“You look beautiful,” Larkin said.
Alorica shrugged. “Of course I do.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Denan punched Tam’s arm, then winced as his blight twinged.
Tam sidestepped the worst of it and sidled up to his wife. “Not my fault you decided to challenge the king on a day he can verbally flog you in front of everyone.”
Denan grunted. “Hiding behind your wife, you coward.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Tam said. Alorica shot him a glare. “See? She’s scary.”
Alorica rolled her eyes.
Insulting each other was a game between the men, a sparring match to work out their tension. Larkin was stuck with taking a calming breath and closing her sigils.
Denan pressed on his blighted side. “Let’s find Gendrin. See if he can talk some sense into his father.”
“You two go ahead,” Larkin said. “I need to speak with Alorica about our defenses.”
Denan nodded distractedly. He and Tam moved through the crowd, which bowed respectfully to their prince. Some still watched Larkin, but most returned to their own conversations, which was a relief. She hadn’t liked the attention of crowds since one tried burning her at the stake.
Larkin eyed the women around them. Hidden beneath fine dresses and sparkling jewels were their best enchantresses. They’d been drilling with the White Tree Sentinels for weeks. “Have they docked?”
“Come see for yourself.”
Alorica slipped through the crowd. Larkin followed. The enchantresses bowed to her. Most of the men did not. Larkin tried not to notice. What the pipers thought of her didn’t matter and shouldn’t bother her.
She hated that it did.
Alorica glared at them. “They’ll learn to respect you. Like I did.”
That brought a crooked smile to Larkin’s face. She and Alorica had hated each other once, but being kidnapped and forced through the Forbidden Forest together had made allies of them. Over the last couple months, that alliance had deepened to a bond as strong as any Larkin had with her sisters.
Shifting through the bodies clogging the entrance, they passed under the archway opposite the dais. Squinting against the bright morning light, they peered at the sudden drop below. Twenty stories down, the three hundred or so Idelmarchians had already disembarked. Their all-black Black Druid uniforms made them look like beetles instead of people. In contrast, the White Tree Sentinels wore white livery with their gold-and-silver armor.
Black and white. Black like the screaming shadows that had torn apart the Alamantian defenses. White like the light pulsing from a raised fist. Even now, Larkin felt herself being sucked back into a vision of the Curse Queen’s memory of that horrible day. When a massacre had occurred on this very platform. A massacre that had preceded the curse.
Already, she could hear the screams . . .
“Larkin!” Alorica tugged Larkin’s hand open. The echoing screams abruptly stopped. Without realizing, she’d gripped her amulet too hard. One of the branches had pierced her skin, activating the vision of the day the curse had come into being. Alorica pressed a handkerchief to the spot of blood on the side of Larkin’s palm.
They had perhaps thirty minutes before the druids reached them. Larkin had to get control over herself. She slowed her breathing. Slowly, her panic eased. “Did you see Nesha?”
Alorica dabbed away the last of the blood. “Twenty stories is too far away to pick out one person.”
Larkin tucked the amulet inside her dress and passed a hand down her sweaty face. It was barely morning, and already the sun felt hot and the air heavy.
Alorica frowned. “You’ll smear your makeup.”
Larkin tried to laugh her friend’s concern away.
Alorica clearly wasn’t buying it. “Do you want me to get Denan?”
“No!” Larkin said too quickly and too loudly. Light, she didn’t used to be such a mess.
Alorica dragged Larkin back under the now-empty arch and didn’t pause until she’d pushed her way through the press crowding a table of delicate crystal glasses filled with golden champagne. The instant the crowd recognized Larkin, they backed up a step, giving them the space her position demanded.
Alorica pushed a flute into Larkin’s hand. “Drink.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want. You cannot fall apart in front of the druids.” She took a long drink of her own. “Or the Alamantians, for that matter. All these men need to see us as equals. Not hysterical women.”
