Wraith King

by Argyle, Amber

  “I’m ready.”

  Holding her hand tight, Denan shifted back to his place. Larkin forced herself to meet Garrot’s gaze. And this time, he was the one to look away. A tiny victory. Yet it expanded in Larkin’s breast, forcing her back to straighten and her jaw to tilt up.

  She surveyed the rest of the druids. The robes and belt made it obvious that of the three hundred men present, all were Black Druids. The ruling class of the druids. The warriors. The men who knew the secrets of the Forbidden Forest and refused to tell their people, instead letting them believe some insatiable beast called their daughters into the forest to their deaths.

  They stopped a dozen steps before the dais.

  For a long moment, the groups stared like two armies sizing each other up. It was as if the ghosts of the dead pipers swirled about the druids, crying for justice. But just as strong was the grief of the druids, the fathers and brothers of generations of girls who’d been stolen from their homes.

  Garrot looked to their king. “We will not come a step further until your music has ceased, Piper King.” His voice was low, but it carried. A voice that had remained gentle even as he’d bound Larkin’s chained hands to the crucible.

  Every one of the druids was probably wearing a dampener gifted them by the wraiths. The music could not control them, only influence them. Garrot would be far better served by fearing the enchantresses and their warrior magic than the pipers’ music.

  Frowning, King Netrish motioned to the band, who stopped playing. The comforting magic faded, leaving only fear and anger sharp enough to cut.

  It was into this sharpness that Larkin’s little sister stepped down the stairs of one of the side branches. At five, Sela’s strawberry blonde puff of hair framed her face like a halo. With her emerald eyes and willowy build, she was a beautiful girl. But her bearing was not that of a child, but a woman grown. A woman with all the power of the White Tree at her beck and call.

  Not yet, Larkin wanted to scream at her.

  Larkin tugged Denan’s hand to get his attention and tipped her head toward her sister. His mouth tightened.

  Sela stepped through Alorica and Tam, who were too busy watching the crowd to notice until the Alamantians parted reverently for Sela—as they had never for Larkin. For not only was Sela the voice of the White Tree, she had accomplished what Larkin could not: she had broken the curse. At least in part.

  Enchantresses casually repositioned themselves to protect the girl if the druids made any aggressive moves. Hurrying to catch up, Alorica bent down and whispered something to Sela, but the girl ignored the woman and kept marching. Alorica shot Larkin a look—should she stop Sela?

  By then it was too late.

  Iniya caught sight of Sela and rolled her eyes, her head in her hands, as if she couldn’t quite believe she had such idiots for granddaughters.

  Sela stepped directly into the path of Garrot and his Black Druids, her hands folded behind her back, her expression exuding a serenity Larkin could only hope for. “Garrot of the Black Druids, the White Tree is most eager to see what kind of man you are.”

  Alorica and Tam shifted close enough to snatch her out of harm’s way in an instant.

  Garrot’s brow furrowed as he studied the little girl in confusion. “Sela?” He glared at the king. “What is the meaning of this?” Judging from the tone of his voice, he was clearly offended that a child had been sent to greet him.

  Larkin released Denan’s hand in case a fight broke out.

  “She is the Arbor in training,” King Netrish said. “And she has found ways to communicate with the White Tree no one has ever managed before.”

  All the Alamantians present were strung tight—each would fight to the death to protect Sela. Larkin would fight at their head. Denan’s hand twitched toward the sword missing from his waist. Enchantress sigils flickered, the light catching on the jewels of their gowns and throwing prisms across the crowd.

  The druids shifted uneasily, their gazes flitting to the enchantresses surrounding them. As if they’d just realized that the women wearing a king’s ransom of jewels and fine gowns could kill them where they stood.

  Sela pulled up the sleeves of her simple green dress, revealing the sigils curling prettily up and down her arms. “Though I appear as a child, my mind bears five centuries of memories and knowledge.”

  Knowledge a child shouldn’t have.

  Garrot blinked in surprise.

  “It is because of Sela that the curse was lifted from the women of our kingdoms, Master Druid,” Mytin said.

