Wraith King

by Argyle, Amber

  Larkin didn’t want to embrace anyone. She wanted to shout and rage at Nesha. But looking at the joy in Mama’s eyes . . . Larkin refused to take this moment from her. She bent down and wrapped her arms around them both.

  She held the embrace for as long as she could stand before pulling back. “I have to report to Denan.”

  Again, Mama failed to hide her disappointment. A pang of guilt shot through Larkin—Mama had suffered so much already. But Larkin couldn’t stay another minute. Not if she didn’t want to lose her temper.

  “We’re leaving at dawn for the White Tree.” Larkin turned toward the door.

  “I can’t leave Sela.” Mama pushed to her feet.

  Arguments rose in Larkin’s throat—the new butler could tend Sela for a bit—but Mama didn’t really need to go. “All right.”

  “I’ll go,” Nesha said.

  Larkin raised an eyebrow. “You want to attend a funeral?”

  Nesha bit her lip. “I’ve hardly seen any of the Alamant.” Not since Garrot had locked her up. “I want to see the White Tree.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful.” Mama’s hopeful eyes pleaded with Larkin.

  Did Mama think the beauty of the Alamant might convince Nesha to stay? Or was she just trying to make the two of them spend time together? Either way, Larkin couldn’t think of a good reason to deny either of them.

  Larkin sighed. “Fine. I’ll see something suitable brought to you to wear.” Denan had given Larkin enough dresses, and the two of them were of a similar size.

  Larkin took the stairs to her own chambers. Every step felt heavier than the last. Just how angry was he? Steeling herself, she stepped into their room. A page beside him, Denan lay in bed, a portable desk over his legs. He looked as bad as Garrot and Sela, his golden skin ashen, dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks bright with fever.

  If he heard her come in, he didn’t show it. He finished writing something, folded it into a letter, and handed it to the page. The boy took off at an easy jog, bowing as he passed Larkin.

  Denan studied Larkin from head to toe. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head. He sighed in relief. “I’ve sent for Viscott to bring your supper—my pages tell me you didn’t get lunch.”

  That wasn’t all the pages would have told him.

  Larkin unbuckled her armor; her shoulders were sore from the straps.

  “Gendrin and Aaryn have searched most of the Alamant. Twelve ardents were killed. We didn’t lose any of our people. The rest of the hometrees have been cordoned off and will be searched tomorrow.”

  “During the king’s funeral?”

  “The chief constable offered to oversee it—he and his men.”

  Larkin nodded, and a heavy silence descended. When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she said, “Did Farwin tell you everything?” She couldn’t help but feel a little betrayed by the boy.

  “Pretty much. But I’d like to hear your side.”

  She set about cleaning the ardent blood from her armor with a brush, rag, and some oil. As she worked, she told him the story, from when she’d arrived at the academy to when she’d left. By the time she was done, her armor was polished and put in its chest and she had finished the meal Viscott had brought. Rain had started on the panes, thunder grumbling across the sky.

  Grateful for any relief from the heat, she sat in the chair, elbows on her knees, her hands hanging limply in between.

  “What do you think you did well?” Denan asked.

  She glanced up at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you didn’t kill Garrot—though if there was any justice in the world, he would either be dead or at the bottom of a deep, filthy hole. You found the ardents hidden among the druids and ended them without losing a single enchantress. You got your sister out. You avoided a battle with the druids.”

  She supposed she had done all that.

  “What could you have done better?”

  Larkin let out a long breath. “I should have insisted on a shield wall when we tested the ardents.”

  “Wouldn’t have prevented the attack,” Denan said. “And from what my father reported, you had to give Garrot something.”

  She considered for a moment. “I should have insisted that anyone who entered that room be tested, including the cooks and Met.”

  Denan nodded. “What else?”

  “We should have pulled soldiers at random instead of letting them line themselves up—that way we wouldn’t have had a cluster of ardents attacking at once.”

  He nodded and sifted through the letters littering his lap. “My mother reports that none of her enchantresses have died.”

