The guards at the archway waved her on. “Hurry, Majesty!”
“They can’t get the music right,” the other cried.
Larkin burst through the archway, jumped the railing, and landed on the branch beneath. Ignoring the sharp pain in her ankles and feet, she sprinted to her chambers and pushed through the barrier.
Nearly a dozen enchanters stood around her husband, all of them trying to form the weir. The weave fell apart. The men weren’t strong enough. Not like a queen was.
“Get out.” She pushed through them.
Denan lay in the bed in nothing but his trousers. The blight had grown from the size of her palm to covering most of his torso, the tendrils disappearing beneath his trousers. His back arched; the muscles and tendons of his body stood out grotesquely. He locked his teeth as if to keep the scream trapped inside him.
Looking at her husband, all she could see was Garrot. Garrot, who had been a loving husband until the blight grew beyond his ability to control it. Garrot, who heard the wraiths’ voices. Garrot, whose eyes were now solid black.
She wanted to weep, call out to Denan, collapse on his chest. She couldn’t let herself.
Gasping for breath, her head throbbing and spinning, Larkin drew from her sigils and wove her enchantment. Her fingers formed triangles for strength, circles for flexibility, and points of light for longevity. Her legs lost strength partway, and she collapsed to her knees. She managed to keep hold of the weave. Her fingers smoothed ruffled ends and wobbly lines. She was vaguely conscious of West ushering the enchanters out of the room.
When the weave was as good as she could make it, she threw her enchantment around that darkness like a fisherman casting a net. As it settled beneath Denan’s skin, Larkin shuddered at the feel of the evil, clawing darkness and the suffering that echoed through her magic.
Once the enchantment had slipped past the blight, she drew the ends toward her like she was drawing in a net. It fit around the corruption like the sheen of oil over poisoned water. She wove again, seaming the ends together until the enchantment was one.
She’d nearly lost him. The wraiths had nearly won. And even now, she could feel echoes of Denan’s agony through her magic.
Again, she looked at Denan and saw Garrot. His skeletal body. The black circles under his eyes. The way three months had aged him a decade. Denan would survive, but only just.
She couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the thought of her undauntable husband reduced to a caricature of himself. Staggering, she forced herself to her feet. Denan was insensible with pain.
“I have to try.” Larkin pushed her hand in the center of his blight. He groaned, his whole body curling around the pain, but she didn’t let go. She flared her sigils until they burned white, an avalanche of magic pouring through her. She fisted her magic around the edges of the weir she’d just woven and pulled.
Denan screamed, an inhuman sound that tore her soul in two. But the blight receded, leaving wicked scars. Tears burned in her eyes, none falling. She was too dehydrated for them to fall.
Denan writhed.
“I’m sorry,” she cried.
Someone stepped past Larkin and leaned over Denan. It was Mama. She pressed her hand to his chest. “Larkin, stop!”
She didn’t understand. Didn’t know what this blight would do to him. Didn’t know that it was Larkin’s decisions that had led them to this moment.
“Larkin!”
“I can’t, Mama!”
Mama shoved her. Larkin stumbled back, the weave slipping from her fingers to rebound back into place. Denan collapsed as if he were a puppet and his strings had been cut.
Good. If he’s unconscious, it won’t hurt anymore. Larkin came at him again, but Mama blocked her.
Larkin had the sudden urge to hit her. “He can’t live like this, Mama.” Her voice came out small, broken. “It will break him.” She couldn’t bear watching him become a shadow of his former self.
“You’re killing him!” Mama pressed her ear to Denan’s chest. She didn’t move. Didn’t move. Didn’t . . . Larkin rested her fingertips against Denan’s throat. Nothing.
Light, had she already killed him? Every fear she’d harbored in the secret folds of her heart had come to pass. And she had caused it.
A pulse fluttered beneath her fingertips. She cried out and tied off the weave.
Mama instantly went to her bag and pulled out a powder. “Someone bring me a plate and a cup of water. Now!”
