Had someone told Larkin that before? She couldn’t remember. She touched the dome in awe—it was so much more intricate than the one she’d managed. It rippled, the shapes gleaming into view around the pressure of her fingertips. And then they warped.
Hagath jerked Larkin’s hand away. “Ancestors! You’re a weaver!”
Cracks spread from where her fingertips had touched. “I broke it?”
“If you broke it, you can fix it.” Hagath took Larkin’s hand and gently maneuvered her fingers. With Hagath guiding her, she tugged the threads in the weave back into place.
“See?” Hagath said. “A weaver.”
Larkin glanced at her fingertips and then back at Hagath. “I thought it was just because, as queen, I’m stronger than the other enchantresses.”
Hagath shook her head. “Very few enchantresses can do what you did. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised. The trait runs in families.”
That could only mean . . . “Eiryss?”
Hagath nodded, slipped into the water past her chest, and scrubbed the blood from her body, revealing her gorgeous sigils in lovely floral patterns—lovely but for the darkness emanating from them. They seemed to come in pairs: two on her forearms, two on her thighs, two on her calves.
But that beauty was marred by the thick, horrible scars. Slipping off her boots, Larkin stepped into the water, hardly noticing the cool wetness against her sticky skin. The silver-scaled fish swarmed them both, cleaning Larkin’s armor as they went. They tickled where they touched her bare skin.
Larkin gently took hold of Hagath’s arm. The woman tensed and then allowed Larkin a closer look. The scars were even worse than she’d originally thought. As if someone had tried tearing her sigils out.
That’s exactly what happened, Larkin realized. Horror rippled through her. To rip the sigils from her own body . . . The pain and loss would have been unbearable. Who would have done such a thing?
Hagath pulled her arm back, her expression rigid.
“Why didn’t the Black Tree heal the scars?” Larkin asked gently.
Hagath wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Because he wanted me to suffer.”
“He’s punishing you.” Larkin’s hands reflexively covered her own sigils, glad they were of the White Tree. “Why?”
“Because we tried to stop him.”
Larkin had seen Eiryss and her husband, King Dray, fight back the shadows.
Hagath’s gaze narrowed on Larkin’s wrist. “You have a new thorn.”
Larkin resisted the urge to cover the red, swollen mark. “We can cut it out.” It wouldn’t hurt as much as Hagath’s, as it hadn’t rooted.
Hagath seemed not to have heard her. “He made me take all new sigils, yet he only gave you one. Why?”
Larkin formed a dagger, took a deep breath, and pressed the point to her skin.
Hagath laid a hand on her wrist. “Wait until Ramass says you should.”
Larkin hesitated; she didn’t want anything from the Black Tree inside her. But Hagath knew more about these things than she did.
Hagath swam to the edge and climbed out. “I’ll be back.”
While she was gone, Larkin pulled up her own tuft of moss—the texture was rough and firm—and scrubbed the blood from her armor before spreading it on the roots to dry.
She stripped off her now-ripped clothing and eagerly scrubbed the black blood from her pale, freckled skin. Skin nearly identical in color and freckles to Hagath’s. The woman could easily be mistaken for one of her sisters.
The fish swarmed her, their tickling nearly driving her mad until she pulsed gently, which scattered them.
Fully dressed, her hair simply braided, Hagath returned with some simple, cream-colored garments neatly folded. Stepping out, Larkin dried herself with a bit of cloth Hagath gave her and dressed in a loose-fitting, knee-length tunic. Hagath handed her a belt made of gilgad skin, which gave the garment a little shape. The fabric was soft, breathable, and easy to move in.
Hagath wrung her hands as she looked Larkin over. “It’s not much, but the weave is tight. I wish I could have dyed the fabric deep green. That’s my favorite color on you.”
Larkin looked up in surprise. “You made this for me?”
Hagath bit her lip and nodded.
Even Hagath figured the Black Tree would catch me eventually, Larkin thought dejectedly. “Clearly woven by an expert. Thank you.”
