We’re prepared, Larkin reminded herself. But then, they’d thought themselves prepared the last time they’d had a ceremony at the tree.
Nerves made her even more sweaty in the heat; her armor prevented the breeze from reaching her skin. Sweat trailed lines down her body before hitting her clothing. She longed for a drink of water, but she refused to show weakness in front of her detractors.
At the top, Mytin waited beneath the archway. Down a step and to his right was Aaryn. They both nodded a greeting. Denan directed Larkin to stand on the last step, Nesha just below her. “Whatever you do, don’t step before myself or Mytin.”
Another tradition that needed changing. Later. She gave a curt nod. Nesha inclined her head.
At the head of the gathered boats, King Netrish’s body sailed with at least fifty members of his family. Jaslin, Gendrin, and Caelia were all there. Jaslin wore a long gray mourning cape that trailed behind her. All wore their family mantle of a six-pointed leaf. The rain had stopped, but the clouds above were heavy and dark, promising that they weren’t done with the Alamant yet.
They docked. Gendrin and his brothers lifted the king’s body from the boat—his body had spent its last night at his home—laid him on a litter, and took their place behind Jaslin. The music changed to a marching dirge that sounded more like a haunted wail. Jaslin must have given the command, for the White Tree Sentinels performed the same march.
People knelt in a steady wave as the king’s body passed, soft murmurs breaking the silence. At the base of the steps, Jaslin lifted her long, simple dress, the hem damp, and climbed.
Behind her, Gendrin and the others brought the king’s body, which was totally covered in the sewn-together leaves of his hometree. Even with the ice he’d been packed in, a faint stench of rotting meat wafted on the breeze.
On the last step before the arch, Jaslin paused.
“Who comes to the White Tree?” Mytin intoned.
Jaslin took a deep breath. “I have come to bury my husband, king of the Alamant.”
Mytin paused so long that Larkin thought he meant not to answer. Then he began listing the king’s accomplishments. The battles he’d won as prince. His marriage to Jaslin. How he’d become king himself at forty-two. How he’d had four strong sons and twelve grandsons. The laws he’d enacted and changed.
“King Netrish was a good king and a good man,” Mytin finished. “Light grant that the White Tree accepts him.”
Mytin and Denan parted to let Netrish’s family pass. When the body drew even with Larkin, the smell was strong enough to make her gag. She held her breath to keep from retching. Just behind, Caelia stared at Nesha. Her brother had been executed by Nesha’s lover. As hard as that was for Larkin, it must be so much harder for Caelia.
Caelia turned away, her jaw hard. A beat of guilt and sorrow pulsed through Larkin. She counted Caelia as one of her allies, maybe even a friend. She’d hate to lose that because of Nesha.
When all of Netrish’s family had passed—his parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins—Denan motioned for Larkin and Nesha to join him. She looped her hand through his too-hot arm. He should be in bed, but even she had to concede that he could not miss this funeral—not when so many of the Alamantians were upset with his inability to stop the assassins.
They left the guards and sentinels behind. Up the tree they wound. Until Nesha was breathing hard—she wasn’t used to climbing in and out of trees all day. Denan had gone pale, his pace slow enough that they fell behind. Larkin bore as much of his weight as she dared, his every heavy step making her more and more worried.
Finally, they crossed the main platform with its glittering font of thorns and took the first branch to the left. Twenty steps up was a platform surrounded by a shroud of vines. Here, the trunk sloped, and the bark split apart like a curtain to reveal bare wood. The portal.
Larkin, Nesha, and Denan stood to the right. Opposite them, Jaslin stood with Netrish’s children, parents, and siblings. Caelia’s baby babbled and waved his arm, his eyes on the leaves. One son held her skirt, the other her hand. Larkin tried to catch Caelia’s eye, but the woman didn’t look her way.
Gendrin and his brothers paraded past with the litter bearing Netrish’s body, the rest of his family filling in the space behind. They set the body down on the portal. The scaffolding came apart. For a moment, nothing happened. And then rustling vines grew over the king’s body.
