Wraith King

by Argyle, Amber

  Mytin shot her a flat look. Removing the druids was not something anyone had discussed. They needed all the Idelmarchian fighters they could get. But not at the cost of ardents destroying them from the inside out.

  Garrot shifted his cloak forward over his shoulders, as if he were chilly even in this blistering heat. “When are we going to learn to trust each other, Larkin?”

  “Never,” she said.

  Mytin’s lips thinned in disapproval. She probably should have said something diplomatic, but this was the man who’d nearly murdered her. Twice. Had murdered Bane and her grandfather. The man who’d turned her own sister against her. He was not to be trusted.

  “Then the wraiths have already succeeded in dividing us,” Garrot said.

  She stood her ground. “Do you really believe we mean to slaughter you? We could have done that right after we stripped you of weapons.”

  Garrot let out a frustrated huff. His gaze shifted to Larkin. “I want your word that my men will not be hurt.”

  “So long as you do not threaten us or try to escape,” Caelia said, “your men will not be harmed.”

  “Met,” Garrot finally said. “Round up my high druids and have them wait in the training hall. Make sure all the men are in the dining hall. Inform them that the enchantresses are there to see they don’t escape. Anyone who tries to run or puts up a fight will be killed on suspicion of fraternizing with the enemy.”

  Met stepped closer. “They could slaughter us. We can’t allow—”

  “Met,” Garrot barked. “Now.”

  Met shot them a hateful look and went.

  Garrot stepped back and gestured for Larkin to go ahead. “I will hold you to your bargain.”

  All the hairs on the back of Larkin’s head stood up at the idea of turning her back to Garrot. “After you.”

  He rolled his eyes and crossed the doorpane.

  As soon as the man stepped out of sight, Mytin leaned in. “Are you trying to provoke him?”

  “You don’t know Garrot like I do,” she said. “Haven’t seen the depths he’ll sink to get what he wants. We go in with a show of strength or we don’t go in at all.”

  Mytin made an unhappy sound. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  So did she.

  Blood

  West and Atara stepped through the barrier first, followed by Mytin and Larkin, then Mytin’s guards, Devon and Jenly. They made their way along the colonnade toward the Hall of Thorns. Behind them came four pages and two dozen enchantresses.

  Larkin motioned to Farwin, who jogged ahead of the other boys to catch up to her. “Where is she?”

  “Third level.” Farwin looked pointedly ahead. “Left of center.”

  Those were the rooms the professors had used. There had to be fifty chambers scattered through those boughs. She’d never figure out which one without the boy. “Stay close.”

  He nodded and dropped back, just behind the guards. Larkin glanced across the thirty feet separating her from Caelia and the other enchantresses, who left the colonnade and entered the Hall of Althea.

  The druids were already on their feet, their breakfast forgotten, as the enchantresses circled the dining hall. They’d been stripped of all weapons upon entering the Alamant. Larkin wondered if that left them feeling helpless. Powerless. She hoped so.

  Focusing on the path in front of her, Larkin motioned to the pages. “Wait just outside the doorpane.”

  The boys nodded.

  Taking a deep breath, Larkin, along with Mytin and their four guards, stepped into the Hall of Thorns. A hundred yards across, the empty training platform took up the whole main level. The roof was disc shaped, the panes clear, giving her a view into the tree above. Different-sized circles had been painted on the floor. Along the edges of the hall, scars marked where chests of equipment had once sat. Near the far wall, a spiraling staircase disappeared into the canopy.

  Midway down on Larkin’s left, six high druids conversed with Garrot and Met before the archway that led to the Hall of Althea. They turned as Larkin’s group entered the room. The druids ranged in age and size, but the heft of the silver medallions adorning their belts marked them as high druids.

  The druids had been lying to her people for centuries—telling everyone that the girls taken by the forest were devoured by a beast. These men had had the power to change that. Instead, they’d perpetrated the same poisonous lies that had kept her people helpless and afraid. All so that they might hold all the knowledge—and therefore all the power.