West shoved half a cup of tea in Larkin’s hand—she had forgotten he was even here. Mama measured in the powder with a steady hand, mixing it to a paste with her fingers. She spread it across Denan’s chest. It smelled sharp and metallic.
“That will wake him up a bit.” Mama pulled out another vial. “Get him up on your knees.”
Larkin tried to lift him, but his body was heavy with muscle. Her arms shook so hard she couldn’t manage it. West bent down and helped her. Larkin slid under him, and West laid Denan’s head on her chest. Larkin curved around her husband, desperately wishing that she could share her strength with him. That he could absorb it through her skin.
“Denan!” Mama said firmly. “I need you to wake enough to swallow this medicine.”
Denan didn’t stir.
“Denan!” Mama commanded.
Still nothing.
Larkin leaned next to his ear. “You’ll always come for me, remember? Come for me now, love. Please.”
He shifted ever so slightly. Mama pushed the vial between his lips. His mouth didn’t work, but his throat did. One tiny swallow after another.
Mama checked his pulse and began to relax.
Arms encircling him, Larkin felt each expansion and contraction of his chest. “Is he going to be all right?”
“He’s young and he’s strong. The medicine I gave him will speed his heart back up.”
Larkin rocked her husband. “I’m sorry, Denan. I’m so sorry.” Light, she’d saved him only to nearly kill him. Her eyes and head ached with the tears she could not shed.
“Ancestors, why didn’t I see it?” Larkin cried. She should have recognized the symptoms. After all, she’d seen them before. The night Venna had been cut by a wraith blade. Larkin had held her friend as her body burned with fever, as the pain engulfed her until she was mad with it. Had watched the blight marks reach her eyes. Watched those eyes turn black, their bright compassion replaced with animal hatred.
“How could you?” West said. “The ardents didn’t just attack enchantresses. They killed the king. And Denan wasn’t the only one sick.”
“Light,” Mama said, her hands over her mouth.
“The wraiths know Denan is the way to get to me. As for the king . . .” Larkin shuddered. She glanced toward the door. She suddenly remembered her sister. “Is Sela all right? There’s still no sign of the blight on her?”
“No, but I can’t wake her.” Tears filled Mama’s eyes. “She’s still sick. That’s why I wasn’t here when you came.”
Larkin’s eyes fluttered closed. “The wraiths did something to her. I’m sure of it.” The assassins got to her. But how? Simple poison, perhaps? And how could Larkin counter it? “Did you send for Magalia?”
“Magalia’s already tried everything she knows for both of them.”
“I’ll send someone to fetch her.” West stepped out.
Larkin’s nausea sharpened suddenly. She was going to vomit all over her husband. She slid out from under Denan and tried to stand, but her legs buckled, and she went down. She dry heaved, her head throbbing.
Mama knelt beside her. “Larkin?”
Her legs were stiff, locked into position. Getting up felt impossible. She collapsed on her side and tried to offer Mama a reassuring smile. “Too much running, I think. And I didn’t sleep much last night.” Or any night.
Mama’s face was drawn with worry. She pinched Larkin’s skin. It peaked and remained that way. She hustled to the table. “When was the last time you drank anything? Ate?”
>
“This morning?”
“You’re heat sick.” Mama went to the table and poured a pitcher of water. She brought it back to Larkin and helped her sit up. “Drink it slowly—you don’t want to vomit it all back up.”
Unable to be parted from Denan for even a moment, Larkin leaned against the bed and threaded her hand through his as she sipped the tepid water.
Mama opened the doorpane. West and Atara were gone. Probably in search of something to eat, as they should.
Mama motioned to one of the pages, who stepped into the room. “Inform Magalia that Larkin is convinced the ardents have done something to Sela.”
The boy started off.
“And I want an update on Alorica!” Larkin hollered, which made her throat throb even harder.
Still running, the page performed a little bow before passing out of sight.
Thinking of Alorica made Larkin think of the events that had happened at the healing tree—events involving Garrot.
Mama pointed to someone out of sight. “Have the butler bring a meal and lilac tea for the queen.” She closed the barrier.