  “There are refreshments.” King Netrish gestured to the tables in an obvious attempt to diffuse the tension. “The band could perform a song if—”

  Garrot held out his hand. “We came here for the embedding ceremony. Not a party.”

  King Netrish stiffened in affront. “As you wish.”

  Turning her back to the druids, Sela lifted her hem, climbed the dais steps, and took her place beside Mytin. Larkin hadn’t liked this arrangement; she wanted Sela with her and Denan. But Sela was technically an Arbor, so Larkin had been overruled. She took comfort in the dozen enchantresses—Alorica and Tam among them—at the base of the steps who could flare their shields if the druids tried rushing the font.

  Netrish nodded for Mytin to begin.

  “The White Tree chooses who will receive their thorns,” Mytin said by rote, as if he’d given this speech hundreds of times. He probably had. “If the thorns take root and become a sigil, the magic will grow as they do. But you should be aware that each sigil is its own sentient being. You will have to train them, as you would a child, communicating with them using the music played from instruments made of the White Tree.”

  “The enchantresses don’t use music,” Garrot pointed out.

  “Enchantress magic is warrior magic,” Aaryn said. “We have no need of pipes or flutes in order to flare our swords and shields.”

  Garrot glanced at Larkin again before quickly looking away. Was it possible he was afraid of her? The thought was heady enough to smother her fear, leaving only righteous fury in its wake.

  Mytin stepped back and dipped a chalice into the font. “Only the Arbors, royalty, and an initiate seeking their thorns may step onto the dais.”

  The king shifted to the side, leaving the way up clear.

  The Arbor held out the dripping cup. “Who will go first?”

  Garrot didn’t even glance at the men around him before climbing the steps. Iniya shot him a hateful glare—she despised Garrot even more than she despised everyone else. In this hatred, Larkin and her grandmother were one.

  As he drew even with Larkin, her hackles rose. She was glad Denan stood between her and Garrot. If he wasn’t, she would have killed the druid where he stood. As it was, Denan took her hand; she wasn’t sure if it was to show support or to pin her sword hand in his. Maybe both.

  Garrot took the cup, peering suspiciously into the liquid. “Now what?”

  “You drink,” Mytin said. “Then push your palm into the conduit thorn.” The thorn was as thick as her wrist at the base and culminated in a wickedly sharp, hollow point.

  The whole ceremony was somewhat different from when Larkin had received her thorns—Sela’s doing. Apparently, with the breaking of the curse, some of the old ways were coming back.

  Garrot tipped up the chalice and drained it in a couple enormous swallows. Gaze hungry, he pressed his hand into the conduit thorn and gasped. His blood rolled through the font like angry thunderheads.

  “Mm.” Sela’s eyes danced beneath closed lids. “There is darkness within you, Master Druid. Darkness battling with the light. It is too soon to see which shall win.” She opened those eyes, which shone with preternatural light. “The White Tree will give you no thorns.”

  Larkin let out a breath in relief. Nothing good could come of a man like Garrot having more power than he already did.

  Garrot pressed his thumb into the bleeding wound and glared down at Sela. “I am the Master Druid.�
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  She tipped her head to the side. “And Master you shall remain, though you will have no magic.”

  He took a step toward her. Denan let go of Larkin’s hand, and she flared her sigils. If Garrot took another step toward her sister, he would die, treaty or no.

  Sela’s sigils pulsed white, casting a brilliant glow. “Spill blood within this tree, and every single Idelmarchian will die where they stand.”

  Larkin waited for Garrot to make a move. From the crowd came the gentle tinkling of jewels as the enchantresses moved into a fighting stance. This was the moment she had been dreading, the moment when Garrot finally revealed how selfish he really was.

  But something shifted in his hard expression. Something like regret. “I will, of course, acquiesce to the White Tree.”

  Larkin didn’t relax—surely this was a trick. But Garrot stepped to the side and motioned for the next man to take his place before the conduit thorn. Mytin motioned for Garrot to step down. He shook his head, clearly refusing to go. For a tense moment, no one knew what to do.

  “Let him stay,” Sela said without taking her gaze off the druid.

