Piper Prince

by Amber Argyle

  She could make out the village spread out in the valley below. There was a lovely lake with a dock. Orchards and farmland dominated the land outside the village. Beyond the pipers’ music, silence—not even the chirp of crickets or the croak of frogs.

  One by one, lights went out in the village. The people below were being enchanted, and they didn’t even know it. The pipers’ magic controlled their feelings and moods, but only temporarily. It worked best when the subject was relaxed, hence why the girls were taken at night.

  As night came on, more and more pipers played, the music trying to haul her under. When night completely blanketed the earth, unmarried pipers—some of their queues threaded through with gray—stepped into full view of the village.

  From the village came the first sounds in many long moments: doors creaking open. Women in their nightclothes slipped into the dark, their faces gilded with moonlight.

  At first, a dozen, and then twenty. And then hundreds of them. Gliding with steady purpose, they looked neither to the right nor the left as they climbed the rise, their feet falling in perfect time to the beat.

  Gray threaded through one woman’s hair, the first signs of lines fanning out from her lovely eyes. She paused before a man at least ten years her junior. Joy lit her face when she reached him, her fingers trailing down his cheek. She closed her eyes and swayed to the beat, her face tipped toward the breeze. That joy felt like a betrayal. For when these women woke, it would be to fear and anger at all they had lost.

  Her piper frowned and dropped his head. Taking a deep breath, he played before the enchantment could fade, took the woman’s hand, and led her toward one of the fires.

  Larkin watched them, her mouth set in a tight line. “I lost everything, but at least you wanted me.”

  Denan followed her gaze. “They warn us not to build up our wives too much in our heads. The women might be older or younger, beautiful or not, sweet or salty. The key is to love the good and let go of the bad.”

  “And what if she never wants him?” Larkin asked.

  “She will,” Denan said. “The heartsong is never wrong.”

  Larkin’s skin felt brittle and dirty. “So I never had a choice?”

  He gave a half shake of his head. “The magic knew who we would choose.”

  Larkin caught sight of another girl, face still round with baby fat. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. She reached out, embracing a young man and laying her head on his chest.

  Larkin rounded on Denan. “No,” she said firmly. “Put her back.” The young man led the girl toward a warm fire. “Denan,” Larkin warned.

  “She won’t be married until she’s old enough,” Denan said.

  The music turned hollow, aching. All the women had been claimed, but the men played on, begging for their song to be answered.

  Larkin swallowed hard at their sorrow. “How old is old enough?”

  “When they’re that young, they get to choose. She’ll live with his family, and he’ll live somewhere else.”

  “And what of her family? What about their grief? And can she truly choose when she’s been kidnapped by her supposed true love?”

  Denan stepped closer, his voice low. “Would you rather the alternative?”

  She tasted the vision—like copper and smoke. It came on sudden and hard.

  Wraiths glided over the elegant wall of the Alamant. Their evil swords cut through the people like scythes through wheat. Darkness trailed after them—a dark stain that spread like smoky tendrils, reaching, grasping for the White Tree until it was no longer white at all, but black as a night forsaken by stars.

  The vision, she’d seen it before. It was what the pipers had feared for generations. The reality carved into the walls of a ruined city.

  She woke in Denan’s arms as he carried her into camp.

  “What did you see?”

  “Wraiths in the Alamant.” She closed her eyes against the memories.

  The pipers’ songs changed, shifting to one of slumber. The older woman and the girl both lay on blankets their pipers had arranged for them and instantly fell asleep.

  She watched the young man and the girl. He’d settled a respectable distance away. When the girl woke in the morning, he’d play again until he’d lured her so deep into the Forbidden Forest she’d have nowhere to run.

  “Please put me down. I don’t want to see anymore.”

  He obeyed. She staggered away from him, pushing through pipers and newly taken.

  “Larkin.” He gripped her elbow.

  She jerked free as if stung. “I thought I’d accepted this. But I can’t. I just can’t.”

  She ran.