And just like that, Alorica had shoved a dagger into Larkin’s fear and twisted.
I will not fall apart when I see Garrot. I will keep it together. Despite the strangeness of drinking champagne so soon after breakfast, Larkin threw the glass back, the bubbles burning her throat and nose and sending her eyes watering. A burp burbled out, earning her disapproving glances. A man to her right gave her a hostile stare and marched off, many in the crowd following him.
She hated champagne.
“Larkin.” Iniya stepped into the place the man had vacated, her voice holding more than a touch of scorn. She pulled Larkin away from the table and off to one side, Alorica trailing.
“Champagne is an ornament,” Iniya whisper-shouted. “You do not throw it back like a barmaid!”
Alorica crossed her arms. “She needed something to settle her nerves.”
“Nerves?” Iniya sent Alorica a scathing look. “A princess doesn’t have nerves. Nor does she keep company with her guard.”
Larkin set down her glass. “I—”
Iniya banged her cane on the bark. “I don’t want your excuses. Circulate among the crowd. Be the delight they need to see.”
“I don’t like you,” Alorica said through clenched teeth.
Iniya huffed. “You don’t matter.” She shot Larkin a piercing look and then fixed her gaze on the king. She shooed Larkin. “Off you go. I have work to do.” Her expression transformed into serene gentility as she limped away.
Alorica stared after her. “Why do you listen to her?”
Larkin started to rub her face, remembered the makeup, and dropped her hands. “She survived in an enemy court for decades. If anyone can help me, it’s her.”
“She’s wrong.” Alorica studied her. “You’re not duplicitous enough to be the kind of person Iniya wants you to be.”
Yet still the pipers ignored her. “Who I am hasn’t swayed them.”
Alorica looped her arm through Larkin’s. “It takes a bit of time getting used to you is all.”
Larkin would have laughed, but one of her enchantresses signaled that the Idelmarchians were through the inspection.
Following her gaze, Alorica began ticking off their precautions. “The druids were all excised of the wraiths’ thorns. Your Arbor father-in-law and I checked them over when they entered the city; if I never see another hairy druid, it will be too soon. We tested them under enchantment to make sure none were planning anything. The White Tree Sentinels have done a thorough search for weapons. And if those druids are idiot enough to try anything . . .” Alorica lit her sigils. “Well, I would hate to get blood on this dress, but I will if I have to.”
No one was allowed to bring weapons to this ceremony, but it wasn’t as if the enchantresses could put their sigils down. Larkin was counting on the druids dismissing the women out of hand, as they always had.
It had worked once. Perhaps it would again.
They were as ready as they could be, yet a knot of tension still burned in Larkin’s belly.
An enchantress approached Larkin, her head bowed deferentially. “No weapons were found. There are no women among them.”
Larkin was both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because she didn’t want Nesha here in case things went badly. Disappointed because she’d yet to speak with her sister or even meet her baby. Larkin wasn’t even sure if the child was a boy or girl. She’d only ever seen them from a distance when they’d entered the Alamant a week ago.
Larkin signaled to the band. They began to play a variety of masterfully carved wind instruments made from the sacred wood of the White Tree—instruments that were as varied as the men who played them. An enchantment rode on the melody, one that exuded calm.
The leaf amulet Larkin wore was a dampener; it blunted the enchantment enough that she could fight it. She didn’t want to fight it.
She let the magic settle against her skin and sink into her pores like the first real sunlight after a cold winter. The tension she always bore eased. Her mind emptied of everything except the sound. When she opened her eyes, calm had settled into her heart. It was a false calm, but it would keep pipers and druids from killing each other.
At least at first.
“Let me know when the delegation is nearly here,” Larkin said.
Her eyes on her husband, Tam, Alorica nodded—apparently, she didn’t want to use her dampener to fight the music any more than Larkin did—and slipped away.