Hagath suddenly hugged her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it’s been so long since I’ve spoken to another woman. You don’t realize how much you need women in your life until they’re gone.”
Larkin wrapped her arms around Hagath and held her as she cried.
Finally, Hagath pulled back and wiped her face. “I apologize.”
“Don’t.” Not for being lonely.
“I shouldn’t complain. I have Ture, after all.”
Larkin’s brows furrowed. “Not Ramass?” Hagath’s own brother.
Hagath hesitated. “After Ramass lost Eiryss . . . it was like he wasn’t there anymore. A ghost rather than a man.” She met Larkin’s gaze. “All that changed after we found you. You gave him hope. You gave us all hope.”
Except for Ture, apparently. Larkin still couldn’t get over the fact that the wraiths were people every bit as broken by the curse as everyone else. Perhaps even more so. And they were desperate for Larkin to save them. She didn’t even know how to begin.
Hagath played a tune that reminded Larkin of a clear stream tinkling down round rocks, with a bit of waterfall thrown in. The dome dissipated like mist melting before the morning sun.
Outside was moments from dawn. A clutch of gilgads ten feet long were aimed right for them. Heart catching in her throat, Larkin took a step back.
“Our blood attracted them.” Hagath lifted her pipes to her lips and played a tune that had the lizards ducking out of sight beneath the water.
From one of the hometrees, an enormous bird with a purple shimmer to its black wings dove beakfirst into the water and came up with a four-foot-long gilgad speared through the side. It writhed but didn’t break free. The bird landed in a tree, pinned it with the talons of one clawed foot, and started eating.
Swallowing hard, Larkin looked around at the fen. While it was beautiful in its own way, it seemed a violent, dangerous place.
“It used to look like the Alamant, but things changed after,” Hagath said. “He needed a pathway for his shadows to leave the city, so he built a fen.” Hagath’s gaze went distant, as if she were seeing another time and place. “I wish you could have seen it before. The magic and the beauty.” The light faded from her eyes. “But for all the beauty, there was equal ugliness.”
Valynthia, the fallen city. It was every bit as beautiful as the Alamant. It shouldn’t be. The trees should be twisted, dead things. The waters polluted and stinking. A silent, empty place.
Nothing was how it should be.
“How am I more dangerous than all the Black Tree’s mulgars?”
“Doesn’t matter how.” Behind them, Ture wore the same shapeless tunic. “What matters is he’s going to use you to destroy mankind.”
Twin beats of dread and guilt drummed through her. He was right, she knew he was.
“There’s still hope,” Hagath insisted.
“She should have stayed in the Alamant,” Ture said.
A fat tear skimmed Larkin’s cheek. She quickly wiped it away.
Hagath shot Ture another glare.
He ignored her. “The little one—the new Arbor—she shielded them?”
“Sela,” Hagath confirmed.
Light! The realization hit Larkin all at once: her five-year-old sister was in the Forbidden Forest. She must have been in the trees when Denan had lured Larkin to the edge of the water. Had Sela seen Larkin try to kill her own husband? She would have succeeded if Sela hadn’t shielded him. And if Larkin’s wraith-self got a chance, she’d kill Sela too. Light help me.
Ture huffed in disbelief. “The fools took their strongest weapons stra
ight into danger. What could they possibly be thinking?”
Denan’s words echoed in Larkin’s head. I will always come for you. The phrase that had felt like a threat at first had turned into an endearment. Now, it was a mixture of both. “They’re coming here. To the Black Tree. To kill us.”
“But we can’t die!” Hagath said.
“They don’t know that,” Larkin said. “How many were there?”
“Less than twelve, more than eight,” Ture said.
Who would be fool enough to risk the wraiths in Valynthia? But then she remembered something Denan had told her. The men who had died protecting her hadn’t done so because she deserved it. They’d done it because they’d loved her.
They were risking the forest because of love. Tam would be among them. West too. Alorica, if she were able. Atara. Gendrin. Mytin and Aaryn were too important to abandon their posts. Mama and Nesha weren’t fighters. She couldn’t think of anyone else willing to risk death or worse for her.
