“The marriage binding. Those branches came from the White Tree. The thorns will graft inside you and me, binding us with magic.”
She gritted her teeth. “I don’t accept this. I won’t.”
“Your acceptance isn’t needed.”
The pit she buried her anger in trembled and spilled over. “You’re a monster.”
“I do what I must.”
On the other side of the wide platform was another set of stairs that wound upward. Like in the other tree, pools of rainwater gleamed in little hollows, flowers of multitudinous colors pulsing through them. The air had a mineral taste.
Larkin couldn’t help but peer into the translucent White Tree. She recognized it instantly—the hard, smooth surface filled with flakes of color. The amulet and the pipers’ weapons were all made from the opalescent wood of the White Tree. Movement within caught her attention. It was like looking into deep water. She could only see so far, but beyond the pulsing colors, formless shapes shifted.
She faltered. “There’s something in there.”
“Yes.” He tugged at her elbow, pulling her forward.
“What is it?”
“So much of what we know has been lost, knowledge locked inside the White Tree, and us, unable to retrieve it.”
“Why can’t you retrieve it?”
“That was part of women’s magic.” He nodded to the archway marking the end of the stairs. “Perhaps questions left for another time.”
She heard the murmurs of a large crowd, and her thoughts flashed back to facing the mob. She froze, hand covering her throat. Denan watched her, waiting.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“This ceremony is sacred to our people, Larkin. When I went through it at sixteen, my whole life changed.”
Colors pulsed through the tree, disappearing before reappearing again. “Why?”
“I saw a vision.” She glanced at him, startled. He shrugged. “Visions don’t happen often—not since we lost the women’s magic. It costs the White Tree too much.”
But Larkin had seen many visions—not that she understood any of them. Denan bent down, picking up a crushed tear-shaped leaf. “Haven’t you wondered why the leaves are changing? It’s spring, after all.”
She shrugged. “The trees grow out of the water. How do I know what’s normal for this place?”
He let the leaf slip from his fingers. “The White Tree is sick.”
Larkin folded her arms. She was stalling. Denan must know it too, but he wasn’t pushing her. “Why?”
“What makes trees sick, Larkin?”
The curse—he couldn’t answer her. “Disease, pestilence, and age.” She studied the tree, seeing no sign of pests or rot. “I’m guessing a magical tree isn’t vulnerable to the first two, so that leaves age. Why don’t you plant another?”
He couldn’t tell her, and she couldn’t think of a reason why.
“What was your vision?” she asked.
“A copperbill—the birds with the red-gold beak—have you noticed them?” When she nodded, he went on. “It landed in my palm. If I closed my hand around it, it died. But if I left my hand open, it always came back.”
Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
He looked down at her. “I think that bird was you, and I think it means you will always find your way back to me. You have a purpose, Larkin—one important to the White Tree and the pipers.”
“Is that what makes you think it’s okay to kidnap me and force me to marry you?”
He faced the top of the stairs. “It’s time to go.”
She felt for the amulet under her clothing. “You think my purpose has to do with women’s magic?”
“Yes.”
A thrill darted through her. She wanted magic, wanted the power it gave her. She wanted to escape the pipers, to never be weak and at the mercy of others again. They climbed the last few steps and paused at the top of a bowl-shaped platform that contained nearly a hundred people—most were men with snakes on their mantles. A few had full heads of hair, but most had shaved scalps, a knot of hair behind their right ear.
Her breath came faster, harder. The last time she’d faced a crowd, they had been calling for her death. She finally caught sight of Alorica off to one side, Tam beside her. They wore similar fine clothes, though in emerald green, their mantles emblazoned with some kind of fish. Alorica’s face was flushed with fury.
Larkin felt dizzy.
“My uncle told me Alorica cried through the whole ceremony,” Denan said, a challenge in his gaze for her to be better than that. She forced herself to take slow, even breaths. He held out his arm to her. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
She was, but she’d never admit as much. Though he had helped her through her grief these past days, they were not friends. She squared her shoulders and stepped past him. He fell in beside her. Together, they moved into the bowl-shaped depression. People moved aside to let them pass. In the center of the platform was a font surrounded by jagged crystals that ended in needle-like points. Behind the font, a man with angular features, a powerful build, and gray at his temples waited for them. His square mantle completely encased his shoulders and ended at five points, gems dangling from each. In the center, widest point, was an embossed painting of the White Tree, a large crystal star embedded into the leather above it. In his hand was a staff made of the same material as her amulet—the wood of the tree.
“Larkin of Hamel,” the man said as they came to a halt before the font. “I am Arbor Mytin, steward of the White Tree and Denan’s father. You have come to see if you are one of my people’s true daughters. You may approach the font.”
He was a handsome man with golden skin and brown hair and eyes. She could see where Denan got his muscular build and angular facial features, but his eyes must be his mother’s.
Larkin cast a nervous look at the assemblage. Denan looked pointedly at Alorica, then back at her. Lifting her chin, she marched to stand on a little platform on the other side of Mytin. Inside the crystal font was a liquid the color of pale honey.
