Wraith King

by Argyle, Amber

  Denan started toward the doorpane and called over his shoulder, “Make sure they’re safe.”

  Her family. It pleased her that he knew she was up to the task.

  “West and Maylah are just outside the door.” He stepped through the doorpane.

  Inside the bathroom, Sela sat in the corner, holding a sleeping Brenna.

  “You’re covered in blood. Get in the shower,” Mama ordered.

  Larkin tugged her tunic over her head. The cut on her arm burned at the movement. The bandage was bloody. She stepped under the faucet and opened the spigot. A stream of cool water hit her in the face. She gasped and leaned into it, letting it spread over every inch of her.

  From outside the room came the sound of a bucket being upended and someone scrubbing. Good. Larkin didn’t want Sela or Mama to have to see that carnage again.

  Mama stepped in and shut the water off. “We’ll all be wanting baths,” she said by way of explanation.

  Larkin soaped up a woven horsehair pad and scoured her feet. “What happened?”

  Mama shook her head, as if she still couldn’t believe it. “I woke to bright light. That thing was standing over Sela. She built a lightning ball and threw it at him—”

  “It’s called an orb,” Sela supplied.

  “It hit him and shredded his legs. Burned him to the bone.” Mama shuddered and knelt beside Larkin. “He got up and came at us like he didn’t even feel it.” She brushed the tears from her face with the back of her wrist. “Sela wove an arch of light around us. He couldn’t cross it. She kept us safe long enough for Denan to come and finish it off.”

  “It’s a dome,” Sela said.

  “What is?” Mama asked.

  “The arch of light,” Sela said. “It’s a dome.”

  Larkin had seen those domes of light in her visions of the day the curse came into being, had made a modified one when she’d created Denan’s weir. Sela had used ancient magic. A lot of it. “How damaged is the White Tree?”

  “It had to be done.” Sela blinked hard, and suddenly her eyes were emerald again. She looked around in confusion, and then that confusion cleared. She set the sleeping baby on the floor and stood. “I’m supposed to bathe now too.”

  What exactly was going on with her sister?

  “Will you get us some clothes, Larkin?” Mama asked.

  While Sela showered, Larkin toweled off, dressed, and stepped into the main room. The mess was gone, and the room smelled of sharp soap, though the stains remained. Maybe they’d never go completely away.

  Larkin crossed the room and risked lowering a panel. Beyond, the White Tree gleamed moon-bright. Purple waves crashed against the base—purple because of the algae that glowed when disturbed. Rainbows of light pulsed in the lake. The Alamant was always full of color, even at night.

  Would all that color go forever dark when the White Tree died?

  She turned the panel opaque, grabbed some clothes for Mama and Sela, and went back to the bathroom. Pale and shivering, Sela stood outside the shower, a towel around her.

  Larkin set the clothes down on the floor. “The room has been cleaned. I didn’t see any damage to the White Tree.” Which didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  Mama nodded in relief and turned off the water.

  Larkin studied Sela’s eyes. Still their lovely green. She must have imagined the change before. “Sela, ask the White Tree if we could defeat the wraiths with ancient magic.”

  Sela looked inward and shook her head. “Maybe once. Not anymore.”

  The White Tree had been forever weakened when the ancient Curse Queen, Eiryss, had used up most of its magic to create a countercurse. Her actions were the only reason mankind had survived for the last three centuries.

  But Larkin had seen what Sela had done to that ardent. If they could use it on the wraiths . . . “The orb and the dome—could you teach me?”

  “It’s barrier magic.” Men’s magic. Sela rested her head against the panel as if it were too heavy for her to hold up. “And their magic isn’t strong enough. Not anymore.”

  “If it’s men’s magic, why can you use it?” Larkin said.

  “Because I am not a woman.”

  Then what are you? The hairs on Larkin’s body rose.

  Dressed in a clean shirt and skirt, Mama bent and touched Sela’s face. “She’s fevering.”

  Larkin sighed in relief. That explained Sela’s strangeness.