  The relief that washed through Larkin was so powerful that she rested her head in her hands.

  “None of the druids have either, though they demanded our guards leave the entrance. Mother conceded to move them halfway onto the bridge and plans to keep a rotating company of enchantresses in the area.”

  Denan handed her one of the letters. She hesitated before taking it, scanning the short letter, and then dropping it onto the table in disgust. Garrot offered to step down as Master Druid if they returned Nesha.

  “You can’t be considering it,” Larkin said.

  “What would you do?”

  “Tell him to go home.”

  Denan grinned. “I already did.”

  Larkin’s whole body sagged in relief. “You’re not upset?”

  He chuckled. “Upset? Larkin, I’m proud of you.”

  Tears smarted her eyes. “You are?”

  He motioned for her to join him on the bed. He ran the back of his knuckles down her cheek. “You are a wonderful queen—as I always knew you would be. A little more experience under your belt, and you’ll be unstoppable.”

  She curled around him in the bed.

  Sitting at the vanity in her bathroom, Larkin turned the mirror to catch the early morning light. Instead of a fine Idelmarchian dress, which she’d sworn she’d never wear again, she wore her enchantress uniform of sapphire blue, as well as her ceremonial armor, the metal bits polished to a high shine. Aside from a swipe of berry lipstick, she wore no makeup.

  She leaned forward in her chair to toggle her mantle in place over her shoulders. Peaked in the front and shoulders, a knotted, three-headed serpent proclaimed her a member of Denan’s house. She traced a finger along the painted, embossed tooling. Jewels hung from the four corners as well as the peaked front and back. The emerald at her right shoulder mirrored the one Denan wore and proclaimed her royalty. The sapphire on her left was for her part in defeating the wraiths at Druids’ Folly. The turquoise hanging before her breasts was for her marriage.

  So many memories. Not all of them good.

  In the mirror’s reflection, Larkin saw Nesha step into the bathing room wearing the same dress she’d worn yesterday. Larkin didn’t know how to cross the bridge between Nesha and herself. She wasn’t even sure she had the strength to try.

  “You look different than you used to,” Nesha said.

  Larkin tried to see herself as her sister would. This time, she hadn’t bothered trying to hide her scars and freckles or contain her wild curls. She was through taming herself for others.

  She didn’t look beautiful. She looked free. Powerful. And that was far more becoming than beauty.

  Larkin crossed to her armoire. “Did you not like the clothes I sent to you? You can pick something else.”

  Nesha shifted awkwardly. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “You’ll be the only one dressed like an Idelmarchian. Do you really want all the attention that will bring?” Nesha hated to be the center of attention. Larkin pulled out a tunic, trousers, and a long, embroidered vest. “Here, Aaryn, my mother-in-law, made me this.”

  “Do you have anything with long sleeves?” Nesha asked softly.

  Larkin arched an eyebrow. “In this heat? Don’t be silly.”

  She reached out, taking hold of Nesha’s arm. Her sister drew in a sharp breat
h—a pained breath—and tried to pull free. Larkin held on tighter and drew up her sleeve, revealing perfect handprints on her forearms.

  Anger was a living, breathing thing inside her.

  Nesha drew her hands back, her expression full of shame.

  Larkin choked back the rage and said in a soft voice, “What happened?”

  Nesha rubbed her wrists. “It wasn’t Garrot—we never fought. He never got angry. Until the blight.” She swiped tears from her cheeks. “The pain was so intense. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Sometimes he heard their voices. There were times when he thought I was a mulgar. There were times Met had to pull him off me.”

  Met. Met the ardent. Which meant the wraiths had protected Nesha. Why?

  Nesha blew her nose in a handkerchief. “He was always so heartbroken afterward. How could I be angry with him? It wasn’t his fault.”

  It was his fault. He was the one who’d made a deal with the wraiths. And Denan suffered from the same blight. He’d never hurt Larkin. She thought of a thousand different things she might say—from condemning Garrot and chiding Nesha to demanding her sister stop being a fool—but all of that would only drive Nesha further away.