Mytin gestured to the needle-like shards. “Break off a thorn of the White Tree.”
Eyes wide in disbelief, she looked at the thorns more closely. On second inspection, the sides didn’t look sharp, only the tips. She reached for the smallest one she could find.
“Choose wisely, Larkin of Hamel,” Mytin warned.
Larkin withdrew her hand. Mytin stepped back and gestured to his side of the font. She circled it, waiting for a thorn to call to her. Nothing happened. So she circled again. This time, ribbons of color coursed through one. She reached down very carefully and snapped it off. Sap leaked down the broken side, tingling as it ran down her wrist and lit an intricate band around her left forearm.
She felt someone approach and turned to see Denan hold out his hand for the thorn. “Alorica passed out for this part,” he said under his breath, again with that challenge. She gritted her teeth, knowing what he was doing and hating that it was working. He pulled her sleeve up and wiped her left upper arm with something that smelled of alcohol.
She pitched her voice low. “Why do I need a thorn when I already have . . .” She looked pointedly at the hidden amulet.
“Do you want to pierce yourself every time you use magic?” he whispered back. The thorn meant she wouldn’t need the amulet anymore?
“The magic will be inside me?”
He held out his arm, displaying the raised lines across his skin. “Hopefully, it will give you one of our markings—a sigil. Ready?” Denan had positioned the thorn flush with her skin. This was going to hurt. She gritted her teeth and turned away. He hummed something soothing and sweet. She immediately relaxed. He was using a touch of his magic. Though she would never admit it, she was grateful.
He pinched her skin and slid the thorn inside her. She gasped, a layer of sweat broke out over her whole body as it dug in deeper. It felt like the worst bee sting she’d ever had. She bit her lip
, knowing she was making a face but unable to stop.
“Done,” Denan announced.
Trembling, she stared at the mound under her skin, which pulsed a deep red. A thin line of blood painted a garish streak around her arm.
“Now what?” she asked.
Wiping up the blood, Denan wrapped a clean bandage around her throbbing arm. “Now, we wait to see if the thorn takes root or withers and dies.”
Takes root . . . inside my body. She shuddered. “How long will that take?”
He pulled down her sleeve. “A few days to a couple weeks. The longer it stays, the better chance it will take root. It won’t always hurt this much. The thorn softens before it spreads.”
“I hate you,” she murmured.
“No, you don’t,” he murmured back.
She refused to argue with him.
“Larkin,” Mytin said. “Kneel before the font.”
She reluctantly obeyed. He dipped his thumb into the font and drew a line across her forehead. Someone handed him a golden crown of leaves. Mytin placed it gently on her head. “I name you Princess Larkin of the White Tree. Rise.” The crowd bowed.
Princess? I am no princess. She never would be, no matter what Mytin said.
From off to one side, a group of pipers started playing. The music twined through her, joy and elation staining her soul. This was men’s magic, twisting her emotions. “You have no right to make me feel something I don’t want to feel.”
Denan studied her, arms folded across his chest. He motioned for her to follow him. Teeth gritted, she trailed after him as peace and contentment slowly snuffed out her anger and resentment. She wanted to dance, to sing and sway and be at peace. She drifted away from him and insinuated herself with the crowd, dancing with Denan’s little brother, the boy who had escorted her here. Wyn, she remembered.
A hand came down on her arm. “Larkin, come with me.”
Denan stood behind her, and she couldn’t remember why she’d been upset with him. He was so handsome and kind. She left Wyn and pressed herself to Denan. “I’m sorry I was so angry before. It was silly of me.”
He stiffened and then relaxed against her, pulling her in tight and breathing deep the scent of her hair.
“Dance with me,” she whispered in his ear, her eyes begging.
He took her cheek in his hand. For a moment, she believed he would. His eyes shuttered closed. “When you truly want it, I will dance with you until the stars fall.” He took her hand and practically dragged her through the crowd.
“But I want to dance with you now,” she protested.
Some of the crowd chuckled. She flashed a smile at them, eager to lose herself to the music, the light, and the energy pulsing around her and through her and in her.
He pulled her down the magical stairs with their glowing flowers and ribbons of light until they reached a small boat. He bundled her inside, though she tried twice to head back to the dwindling music. When the boat was finally away, she stared at the tree, longing to go back, wishing he wouldn’t take her away.
They came to one of the smaller trees that circled the White Tree. Denan tied the boat up on the dock. She didn’t turn away from the music, every part of her straining to go back.
Denan rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. “The nectar makes it worse. It always does.” He pulled off his cloak and tugged hers from her shoulders, the night air kissing her skin.
She turned toward him. “If we can’t dance there, why not here?”
He reached up and rubbed the back of his knuckles against her cheek. “If I did, you wouldn’t thank me in the morning, little bird.”
“Please,” she begged even as she reached for him. He held her hands together with one of his own. With the other, he pulled out his flute and played a song of dreams and softness and falling. Her eyes slipped closed, unable to resist. He caught her, his muscles cording and bunching as he swung her up. She rested her head on his soft tunic as his humming vibrated against her temple.