  Denan shot Larkin a baffled look. Maybe the battle they had been anticipating, planning for months, wasn’t going to come to pass. Larkin released her hold on her magic. For the first time since the druids appeared, she allowed herself to sink back on her heels.

  A sudden warm wetness splattered against her right side and clouded her vision. She blinked, rubbing her eye to clear it. Her fingertips came away red with blood.

  That’s when the screaming began.

  Long Live the King

  To her right, King Netrish stumbled. A bolt shaft stuck out of his chest, blood quickly spreading. Larkin reached for him. Pain flared in her right forearm. Another bolt appeared in the king’s chest. He staggered back.

  “Larkin, shield!” Sword out, Denan turned to face Garrot, who held up his empty hands.

  Flaring her shield, Aaryn stepped before the king and Sela.

  Her body sluggish with disbelief, Larkin mirrored Aaryn’s movements, her shield lifted to protect from above. Mytin dropped beside the king and pressed his hands against the wound. Tam bounded up the steps and stood before Sela with his weapons drawn. Gendrin rushed to his father’s side and took the man’s other hand in his.

  Aaryn called out commands to her enchantresses. With a precision born of weeks of drilling, they snapped into position. Alorica and two dozen enchantresses spread their shields over and around the font, effectively locking Larkin and the others inside a nearly impenetrable barrier. Other enchantresses created a shield wall and trapped the druids in a long column. One of the sentinels tossed Iniya over his shoulder and carried her to safety toward one of the upward branches, where ropes were waiting to take her down to the boats.

  The Black Druids bunched together, looks of defiance on their faces.

  Denan gestured to the White Tree Sentinels standing guard at the six sets of stairs leading up into the boughs. “Find who did this!”

  They raced up the steps.

  King Netrish made a gurgling, gasping sound. The horror in his eyes . . . Larkin had seen it many times—the look on the face of a man who knew he was about to die. Gendrin gripped his shoulder and hand, murmuring reassurances.

  “Magalia!” Mytin called for the healer.

  There was nothing the healer could do, not for a man with an arrow in each lung. The king was as good as dead. Light, what will this do to his family?

  “We are unarmed!” Garrot shouted from behind her.

  Larkin rounded on him. “You did this.” He had orchestrated this attack on their king. She should never have allowed this monster into the city. Never allowed him the chance to hurt her or anyone else she loved ever again.

  She happily stepped into her role as a warrior—a role that fit her far better than that of a princess. She flared her sword and swung horizontally toward his neck.

  “Don’t!” Denan cried at the same time Sela said, “Larkin, no!”

  Garrot threw himself back. Her sword cut through his cravat. It gaped open, revealing black, forked lines crawling up his neck—the mulgar blight he’d earned by his own foolishness. He ran down the steps, but Alorica whipped her sword toward him in warning.

  Denan grabbed Larkin’s shoulder. “Stop!”

  Queen Jaslin pounded on the shields around the dais and begged to be let in.

  Garrot scrambled back, his gaze searching for escape. There was none. He bared his teeth and faced Larkin. “I did not do this.”

  A lie. Larkin jerked out of Denan’s grasp and put her shield between them, flaring it so it touched Alorica and another enchantress’s shields, effectively locking Larkin and the two enchantresses inside with Garrot. When he made no move to defend himself, she hesitated. Light rippled past her and stuck to Garrot’s skin before melting away.

  What had just happened?

  “Larkin,” Denan shouted.

  Garrot gestured to the panic around them. “Is this some elaborate ploy to justify murdering me? Murdering your own people? Why? Vengeance? To keep us from magic?”

  The Idelmarchians were not her people—not after they’d turned their backs on her. Her people were the Alamantians. “You think we did this?”

  His cold blue eyes drilled into hers. “You and your husband are the ones who stand to benefit from the king’s death.”

  Garrot was evil incarnate. Just like the wraiths he’d served, every word that left his mouth was poison. If he had his way, he would turn every piper against her. She thrust, but her sword did not sink into his guts. Instead, it glanced off. A faint light rippled across his skin.