  So Larkin took a deep breath, forced all her fury into the chest, and dropped it into the lake in her mind. “I’m glad you told me.”

  Nesha looked at her in surprise. “You’re not going to threaten to kill him.”

  Larkin spread her hands. “I can’t kill him—or rather, won’t. Not when we need the druids. And anyway, I’m not a murderer.” She sighed. “Maybe when this is all over, when the curse has ended, Garrot will be free of the blight. And then you can decide if you want to stay with him.”

  Nesha’s gaze finally met Larkin’s, a cautious hope filling her eyes. She seemed to mull over Larkin’s words, then nodded.

  Larkin glanced at the sky. Lighter by the moment. “We need to go. Denan will be waiting.” She pulled out a long-sleeved tunic.

  Nesha hurriedly dressed. “Is it like the men said? Do colors dance beneath the bark?”

  “Yes.” Larkin took hold of Nesha’s hand, laying it across the open sigils at her wrist.

  Nesha jerked back, her mouth open with fear. “Is it really . . . awake?”

  “Yes.” Larkin took her sister’s hand. Together, they circled down the stairs to the common room. Denan was waiting for them inside. He looked even worse than yesterday, pale and drawn. Worry clenched Larkin’s throat.

  He rose shakily to his feet and bowed to Nesha. “You are welcome in my home, Nesha.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “I, uh— Thank you.” She did a hasty curtsy. “Your Majesty, I don’t mean to question you, but are you sure we’re safe, what with all the ardents?”

  Denan nodded. “The sentinels were all pricked this morning before doing a thorough search of the tree. The part of the Alamant still to be searched is cordoned off. We’re as safe as we can be.”

  Nesha nodded in relief, but Larkin noted the tension in his shoulders. He was worried—probably for their safety and for the outcry that would happen if the king’s funeral turned into a bloodbath.

  Frowning, Larkin stepped closer and whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” He grunted. “Just promise you won’t exert yourself.” He nodded. She pressed a hand to his cheek. He was still fevering. “You should be in bed,” she whispered.

  “Really, Larkin, this isn’t the time for your womanly wiles.”

  She tipped back her head and laughed.

  He grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

  Funeral

  Larkin, Denan, Nesha, West, and Atara rowed toward the White Tree. It was raining gently, which felt wonderfully refreshing. The gray day only served to highlight the colors dancing beneath the White Tree’s bark. But there were obvious gaps in the tree now—places where great boughs had been cut away. And more than half the leaves had fallen onto the surface of the lake. The boat plowed them under, where they sank, never to be seen again.

  Larkin looked over to gauge Nesha’s reaction.

  Her sister’s eyes were wide with wonder. “I wasn’t prepared for how beautiful it would be. And how . . . alive.”

  Larkin knew what she meant. There was a presence about the tree. A feeling of being marked by something strange and wondrous. But all Larkin’s wonder had been replaced by dread. They only had nine months before all of this was gone forever.

  Nesha reached over the side and pulled one of the teardrop-shaped leaves in. It was large enough to cover her from neck to midthigh. But the normal silvery green had been replaced by a pale gold that had encroached on the leaves until only a thin tracery of green veins remained.

  “Are they always this color?” Nesha asked.

  Squinting as if the brightness hurt his eyes, Denan tugged his hood farther over his face; he was the only one wearing a cloak. “Even dying, the White Tree is beautiful.”

  Nesha whirled to face him. “Dying?”

  “The druids didn’t tell you.” Atara rolled her eyes. “Shocking.”

  Garrot didn’t tell her, Larkin thought.

  West shot Atara a disapproving look, which she ignored.

  Nesha looked between them. “But isn’t the tree the source of your magic?”

  “The origin of most sigils,” Denan corrected. “Which is why we have to defeat the wraiths before it dies.”

  “Larkin said they can’t be killed,” Nesha said.

  Denan met her gaze. “Which is also why we’re building an army of Idelmarchians and Alamantians to take down the Black Tree.”

  Nesha leaned into Larkin and whispered, “You can’t jeopardize that for me.”