  “She shouldn’t be here,” said a druid with scraggly black hair as Larkin’s group stopped before them.

  She recognized him. Recognized all of them. They were the men who had made an unholy alliance with the wraiths, taken thorns from the Black Tree, and wielded its forbidden magic. Men who had slaughtered any druids who’d opposed them—including her grandfather. All while she’d watched, a helpless prisoner.

  And then . . . then had come Druids’ Folly. So many had died needlessly that night. All deaths she’d been blamed for.

  Larkin had a hundred enchantresses throughout the academy and more magic than any living woman. The druids couldn’t hurt her. But she could hurt them. Very badly. The urge rose so strong within her that she had to clench her fists to keep from filling them with her weapons.

  Mytin shot her a concerned look.

  Denan’s words echoed back to her. You’re a queen. The Alamant needed more soldiers.

  “We do what we must,” she murmured. Even if that meant allying themselves with murderous fools. So instead of taking her sword in hand and bathing these men in their own blood as they deserved, Larkin squared her shoulders.

  “Are you quite in control of yourself, Majesty?” Garrot asked far too lightly.

  “If she wasn’t, you’d all be dead,” Atara said dryly.

  Mytin glared at Atara. West rolled his eyes.

  To their credit, none of the high druids reacted to the threat, though they clearly all knew themselves at her mercy.

  Mytin frowned at her before turning back to Garrot. “Best to be done with this quickly.”

  “We’ll be conducting the tests ourselves,” Garrot said.

  “Fine,” Mytin said before Larkin could argue. “I’d like a table and chairs.”

  The men looked back at Garrot, who nodded to Met. “Tables and chairs for all of us. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.”

  The man stepped into the colonnade that led to the dining hall.

  “Let’s start with you,” Mytin said with a pointed look at Garrot.

  Garrot grunted and removed a small knife from his boot—so apparently some weapons had gotten through—and scratched himself. Larkin was disappointed to see it red.

  “Line up by rank,” Garrot ordered.

  The six commanders obeyed without question, their backs straight and their hands tucked behind them.

  Mytin motioned to the first man. “Name and rank?”

  “High Druid Ballis,” the first man said. “It’s in the back.”

  Mytin flipped to the end of the ledger—the names must have been listed in order of rank, with lowest rank first.

  Garrot stepped before the first of his men. “Bare your left forearm.”

  The man’s brow furrowed, but he unbuttoned and rolled up his cuff, revealing pale flesh. Garrot scratched, just deep enough for a line of red to appear. Mytin checked off the man’s name. And the next. And the next. All the high druids bled red.

  A shame. Larkin would have liked an excuse to end them.

  “Have the men line up on the colonnade and enter one at a time,” Garrot said.

  His men started toward the door.

  Hours later, Larkin had seen more hairy forearms than she’d ever hoped to. Every single one had been clean. The table she sat at had been brought straight from the dining hall. It was covered in carvings—some of them rather boorish—and more than a little sticky.

  She glanced over at the ledger Mytin h
eld and tried to figure out how many pages were left. A couple, maybe. All the highest-ranking druids.

  The more druids who passed the test, the smugger Garrot and his high druids became. She wasn’t sure she could endure another couple pages.

  Garrot kept surreptitiously sipping from a metal flask—probably whiskey—before dozing off in his seat, a testament to how sick the man was. Met and three men entered with baskets of bread and a pot of what smelled like beans. A pair of high druids took their seats at the table across from Larkin’s and shook Garrot awake.

  He looked about blearily. “Have the men wait until we’ve finished eating.”

  Met stepped outside long enough to give the order. The two servers gave each druid a piece of bread, a ladle of beans, and a cup of water.

  Larkin was sweltering inside her armor. She fanned her tunic. “Weren’t supplies arranged for you?”

  “We prefer to see to our own needs,” Garrot said as he dipped his bread in his beans and stirred it around without really eating anything.

  Meaning he didn’t trust the pipers not to poison him. It wasn’t a bad idea, really. The men approached Larkin’s table. She held up the lunch Viscott had packed for her. “We have our own food, thank you. Just some water, if you don’t mind.” She’d nearly drunk all hers in this oppressive heat.