The next morning, Larkin found herself in a soft bed in the center of a room about the size of Bane’s dining room. From one side, rays of light streamed through boughs and leaves. Beyond, the White Tree sparkled with color in the morning light. Beside her was a small desk with a chair, upon which lay her mantle and cloak. Toward the tree’s heart, an armoire and washbasin had been built into the tree, a spout above it.
She studied the other side of the bed, relieved it didn’t appear disturbed. So, Denan didn’t expect her to share his bed—at least not on their wedding night. She shuddered, wondering when that was coming.
She sat up. She was still dressed in the tunic and pants from yesterday. Her arm throbbed, feeling tight and hot. Hissing, she lifted her sleeve to reveal a scab and bruising around the thorn Denan had inserted into her arm. She unwound the bandages around her hands and wrists, revealing scattered, pale markings. Sigils.
The realization that she was actually married to Denan hit her. With a groan, she flopped back onto the bed. How could she be married to that manipulative, self-centered, boorish man? And now what? She was supposed to turn out like Caelia, pregnant and gushing about kissing him whenever she wanted?
“Never,” she promised herself. For now, she would play Denan’s game, get him to let his guard down. She would learn magic, and then she would take down the pipers from the inside out. One day, she would free the women of the Idelmarch and return them to their homes.
She went to the armoire and pulled open the double doors. Inside was a scarlet nightgown, a rich brown tunic, and trousers. She stripped out of her finery, hanging everything carefully, and put on the plain clothes, which were so soft against her skin. She turned on the spout and cleaned her teeth and face, undid the complex braids and pulled her hair back in a tail.
She left the bedroom, descending toward the main platform. Halfway there, she heard scuffling sounds off to her left. A horizontal walkway led in that direction. She hesitated before following the sounds that grew louder the farther she went.
At a bend in the tree, she paused, peering around a smaller branch. His chest bare, Denan practiced with a wooden ax and a shield on a platform shaped like a keyhole. It was open on all sides but one, a drop-off straight down to the water—not too far, but enough to sting if someone fell. There was no roof above it, though the canopy provided plenty of shade. In the keyhole-shaped section were various trunks.
Denan twisted and lunged, his body slick with sweat, his muscles sliding under his skin. A White Tree sigil covered his entire chest, intricate designs of angles and sharp points that were both beautiful and strong. On the center of his back was another sigil, a twisted three-headed snake insignia of his family. He dodged and struck with the grace of a cat.
She watched until he paused and wiped the sweat that streaked down his bare head. He took a cup, tipping his head back to drink. “Hello, Larkin.”
She jumped, her eyes flashing to his. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she felt a blush staining her cheeks. All thoughts of playing along with Denan flew out of her head. “How dare you marry me without my permission?”
His gaze held steady. “It can be a marriage in name only, if you want.” She stiffened, surprised at the offer. “After a year, you’ll be free to divorce me and remarry someone else. Or you could train with one of the other women, learn a trade. Support yourself.”
She held out her hands and wrists, the sigils already forming there. “What about the binding?”
“It will remain, though you do not have to honor it.”
She studied him for a while. “And the heartsong?”
He spread his hands. “It was a gift the tree gave us to fight the curse—a way to find women who would be happy here with us.”
“And have women chosen to divorce the man who played their heartsong and bear their sigils?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “Yes. Not many, but yes.”
So she was stuck with him, but maybe not forever. “What do you want fro
m me, Denan?”
He sat on one of the chests. “I don’t want to fight. I want us both to be happy. We barely know each other, but I think it’s safe to say we’ve seen each other at our worst. I would like to show you my best.”
She tried to calm her anger—after all, hadn’t she determined to make Denan drop his guard? “It would help if I knew why you took me.”
“Did you notice anything about the crowd last night?”
Most people had been wearing his insignia. “They were your family.”
He nodded. “What else?”
“Some of them had full heads of hair. Most didn’t.” He pointed behind his ear, turning his head so she could see the missing queue.
“You cut it off last night . . . after we were married?” The men with full heads of hair—they’d all had a woman with them. “Married men grow their hair.” He nodded encouragingly. “The rest of the men—most of them aren’t married. And all the girls—they were all Idelmarchians.” She blinked at him. “Where are all your women?”
He let out a long, relieved breath. “No woman has been born to us since the magic disappeared two hundred and forty-three years ago.”
Her jaw dropped. “Not even one?”
He shook his head. “If we didn’t bring women in, there would be no more children. Our people and our way of life would die out. As would the White Tree—for we are the ones who defend her.”
So that’s why the pipers stole girls. She grudgingly stepped onto the platform. “Why not ask?” She spread her hands to their surroundings. “With this kind of wealth and beauty, girls would flock to you willingly.” If not for Bane and her family, Larkin might have come on her own.
“I bind your tongues so no woman shall willingly come into the forest,” he said as if by rote.
“Who bound you?” Larkin asked. Denan only looked at her. “You can’t say. That isn’t going to get old. And we have another tiny problem. I love Bane.”
He shrugged. “Maybe we could be friends.” Setting the ax down, he rose to his feet and rummaged through another trunk.