Wraith King
Page 4
“Larkin,” Mytin chided.
Larkin instantly regretted her harsh words, but she was too angry to apologize.
“Who then?” Denan asked.
Sela glanced into the boughs, in the direction the arrow had come from. “I don’t know.”
Larkin threw out her hands in frustration. “Who else would it be?”
There was censure in Denan’s eyes. “If Garrot did this, he’ll pay for it. But we don’t know that yet.”
Larkin had summarily been overruled. Again. Anger buzzed through her. She needed someone or something to lash out at. She rounded on Tam. “How was that protecting her?”
“How was I supposed to know she’d try to cut herself?” Tam cried.
He had a point. “She stepped right between you and Alorica!”
Tam threw his hands in the air. “I wasn’t watching for danger from her!”
“Are we going to turn on each other now?” Denan rubbed his eyes in exasperation or exhaustion or both.
A beat of guilt tore through Larkin. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
His trousers and sleeves wet with blood, Mytin crouched before Sela. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said, as if she hadn’t just witnessed a man take two arrows to the chest and single-handedly stopped a massacre.
A sentinel jogged toward them, stopping just short of the dais steps. “We didn’t find anything, my prince. We’re going to make a second sweep.”
Denan nodded. “Tam, make sure they search everywhere. Take Alorica with you.”
“What about Sela?” Alorica asked.
Denan motioned to Sela. “Thanks to her shield, we don’t need you.”
Why didn’t Sela just shield us all from the start? Then we could have avoided all this.
Tam seemed about to argue, then glanced at Larkin. Muttering about obstinate women, he stepped down by Alorica, and the two left together.
Carrying her bag, Magalia finally managed to push through the last of the crowd. She took the steps two at a time and shouldered the king’s grieving son out of the way. She retrieved a pair of scissors and cut the king’s fine tunic down the center, revealing the black bolts piercing a canvas of blood and magic.
Denan crossed to the other side of the dais, the others trailing behind. “What do you need?” he asked Magalia.
Magalia sat back on her haunches, her head bowed. “I’m sorry, my king. The arrows are buried to the haft in your lungs—if I remove them, you’ll only bleed out faster.”
“No,” Jaslin begged. “No, please.”
Larkin felt a swell of pity for Jaslin, who believed that if the king fought, if he wanted to live badly enough, that he could survive this. That he could bargain or fight or steal his way out from under death’s cold grip. But there was no running from death. Not once it had you in its sights.
Death was blind to strength and deaf to pleas for mercy.
The king knew this too. He’d commanded the armies before Denan. He’d seen strong, hale men cut down in moments. Men who fought death with every bit of their considerable strength. Netrish brushed his fingers down his wife’s face, murmuring something too softly for Larkin to hear.
Then the king’s gaze shifted to Denan. “Are you really so eager to be king?”
Denan’s brow shot up. “You think I did this?”
“Father—” Gendrin began.
Netrish coughed, blood spewing onto his wife’s pale blue dress. His lips and teeth were painted a garish red. “Garrot was right. You’re the only person who benefits from my death.”
“You can’t believe Garrot,” Larkin said, aghast. “If anything, he plotted this with the wraiths!”
“I told you—” Sela began.
The king’s sigils flared brighter, so bright Larkin raised her hand to shield her eyes. And then all that light was suddenly gone. King Netrish’s face was slack, his body unnaturally still. Jaslin threw herself on his chest, sobbing. Gendrin buried his face in his hands.
“The king is dead,” Mytin intoned. His gaze shifted to Denan. “Long live the king.”
Deadwood
Death was an intimate thing. And in this death, Larkin was an interloper. Denan, Magalia, and Mytin seemed to sense it as well. With a shared look, they all moved off the dais completely, leaving the man and his family alone with their grief. Larkin was nearly past the sentinels before she realized Sela wasn’t following them. She remained, watching the queen grieve over her king.
“Sela.” Larkin held out her hand for her sister.
Sela turned reluctantly away and glided down the remaining steps toward them. She didn’t take Larkin’s hand. “I will never understand why mankind craves darkness more than light.”
Those were not the words of a child. Or even a human. They were the words of an ancient, alien being. Sela, translating the White Tree’s thoughts—thoughts that had changed Sela so much that Larkin wasn’t sure how much little girl even remained. A different kind of grief threatened to pull Larkin down. She couldn’t let it. Not while there was still an assassin to deal with.
A dozen guards surrounded Larkin, Denan, and Sela the moment they left the dais. The enchantresses flared their shields above and to the sides.
Denan led them to the center of the platform. “Are we still armored?” he asked Sela.
She continued past them without looking back, six guards breaking away to surround her.
Larkin gestured to the slight sheen of gold at the edges of her own body. “You can see it if you know where to look.”
He scanned her and then his head came up in understanding. He stepped forward, taking her arm; the armor prevented her from feeling his touch, aside from the warmth of it. He examined a gash on her forearm. “You’re hurt.”
Only then did Larkin feel the sting of it. He sent one of the guards for Magalia with a tip of his chin. Larkin tried to recall when it had happened. Not with Garrot; he hadn’t even bothered to draw a weapon.
