Elfhame (Skeleton Key) Read Free Page B

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 image 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. The 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, she looked healthy, and even through the scrying bowl he sensed the determination of her spirit.
    Thank the double