“Healing tree!” Tam said.
She held her hand out for him to be silent.
Tam wasn’t the queen here. Larkin was. She dug her oar in. If she went to Denan, she could rework his weir. Alorica would likely die. But if she went to Alorica first and secured her, his weir would hold long enough for Larkin to reach him. She could save them both.
“The healing tree,” she agreed.
“I don’t understand,” West said. “Why can’t the other enchantresses fix his weir?”
“It’s men’s magic,” Atara answered. “Larkin’s the only one who can wield it.”
And then only because she could manipulate the magic with her hands. The enchanters had been trying for months to create a melody that would form a weir. So far, they’d failed.
West took his place beside her and furiously paddled. “Why bother removing his weir? Why not just kill him?”
“Because they know that if Denan is a mulgar,” Larkin said, “I’ll do whatever the wraiths want to save him.”
Mercy
The boat carrying Larkin, Atara, Tam, West, and the four enchantresses cut through the water, the wind steady at their backs. Behind them trailed more than a dozen boats—at Larkin’s call, soldiers and enchantresses had left their hometrees to pile into boats or run along the bridges.
There had to be over a hundred now.
The wraiths clearly meant to use Denan to get to Larkin. But then, why was Sela sick as well? She’d never been cut with a cursed blade. Never borne a weir. Perhaps her sister really was sick, but Larkin couldn’t afford to believe that. But whatever the wraiths had done to her, it didn’t have anything to do with weirs or Alorica. That much Larkin was fairly certain of.
The healing tree came into view. The only movement Larkin caught sight of was the gentle bob of the boats tied to the dock.
“Where is everyone?” Atara asked from beside her.
Grabbing the gunwales for support, Larkin stood to get a better look and saw what, at first glance, appeared to be piles of discarded clothes along the docks and on the stairs. But Larkin had seen enough battles to know what a crumpled body looked like. They lay in pools of blood, the dappled light reflecting off the damp bark, where the ardents would have emerged. In this heat, any water on the bark would have dried in minutes.
“What do you see?” Tam asked.
“Bodies. The roots are still damp. We might not be too late.” She turned to look behind them. She couldn’t see any of the runners. The boats she could see were too far back. “We’re on our own.”
Tam bared his teeth, his expression fierce.
“Larkin,” West whispered. “You and I will stay back.”
“The forest take you,” Larkin shot back.
He glared at her. “Eight of us against fifteen ardents. We don’t stand a chance. And I will not let you die.”
She glared right back. “Try and stop me.”
He couldn’t, and they both knew it. He growled in frustration.
Atara reached out and gave a hard tug of his mustache. “She’s not a child. Stop treating her like one.”
He pointed a shaking finger in Atara’s direction. “Don’t ever touch my mustache again.”
“I’ll pulse you and your mustache right out of this boat,” she shot back.
“Stop it, both of you.” Larkin sigils flared hot and bright. “I know you’re exhausted and stressed beyond reason. But you will hold it together until we have finished our task. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the chorused reply.
She sat back on the bench. The docks loomed before them, but Tam had yet to lower the sail.
“We’re coming in fast,” Tam said. “When I tell you, backpaddle. Just before we hit, drop to the bottom of the boat.”
This is a bad idea. The dock grew closer and closer still. Larkin gripped the gunwale and her seat, her fingers bloodless.
“Tam,” she said warningly. It wouldn’t do them any good to arrive fast if they were all dead or injured.
“Trust me,” Tam said. “I grew up on boats.”
They were close enough now that Larkin could count the splinters in the boards. Sweat ran down her temple. She held her oar at the ready.
“Pull the sail!” West dug his oar in.
“Not yet,” Tam said, his eyes narrowed.
Light. He was going to kill them.
“Not yet,” Tam murmured. “Not yet. Now!”
Everyone dug their oars in, water sloshing, the boat slowing. They frantically backpaddled.
“Down!” Tam shouted.