Larkin pressed her cheek against Denan’s arm, drawing comfort in the warmth of his flesh, the pulse at his wrist beating against her own. He was alive. He was not a monster. If nothing else, she had that.
It was hard to think with the throbbing in her head, like her skull was a door and someone was pounding on it from the inside. All she wanted to do was close her eyes, but there were still things she needed to do.
“I need to speak with Nesha.” Her sister needed to know what had happened to Garrot. Better to hear it from Larkin than anyone else.
Mama mixed some pain powder and handed it to Larkin. “She isn’t here.”
Larkin drank the bitter draft. “Where is she?”
“Some druids came not long before you. They said Garrot was sick, dying. She went with them.”
Larkin didn’t blame Mama; Nesha would have gone one way or another. Her sister still loved Garrot. Maybe a part of her always would. What would Nesha do when she learned that Larkin could have halted his blight’s spread? That she was glad she’d never have to see him again?
He was too far gone. Still, a flash of guilt tore through her. And even stronger was pity for the monster waiting for her sister. Larkin shoved it in the chest with all the rest. Another thing to deal with it later. When there was time for such things.
“Did she take some guards?” Ardents were stronger than men; it was possible Garrot could break his bonds.
Mama nodded. “How’s your stomach?”
“Perfect,” she lied.
“How does your head feel?”
“Happy as a bee in springtime.”
Her mother’s disapproving frown said she didn’t believe her. Viscott came in with a bowl of cold soup, nala grains, ripe red berries with thick cream across the top, and a pitcher of cold lilac tea. Larkin’s gaze locked on the food, and she found she couldn’t look away.
She was reluctant to leave Denan’s side, but she’d pushed herself too far today. She needed food and sleep. Mama and Viscott helped her to her feet. Stiff, sore, and weak, she hobbled to the table and eased into a chair. The cook poured the tea. Larkin drank the whole cup in one go.
“Slowly,” Mama admonished.
Larkin poured the thin soup over the grains and ate them one measured bite at a time. She hummed at how delicious it was, creamy and sweet and sour all at once.
Viscott grunted in satisfaction as he refilled the cup. “Anything else, Majesty?”
Her mouth too full to answer, Larkin shook her head. The man turned on his heel and left. In the quiet that followed, Larkin could hear a baby cry.
She eyed Mama. “Brenna or Soren?”
Mama’s shoulder’s fell. “That’s Kyden.”
Larkin’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth. Ancestors, with Nesha gone, that meant Mama was caring for Harben’s love child.
“Caelia brought him this morning,” Mama said. “She told me his mother is dead. Harben had been informed and sent to Ryttan.”
Light, her poor father. Was there any alcohol in Ryttan? What if he couldn’t bear it and tried to kill himself? Light, she couldn’t deal with another family member in crisis. She laid her head on the table, too weary to lift it.
Mama gave a bitter laugh. “It all makes sense now. It was after Joy’s death that your father started trying to drown himself in drink.”
The baby’s crying rose in pitch. What would happen to Kyden now? “Light, Mama. You can’t be expected to raise him.” He’d been nursed by an ardent. Was he corrupted too?
The clatter of a spoon stirring a cup. “We’re the only family he has now.”
The crying stopped.
“You found a wet nurse?”
Mama set another cup of pain powder next to Larkin’s face. “I can’t care for three babies by myself.” Mama smoothed her hair away from her face. “But I need to get back to them, to Sela.”
Mama gestured for a hug. Larkin downed the bitter stuff and then embraced her. She smelled of her childhood—of sun-warmed skin and hair . . . and sour milk. The last made Larkin smile. “I love you, Mama.”
“Love you too.” She pulled back. “Get some sleep. You’re no good to anyone dead on your feet.”
With the food heavy and filling inside her, she felt sleepier than ever. “Send a page to the druids, advising them to kill Garrot. Another to Mytin. Tell him to embed as many druids as possible.” Whatever the wraiths had planned, they were trying to weaken the Alamant first. They needed all the help they could get to deal with what was coming.