Nesha gasped. Larkin had known it was coming—she’d seen it all before—and still she felt uneasy. Denan released her hand to wrap a comforting arm around her waist and pull her closer. His fevering body made her even hotter, but she didn’t pull away. The vines grew until they completely covered the king; only the shape of him remained.
Then he began to sink, his body being taken into the tree. Alamantians felt it a great honor to be laid to rest like this—to have their memories become part of the White Tree, to never be forgotten. Larkin found the whole thing rather unsettling—like the tree was eating people.
Within minutes, the old king was gone. After a proper amount of time had passed, Denan tugged on Larkin’s hand. Just as she turned, a shape flitted beneath her feet. The king’s soul? His body? She didn’t know.
Shivering, they left the platform.
“What just happened?” Nesha whispered.
The two of them walked beside Denan as Larkin explained everything as best she could. Leaning on her, Denan remained quiet, the circles under his eyes darker than ever.
Nesha glanced around before whispering, “Don’t ever let them put me in there.”
Larkin snorted and then covered it with a cough. “Noted.”
She paused under the archway with its wide steps leading to the docks. This was where she’d been forcibly married. But that memory no longer hurt. She glanced over to see if Denan was remembering as well, but he rubbed his eyes as if they pained him.
“Go stand with West and Atara,” Larkin said to Nesha. “Don’t leave their side.” The pipers would know she was the Master Druid’s mistress and Larkin’s sister. That made her a target.
Nesha obeyed while Larkin crossed to her husband. Desperate to lift his burden, even for a moment, she teased, “I’d like to see you try to force me again.” She flared the sigil on her hand and raised her eyebrows in a dare.
He bit back a smile. “I wouldn’t have to force you. You’d come willingly.”
That she would. Not that she’d ever admit it. She leaned into him and whispered, “Only if you catch me.”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her close. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Is it working?”
He sighed. “A little. I just . . . I can’t help but feel responsible.”
Because, despite all the measures they’d taken to secure the embedding ceremony, the king had still died. And despite all their efforts, they had yet to finish searching all the Alamant.
Denan’s parents approached them.
“Ready for this?” Mytin asked.
Ready to face the woman who’d accused Larkin and Denan of killing her husband? The woman who’d written a scathing letter of Larkin’s handling of the druids the day before? No. But custom dictated that they offer their condolences.
Aaryn must have seen some of this on Larkin’s expression. “You took her queenship from her. Of course she hates you.” She shot Denan a look. “Why did your wife stand beneath you at the ceremony?”
Larkin felt a rush of vindication.
His mouth fell open. “It’s tradition.”
“Traditions change,” Aaryn said.
Denan sighed. He looked so very tired. “I already have enough opposition, Mother. I can’t change everything at once.”
“He’s right.” Larkin found herself agreeing with Denan, though she’d had the same thoughts not long ago. “The people who don’t support me now definitely won’t tolerate me with more power.”
Mytin stepped between them. “This is not the time or place for this di
scussion.”
He was right. The line of those wishing to express their condolences watched them, waiting for the king to go first.
“Let’s just get it over with,” Larkin said through clenched teeth.
With a sigh, Denan wove her arm through his. His parents fell in behind them as they approached Jaslin.
Denan bowed to the former queen. “Netrish was a great man and a great king.” He cleared the emotion from his throat. “I will miss him dearly.”
Jaslin’s sharp gaze pierced Larkin. “What were you thinking?”
“This is not the time for this,” Denan said through clenched teeth, echoing his father.
Jaslin’s glare shifted to Denan. “You refused to convene a council meeting. So we will discuss it now.”
“I’ve been ill, Jaslin,” Denan said.
Jaslin ignored his statement. “So you sent her to deal with the druids.” She pointed a finger at Larkin. “After her abysmal failings at the embedding ceremony? After her background with them?”
“My job at the ceremony was to guard against the druids,” Larkin said. “Which I did.” Even as she said it, Iniya’s words echoed through her. You will never make it as queen. She tried to force them back.