Then she remembered. “One of the bolts nicked me.”
The guards stepped aside to let Magalia approach them. She glanced at Larkin’s arm and reached into her bag.
Denan nodded for one of the enchantresses to shield Larkin. “Sela,” Denan called. “Release her shield.”
The faint outline of gold around her faded.
Denan’s brow drew tight with worry. “You were a target.”
She shook her head. “It was when I reached for the king.”
He didn’t look convinced. “What if the bolts were poisoned?”
Larkin hadn’t even considered that. A new kind of fear wormed its way inside her.
Magalia pressed a hand to Larkin’s forehead. “Are you feeling sick to your stomach?” Larkin shook her head. Magalia looked somewhat mollified. “If she’d been poisoned, she’d either be sick or dead by now.”
“You’re sure?” Denan said.
“I can’t know all the poisons in the world,” Magalia said. “But she should be fine.”
Larkin breathed out in relief.
Magalia poured a tincture over the wound, which set it to stinging. Larkin hissed through her teeth and looked away as Magalia pulled apart the edges and peered inside. It started bleeding again. Larkin watched the blood drip on her lovely dress. The dress Denan had given her. Would the stain ever come out?
Magalia reached back into her bag. “It’s only skin deep. Needs stitches though.” She pulled out a needle and thread.
Stitching would take too long; they had an assassin to find. “Just wrap it for now. Mama can fix me up tonight.” As their village’s midwife, she’d stitched plenty of women.
Magalia frowned in displeasure but handed Larkin a couple tinctures, showing her which needed to be drunk and which to wash the wound with. She set about bandaging the wound.
One of the sentinels rushed toward them, lowering his voice when he came close enough. “Your grandmother has had some kind of fit, princess.”
Iniya might be a bitter old woman, b
ut she’d been a child once—a child who’d witnessed her family’s slaughter before being driven out of her own home. Pity welled within Larkin. “Violence triggers them.” Violence that made her relive that dreadful day and rendered her nearly catatonic.
“Your Majesty,” Magalia said to Denan. “If I may be excused to see to Iniya and round up ice to pack the king’s body.” Netrish would be laid out on the dais for days so the populace could pay their respects.
It was strange, seeing someone besides his soldiers ask for his permission. But as king, he commanded all of them now.
King.
Light and ancestors, that made Larkin the queen. A queen with absolutely no power of her own. She and Denan had made plans for that to change when he took over the monarchy. Until it did, she was little more than a decoration for Denan’s arm and a mother to his children.
Denan motioned for Magalia to be excused.
“Send someone for Harben,” Larkin said. Her father would know what to do for Iniya.
Magalia nodded and hustled after the guard.
Denan started toward Sela, who waited for them at the base of the stairs that led into one of the upper boughs.
“What you did,” Denan said to Sela, “it was like the magic of old. Like what Larkin did.” When she’d created the weir that had saved his life. “Though the weave was different.”
“It’s called armor,” Sela said. “Only magic blades can pierce it—and only when it’s weakened.”
With magic like that, the wraiths wouldn’t stand a chance. “Why didn’t you tell us about it before?” Larkin asked. “We could have used it at the outset and avoided all this.” King Netrish would still be alive.
Sela watched her as if debating what to say. Finally, she sighed. “Come with me.” She started up the stairs.
Larkin made to follow her, but Denan stepped in front of her. “Go back to our hometree with the guards.”
Her brow furrowed. “What? Why? I’m better prepared for an assassin than you.” To prove her point, she flared her shield.
He stared at the bloody bandage wrapping her arm. “The assassin targeted you. Until we find him, you’re not safe.”
“It was just a stray bolt.”
He took hold of Larkin’s hand. “Little bird, don’t make me order you.”
She pulled her hand from his. “Try it.”
Larkin glared. He glared back. Neither budged.
Tam crossed the platform and approached warily. “The assassin is gone, Denan.” He held out a rope and pulley. “This was all we found.”
We failed, Larkin thought.
Denan turned the rope over in his hands. “He’s in the city.”
Mouth in a grim line, Tam nodded.
The White Tree was the safest place in the city now. Larkin shot him a look that dared him to try to stop her now and stepped past him with a huff. Grumbling, Denan started after her, Tam following.
Larkin hurried to catch up to Sela, sliding past the guards to walk beside her sister, who never acknowledged her presence. Not that Larkin blamed her.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Larkin said.
Sela nodded but didn’t say anything.
Larkin sighed. “You can release the armor now.”
Sela still didn’t say anything, but a glance back at Denan and Tam confirmed it was gone. They climbed until Larkin’s breath came short and her arm throbbed to the beating of her heart. Morning had given way to midday, the heat building like a miasma. Sweat ran down Larkin’s back into her dress, which clung to her; it was well and truly ruined.
Halfway up the White Tree’s branches, Sela motioned for the guards to wait behind and stepped onto a branch.
Tam mopped his brow. “Where is she going?”
Denan shrugged and stepped after her. Larkin exchanged an exasperated look with Tam before following. From here, they had a clear view of the city. Below, the sun reflected off the lake, making Larkin squint. The hometrees that ringed the White Tree didn’t so much as shift on a nonexistent breeze. A distant figure whooped and jumped from a lower bough, slicing into the cool water.