Mama nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
That done, she climbed into bed beside Denan. She wanted to curl up beside him, her head on his chest. But she didn’t dare, for fear he was still hurting. She settled for taking his hand and rubbing the back of it with her thumb.
She should have realized what was happening. Should have woven a new weir days ago. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Curse
For once not worried about assassins, Larkin stood at the windowpane, watching the storm rage. Thunder rumbled, lightning speared, and the lake heaved. The wind shredded the leaves, bits of gold falling like snow in a blizzard. The breeze pushed her clothes against her body, the rain skidding down the pane.
Her dreams hadn’t been as bad as usual. Just one that she could remember. Valynthian women weaving the enchantment around the wall. She didn’t understand why the tree was showing her Valynthian barrier magic. It wasn’t like she could use it with her warrior magic. But then, why did the White Tree do anything?
She rubbed her eyes, wondering what catastrophe had occurred while she slept on, oblivious. She decided she didn’t care. Someone else could deal with it for once.
Denan still slept. His lips were cracked, his skin ashen, but his forehead was cool. Once he had some food and water in him, he’d be back to his old self. She’d let him sleep a bit longer though.
Hissing at the soreness of her muscles, she shambled toward the bathroom. She longed for a hot bath but didn’t want to bother anyone with hauling hot water, and none of them would allow her to do it. She settled for a quick shower.
Rubbing oils into her damp hair, she tiptoed across the room and stepped out to the guards, surprised to find West and Tam.
“How’s Alorica?” she asked.
Tam pulled her into his arms, squeezing so hard she could barely breathe. “She’s coming home tomorrow.” Larkin sagged in relief. “Thank you. For saving her. Again.”
Would Tam hug and thank her if he knew that she regretted saving his wife at Denan’s expense? Feeling tainted, she stepped back from his embrace and looked for something, anything, to change the subject. A rotation of pages waited just out of earshot, Farwin among them.
“Have Viscott bring up breakfast,” she told Farwin.
The boy took off.
West handed her a stack of letters. “We’ve been collecting missiv
es for you.”
She took them. “Not working the night shift anymore?”
West puffed out his mustache. “Someone has to save you from yourself.” The words were dressed in a joke, but beneath them was the meat and bone of truth with a measure of chiding.
Two could play at that game. She smacked him with the missives. “And who’s going to save you from me?”
He didn’t look chastised. He needed to learn she was in charge. Not him. A lesson that was growing closer and closer every day. They were both instinctively circling it, avoiding the confrontation their friendship might not survive.
“Magalia just went in with Sela,” Tam said.
She pointed to one of the pages. “Don’t let her leave without reporting to me.”
The boy nodded and hurried away.
She stepped back inside, leaving the doorway hazy but passable for Viscott to bring their breakfast. Denan still slept soundly; she’d let him rest until breakfast came. She sat at the table and scanned the missives while she waited.
Gendrin and Aaryn both wrote that they hadn’t found Maisy, but they were following a trail of black blood. Mytin conveyed that a hundred druids had been embedded this morning, though they still refused to kill Garrot and imprisoned him instead.
What were they planning to do with a mulgar? Keep it in the pit beneath their palace like they had Larkin? That would be ironic.
Magalia’s hasty note relayed that she’d stopped in last evening. She didn’t know what to do for Sela any more than Mama had, nor whether Sela’s illness was natural or cursed. She would stop by midmorning.
Farwin called from outside, “Majesty, I’ve your breakfast.”
“Come in,” she said. Farwin settled the tray on the table. “Where’s Viscott?”
“Busy serving Lady Pennice, Majesty.”
Larkin made a note to check on Mama and the babies after breakfast, sat on the bed beside Denan, and rested a hand on his chest. “Denan. Denan, love, you need to wake up.”
His eyes came open, his pupils swallowing his iris. She drew a startled breath. His fist slammed into her jaw. Everything went black. Her ears rang. She crumpled to the floor; the sound of a porcelain cup shattering sounded far away. Then Denan was on top of her.
Wraith King Page 23