Wraith King

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Wraith King Page 21

by Argyle, Amber


  Gendrin came up behind them. “You know who the ardent was?”

  “She was my stepmother,” Larkin admitted.

  He stepped back. “What?”

  “The ardent.” Larkin forced her gaze up. “She was my stepmother. She escaped the Idelmarch through the Forbidden Forest months ago.”

  Enchanters and enchantresses stopped to listen. Larkin could imagine the whispers. Her father, a murderer. Her stepmother, an ardent. Her own sister, the unwed lover of the Master Druid.

  West and Atara shared a look and pushed the others back, giving Larkin space. She loved them for it.

  “What did the wraith mean? ‘You have until sunset tomorrow, Larkin. And then I will take what’s most precious to you,’” Aaryn asked.

  “Denan.” Larkin knew it instantly. “They’re coming for him next.”

  Aaryn’s gaze hardened. “No ardent will come anywhere near him.”

  And Denan was too sick to go anywhere near the Forbidden Forest.

  “The wraiths have proven they have capabilities beyond what we’ve ever guessed,” Gendrin said.

  Larkin rubbed her sleeve roughly across her face, took a fortifying breath, and faced Gendrin. “All the Alamant has been searched?”

  Gendrin watched her with pity in his gaze. “It has.”

  The way he said it told her there was more to his silence. “What is it?”

  He sighed. “There are more people who’ve gone missing.”

  More people like Raeneth. Ardents who’d fled before being caught. They could be hiding at the bottom of the lake, for all they knew. “How many?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Fifteen reserved for one last dastardly plot?

  Aaryn seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “I’ll post boats of enchantresses all around our hometree. They won’t get anywhere near him.”

  “Make sure each of them is retested for ardent blood,” Gendrin said.

  Light, Larkin was so tired, inside and out. Tired of fighting and running and worrying and always being one step behind the thrice-cursed wraiths.

  Some of this must have shown on her face, for Gendrin rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. “We know their names. What they look like. My men won’t stop searching.”

  He wouldn’t find them. Not at the bottom of the lake.

  Aaryn rested a hand on Larkin’s back. “Go home and rest. Be with Denan. You can write to your father about Raeneth in the morning.”

  Larkin found one of her pages. She motioned the boy over. “Send word that Raeneth is dead to my mother. Have her tell Nesha. She can tell my father. Repeat it back to me.”

  The boy did before taking off at a run.

  Larkin closed her eyes and considered taking Aaryn’s advice. Eating something hearty and then collapsing onto her bed. Letting Denan play her into a deep sleep while he stroked her hair. But her husband was too sick to play. Her sleep would be plagued by nightmares. There would be no rest for her.

  And she’d had enough dealing with the wraiths to distrust everything she thought she knew. Fifteen hidden ardents was too easy. Too obvious. Ramass had something else in mind. She just had to figure out what before he sprung his trap.

  One of the men milling about Raeneth’s pinned body curled his lip and spit on her before turning to leave.

  Rage flooded Larkin. She sprinted forward, flared her shield, and pulsed, pinning the man against the tree. He squirmed, but he couldn’t break free.

  Larkin wasn’t even aware she could do such a thing. But then, she was a queen. As such, her magic was stronger than the rest. “Gendrin, what is the punishment for insubordination and desecration of a body?”

  “It was an ardent,” the man panted, “who murdered—”

  “These women are both victims of the wraiths!” She pushed harder. “You want to spit on something, spit on Ramass from Ryttan’s walls!”

  The man’s face turned red, his lips ringed in blue.

  Gendrin stepped up beside her and pointed to a unit leader. “See this man has twelve barbed lashes and put him on night duty for the rest of the year.”

  “Yes, sir,” an enchanter said as he headed toward Larkin’s captive.

  Aaryn lightly touched Larkin’s arm. Larkin reluctantly let the piper drop. He gasped in a breath, his hand spread across his chest. He shot her a furious look tinged with fear. The unit leader hauled him to his feet.