Across the crowd, Gendrin spoke with Denan, their heads bent together. Denan. Her husband. The man who had married her against her will. Taken everything from her. And yet, she had fallen in love with him all the same. Fallen in love with his kindness and determination and confidence.
Also, he was gorgeous.
Larkin wove through the people—the music had all of them looking for their loved ones, same as Larkin—until she came to a stop before Denan and Gendrin.
Gendrin was barrel-chested and dark, hints of russet in his beard. He was not handsome, but quiet power exuded from the man.
“I’m sorry, Denan, but my father is right.” Gendrin noted her and stiffened in clear embarrassment before bowing. “Princess Larkin.”
Gendrin always wore his emotions on his face. It was part of the reason Larkin had immediately trusted him. And Larkin trusted very, very few people.
“Even you have turned against me, Gendrin?” After all, she’d saved his life.
Gendrin stepped closer. “I’m simply telling the truth, princess.”
She pointedly snubbed the man and held out a hand to her husband. “We never got to dance on our wedding night.”
Denan smiled wryly. “If I remember right, that’s because you begged me not to.”
Gendrin cleared his throat. “My prince, if you’ll excuse me, I have my mother to attend.”
Why hadn’t his wife, Caelia, come?
Larkin took one of her husband’s hands and settled it on the curve of her hip. “Denan, will you dance with me?”
He looked deep into her eyes. “Until the stars fall.”
He took her other hand in his. A push sent her spinning under his raised arm. He pulled her close and dipped her. He spun her. The gown twisted and flared around her legs, the earrings and amulets spinning, the belt sparkling. He pulled her back, holding her firm against him. They twirled about the room. In his arms, she felt beautiful, treasured. Her body responded to the slightest pressure, the gentlest tug, until they moved as one.
Larkin had never felt such synergy with anyone but him. And with the magic of the melody, she forgot everything but his hands directing her and the feel of the music moving through her.
Denan abruptly stopped. Larkin turned to see why and found Alorica behind her.
“They’re nearly here.”
The druids. The music had made her forget. She’d let herself forget.
Now it was time to remember.
Black Druids
It was a strange feeling, purposely stepping out of the enchantment. To turn away from the gentle caress toward the sharpness of reality. Larkin blinked as if coming awake. She suddenly realized she was breathing hard. A slight sheen of sweat slicked her skin and made the short hairs along her neck curl tight.
A tug of Denan’s hand, and she moved beside him through the crowd. Most of the enchantresses were still glassy-eyed with enchantment. The pipers only had fifteen dampeners—all from the time before the curse.
Denan and Larkin fell in five steps behind the king, who shot Denan a look that said he better keep his wife under control—a look they both ignored. Queen Jaslin was somewhere tucked out of sight and safe, something Denan would never ask of Larkin.
Denan’s parents, Arbor Mytin and General Aaryn, were already waiting at the top of the dais, which was around ten yards across and surrounded by stairs on all sides. Just to the left of the central font, Aaryn wore her full ceremonial armor, while Mytin wore the Arbor mantle, an embossed and painted White Tree at his chest and cabochon gems hanging from the four peaks at the shoulders as well as the front and back. He also carried a staff made of gnarled sacred wood.
Both bowed to the king and gave little nods to Larkin and Denan. Just before Larkin took her first step up the dais, Larkin passed Iniya, who stood in the first row before the sentinels, who stood with their backs to the dais. The woman caught Larkin’s attention and pointed at her hair.
Larkin nervously touched her curls only to find them frizzed, a few pinned locks slipping out. She hurriedly tucked them back up and smoothed her hair.
Feeling self-conscious and out of sorts, Larkin moved left and took her place beside Denan to the font’s right. A servant handed her husband and the king their crowns of branches. Larkin searched out Alorica and Tam, who stood next to the branch that led to where Sela waited above. If things went bad, they were to take her down the ropes to a boat waiting below. They were the only ones Larkin trusted with keeping her sister safe.