  Larkin sought out her mother. She was not by the fire. Instead, Tam lay near her sisters. Not meeting his gaze, she swiped her eyes. “Where is she?”

  Wordlessly, he pointed toward the forest. She took off at a trot.

  “Let her go,” Tam said softly from behind her, probably talking to Denan, who had most likely followed her.

  Larkin searched the borders of the forest and found her mother standing before a thorn tree. Ribbons and scraps of fabric shifted on the breeze.

  Larkin hadn’t seen a curse tree since she’d left Hamel. “Nothing good comes from the Forbidden Forest,” the old saying went. So the people wrote curses for themselves on scraps of cloths or ribbons while hoping for the opposite.

  She walked through wicked curses that broke apart beneath her feet like ashes. Face streaked with tears, Mama held a handful of curses. Some had faded to a tattered gray. Others reflected the firelight, their colors bright. She held one out to Larkin, who took it in her hand. The ink had feathered through the weave, but she could still read the words: May the beast take my daughters. All of them.

  Larkin’s breath caught in her throat.

  “When those mothers wake in the morning,” Mama said, “they will know the sorrow I knew: the pain of losing a child forever, of not knowing if you should hope for them to be dead so they won’t suffer—rent by the claws and teeth of a beast that doesn’t even exist.” She sobbed quietly.

  A curse tore free, cavorting until it landed at Larkin’s feet. She bent and picked it up. A blue print with white and yellow flowers, so faded it was more gray than blue. She imagined it on the skirt of the girl taken just tonight, a girl not even out of childhood. The letters were faded, but Larkin could still read them: May my daughter have a horrible death.

  Larkin closed her eyes, imagining the girl spinning in the sunshine, her blue dress twisting about her legs. Her family would wake in the morning and grieve for the child they would never see again. More faces flashed in Larkin’s mind—girls covered in soot and burns sitting placidly under the pipers’ enchantment.

  “This has to stop.” Mama looked at Larkin. “You must stop it.”

  “Me? How?”

  Mama waved over Denan, who watched them solemnly from beside the fire. Denan motioned for Tam to come with him. Coward. Mama moved away from the curse tree, away from the forest, and settled herself on a rounded rock to wait for them.

  They paused before her warily.

  “You know taking girls is wrong,” Mama said, “but you feel justified because it prevents a greater evil. Yes?”

  Denan nodded.

  Mama hmphed. “Well, you’re wrong. The greatest evil is the unwillingness of the Alamantians and Idelmarchians to work together. That is the only way to defeat the wraiths.”

  Denan folded his arms. “The curse and the druids have kept it that way.”

  Larkin shot him a death glare, and he withered. “The curse is broken.”

  “One small piece of it is broken,” Tam corrected her.

  “Larkin has broken the Idelmarch’s curse of lost magic and memory,” Denan said. “We Alamantians still face barrenness and shadow.”

  “It’s at least enough to stop the reaping,” Mama said.

  Denan looked toward Cordova as he rubbed his jaw. “The last messenger I sent to the Black Druids was return
ed to me in pieces.”

  Larkin flinched. “The messenger ransoming Bane?”

  “That one hasn’t come in yet,” Denan admitted.

  Because he would be returning with Bane. Larkin refused to believe any differently.

  Tam started pacing.

  Mama paled. “The Black Druids aren’t the only ones in power.”

  Denan raised an eyebrow. “You mean the old nobility?”

  “Iniya Rothsberd is a force to be reckoned with,” Mama said.

  “The Mad Queen?” Larkin asked. The woman had never actually been a queen. Her royal family had been murdered when she was seventeen, and she’d lost her mind. The druids had saved her life and taken over. What good could she do?

  “She’s not mad—at least not anymore,” Mama said. “Bitter and angry, but not mad.”

  “How do you know anything about her?” Larkin asked.

  Denan blinked at Mama in surprise. “Iniya Rothsberd hates us nearly as much as she hates the druids.”