  The enchanters watched her with something like fear. She’d rather they respected her, but she’d take what she could get. She flared her sigils. “Back to your duties.”

  Gendrin barked out commands. Aaryn motioned for her enchantresses to disperse.

  Just as he passed Larkin, Gendrin paused. “That was well done.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. Maybe he didn’t resent her, after all. Her gaze strayed to Raeneth’s body. “I’ll take her back with me.” Hauling the body back to their boat would probably take the rest of the night. Exhaustion crashed down on her. But someone had to see the woman properly buried. In the Alamantian or Idelmarchian tradition? What would Raeneth want?

  Light, Larkin was so tired.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Aaryn began organizing a dozen enchantresses to make a stretcher and take the bodies to the White Tree. “You’ll have to put her through the portal tomorrow.”

  She didn’t have to say why. In this heat, a body wouldn’t last long. Larkin nodded in gratitude.

  “You want me to report to King Denan?” Farwin bounced from one foot to the other. How could the boy have so much energy?

  Larkin motioned for him to go. He bounded off.

  “Why don’t we go check on Denan?” Atara said.

  Larkin barely heard her. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from Natyla’s face. Mindful of the blood, she crouched beside the dead enchantress. She was even more certain than before. She knew the woman from somewhere.

  But where?

  She turned south, toward Valynthia. Something about this girl was familiar. It was important. Larkin closed her dead eyes and pushed to her feet. “The enchantress who was assassinated earlier today, the one we thought was Raeneth. Take me to her body.”

  “What?” West asked. “Why?”

  Larkin didn’t know why. “Something about Natyla . . . I’m not sure what, but maybe if I see the other body, I’ll understand.”

  Without looking to see if they would follow, Larkin headed back toward their boat.

  Reveal

  Atara shook Larkin awake. She blinked away the residue of her nightmare and leaned against the gunwale. It was early morning—the light from the tops of the waves making her eyes water. Her mouth tasted awful, and she really needed to bathe.

  West and the four enchantresses Aaryn had loaned them were still asleep in the bottom of the boat.

  Larkin rubbed her gritty eyes. She hadn’t thought it possible to feel more tired than last night, but the dreams wouldn’t leave her be. Dreams about reweaving the barrier. Dreams about working in her father’s fields, her scythe cutting through thick wheat, which fell with a deafening crash. Then came the nightmares about Venna, Bane, Talox, Raeneth, and Natyla. Dreams about her father being dragged away.

  “How long did I sleep?” Larkin asked.

  “Couple hours.” Atara took down the sail. “We’ve had to tack into the wind. Made terrible time.”

  “Then why are you taking down the sail?”

  Atara motioned to a boat speeding toward them, eight rowers on each side. Tam stood at the prow. When they were close enough, he jumped from his boat to theirs. They pulled away. Tam retied the sail, and their boat picked up speed again.

  Tam sat beside her. “Alorica threw me out again.”

  “Does that mean she’s doing better?” Larkin held her breath, waiting for the answer.

  Tears welled in his eyes, and Larkin’s heart dropped.

  “Her fever broke,” he managed, his voice wavering.

  Larkin was so relieved that she grabbed Tam and held tight.
>
  “There’s something else,” he said. “They’ve found two more dead enchantresses, Mavy and Qarlot.”

  Light, whatever the wraiths had planned, they were accelerating their plot. Larkin dropped her head into her hands. “I can’t get her face out of my head.” Tam looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “The enchantress who died last night. She’s important. I’m just not sure how.”

  Tam peered ahead of her. “So you’re going to the market?”

  As Atara filled him in on everything that had happened last night, Larkin followed his gaze. Two hundred yards away was the market. Dozens of wooden stalls had been lashed to a floating dock to create a kind of island. Color spilled from baskets and tables—spices, fresh fruit, bolts of cloth, cuts of meat, and breads. The morning shopping was in full swing, with dozens of people picking through the wares to find the best for the day’s meals.

  When the boat finally pulled into the dock, Tam took the rope, tied the boat off, and gave her a hand up. They stepped off the docks and onto the floating boardwalk, which rolled gently beneath her feet.