Jaslin’s nostrils flared. “The two of you insisted that the Alamant would not survive without the aid of the druids, and then you nearly start a war with them? Over that girl!” Now Jaslin’s pointing finger fixated on Nesha, who stood stoically with Atara and West at the base of the steps.
“Jaslin.” Denan’s persona had shifted from patient statesman to authoritarian general in an instant. Jaslin would do very well to stop talking.
Jaslin’s raised voice drew a crowd—the most powerful people in the kingdom watching the king and his council fight over the actions of his queen.
Gendrin strode through them. “Mother, that is enough!”
Jaslin held her palm out to him, her gaze boring into Larkin. “I will not follow a queen who thinks herself above the safety of our entire kingdom!”
Denan took a deep breath for a retort, but Larkin’s sigils were already alight.
“I bow before no man,” Larkin said in a voice trembling with fury. “Especially not a murderous Black Druid who demands the life of a woman in exchange for the survival of his own people!”
“We are not our fathers’ daughters,” Aaryn said.
“We are not our brothers’ sisters,” Larkin said back to her.
“We are not our husbands’ wives,” Atara shouted from the base of the steps.
And then from all over, enchantresses—women—finished, “We are our own. Warriors who fight for what’s ours.”
Larkin turned back to the old queen. “Women will never again be used as a bargaining chip.”
Jaslin turned back to Denan. “The freedom of one doesn’t outweigh—”
“Silence!” Denan said, his voice low and sharp as a scythe felling wheat.
Jaslin’s mouth snapped shut.
“Denan, she’s grieving,” Gendrin said pleadingly. “She’s not herself.”
Denan dragged in a heavy breath, calling upon whatever shred of patience he had left and faced Gendrin. “I am sorry, my friend, for your loss.”
He took Larkin’s hand. Together, they marched down the stairs. Below them, Nesha looked mortified. Atara nodded in approval. Those queued up behind them whispered. Many in the crowd watched.
Larkin’s head came up. Let them see the kind of queen I am. She opened her sigils, the buzzing filling her with power.
Harben
As Larkin and Denan left the steps and headed toward the docks, the sentinels shifted into the same formation as before, with four in front and four in the back. West and Atara moved to the flank position. The group started through the crowd. The gusting wind picked up, and a line of rain moved toward them. It would soak everyone when it came.
Nesha fell in beside Larkin. “Larkin . . .”
She knew what her sister was thinking. That her relationship with Garrot wasn’t that bad—certainly not bad enough to warrant losing a war. Lightning crackled across the clouds.
“It’s not over yet,” Larkin said just loud enough to be heard over the wind.
Denan tugged his hood back on and shivered. “Let’s just see how it plays out.”
Nesha pressed her lips into a thin line. “It’s my decision, Larkin, whether to stay or go. And if my returning to him will save anyone, it would be worth it.”
Larkin glanced around to make sure no one had overheard and motioned for her sister to lower her voice. “If it comes to that, we’ll have that discussion. I promise.”
Nesha held her gaze and then nodded. Larkin glanced over at Denan. He was practically swaying on his feet. She threaded her arm through his. He leaned on her a lot, which told her just how sick he was.
“We need to get home,” she murmured.
He shivered. “I’ve overdone it,” he admitted.
Light, he was hot. “You need some tea.” She’d stored some on their boat.
They’d just crossed over from the White Tree to the docks when one of the pages came at a run. Larkin took the letter from the boy. “It’s from the constables.” She snapped the seal, scanned the letter, and stopped in her tracks.
“What is it?” Denan asked.
“A woman was found murdered early this morning,” she whispered. “They don’t know who she was.” The letter went on to detail what she looked like. Blonde, brown-eyed, voluptuous. Larkin cringed at the last—what kind of man wrote that a dead woman was voluptuous?
“Murdered?” Nesha gasped in disbelief. Obviously, Garrot had kept the numerous murders in the Alamant from her too.