“But the source of Sela’s magic is dead,” Larkin lamented.
“And at night, the shadows will attack,” Hagath said. “The Mulgar Forest won’t protect them like the Forbidden Forest did.”
“That little girl made an orb that burned a fist-sized hole in Vicil,” Ture said. “If she can do that, she can keep the shadows off them tonight.”
“And can she keep us off them?” Larkin asked, dread making her stomach churn.
Ture didn’t answer, which she supposed was answer enough.
Larkin held her head in her hands. Tam, Denan, Sela, and the rest were all walking into a trap. Had the Black Tree known they would? “All of it—all I sacrificed—was for nothing.” Her life, her freedom, her humanity.
Hagath rested her hand on Larkin’s arm. “No. Not nothing. The mulgars and ardents are whole. Denan is whole.”
For now.
“Did the Black Tree know they would come for me?” Larkin asked. “Was that why it brought me here?”
“All we know for certain,” Hagath said, “was that Eiryss claimed one of her line would break the curse. Sela already broke half of it.” The part that took the magic and the memories. “You must be meant to break the other half.”
Larkin didn’t know how to break anything. “My friends are coming here. They’re going to die.”
On the horizon, the sun broke the last holds of night. In that same instant came a tearing sound. Suddenly chilled, Larkin shivered and glanced down. Creeping over her feet, the shadows gathered into a knotted mass not ten feet from Larkin. Shadows that rolled and boiled and twisted.
Thorns dragged a naked Ramass from within, dumping him in a heap. He was split from shoulder to hip, the wound raw and pulsing black blood that pooled around his body.
Larkin swore and hurried to his side. Hagath beat her there, pushing his shoulder back into place. Larkin leaned over and retched again, managing to get up nothing but bile. She hadn’t eaten in what? Two days? Yet she didn’t feel hungry or thirsty.
Wiping her lips, she staggered back, coming to a stop beside Ture. How many times had they died horribly, only to be brought back to life? How many times had the voices in their heads forced him to kill—were any of those their friends? How must it feel to have every person within the last three hundred years think you a monster?
The endless hopelessness carved a hole through her. “How do you not go mad?” She felt on the precipice of it herself.
Ture’s eyes clouded with so many memories. “We have, at times.” His gaze rested on his wife with a tenderness that shook Larkin.
Ramass reared up and sucked in a desperate breath. His hand wrapped around his shoulder. He rolled over, coughing and convulsing. The wicked scar faded to white and then nothing at all.
“They survived the night,” Ramass panted.
Larkin sagged in relief.
Hagath bent over him. “The Black Tree gave her one thorn. Should she try to remove it?”
Ramass swore.
“The last thing she needs is more magic to murder all humanity,” Ture muttered.
Larkin choked back tears and flared her knife. “I’ll cut it out.”
Ramass got to his feet. “Not yet.”
Eiryss
The sun sneaked up the horizon like an egg yolk on a crooked pan. Larkin knelt on the roots and scrubbed her trousers, boots, and tattered shirt; the blood stains would never fully come out. She’d just laid them out to dry with her armor when Ramass appeared behind her.
Freshly bathed and dressed in the same simple smock as the rest of them, he looked none the worse for wear. In fact, with his muscular build, angular features, and full lips, he was devilishly handsome.
“Come with me.”
Larkin pulled on her boots and hurried after him. He led her beyond the roots and up the sweeping steps. At the top was another small building of rough lumber. Through the glassless window, Larkin made out beds, woven baskets filled with clothing, and a loom. That must be where Hagath made their clothing.
At the carriage, Ramass shut the door behind them and pulled the lever. A clever system of gears and counterweights churned into action. They eased up the side of the tree, the lake growing smaller and the boughs larger.
Without the Alamant’s regular structure of platforms and their magical panes, Valynthia looked wilder. The way it would have looked before the first man and woman discovered the font and its magic. Before it had been forced to know evil. To commit it.
Such a beautiful, terrible place.
The carriage reached its apex. Ramass unlatched the gate and stepped out onto a level branch. She didn’t follow him. She couldn’t. Because after all he’d been through, she’d been his hope. A false hope. “I can’t break the curse, Ramass.”