  Ignoring her, Mama leaned forward. “She hates the Black Druids more. The old nobility is loyal to her—their support is one of the only reasons she’s still alive. Back her claim to regain the throne, and she will help you overthrow them.”

  Denan rocked back on his heels.

  “A coup would be much easier to manage than an outright war,” Tam said.

  Denan considered. “Whatever force Iniya Rothsberd might have mustered has long since lost their outrage.”

  Mama huffed. “The Idelmarchians endure the druids because they believe they protect them from the beast. Tell them the truth—that the druids have been lying to them for decades—and the people will rise up against them. Iniya could spread that message.”

  Larkin stared at her mother. “How do you know all of this?”

  Mama flinched. “It was too dangerous to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” Larkin asked.

  Mama took a deep breath and met Larkin’s gaze. “Your father is Iniya Rothsberd’s only son.”

  Larkin’s mouth fell open. Her father, the town drunk and wife beater, was a prince?

  “What is a prince doing in a squat little town like Hamel?” Tam asked.

  “He was disowned.”

  Larkin reeled. She was the granddaughter of the Mad Queen? A born princess. “And you never told me?”

  Mama shook her head. “It was too dangerous. The druids were looking for us. My father would have taken me from you. He hates your father nearly as much as Iniya hates me.”

  Larkin’s mind spun. “Your father? Who is your father?”

  Mama rubbed her palms on her knees nervously. “Master Fenwick.”

  “The leader of the Black Druids?” And therefore the leader of the Idelmarch. “And neither of you bothered to tell me?” Betrayal filled Larkin’s head with a rushing sound. Unable to sit still, she began pacing.

  Mama watched her, guilt playing out behind her eyes. “You don’t understand. We grew up with our parents’ mutual hatred. It’s what initially brought us together—forbidden friendship is a powerful draw for two teenagers who resent their parents’ heavy-handedness.”

  “Obviously, you were more than just friends,” Larkin huffed.

  “You don’t defy my father and walk away unscathed.” Mama’s eyes slipped closed. “When he found out I was carrying a child, he demanded I tell him who the father was. When I refused, he called for a midwife to get rid of Nesha.” She choked. “Your father and I fled. You have to understand. My father would have taken me from all of you and locked me away. He may very well have killed you simply for existing.”

  Larkin sat on the damp ground. “And Iniya?”

  Mama wrapped her arms around herself. “She disowned your father, said to never darken her doorway again. Harben took what he could. We used it to buy that plot of land in Hamel, not realizing it was such a bargain because it regularly flooded.”

  “And I thought my family had a lot of drama,” Tam muttered.

  “Well, you are married to Alorica,” Denan muttered back.

  Larkin knew they were trying to lighten the mood, but now was not the time. She gave them a stern look, and they straightened, chagrined.

  “Why tell us this now?” Denan asked.

  Mama sighed. “Because Iniya doesn’t care about family or wealth or riches. She cares about power and revenge. Give her that, and she will do whatever you want.”

  Denan nodded. “I’ll arrange for one of my spies to make contact.” He turned to go.

  “Nesha,” Mama said. “What do your spies tell you of my daughter?”

  Denan cut an uneasy glance at Larkin. “She’s still in Hamel with Garrot. They show no signs of departing.”

  Larkin never wanted to hear anything about her sister again—not after Nesha had betrayed Larkin to the druids, twice. She stood to leave.

  Mama grabbed her arm. “She’s still your sister.”

  How long had it been since they’d left Hamel? Days? A week? Larkin’s anger hadn’t faded. “Have you forgotten, Mama? Nesha gave me up to the mob.” She touched the knife scar on her throat. “If not for Denan, I’d be dead now.”

  Mama released her, head dropping with shame, though she’d done nothing wrong. “Just tell me, is she well? And the baby?”

  Bane’s baby. Such a storm of emotions. Ancestors, how could Larkin love and hate them both at the same time?

  Denan reached out and took Larkin’s fist in his hand. Gently, he pried open her fingers and held her hand. He looked at her as he said, “Nesha and her baby are both fine, Pennice, but I’ll ask you not to bring them up again in front of Larkin.”

