel unworthy. For her, this ceremony was a means to an end, but Bran was a man of unflinching honor. If he spoke the words, he meant them.

What if I stay?
The thought whispered through her mind.

Then she considered all the ways she did not fit—could never fit—in the Dark Elves’ world. There was only one path for her, and it led back to the mortal world.

Bran squeezed her hands lightly, a signal for her to say her part.

“Brannonilon Luthinor,” she said, and oh, she’d practiced those syllables nearly as much as the Rune of Binding. Thank heavens her tongue did not trip over his name. “I pledge myself to you, under star and shadow, by pale moon and bright, through fire and storm. I shall stand at your side as we face the threat to your people, offering everything I can to help fulfill the prophecy, until our time together is at an end.”

There was a restless murmur at how she’d changed the wording of the ceremony, but she had her own sense of honor to uphold. She could not, in good conscience, pledge to be Bran’s companion for the rest of her life. All she could do was speak aloud the promise she’d made to him, and hope it would be enough.

His mouth tightened at her words, and she sensed the weight of the future settling heavily on his shoulders. He would have no one to share it with, once she was gone, for she knew deep in her heart that he would never seek out another to love.

The knowledge almost made her yank her hands away and implore him to find someone else to marry. Someone who could love him as he deserved, someone to share the rest of his life with.

But there was no one else. She was the woman of the prophecy, and she must see this through to the end. She wrapped her hands more firmly about his wrists. He gave her the slightest nod, then let go.

“As a token of my affection, I give you this bride-gift.” He reached into his tunic and drew out an ornately twisted necklace glowing with starry gems, silver, and pearls.

It was the most stunning piece of jewelry she’d ever seen, fit for a queen, and she sucked in her breath as he held it up. From her place on the dais, Bran’s mother made an annoyed sound, but he ignored her, and Mara did the same.

“Allow me?” he said softly.

Mara bent her head and let him fasten the necklace about her neck. It lay, rich and heavy, against her skin.

Her throat dry, she looked back up at him.

“And as a token of my respect, I give you this groom-gift,” she said, unfastening her trusty kitchen knife from her belt.

She handed it to him, the only apology she could make for everything that was and could never be between them. This time the murmurs of the crowd were approving.

The look on Bran’s face softened. He carefully took the knife, as if were made of the most precious metal, and slid it through his own belt.

“I thank you,” he said.

She stood there awkwardly for a moment, trying to recall what came next. Then Bran reached into his pocket once more and drew out two rings, one small and one large. They were connected at one edge, two side-by-side circles.

“Just as the pale moon and the bright join together in the sky, so shall our lives join,” he said.

He held up his right hand toward her, and belatedly, Mara mirrored the movement. When their palms touched, a flash of sensation moved through her, as though she’d passed her hand over a candle flame. Bran’s eyes widened slightly, and she guessed he’d felt it, too.

Skin pressed to skin, he raised his other hand and slid the linked rings onto their middle fingers. For a moment, she felt trapped, and had to crush the urge to jerk her hand away. She could not have moved, at any rate—the rings were tightly bonded, holding them fast.

Bran angled his hand, bending his fingers down to interlace with hers, and she did the same. They stood there, palm to palm, the rings tying them together.

“Ready?” he asked in a low voice.

Time to speak the Rune of Binding. She swallowed, trying to moisten her throat and recall the guttural syllables. This was the last step of the wedding. What if she could not say it correctly? Would the entire ceremony be a failure?

Her heart pounding, she nodded to Bran. She must do her best.