  Larkin pulled out a small loaf of bread, a hunk of creamy cheese wrapped in isuit leaves, and a gobby. She flared her sigil and used her magic to cut the loaf and spread the cheese across the slices; it was handy to always have a knife. She alternated bites of bread with bites of gobby. It was simple but delicious.

  “I brought you something special, Queen Larkin.” One of the servers, a rail thin man, set a flaky pastry on the table before her. “Because of you, my daughters are safe from the Forbidden Forest.”

  West’s hand shifted to his sword hilt.

  Larkin shot him a glare and offered the man a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

  The man bowed.

  Licking her lips, Atara eyed the pastry and then the man. “I helped, you know.”

  “I didn’t bring more preserves, but—” the man began.

  “That’s quite enough,” Garrot snapped.

  Met stormed up behind the man and grabbed his tunic. “Why are you so intent on being close to the queen?”

  Larkin hadn’t thought the man dangerous, but then, she’d never suspected Unger either. She pushed to her feet and flared her weapons. West and Atara flanked the man. Devon pulled behind him. Jenly flared her shield.

  The server’s gaze darted about. “But you said—”

  Met hauled him closer. “Roll up your sleeve!”

  The man paled. “I don’t do well with the sight of blood, sir.”

  “What kind of soldier can’t handle blood?” Met released him and pulled out a knife. “Just roll up your cursed sleeve and let’s be done with it.”

  “I’m not a soldier,” the man said. “I’m a cook.”

  Met pushed the knife toward the server’s arm. The server smacked Met’s hand away. Met pinned him on Larkin’s table, scattering their lunches everywhere. “Lousy piece of forest-grubbing—” But his gaze wasn’t on the man squirming beneath him. It was locked on Mytin.

  Larkin recognized the predator’s gaze just as Met threw his knife at Mytin. It clattered against Jenly’s shield, sending faint ripples across its surface.

  Suddenly, everyone was scrambling. Met leaped over Larkin’s table and slammed into her shield. Releasing her sword, Larkin braced with both hands and gathered her magic to pulse. But Garrot and his high druids appeared behind Met, knives in one hand and chairs in the other.

  Pulsing now could very well kill them, which could very well start a war. Cursed, idiotic druids!

  Atara charged Met from Larkin’s left. He danced back from her sword and Larkin’s shield. Met had left to fetch the tables when the other high-ranking druids had been tested. And as Garrot’s second, his name would have been on the last pages of the ledger.

  “We didn’t test him,” Larkin growled.

  The druids weren’t the only idiotic ones.

  “Larkin, get back,” Mytin cried and tried to come toward her.

  “Stay behind me!” Jenly demanded as she backed him toward the closest exit—the archway that led to the Hall of Althea—and the enchantresses waiting on the other side.

  “Larkin!” West motioned her toward the exit.

  She ignored him and advanced on Met with Atara and the druids.

  “The forest take you,” West growled as he took his place on her right. “My job is to keep you safe, woman. Stop making it impossible.”

  Larkin ignored him.

  Met must have known he’d soon be trapped. He pivoted and threw another knife, which embedded in one of the druid’s shoulders. He threw two more knives in quick succession, one hitting the other druid and the other piercing Garrot’s chair. Atara lunged. Her sword punched through his arm, the bone breaking with a snap. The arm dangled, black blood pumping.

  Confirmation for what Larkin already knew. Met was an ardent.

  Garrot threw his knife, which slammed into the ardent’s back. Met simply drew another knife with his other hand and charged Larkin again. She ducked behind her shield while Atara and West stabbed him. West’s blade went through Met’s sternum and out his back, severing his spine.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Larkin caught sight of movement behind Mytin. “Behind you!” She gestured toward the doorpane that led to the Hall of Althea, where six more druids—ardents?—poured into the room.

  All of them angled for Mytin. Ardents, then. Where had they got the swords?