Larkin hit the bottom of the boat and covered her head. The boat shuddered violently as they slammed into the dock before sliding partly on top of it. Their wake sloshed over the boards and poured into another boat. The water receded, dragging them back.
With a running leap, Tam landed on the dock without a pause in his stride. Larkin grabbed a piling and held on as the boat slid out from under her. She pulled herself up, lost her balance in the rushing water, and went down to one knee. The boat slammed down, one of the enchantresses falling overboard, another reaching to fish her out.
Tam was getting too far ahead. Fighting a sudden wave of dizziness, Larkin sloshed after him.
“Come on!” She finally cleared the wave and took off at a run. Two dozen paces in, she found the first body. It was Karaken, the cleric who was blind to anything beyond arm’s length. She never would have seen the mulgars coming. Her blood was still glistening, so she hadn’t been dead long.
Atara and two other enchantresses caught up to Larkin on the sloping roots. Tam was already in the carriage, his hand on the lever.
“Wait!” She was too out of breath to say more. He needed them if he had any hope of fighting off the ardents.
“Curse you, Tam!” Atara cried.
West sprinted past Larkin. “If you want her to live, wait!”
Tam bared his teeth, but he held off. Larkin and the others piled into the carriage. She didn’t miss that the floorboards were soaked with water, just like the dock and tree roots had been. The ardents had come this way.
Tam pulled the lever, and they ascended far too slowly. But Larkin welcomed the chance to catch their breath—no point in starting a fight already winded. She watched the main branch come closer. The silence above was near deafening.
And then a woman screamed. Closer, and the sounds of battle reached them—the ring of clashing blades, the hack of sword to shield, and the grunts and shouts of soldiers. A beat later came cries of panic—the patients?
Larkin flared her magic, the comforting pain buzzing through her body. The weight of her blade and her shield was a relief.
Below, the first of the following boats slid into the docks. No sign of the runners on the bridges. Either they’d make it in time to help, or they wouldn’t.
“Larkin,” West pleaded, clearly wanting her to stay behind.
“This is for Denan.” Larkin would do anything—risk anything—to protect her husband.
The carriage crested the intersection between branches and tree. Larkin jumped back from the frenzied eyes of healer.
Her eyes locked on them. “Help me.”
Her bowels lay in a puddle beside her along with far too much blood. There was no saving her. They couldn’t spare anyone to stay with her. Larkin reached through the bars and stroked her hair. “I’ll send someone back for you.”
Fifty yards away, a pitched battle was taking place on the pathway before Alorica’s room. Five men held off fifteen ardents, but only because there was only room for one or two fighters on the pathways. And the men . . . they were druids.
“What are they doing here?” Atara said, her eyes narrowed.
“Whatever the reason,” West said, “they’re the only thing keeping Alorica alive.”
Anticipation of the coming fight thrilled through Larkin’s veins. She ached for it. Ached to make something pay.
The guards repositioned their weapons and shields. B
efore the carriage had stopped its ascent, Tam shoved the doors open and shot out. Larkin ran after him, West and the others on her heels. Along the way, she caught sight of an orderly crouched on a side corridor.
“There’s a woman by the carriage.” Larkin pointed back the way they’d come. “Help her.”
Tam reached the rear of the ardents first. He cut down two in quick succession. The third turned and met him blow by blow. Larkin tried to push forward, to assist. But the way he was fighting, there was only room for one fighter at a time, and West firmly inserted himself between her and Tam.
One of the druids went down with a cry. This close, she could see the exhaustion in their movements. They wouldn’t hold long. The magic panes to Alorica’s room had all been turned impassible, but the supports were vulnerable.
Larkin had to find another way to the room. Had to save Alorica. Save Denan. Maybe Sela too.
“Larkin!” someone called from above.
Larkin leaned over the railing.
On the third level, right above Alorica’s room, Magalia waved at them. “Help me!” The healer had a rope already tied to the railing. It dangled at the back of Alorica’s room. Magalia clearly intended to haul Alorica to safety.
“West, with me,” Larkin said. “The rest of you break through.” She pivoted and took off at a run.