“The song—”
“Eiryss’s tomb was empty. Wherever they buried her is lost to time, and the amulet lost with it.”
His eyes grew distant. “I attended the funeral of a man dearer to me than my own father. We all swore he would never be forgotten. Now, anyone who remembers anyone who knew him is dead. He has been forgotten. We are all forgotten.”
He let out a long breath. “So much is lost to the ravages of time. People have a way of warping history. Of forgetting the most important things. But the curse has given us one advantage: I remember everything.”
He turned without seeing if she would follow. She hesitated. Did he mean that he remembered where Eiryss was buried? Then why didn’t he fetch the amulet himself? Eventually, the thought of Sela, Denan, and Tam drove her forward.
Muttering curses, she scrambled to catch up. Inside the main platform, they started up one of the side branches. Within minutes, sweat streaked down Larkin’s body, soaking her tunic.
Five minutes later, Ramass left the branch, leaping to another. Larkin looked down at the long drop, her heart clogging her throat. It’s not as if I can die. But she suspected it would hurt bad enough she’d wish she were dead.
She backed up and took a running jump. She hit the other side, arms windmilling. She made the mistake of looking down, so far down she couldn’t see the waves on the water. This is going to hurt.
A hand grabbed her arm and righted her.
“Sorry,” Ramass said. “I didn’t think about how much shorter you are.”
The insult she wanted to shout came second to gasping for breath.
“It’s gotten harder since the bridges rotted.” Ramass glanced at the sun and frowned. “We’ll go the longer way.” He hustled off.
She was breathing hard when she caught sight of something between the boughs above them. Flashes of a bright, honey gold. A sudden, sharp pain shot through her foot. She yelped and jumped back.
A thorn had gone straight through the sole of her boot and broken off inside. Wincing, she yanked it out, sidestepped, and nearly impaled herself on another. She swore. From here on out, thorns grew thick. Some short and needle thin. Others curved and long as her thumb.
“What is that?” she asked.
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“The tree’s attempts at keeping me out.”
She divided her attention between the thorns and the bit of gold visible between thorny vines. Then they stepped between an archway carved of wood. Lying on a natural platform was a casket made of amber. Inside lay a woman, a pearl-encrusted blanket tucked under her clasped hands.
Larkin had seen this before in a vision. She hurried forward and peered down. “No,” she gasped. It couldn’t be.
She polished the surface of the casket with her sleeve. She recognized the delicate features, the full lips—the top lip rounded and bigger than the bottom—and the pale hair—gold shot through with silver.
This was Eiryss. And judging by the slight rise and fall of her chest, she was very much alive. “She— She can’t be . . .” She needed someone else to say it. Someone to confirm that she wasn’t going mad.
“She is.”
“She lived to be an old woman. I saw it in a vision.” And it had been well documented that Eiryss had ruled the Idelmarch well into old age. She’d had several children as well—one of them Larkin’s ancestor. Yet this Eiryss was young, no older than Larkin.
“Passage through the shadows healed her aging body just as it healed our injuries.”
Larkin gaped at him. “You captured her like you captured me?”
“She came to me.” At her incredulous look, he continued, “By then, she knew if she had any chance of defeating the curse, it was here.”
Eiryss had willingly gone with the wraiths. Traveled the memories of murders and worse. Just like Larkin had. She stared at the woman in disbelief. She’d never thought to find the legendary Curse Queen, let alone see her alive. “How long has she been like this?”
Ramass laid a hand on her coffin. “Too long.”
“How did she end up in here?”
He swallowed hard. “The amber grew around her in her sleep. Every morning, it became harder and harder for her magic to break her free. Until she knew it would be her last day. She dressed in her old finery—the stuff from before the curse. We spent the day together, dancing and laughing and holding each other. And when I returned in the morning, I found her like this.”
The grief and longing on his face tore at Larkin’s heart. A cursed queen, her lover lost. “You’re in love with her.”
Wraith King Page 33
