Elfhame (Skeleton Key) (2 page)

She led the other maid through the chilly stone corridors and into a grey morning filled with mist. The fog would burn off later, but for now everything was seen through a filmy veil. The tall trees of the Darkwood rising beyond Castle Raine’s walls were soft blurs, and the newly risen sun a flat coin barely rolling into the sky.

“The heap is here.” She dumped the bucket and powdery ash drifted down, covering the onion skins and withered greens on the top of the pile.

Something else slid out, too, with a soft clatter.

“What’s that?” Fenna leaned forward.

“Careful—sometimes there are still live coals buried in the ashes. Let me poke at it.”

Mara cast about and found a discarded stake at the edge of the heap. She prodded gently at the item. It glowed faintly, as an ember would, but the light was much cooler, a pale blue instead of the orangey-red of coals.

A puff of wind made the ashes swirl, and when it cleared, Mara could see what lay there.

It was a key—but the strangest one she’d ever seen. Cautiously, she poked at it again. The stick clicked lightly against the surface, which seemed to be made of glass. The key was as long as the measure of her fingertip to her palm. Eerily, the bow was formed to look like a grinning skull, the shank formed like a bone, and two teeth protruded at the end.

“A key?” Fenna asked.

“Seems to be.”

Mara gave it a wary glance. She didn’t remember sweeping it up, but somehow it had ended up in the ash bucket. It shone from the middle of the compost heap, and almost seemed to be laughing at them.

“Whatever do you think it opens?”

“I’ve no idea.” There was something very unsettling about the key.

“Suppose we’d better take it in to the housekeeper,” Fenna said doubtfully.

“Yes.”

They both stood there, unmoving. Clammy mist curled around them, and a bird called mournfully from the hazy trees beyond.

“Pick it up,” Mara said.

“What, me?” Fenna tucked her hands in her apron and backed up a step. “I’m the new girl, remember? It’s your job to do such things.”

Unfortunately, she was right. Mara pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and plucked the key from the compost, careful to keep the glass from touching her skin.

“Is it hot?” Fenna asked.

“No.”

It wasn’t cold, either, but the warm temperature of something alive. Mara slid the key into her pocket. As soon as she and Fenna finished with the hearths, she’d have to turn the uncanny thing over to the housekeeper.

It might be adventure
, a voice in her mind whispered.
It might be important.

This was true—but Fenna had seen the key, too. It would mean instant dismissal if a maid kept any trinket she found lying about the castle, and this glass key was no exception. Mara couldn’t keep it, even if she wanted to.

She and Fenna completed their early morning chores, and then Mara went to find Mrs. Glendel, the housekeeper.

“I’m sorry, I have to return you,” she whispered to the key, patting her pocket as she went down the narrow servant’s hallway to the housekeeper’s office. However it had come to be in the ash bucket, surely it belonged somewhere far grander.

Mrs. Glendel was going over her household lists by the light of an oil lamp, and looked up sharply when Mara came in.

“My apologies for bothering you,” Mara said, “but Fenna and I found something while cleaning out the hearths.”

“Very good.” Mrs. Glendel stood and held out her hand. “Give it over.”

Mara reached into her pocket, then paused. A knot of discomfort formed in her belly as her fingers met her handkerchief—and nothing else. There was no warm, heavy weight in her pocket.

“Well?” The housekeeper waggled her fingers. The starched cuff of her brown dress drew a sharp line across her wrist.

“It’s here,” Mara said, her breath tightening. “I know it is.”

She felt about in her pocket, jamming her fingers into the corners. Was there a stray hole the key had slipped out of?

All the seams were tightly sewn, however. In desperation, she turned out both pockets of her heavy woolen skirt. Her empty kerchief fluttered to the slate floor. Mrs. Glendel’s thin eyebrows rose higher in her seamed forehead.

“It seems you’ve misplaced the item, Miss Geary. What was it, pray tell?”

“A key. A strange glass key with a skeleton head.”

“Hm.” The housekeeper gave her a disapproving look. “No one’s reported such a loss. But you know that the place of every maid here depends on complete honesty. You have until tomorrow to find that key and bring it to me.”

“Of course.” Mara swallowed the sour taste of her own saliva.

“Then you are dismissed for now.” Mrs. Glendel sat back down and turned her attention to her papers.

“Yes, ma’am.” Mara bobbed a curtsey and let herself out the door.

She’d have to retrace every step and find that blasted key, wherever it had gotten itself to. Her job at the castle—little though she might love it—depended upon finding that key again.

I
n 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.”