“Larkin!” Tam cried. She glanced over her shoulder. He tried to disengage from the ardent he was fighting. The thing nearly sliced his head off.
“I’ll get her, Tam,” Larkin said.
He turned back to the fight with a roar. Larkin took the walkway back and climbed the stairs two at a time, until she reached the third level. She sprinted toward Magalia, who knelt next to a man and held a bloody cloth to his chest.
When Larkin was two running steps away, he turned his face toward her. Through the blight clawing its way up his cheeks and spidering across his forehead, she recognized his face.
It was Garrot.
In an instant, the night Denan was cut by the wraiths came back to her in perfect detail. She had taken the magic of six enchantresses and woven Denan’s weir. Then Garrot had come up behind her, black corruption starting up his neck. And for her kingdom—for the alliance they had to make—she had saved him. She’d taken the enchantresses’ magic for the second time, using it to weave a weir for Garrot.
If Garrot’s weir was failing, so was Denan’s.
Her legs gave out from under her. She went down without a sound, falling heavily. Pain rushed from her knees, but it was nothing compared to the ravaging blackness threatening to tear her apart.
“Larkin?” West crouched beside her.
“I was wrong.” Magalia shook her head over and over, her unflappable calm lost. “It wasn’t sickness. The corruption leaked through the weirs and made them ill.”
I am a fool. In her hubris, Larkin had thought she could save Alorica and Denan both. She should have split her group in half. Let Tam save his wife, as she saved her husband.
But Alorica was already dead. And now something far worse than death was coming for Denan.
“The weir is still slowing the spread.” Tears ran down Magalia’s face. “I can still save him.”
Magalia had saved Garrot’s life as a child. They’d grown up knowing each other. Had been engaged at one time. And then Magalia had been stolen by the pipers of the Forbidden Forest, and Garrot had set his sights on the Black Druids.
And then Magalia’s words penetrated Larkin’s grief. If the weir was still intact, Alorica wasn’t dead.
“Help me,” Magalia begged.
With the curse already touching his eyes, Garrot was too far gone to help. But Denan . . . his blight wasn’t nearly as advanced as Garrot’s. There was still time. Larkin gasped in a breath, her strength returning with her purpose.
Garrot’s fever-bright eyes met hers. She’d seen the afflicted writhing in agony, but he only seized rhythmically, his eyes strangely calm.
“Tell her I’m sorry,” Garrot said in a voice choked with pain.
He clearly meant her sister. He knew there was no coming back from this. All the times Larkin had wanted him dead, and now all she could feel was pity. She nodded. West helped her to her feet. Only two druids left below. Larkin needed to hurry.
“Kill him,” she whispered to West. Guilt twisted inside her, but death was a kindness compared to what was coming for him. She pushed her feelings aside and grabbed the rope.
“I’ll go instead,” West said at the same time Magalia said, “Larkin, you have to save him.”
“We need your muscle to haul Alorica up,” Larkin said to West, ignoring Magalia altogether. She swung her leg over the rail.
“Larkin—” West reached for her.
Directly beneath her, two dripping ardents—a male and a female—pulled themselves up the branch that led to the back of Alorica’s room. They each took an ax from inside their cloaks and hacked at the supports between magic panes.
There wasn’t time to argue.
Larkin flared her shield, placed it under her feet, and dropped. She slammed into the male first. Bones crunched. She fell forward and rolled, her shoulder wrenching. She bit off a cry of pain.
The male ardent’s arm hung at an impossible angle. Still, he pushed sloppily to his feet and grabbed her legs. The cloaked female battered through the supports—not nearly as thick as the ones at Larkin’s hometree—and ducked inside. Alorica was waiting for her and pulsed the ardent across the room and hobbled toward her, sword raised.
“Larkin!” West made to jump over the rail. “Behind you!”