  Working together, the druids and pipers met them. Devon shoved Mytin out of the way and met an ardent’s sword with his own, then bashed the creature in the side with his shield. His sword whipped up and down, cutting off a chunk of the ardent’s head.

  “Enchantresses!” Atara cried.

  Where are they? But in a beat of silence, Larkin heard fighting going on beyond both doorpanes. The enchantresses on both colonnades had been attacked.

  “Seal the doorpanes!” Garrot cried, but no one could fight their way to seal them off.

  Garrot grabbed a sword from the fallen ardent and stood shoulder to shoulder with West. Jenly hauled the Arbor to his feet and herded him toward Larkin. Atara and Larkin ran to meet them. Larkin, Atara, and Jenly flared a shield wall around the Arbor.

  “Are you hurt?” Larkin asked her father-in-law.

  Mytin held a dagger in his right hand, his eyes scanning for danger. “No.”

  An ardent stumbled into the room, black blood streaming down the side of his head. Garrot stabbed him in the guts, West through the neck. Another ardent charged through. Garrot lifted his sword to meet the creature’s blow, a blow which easily toppled him. Garrot tried to rise, only to fall back.

  Taking his place, West ducked behind his shield, wrenched the ardent’s shield up, and swiped his sword across the ardent’s chest. The ardent tried to lift his sword again, but his muscles had been cut. West dropped back and beheaded him.

  Larkin ached to join the guards—to help before one of them died—but she couldn’t leave Mytin unprotected.

  An ardent battling Devon broke free and tried to lob a knife into the opening above their shields. Larkin pulsed, sending the ardent and his knife flying.

  Within seconds, enchantresses entered the fray, Caelia at their head. Larkin gritted her teeth to keep from breaking formation to help. Within seconds, it was over.

  “Secure the panes.” Caelia strode into the hall, blood dripping from her scalp down her temple. “And double-check that the ardents are dead.”

  Enchantresses twisted their fingers against the numerous panes, turning them opaque and cutting off the breeze. Within seconds, sweat dripped down Larkin’s body and soaked her tunic.

  Caelia surveyed the room, enchantresses standing arm’s length apart throughout, and stormed over to Larkin and Mytin. “Are either of
you hurt?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “What happened?” Larkin asked.

  Caelia’s mouth thinned. “The ardents planned the whole thing. Nearly every high druid waiting on the colonnade was one. Had to have been at least thirty of them. They all rushed toward the training room at once. We held most of them off.”

  The druids would need new leadership after this.

  An enchantress jogged up to Caelia. “We’re secure, but two of our enchantresses are badly hurt.”

  “Send a runner for healers,” Caelia said.

  Larkin released her magic, her shield winking out. “Send one of the pages—they’re the fastest runners in the city.” She pointed toward the exit leading to the Hall of Ivy, where the boys were. Light grant they were all right.

  The enchantress bowed and took off.

  “Atara,” West called as he dragged an injured enchantress into the room. “Help me.”

  Atara and Mytin hurried over. Larkin started to follow but then caught sight of a lost-looking Garrot staring down at his two dead high druids. He tipped back his flask and drained it before moving to crouch beside not-Met, a look of betrayal and loss on his face. Not-Met shifted, his mouth moving.

  The ardent was whispering with Garrot. Telling him lies? Or giving him instructions? Larkin marched over to him, her sword filling her hand. “What did he say to you?”

  Garrot noted the sword in her hands. “I’m interrogating him.”

  “You can’t interrogate ardents.”

  He pushed to his feet and swayed a bit, but his gaze remained fierce. “I can try.” She was surprised that his breath didn’t smell like alcohol but medicine.

  She huffed. “Met is gone. All that’s left is a bit of his cunning. The rest is all wraith.”

  “Hello, Larkin,” said a voice that sent Larkin’s teeth clenching. She recognized the preternatural darkness in Met’s eyes—the kind of darkness that sucks in all light. The Wraith King was here.

  “I’m going to find a way to kill you,” Larkin said. “I swear it.”

  Not-Met chuckled. “Soon, Larkin, we will come for you. And you will willingly join us.”