  “This way.” Tam turned left as if he knew exactly where he was going.

  West positioned himself beside Larkin, glaring at the boats they passed as if expecting an assassin to leap out of each one. She doubted he’d let her out of his sight after last night. Atara and the other enchantresses flared their shields in a solid circle around her.

  Light, she would be glad when all the ardents were caught and she could go back to not having guards follow her everywhere she went.

  The morning crowd parted for them, most of the people bowing.

  “Did you know Niveena?” Larkin asked. How else would he know where to go?

  Tam didn’t look back at her. “She was one of the eleven single women in the Alamant. Every man knew her.”

  She supposed that made sense.

  Most of the Alamant was nature refined. But not here. Instead, elegantly carved bits broken off from hometrees had been slapped together with driftwood. The roofs were nothing but slanted boards that would keep off most of the rain.

  They passed the spice stalls, the smells at once overpowering and alluring. Food vendors sold spun sugar and candied berries. Bread shaped like elongated bowls for scooping up a chopped assortment of citrus, fish, and fruit. Meat and vegetables on skewers fried over coals.

  On another day, Larkin and Denan would have wandered, sampled the food, and bought presents for her family. He always found something for her. Last time, it had been her own flute, the sides carved with snakes and birds, jewels in their eyes. It was beautiful and a little strange. She loved it.

  Larkin surreptitiously wiped her cheeks and picked up her pace, pausing only to buy a breakfast of meat rolls and lilac tea for herself and her guards. They drank the tea in one go and ate the rolls as they walked.

  “Tell me more about this Niveena,” Larkin said.

  Tam took a drink from his waterskin. “She was a widow. Her husband died in a mulgar battle a couple years ago. They had no children, but her husband’s family loved her like a daughter. They’re holding a vigil for her until tonight when she’ll be taken to the White Tree.”

  Larkin wiped at the juice running down her chin—the meat was a perfect blend of savory, sweet, and salty. Denan would have loved it. “Why live here instead of her hometree?”

  Tam licked his fingers. “They own one of the orchards where Natyla and Raeneth died. They split their time between the two. The community is very tight-knit. Niveena loved it here—more than anywhere else.”

  They came upon the back of a solemn crowd. Many were crying. They stepped aside, bowing as they let Larkin and her group pass. This must be Niveena’s vigil. It ended at a fruit vendor.

  An old man sitting in a chair pushed up in surprise and bowed low to Larkin. “My queen. We’re honored that you have come.”

  They thought her here to pay her respects. She would let them think it. She smiled gently.

  He led them inside, past rows of colorful hobs berries and early nala drops. The smell reminded her of the orchard from last night—overripe fruit and sweet rot. An image of Raeneth’s headless body flashed in her mind. She shook her head and forced it back.

  The man pulled back a loosely woven black curtain and stepped aside. The guards went first. Larkin had to duck to go inside and couldn’t straighten all the way or risk hitting her head on the low ceiling.

  Beyond was a comfortable room with rugs and pillows. The back doors had been thrown open, revealing rows of drying fruit laid out on stained sheets. A man, woman, and three boys sat facing a figure laid out on the floor. They all had the same black hair and eyes and were of the same wiry build. Across their legs were the thick, glossy leaves from a hometree, which they were sewing into the enchantress’s shroud.

  The family already kneeling by the body hurried to their feet and backed away.

  Larkin was interrupting their mourning under false pretenses, but Denan’s life might depend on what she found. She would use her privilege.

  A sheet had been draped over Niveena, leaving only her form visible. She was obviously much taller than any member of this family. Probably taller than her husband had been. What had she thought of that? Of the small, dark-featured man who’d stolen her from her family and taken her to an impossible place?

  Only to die shortly thereafter.

  Larkin already knew the answer. Niveena had loved him, and he had loved her back. Judging by the swollen, reddened faces of his family, they had all loved her. And yet the family who had raised her didn’t even know she was dead. If the Idelmarch and the Alamant didn’t find a better way to communicate, they would never know.