  Larkin’s hands fisted around her oar. “I’m not jeopardizing anything for you. Garrot is.”

  The first strains of music reached them, a somber melody that spread a hush through Larkin even with her dampener amulet. Ahead, hundreds of boats crowded the White Tree’s docks, all of them hooked together to leave an opening down the center that led to the base of the White Tree’s steps. That line continued with White Tree Sentinels clearing the way to the wide steps leading into the tree.

  Most of the inhabitants wore their dress uniforms—the sapphire of the enchantresses, the deep green of the military, the dusty blue of the healers, the silver and white of the White Tree Sentinels. On the older generation, those uniforms were faded or ill-fitting, but the armor had been polished to a mirror shine.

  Unlike Larkin’s homeland, in the Alamant there were no poor. Hunger didn’t carve gouges in their faces. No tattered clothing had been patched and repatched until it fell away in tatters. But there were other signs of hardship. The missing limbs of soldiers who’d been faced with amputation to avoid becoming a monster. The gaps in families, a father or brother or husband missing.

  The five of them rowed straight through the opening. People on every side watched Larkin. Some glared—the ones who blamed her for the men who had died at Druids’ Folly. The enchantresses bowed with respect. Even the infants were somber and silent.

  Larkin kept her gaze straight ahead, her shoulders back and her chin up. In her dress uniform and armor, with the light rain taming her frizz into gorgeous curls, she felt beautiful. Powerful. This was the kind of queen she was. A warrior queen. Not a simpering one in a glittering dress.

  She was done bearing the blame for something the wraiths had done, something Garrot and his ilk had done.

  Nesha wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Why am I crying?”

  “It’s the music,” Denan said. “It’s enchanted.”

  “You and Larkin aren’t crying,” Nesha pointed out.

  Larkin pulled out her leaf amulet and showed it to her sister. “This amulet blunts the music, and the pipers’ magic makes them less susceptible. Atara has one too.”

  “I want one,” Nesha said.

  Larkin tucked the amulet back in her tunic. “They’re very rare.” At least for the Alamantians.

  Nesha hummed in disappointment. />
  At the docks, the White Tree Sentinels in their shining white-and-gold uniforms tied up their boat and helped them out. The sentinels lined up four abreast in front and behind Larkin’s group, slapped their hands to their shields, and stomped their right feet. Nesha startled at the noise and stepped closer to Larkin.

  Atara and West took flanking positions, effectively boxing the three of them in.

  His shoulders back and his chin out, Denan leaned toward Larkin and Nesha. “There isn’t much expected out of you two for this. Just stand where I tell you and keep quiet. Nesha, stay behind us.”

  That’s all that is ever required of me. Larkin bit back her words and nodded. Nesha swallowed hard and moved behind them. Larkin put her arm through Denan’s. The heat from his skin wasn’t as bad as before—probably the copious amounts of tea she’d made him drink.

  “Lead Sentinel.” Denan nodded his permission.

  Into the silence, the sentinel on the far right barked, “Honor march!”

  The eight sentinels stepped out in unison. Every fourth step, they slapped the flat of their shields. Larkin matched her steps to the inexorable beat of the music, the slap of the shields like a drumbeat. They left the dock and climbed the gentle slope to the base of the stairs.

  The sentinels, who operated under Arbor Mytin, all lined the way to the archway at the base of the stairs. Behind them, the crowd of Alamantian elite—mostly military leaders and their spouses—stood on either side.

  Larkin couldn’t help but search their faces. Any of them could be an assassin just waiting to attack. Was it the woman with the gray stripe in her hair who watched Larkin a little too long? The man with the hooded eyes who looked away too quickly? The dead-eyed child who stared into nothing?

  At the base of the wide sweep of steps, the lead sentinel barked a command. His men split to the right and left, spreading out at the base of the steps.

  As Larkin and Denan climbed, she glanced back to see the other four guards split as well. West and Atara prowled the empty space between the sentinels and the people, their eyes never ceasing to search for trouble. Nesha kept her shoulders back and her chin up, but her eyes were wide and darting.