  Larkin stared. What kind of enchantment was this?

  Farther back, some of the druids rushed the enchantresses blocking the only exit. Their shields sent out a pulse of light, which threw a dozen druids to the ground. They came up, rabid fear etched on their faces.

  Weapons or no, the druids were about to attack. It would be a bloodbath.

  “You will stop!” Sela roared, and somehow her voice vibrated with power.

  Her sigils flared streamers of light, the details of her face lost in its powerful gleam. Liquid, iridescent gold shimmered across everyone’s skin before going transparent. Just as had happened to Garrot. Somehow, her sister had saved Garrot. Spared him from paying for his crimes.

  “Sela,” Larkin hissed furiously.

  Ignoring Larkin, Sela held up a bare arm. Before Tam could stop her, she raked a small knife down its length. Larkin made a cry of alarm, released her shield, and stepped toward her sister.

  But the blood that should have been there . . . wasn’t. Not even a scratch. Larkin stared, not understanding.

  “I have armored you all,” Sela said. “You can’t hurt each other now even if you tried. You will all return to your hometrees. The embedding ceremonies will continue in small groups.”

  If Sela had the ability to protect everyone, why hadn’t she just done that in the first place?

  In the silence that followed, Larkin became aware of Netrish’s rattled breathing. Of his wife pounding on the shield and sobbing her husband’s name. Of Gendrin’s low murmurs to his father. Of Aaryn calling out to her enchantresses to stay calm.

  When no one moved to obey her, Sela’s eyes narrowed into a fierce glare. “Idelmarchians, you may go first,” she said in a deathly quiet voice.

  The druids hesitated.

  “Go,” Garrot said.

  The enchantresses slowly parted. Eyes still wary, the druids passed between them and then hurried down the winding stairs.

  Garrot’s sharp gaze bored into Larkin. “We did not come all this way to be tricked and murdered.”

  It took every bit of self-control Larkin had to lower her shield.

  Denan came to stand beside her. “No one tricked you.”

  “If we wanted to keep you from the magic,” Larkin said through gritted teeth, “we would have never let you into the city. If we needed an
excuse to slaughter you, we would have done it already.”

  “You just tried to kill me!” Garrot cried.

  “If I thought it would work, I’d try again.” She meant every word.

  “Larkin,” Denan breathed, clearly aghast.

  Sela marched over, Tam in front of her. “Go now, Master Druid. Or I’ll drop your armor and let my sister do whatever she wants with you.”

  Larkin glared at the druid.

  Garrot paled and backed down the steps, pausing just out of reach from Alorica’s sword. She ground her teeth, clearly not wanting to let him go any more than Larkin had.

  “Alorica,” Sela said. “All of you, release your shields.”

  “Now I’m taking orders from children,” Alorica grumbled, but she released her magic and stepped aside.

  The other enchantresses did the same. Queen Jaslin rushed onto the dais, tripped on the last step, and crawled through her husband’s blood to take his hand from Mytin. Larkin’s father-in-law stumbled back from the carnage, seemed to realize there was nothing he could do, and came down the steps, which left the top of the dais to Netrish and his family.

  Casting a final parting glance over his shoulder at Larkin, Garrot stepped past Alorica, who let him go, and hurried after his men.

  Aaryn trotted past them. “I’ll make sure the druids return safely to the Enchanter Academy.” Motioning for her enchantresses to fall in behind her, she followed half a dozen steps behind Garrot.

  Standing on the second to last step, Larkin itched to follow him and settle this once and for all. “We can’t let him go. Not after what he did to Netrish.”

  Sela, Mytin, Tam, and Denan gathered around her. At Larkin’s back, Alorica continued watching the crowd.

  “The White Tree saw into Garrot’s mind,” Sela said. “He didn’t plot the attack on our king.”

  Larkin rounded on her sister. “Having the White Tree whisper in your head doesn’t change the fact that you’re a child! Setting a trap in a crowd is exactly Garrot’s style.”

  It was how he’d captured her, after all.

  Tears sprang into Sela’s eyes, and she turned away. Tam shot Larkin a reproachful look.