  “Probably from the stress.” Mama tugged a simple dress over Sela’s head. “I’m going to wrap her up and ring Unger for some feverfew tea. Bring Brenna.”

  At the mention of their butler, the events of the day slammed into Larkin all over again. She picked up her baby sister, glad she’d slept through all this, and followed Mama into the main room. “Unger is the one who tried to murder Alorica.”

  Mama laid Sela on the main bed. “What?”

  Sela stared blankly at Larkin.

  “He’s dead,” Larkin whispered. Light, I killed him. Even killing monsters exacted a payment from her heart.

  Mama shook her head. “But he seemed so normal.”

  Larkin had dismissed him as a quiet man. A solitary one. He’d been with them for months. Held her sisters. Played his pipes for Larkin when she was hurt. She’d never have guessed the wraiths controlled him.

  She jumped when Denan barged into the room with the chest containing her armor.

  “What is it?” Larkin didn’t want to know, but not knowing was worse. “Is it Alorica?”

  He set down the chest, flipped open the lid, and handed Larkin’s armored skirt to her. “It’s Iniya. She’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  Healing Tree

  Larkin and Denan hustled through the network of bridges that connected the hometrees on their way to the healing tree. Two guards cleared the way before them, two more bringing up the rear. Four of Denan’s young pages trailed behind, ready to deliver his orders.

  Denan’s eyes never stopped searching for an enemy. “I still think we should have taken the boats.”

  They’d been over this. It would have been easier to shield them from a boat, but with the contrary wind, it would have taken them twice as long. Larkin glanced over her shoulder at the guards following them. “You tested them?”

  Denan tugged up his tunic to reveal a scratch on his arm. “Every last one of them bled red.”

  “Clever man.” Larkin breathed a little easier knowing Mama and her sisters were safe. Her cut arm throbbed to the beat of her heart. It was swollen, the stitches divoting the skin.

  He pulled down his sleeve, but not before she noted the veins in his arms standing out. His skin was flushed. And though the day was hot, he shivered.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Just tweaked my side during the fight,” he said. “It aches.”

  “It hasn’t spread?” she asked breathlessly. He shook his head. She itched to look at it, but not here in front of his men. “Have you taken any pain powder?”

  “Hasn’t been time,” he answered.

  If he wouldn’t take time for himself, she would.

  She searched the trees all around them, trees filled with unsuspecting Alamantians going about their day. “Any one of them could be an ardent.”

  “Which is why I’ve called my council; they’ll be waiting for us in our hometree. We’re going to test every person inside the Alamant.”

  Her eyes widened. “What about planning the invasion of Valynthia?”

  He frowned. “Sela said we have a year. That gives us time to grow our army with Idelmarchians and stockpile our supplies. So for now, this will take priority.”

  She didn’t like it, but the ardents were the more immediate threat.

  At the next intersection, they bore left, and the healing tree came into view. Small platforms like upside-down flowers dotted its boughs from top to bottom, all connected by rows of colonnades enclosed in magic panes. Healers in dusty blue traversed the lengths.

  Market stall
s lined both sides of the bridge—mostly food vendors who serviced those going to and from the hospital, as well as those inside.

  The tantalizing smells coming from them reminded Larkin that she had yet to eat lunch. The owners smiled and bowed to her; she often bought food for her friends when she came to visit. She stopped at one of her favorites, which sold sautéed defin bird and crunchy tubers wrapped in crispy bread.

  Luckily, he had enough prepared for Larkin to buy some for their entire company. They ate as they walked under the archway onto a covered platform. The pages wolfed their food down so fast she wondered if they even tasted it.

  An older woman sat at a desk, a dozen ledger-filled shelves boxing her in. She looked up at them. “And who is it you wish to see?” Her voice warbled with age. She made no move to bow—Karaken was nearly blind to anything beyond arm’s length.

  “I’m here to see Iniya,” Larkin said.

  “Oh, Majesty, forgive me.” She started to push to her feet.

  There was no need for that. Larkin rested a hand on her arm. “Where is she, Karaken?”