“That’s how the king died,” Larkin said.
“What?” Nesha cried.
Beside Larkin, Denan stiffened.
Had he seen an assassin? “What is it?” She followed his gaze and saw Harben nearly upon them. The sentinels snapped their shields together, their swords sliding out of their decorative sheaths.
Larkin’s first reaction was to order the guards to let him through. But there was no reason for her father to be here.
“Show us your blood,” Denan said, clearly thinking along the same lines as Larkin.
Harben jerked out a knife and cut far too deep. He lifted his arm to show the red blood running down his elbow.
“Let him through,” Larkin said before they impaled him—or he impaled himself.
They immediately shifted to the side. His face pale, her father sidestepped between them. She felt Nesha ducking out of sight behind her.
“What is it?” Larkin asked.
“It’s Raeneth.” Her father’s new wife. “She’s missing.”
“Missing?” Denan asked, his fatigue disappearing. “What do you mean, missing?”
Harben pulled his hands through his thinning copper curls. “She didn’t come home from the market last night.”
The storm broke, soaking them all through in seconds, rain smearing the ink of the letter Larkin held. Blonde, brown eyes, voluptuous. The letter was suddenly too heavy to hold. It slipped from her fingers, landing with a shush on the dock beneath her feet.
As much as Larkin disliked the woman, her father stopped being a monster after he met her. She was a good mother to her son, and she’d been kind to Larkin. Losing her would destroy Harben.
Larkin and Denan exchanged a horrified glance. Silent communication passed between them. Did they tell her father? Larkin shook her head. Not until they were certain the dead woman was Raeneth.
Harben took Larkin’s hand. “Please, you have to help me.” She resisted the impulse to jerk free. “Kyden needs his mother.” Harben looked lost and smaller somehow. Not the domineering villain who’d lorded over her as a child.
“I’ll take care of Kyden.” Wiping rain from her face, Nesha stepped out from behind Larkin. “I’ve plenty of milk.”
Harben’s eyes widened as he noticed her for the first time. “Nesha . . .”
/>
“I’m not doing it for you,” Nesha hollered to be heard over the storm, her jaw tight. “I’m doing it for my brother.”
Harben’s gaze fell, and he nodded.
“I’ll come with you,” Denan said to Larkin.
Larkin rounded on him. “No.”
“Larkin—”
She stepped closer and dropped her voice. “You’re swaying on your feet.”
He breathed out in frustration. “I want to help.”
“I know you worry about me,” Larkin said. “But you need to trust that I can handle this.”
Denan’s head came up. “I know you can.” He ordered one of his pages to find Kyden and bring him to their hometree. Then he pointed to Atara and West. “Requisition a boat and stay with Larkin. I’ll get these sentinels to see me home.”
“We can take my boat.” Harben pointed to a craft about fifty yards. It had a single mast with the sail tied incorrectly. “It’s small. Fast.”
“I’ll ready it.” Atara took off at a jog, Harben right behind her.
“Wait!” came a cry from behind them.
Larkin turned to see Caelia hustling toward them. The guards stepped before her, blocking her way.
“What does she want?” Denan asked.
“I don’t know,” Larkin said.
“I want to go with Nesha!” Caelia said breathlessly. “I want to meet my nephew.”
Those closest to the woman stopped talking to watch.
Nesha whirled on Larkin. “No.”
Inwardly, Larkin groaned. She didn’t need anything more to deal with right now.
“Please, Nesha,” Caelia begged. “He’s all I have left of Bane.”
Nesha frowned at the woman before finally nodding. Denan motioned for the guard to let her pass. Caelia rushed toward them. Atara and West graciously moved out of earshot and motioned for the sentinels to do the same.
Panting, Caelia stopped before them, her gaze on Nesha. “Please, I just want to be part of his life.”
Nesha studied the woman. “I’ll think about it.” With a glare at Larkin, Nesha stormed toward their boat.
“If she goes back to him,” Caelia said under her breath, “I want that boy.”
Wraith King Page 18