  Her family rose ponderously to their feet and bowed to her.

  Fighting the urge to rip off the sheet, Larkin bowed back. “I’ve come to pay my respects to your daughter-in-law.”

  “You honor us with your presence, Majesty,” the mother said. “Niveena spoke of you often.”

  Larkin tried not to let her surprise show. “She did?” Who was this woman?

  The father smiled, tears welling in his eyes. “Oh, yes. The speech you gave before Druids’ Folly. The way you manipulated the magic with your hands. The lives you saved.”

  That made sense. Every enchantress they’d been able to round up had been there that day. The day the wraiths had nearly destroyed them all.

  Larkin knelt beside the corpse, reached for the sheet, and then hesitated. She didn’t want to offend them. “May I?”

  The woman knelt across from Larkin and gently folded back the sheet.

  Larkin stared at the girl. Her swollen skin was shiny and mottled, with an unhealthy purple hue. In contrast, her shining blonde hair settled in loose waves over her shoulders. Perhaps it was the changes death had wrought upon her, but Larkin didn’t recognize her.

  The mother took Niveena’s hand. “It’s hard, seeing something that should be there but isn’t.”

  She’d misunderstood Larkin’s confusion. It was probably better that way.

  A page burst into the room and held out a sealed missive.

  “This isn’t the time,” Larkin murmured.

  “Please, Majesty,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

  Shooting an apologetic look at the dead woman’s family, Larkin broke the seal.

  Sela and Denan are worse. I can’t wake them. Something is wrong with Denan’s weir. Come quick.

  Mama

  Light. Not Denan. Not Sela. Larkin’s heart pounded in her chest. A sudden memory reared in Larkin’s head—the day Larkin had made his weir. The smell of dirt and rot coming off the wraith. The look of Denan’s wound, the tined lines spreading.

  In the periphery of her vision, she’d caught sight of a woman’s concerned brown eyes. The same color as the scarf the woman had tied over her head. Her hair would have been braided to keep it out of the way during the battle.

  No.

  Not braided. Loose about her shoulders. It was the blonde hair t
hat Larkin remembered. Long and thick and wild as it shifted across her shoulder on the breeze. And suddenly, Larkin knew exactly what the wraiths had done.

  She was suddenly dizzy. She began to tip over, only just catching herself.

  The mother startled and reached for her. “Majesty? Are you—”

  West was at Larkin’s side in an instant, steadying her.

  She let him pull her to her feet. “I’m sorry. We must go.”

  Larkin ran back the way they’d come.

  Tam dodged a boy, jumped over a cart, and came up beside her. “What? What did you see?”

  It wasn’t what she’d seen. It was what she’d remembered. She’d used the magic of six women to weave Denan’s weir. “The assassins are killing the women whose magic created Denan’s weir,” she panted. Light, if the weir failed, the blight would consume him. He would become a mulgar. “Niveena, Natyla, Varcie, Mavy, Qarlot . . .”

  Tam’s eyes widened. “And Alorica.”

  Alorica was all that stood between Denan and a fate worse than death. The forest take her, it all made sense. Denan’s fever—his body wasn’t fighting off an illness, but the blight. And with each assassination, the weir had grown weaker and the blight stronger.

  All the sick were probably the men and women Larkin had formed weirs on.

  Tam paled. “But she’s safe now. The Alamant has been searched.”

  She shook her head. “There are fifteen missing ardents.”

  They weren’t attacking Denan. They were no doubt skulking beneath the water as they headed toward their final target in the healing tree.

  Tam turned and nearly plowed into a man coming out of a stall. “Out of the way!” he roared.

  People jumped aside as Larkin, West, Tam, Atara, and the four enchantresses raced along the boardwalk and down the dock, Tam hollering at anyone in their way. At their boat, a page waited for them. Larkin and her guards jumped inside their boat, the craft shuddering.

  “Majesty,” the boy said.

  Tam took the rudder and sail. The rest of them grabbed an oar.

  West unwound the mooring rope. “The healing tree or Denan?”

 

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