Larkin would have preferred leaving Sela at their hometree with Mama, but Sela had insisted that the White Tree needed her present. Mytin had reluctantly sided with her, effectively ending the discussion.
A moment later, conversations stilled. Knowing what that meant, Larkin tightened her grip on Denan’s hand. She forced herself to look up. A hundred yards away, the first of the Alamantians came into view beneath the archway. The rising sun behind them threw dark shadows over their features, so they looked almost like wraiths. So much so that Larkin drew in a breath, the urge to run making her insides twist.
She was purposefully not looking for Garrot. But even with the distance, her traitorous gaze zeroed in on him. He strode at the head of the druids, a thick tooled belt with a large silver medallion about his waist proclaiming him the Master Druid. The cravat was new. Probably wore it to cover his blight.
A sudden memory reared up and struck Larkin.
Her boots slipped on a blood-smeared floor. She knelt beside her grandfather—the Master Druid who had orchestrated the coup that had killed Iniya’s father, the king, along with the rest of her family and forced her from the palace, who had ruled the United Cities of the Idelmarch with lies and the iron fist of the druids. The man had been a monster. But his being a monster hadn’t dulled the horror of his blood soaking through Larkin’s dress. Of his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for breath that wouldn’t come.
Through blood and betrayal, her grandfather had left power the same way he’d come into it. And now, standing in the sacred tree, was his successor. The new Master Druid.
Don’t panic! Larkin couldn’t lose control in front of all these people. She closed her eyes in a futile effort to banish the images. But the iron smell of blood remained in her nostrils. As did the gurgling sound of her grandfather gasping his last breath in her ears.
“Larkin,” Denan whispered from beside her.
He had protected her for months—letting her stay home while he and the king had met with the druids. But she couldn’t avoid this ceremony. Not if she wanted the pipers to take her seriously. Steeling herself, she made herself face the druids.
They were halfway across the platform. Close enough that her gaze met Garrot’s, and everything disappeared. He was haggard and thin, shadows like bruises filling the pale hollows of his face.
The price of the blight he bore? If so, he deserved that and more.
Her ears rang as another memory swarmed her. Her shoulders and wrists ached as she fought the men holding her. Garrot dragged Bane up t
he scaffolding steps and wrapped the noose around his neck.
“No!” The word had ripped from her throat. Bane could not die. He was a childhood of fishing in the rivers and teaching her to overcome her fear of the water. Of warm bread and jam when she could never get enough to eat. Her first love. The man who saved her over and over again.
How could life exist without Bane?
“Don’t watch,” Bane said.
Garrot glared at her. “Make her watch.”
And then the trapdoor snapped open.
At the edges of her awareness, the druids marched closer. Words without meaning passed over her.
“Get her under control,” King Netrish snapped under his breath.
Standing on her tiptoes to see over the tall sentinel’s shoulder, Iniya watched with a furious frown. She shook her head in disgust and mouthed, “Do not embarrass me.”
“Larkin.” The brush of Denan’s nose against her cheek brought her back with a start. All her sigils were alight; the only thing keeping her sword and shield from forming was Denan’s bruising grip over her sigils. He left his place to stand directly in front of her, his body blocking her from view.
“He should die for what he’s done.” She would either charge Garrot or fall into a puddle of sobbing. She wasn’t sure which would be worse.
“Breathe with me. Listen to the music.”
She turned her face into the hollow of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, letting him shield her, letting the music flow through her body, find the dark tension and fear, and turn it to light.
He tucked her smaller hands into his large ones. “Feel the power coursing through your sigils.”
The buzzing pain filled her like a river overflowing its banks.
“You are stronger than he is. He can’t hurt you. Not anymore.”
Denan was right. Larkin had all the power here, and Garrot would do best to remember it. Five deep breaths, and the fear had abated enough for her to leave the safety of Denan’s body. To face the man who had taken so much from her.
He would take no more.
Wraith King Page 2