  The woman pointed. “Level three, room forty-seven.”

  The guards marched into the colonnade and turned right, Larkin and Denan on their heels. The corridor circled the boughs, rooms branching off on both sides. She would have liked to stop in and check on some of the enchantresses who were still inside—the women whose wounds had been grievous enough that they hadn’t been discharged, though it had been nearly three months since Druids’ Folly.

  It would have to wait for another day.

  As they passed an orderly in gray, Larkin called out, “Would you mind bringing me some pain powder mixed with tea? I’ve a throbbing headache.” Denan would drink every drop.

  “I’d like some too,” Denan said with a look that said he knew exactly what she was doing. He leaned in close. “Retaliation, little bird.”

  She elbowed him playfully. His face went red, and he hunched over. She’d accidentally hit his blight. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

  A chuckle burst from his lips. “You win. I surrender.”

  She choked back a laugh. “I really am sorry.”

  He straightened with a wince and cocked a wink at the orderly. “Might want to get something a little stronger than pain powder.”

  The orderly bowed even lower. “Certainly, Majesty.”

  He waved him away. “I’m joking, man. The pain powder is fine.”

  Taking Larkin’s arm, he led her to room forty-seven. The guards had taken up positions on either side of the doorpane. Denan went in first and immediately set about shifting all the panes to opaque, which cut off the cooling breeze and the sounds of birds above. It would also protect them from bolts.

  Larkin’s father and his new family were already there; this was the first time she’d seen them since her grandfather’s assassination. With blonde hair and brown eyes, Raeneth would be easy for an artist to draw. A round face, two round breasts, a round waist. But her usually flawless skin was marred with worry, her pert mouth turned down in a frown.

  Harben held his son, Kyden, in his arms. The boy had his mother’s roundness and his father’s curly red hair and freckles. Larkin felt a flare of anger toward her half brother. The son her father had always wanted. The child he fussed and cooed over, while Larkin and her sisters had been little better than servants at best and burdens at worst. The same hands that bounced Kyden had hit Larkin more times than she could count.

  Not Kyden’s fault, Larkin reminded herself.

  Iniya lay in the bed, her withered frame looking more shrunken than ever. Had the druids’ coup failed, she would be queen of the Idelmarch now. Larkin would have grown up a princess instead of scraping out her existence from the mud.

  This was her family, but Larkin felt like a stranger among them. Maybe even an enemy. She was glad when Denan finished with the panes and came to stand beside her, his hand finding hers.

  Drawing strength from his presence, Larkin crossed the room and leaned over her grandmother. “Iniya?”

  The woman stirred, her beady eyes locking on Larkin. She reached out with one hand, grasped the front of Larkin’s armor, and pulled her down. “I’m not dying, do you hear me?” Her words were badly slurred, one side of her face drooping like it was made of melted wax. “I’m too close to the throne to give up now.”

  Her strength deserted her, and she lay back, panting.

  Dying? Larkin looked back at Harben. “It wasn’t just another of her attacks?”

  He shook his head. “That healer friend of yours said she will never fully recover. If she lives at all.”

  He had to mean Magalia. Larkin didn’t know how to feel. She hadn’t even known her grandmother existed until a few months ago. And their relationship hadn’t exactly been friendly.

  Iniya waved dismissively at Harben. “A drunkard cannot take my place. I will live until Kyden is ready for the throne.”

  The baby who was sucking his thumb? It would be nearly two decades before he was old enough to be king. But then, he was the only option she would consider. Larkin was already a queen, and Sela an Arbor. As far as Iniya was concerned, Nesha was a traitor.

  Harben ground his teeth. “And you wonder why I started drinking in the first place.”

  She pinned him with a hate-filled glare. “You have never lived up to even the smallest expectation. You were never a warrior or a leader. You couldn’t even manage to be a decent father.”

  Raeneth stepped forward. “And why would that be, hmm? ’Cause he had a harpy of a mother! A woman so vile she drove her own husband to kill himself!” She grabbed Harben by the sleeve and marched him toward the doorpane. “You’ll die alone, old woman. And you’ll deserve it.”