  Without a backward glance, he tugged Larkin toward the campfire. “Let me enchant you?” Denan asked. “You’re exhausted.”

  Grateful, she rolled the tension from her shoulders. “Yes.”

  Not caring what her mother thought, she curled up against Denan’s side as he played a melody.

  Larkin was in a high tower. It was the hour between night and morning—shades of charcoal giving way to dove gray. Tasteful furniture graced the room, including a bed, the mussed sheets covered with what looked like bits of colored, broken glass.

  Had violence been done here? But there was no blood.

  Larkin followed the trail of jagged glass to a wide balcony. She recognized the woman by her gold and silver hair—more silver than there had been before. Glass littered the floor at her feet. The woman rested the fingertips of her right hand on an amulet at her throat.

  Larkin instantly recognized the bare branches, one sharp enough to puncture the skin—the same amulet Larkin now wore.

  Eiryss stared into the distant forest, her gaze filled with longing so deep it made Larkin’s own heart ache. She could hear it then, the faint strains of music so full of hollow loss and longing that tears filled her eyes. The woman stood there as the music faded away with the light of morning, the sun washing the horizon in crimson and gold.

  Larkin studied the city. Men were already hard at work in a long trench. Some swung pickaxes, others shoveled the loose dirt into wheelbarrows, while yet others carted that dirt away. They were building some sort of channel between the houses.

  This must be the capital of the Idelmarch, Landra, when it was still new.

  “My queen?” an older woman asked from the doorway. “You did not come down to breakfast. Malia wants you.”

  When Eiryss didn’t answer, the woman stepped farther into the room, her eyes lighting on the sheets full of glass. She rushed inside. She breathed out in relief at the sight of Eiryss on the balcony. “Eiryss, what’s all this glass about?” she demanded. She started at the sight of her bare feet. “Are you hurt?”

  Larkin was relieved someone was asking the questions she couldn’t.

  “Have you forgotten, Tria?” Eiryss said, her voice as distant as the far-off forest. “I am no longer your student to scold.”

  Tria reached toward a piece of glass, then seemed to think better of it. “Eiryss,” he
r voice gentled. “What happened?”

  Eiryss wiped the tears from her cheeks. She stared at the liquid on her fingertips, the tears coming faster. Tears that were gold instead of clear. “It’s not glass. It’s sap.”

  Sap? Tree sap? That didn’t make any sense.

  “What?” Tria placed the inside of her wrist on Eiryss’s forehead.

  Eiryss closed her eyes. “I’m dying, Tria.”

  “Nonsense. It’s just the stress of building a new kingdom from the ground up.”

  Sniffing, Eiryss pulled up the sleeves of her nightdress to reveal thick black vines growing over her skin like a strangler fig growing over a tree.

  Breathing hard, Tria took a pair of scissors from the table. Eiryss screwed her eyes shut and turned away. Tria wrenched back one of the vines and used the scissor’s edge to cut it from her skin. Eiryss cried out. Larkin gaped at the meat and sinew beneath. The rivulets of running blood were thick and orange.

  Tria staggered back. “Is it the curse?”

  Squeezing her wounded arm, Eiryss nodded. “‘You, Eiryss, shall watch as shadow devours land and people, starting with your beloved Valynthia and ending here.’”

  “He’s dead,” Tria said, fear obvious in her voice. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”

  Eiryss chuckled bitterly. “He’ll never stop hurting us.”

  They had to be speaking of the Wraith King.

  Eiryss turned back to the forest. “He’s calling for me, Tria. And every night, it gets harder and harder to resist.” She shuddered. “You must keep me under constant guard. Make sure I never set foot inside the Forbidden Forest.”

  Tria heaved a sigh. “I swear it.”

  Eiryss went to her writing desk and shifted through the papers. She held out a loosely bound book to Tria. “It’s my journal. See the songs set to music and have the minstrels sing it in every village.”