“Stay there!” Larkin turned to find the ardent right behind her. She kicked him. He staggered back. She charged and lopped off his head. Turning, she rushed into Alorica’s room. The female ardent stood with her back to Larkin. Alorica was against the wall, her sword pinned to the pane. The ardent drew back her blade. Larkin had no choice. She pulsed, slamming Alorica and her assailant into the wall.
Larkin charged, driving her sword toward the ardent, who reared up, sword blocking. Larkin’s blade slammed into the pane. The ardent looked at her. Tangled black hair and brilliant blue eyes framed her pale face.
Maisy.
It all made a twisted kind of sense. Maisy had always been in the periphery of Larkin’s life. Manipulating and twisting and prodding and hinting. She was the final assassin. The reason Denan’s weir had failed.
Larkin could have killed Maisy at Druids’ Folly. Instead, she’d let her go. Out of a sense of friendship. Or maybe pity. But mostly because she’d believed Maisy was still in there, buried deep beneath the shadows that tainted her blood.
Because of that mercy, Denan’s life was now at risk.
From the floor, Alorica dragged herself away.
“Maisy,” Larkin breathed, an accusation and a plea both. She had known Maisy was a part of this. She had tried to pretend otherwise, but deep down, she had known. She blinked back stinging tears of betrayal. “Why?”
“You never listen.” Maisy twisted to the side and drove her shoulder into Larkin, catching her off guard. Larkin stumbled back. Maisy darted toward the door. Larkin lunged, her sword aimed for Maisy’s middle. She dodged at the last second. The blade sank into her shoulder. Black blood sheeted. And then she slipped out of the room.
Larkin longed to chase her, but her priority had to be getting Alorica out. Then she could go back for Denan. Rework his weir.
“Come on.” Larkin motioned for Alorica to follow as best she could. Her shield flared, Larkin peeked between broken supports. Maisy was nowhere to be seen. Larkin edged out and peered over the branches in time to see large ripples in the lake.
Maisy had jumped. She didn’t resurface. Not that Larkin expected her to.
She turned, but Alorica was nowhere in sight.
West dropped down from the rope. If he was angry with Larkin before, he was furious now. “I told you to wait!”
Larkin’s four enchantresses and the druids spilled through A
lorica’s room and out the ruined side, their eyes scanning for any other ardents. Alorica must have opened the doorpane.
“You all right?” Atara asked.
Not bothering to answer, Larkin pushed back inside. Tam gently settled Alorica onto the bed. Her teeth were locked, her face a grimace, but she didn’t appear to be bleeding.
“You were late,” Alorica said.
Larkin grunted. If Alorica could throw out insults, she’d live.
Larkin rushed outside and paused to gauge the wind. It blew in the wrong direction. The bridges would be faster. She took off at a run.
“Let’s go!” West motioned for the enchantresses to follow him.
Atara and the other enchantresses hurried to catch up as Larkin leaped over bodies of druids and ardents, then slowed her pace to a ground-eating jog.
At the archway, the woman whose bowels had been cut was gone. Instead, two druids carried a stretcher. On it, Garrot was bound and gagged. He strained against his bonds, the tendons at his neck standing out in stark relief, his eyes solid black. The men were obviously taking him back to their barracks. Fools.
Where was Magalia?
He deserved this and so much worse. And yet, as she passed them, she felt such a burst of pity. “Killing him would be a mercy.”
Not-Garrot stilled, his gaze following her. Through those eyes, the wraiths watched her. She shuddered.
“He’s the Master Druid,” one of the men said.
“Not anymore.” She pushed past them and ran.
Denan
Through the web of bridges, Larkin, Atara, West, and the two remaining enchantresses ran. Larkin’s head pounded, and nausea crowded her throat.
West’s long legs quickly outpaced her, his mustache streaming behind him. He motioned at anyone in their path to make way. Larkin formed a knife in her hand and cut her armor free. She threw the dead weight aside, her gaze fixed on her hometree. The sound of enchanter music floated from the within.
She ignored the scream of protest from her legs. The taste of blood in her mouth. She raced death, both closing in on Denan.
And she had to get there first.
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