  Larkin swore her children would never face the same discord, no matter what she had to sacrifice to see it done.

  “Denan,” Iniya pleaded. “You’re king now. Make my ascension part of the requirements for the druids’ sigils.”

  Denan only stared at the woman and didn’t answer.

  Larkin knew her husband. He wouldn’t lie to Iniya, even if it would spare her feelings. Wouldn’t promise something he would never deliver. Larkin wanted to protest—what harm was there in letting a dying woman hear what she wanted? But then, Iniya was a wily old bat. She would probably survive this just to spite them. And then where would they be?

  “Larkin promised me I would be queen in exchange for my help.” Tears slipped down Iniya’s cheeks. Larkin pitied the child she’d once been—the child who’d watched her family die, watched everything be stripped from her. But the woman could have made different choices. Could have chosen happiness over hate. Family over the crown.

  Now she would have neither.

  “Are you in pain, Iniya?” Larkin asked gently.

  Iniya fiddled with her blanket. “You will never make it as queen, Larkin. Not without me to guide you.”

  Larkin reared back as Iniya’s words struck one of her deepest fears.

  “She’s already a fine queen,” Denan said.

  Iniya ignored him. “Talk to that healer friend of yours. Make her help me.”

  Here it was again. Someone believing they could cheat death. Could bargain or fight or steal their way out from under its cold grip. But there was no running from death. Not once it had claimed you as its own.

  “Magalia has done all she could for you,” Denan said.

  Iniya’s hateful gaze swung to Denan. “What kind of king—what kind of man—breaks his promise?”

  “If you were queen, what would happen to the druids?” Denan asked.

  For once, Iniya remained silent. But Larkin could see murder in the woman’s eyes.

  Denan must have seen it too. “Better to break a promise than let a despot be queen.”

  “I curse you,” Iniya said, her voice shaking with rage. “The same curse as that of old. All your happy memories will turn to bitterness. Your own magic will turn against you. And everyone you love will come to hate you.”


  Larkin gaped at her grandmother in horror. How could she wish such things upon anyone, especially her own family?

  Denan took hold of Larkin’s arm and steered her out of the room. She stepped into the corridor, reveling at the feel of the breeze against her damp skin.

  She shifted her amulet side to side on its chain. “Is it wrong that I’ll be glad when she’s dead?” she whispered.

  Denan pulled her into his embrace. “If you’re wrong, then so am I.”

  “You don’t think her curse meant anything?”

  “She’s just an angry, bitter old woman.”

  He’s right. Of course he is. Larkin vowed again that she would be nothing like her grandmother.

  Muffled sobs sounded to her right. Her father had only made it a dozen or steps down the corridor before he’d broken down. Raeneth stood beside him, her arm wrapped around him. Oblivious, the baby kicked at the banister.

  Here was another conundrum. Her father had abused her, badly. For years. But it really did seem like he was trying to change. Larkin could hold on to her anger, as her grandmother had. Or she could let it go.

  She looked up at her husband. “Give me a moment.”

  Denan looked from her father back to her. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. He motioned for the guards to hang back. She crossed the corridor toward her father. Raeneth noticed her coming and shot her a warning look. Larkin still didn’t like the woman, but she was fiercely protective of Harben. And she’d risked her life to help Larkin and Iniya on their search for Eiryss’s tomb. That alone made Larkin soften toward her.

  “I’d like to speak with my father alone.”

  Whatever Raeneth saw in Larkin’s eyes made her relax a fraction. She took their son and backed away. Larkin leaned against the banister beside her father. His face was all blotchy from crying—one of the unfortunate traits she’d inherited from him.

  He wiped his cheeks. “If you’ve come to rail against me, don’t.”

  Larkin laced her fingers together. “I’m sorry she said those things.”

  Harben glanced at her in surprise, which was fair. Larkin hadn’t made any effort to see him since she’d returned to the Alamant.

  He looked out over the water. “She wasn’t wrong.”