Obviously, word of the king’s death hadn’t yet spread.
They traveled along the branch until it bowed under their weight. Denan and Tam paused, uncertainly.
“Sela,” Larkin asked. “What are you trying to show us?”
After a few more steps, Sela finally paused. “Look down.”
Larkin followed her gaze. There was nothing beneath them but more branches and a twenty-plus-story drop.
“Ancestors save us.” Denan gazed at the branch itself.
What was he seeing that Larkin wasn’t? She bent down. The golden sheen at the edge of the bark was gone. The colors had stopped moving.
The entire branch was dead.
Tam gasped. Denan’s nostrils flared, his hands opened and closed. He was a man of action. But what action could he take against this?
Larkin looked between them. “Don’t branches die sometimes?” She knew the answer before she asked, but she needed to hear a different answer. Needed it desperately.
Denan shook his head.
Sela knelt, resting the flat of her hand against the deadwood. “The old enchantments take more magic than the White Tree has to give.”
Denan’s brow furrowed. “Are you saying this happened as a result of you armoring everyone?”
“The more magic I use,” Sela said, “the faster the White Tree will die.”
All this beauty—all this life—would be corrupted. Twisted to death and decay. This is why Sela hadn’t used the armor from the outset, but only as a matter of last resort. Larkin covered her mouth in horror.
Sela folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head. “The White Tree gave up so much trying to counter the curse. And now she’s old and weak. She can’t regenerate as she once could.”
Tam eased a little closer. “How much time do we have?”
Sela seemed to look inward. “A year. Maybe less.”
A year until the White Tree would be dead. “What about our magic?” It felt selfish to ask, but Larkin couldn’t lose her magic. She just couldn’t.
Sela lovingly stroked the bark. “Most of our sigils are saplings with their own consciousness. They will live on, as will the magic they’ve woven. But some—like the Arbor and monarch sigils—are grafts. They will diminish, become mere saplings again.”
Which meant Larkin and Denan would no longer be stronger than the others. Larkin rested a hand on one of the branches that spread across her shoulder. After this generation, there would be no more thorns. No more embeddings. The magic that made the Alamant what it was would be gone. Where did that leave them?
Denan stared out over the city. “Will the barrier around the wall hold?”
Sela shook her head.
That barrier was the only thing preventing the mulgars from overrunning the city.
Tam interlocked his fingers behind his neck. “So in a year’s time . . .”
The barrier would die when the tree did.
“Oh, light.” Larkin felt like she might pass out.
“Can we fix it?” Denan asked desperately.
“The White Tree will show Larkin how,” Sela said.
Larkin didn’t want this responsibility. Didn’t want the fate of the Alamant on her shoulders. “And if I can’t?”
Sela didn’t answer.
“We have to strike first,” Tam said. “End the curse once and for all.”
“How?” Larkin asked.
“We have to kill the wraiths,” Tam said.
“They can’t be killed,” Larkin said.
“The Black Tree can,” Sela said.
“And if the Black Tree dies—” Larkin began.
“So do the wraiths,” Denan finished for her.
They would have to cross the Forbidden Forest, battle through the mulgar horde, reach the dead city of Valynthia—where the wraiths themselves would be waiting—and then destroy the tree.
“There is a way,” Sela said.
If that was true, then they had no choice. They would have to go to the dead city. Larkin cradled her forehead in her hand.
“Ancestors save us,” Tam said.
Stitches
Past the empty space around the White Tree were rings of hometrees, all interconnected by a network of woven branch bridges. Beyond, a tall wall made of evenly spaced trees grew together in curving sheets. By themselves, they weren’t much of a defense, but they were encased by an impassable magical barrier.
Beyond that . . . the Forbidden Forest and the wraiths.
In a boat packed with guards, Larkin shivered despite the oppressive heat. On her left, Sela stared back at the White Tree, her brow furrowed in concentration. On her right, Denan dipped his quill in the inkpot she held and wrote a missive on his lap. Alorica and Tam sat facing them.
“How far is Valynthia?” Alorica asked.
Denan rubbed his forehead, smearing it with ink. “It’s not the distance that’s the problem.”
“It’s the thousands and thousands of mulgars plaguing the Black Tree’s forest,” Tam said.
“It’s not just the mulgars,” Denan said. “It’s a logistical problem. We can’t possibly forage enough to provide for an army ten thousand strong. And even if we do use the Idelmarchians’ stock animals—”
“And that’s if the Idelmarchians join us,” Alorica interrupted.
Denan went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “There are no roads, so we’d be limited to what our soldiers can carry on their backs, which we can only stretch out to a week at most.”
They would have to fight their way through, which would take months. Memories of Larkin’s only battle reared in her head. Men and women crying for their mothers or their spouses. How many thousands would they lose on the way? How many grieving families would she have to face?
“What if we went in with a smaller force?” Larkin asked.
Tam and Denan exchanged heavy looks. “It’s been tried before,” Denan said. “None have ever made it back.”