Trying not to cringe at the title, Larkin gave a watery smile and bowed as well.
“Prince Denan, I’m surprised to see you out and about so soon.” Netrish didn’t seem happy about it. “Your wife is adjusting well?”
Larkin hated when people spoke about her like she wasn’t there. “Perfectly well, thank you.”
Netrish examined her from her bare head to her bare feet. “Wonderful.” He placed a damp kiss on the back of her hand. “Such a fine thing to have you here, my dear.” He breezed past them, heading toward a man in full armor.
“He’s not happy about stepping down,” Larkin whispered.
Denan watched him go. “No.”
Larkin spotted familiar dark curls and a flash of dusky skin. For a moment, everything stilled. She let out a gasp and ran forward.
“Larkin?” Denan called after her.
She was already halfway up the stairs, darting around staring people. Alorica met her in the middle, and they enveloped each other in a hug. Knowing they had only a few seconds before Denan arrived, Larkin whispered, “As soon as I figure out my magic, I can keep us safe from the pipers and the Forbidden Forest. We can go home!”
Alorica stiffened. “We can’t even leave our trees without an escort. How will we ever—”
“Where is your tree?” Larkin interrupted. “So I can find you when the time comes.”
Alorica hesitated and pulled back. She jerked her chin to the right. “That way.”
“That doesn’t—”
“Larkin.” Tam appeared behind Alorica. A look passed between the two of them. Alorica looked away first. He looked at someone behind her and bowed. “If I’d known you were to be in attendance, I wouldn’t have come.”
Larkin whirled on Denan. “Why shouldn’t they attend?”
Denan stepped closer. “Because you and Alorica tend to plot.” His hand came around her waist, tugging her away. “My family is waiting. The music will start soon.”
Tam led Alorica in the opposite direction. “Why can’t I talk to her?”
“You can. If you both promise there will be no whispering and no alone time.” She stiffened before nodding. “I’ll arrange it, then, but not tonight. We haven’t the time.”
Denan took her to a table that had been set up on a platform at the tree’s base. His family was waiting for them, plates of food before empty chairs. Aaryn patted the chair next to her.
From the other side of Denan, Wyn eyed Larkin as if considering something. “Did someone try to kill you?” He pointed at her throat.
“Wyn,” his mother hissed.
Larkin covered her scar self-consciously. “Yes.”
He nodded approvingly. “I guess she’s not so bad,” he said to his brother.
Denan choked on a laugh.
Larkin decided she didn’t like Denan’s brother. “Someone almost killing me makes you like me?”
Wyn’s brow furrowed. “No. You surviving does.”
She let out a long breath. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.
Wyn’s feet kicked under his chair. “I’m going to be commander general someday. I haven’t had my ceremony to choose my path yet, but I know what it will say. Then I’ll kill all the mulgars and wraiths. Although I wish I could have one of the women’s magical swords—their magic is so much better than enthralling a girl with pipes.”
“Wyn!” Mytin’s voice held an undercurrent of threat.
“What? All the other boys say it too.” Wyn continued to kick his feet as he turned to Larkin. “Do you like being married to Denan?”
Everyone at the table froze.
The music hadn’t started, but Larkin wasn’t going to lie to smooth things over. “No.”
“Why?” Wyn asked. “He’s going to be king, and he always beats Tam in wrestling. Tam is pretty good too, but no one can beat Talox.”
No one would look at her. “Because I was forced to marry him.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Wyn,” his mother begged.
“But I don’t understand,” Wyn went on. “If she could’ve, she would have chosen him. All the women say it.” He turned back to Larkin. “Denan can hit a target from the other side of the clearing with an arrow and a knife. He’s not as good with his ax, but they’re not the throwing kind anyway.”
Determination obviously ran in the family. “I was to marry someone else.”
Wyn waved away her comment. “Denan is better.” He continued enumerating Denan’s virtues between bites of fish, flatbread, sugared berries, and crunchy, salted seaweed. Twilight came on, the tree’s inner light casting a pleasant glow. When a young man came to take Wyn home, Larkin wasn’t the only one to breathe out in relief.
“The music will start soon,” Aaryn said. “I’m orchestrating.”
Mytin rose to his feet to follow her.
Denan stood to block him. “I wonder, Father, if Larkin might see the font again.”
Mytin shot his son a questioning look. Denan gave a slight nod. Mytin patted his wife’s hand. “Proceed without me, my dear. We’ll be along shortly.”
He led them to the stairs that wound up the tree. Two men in ceremonial armor blocked the way, halberds crossed over the stairs. When Mytin approached, they uncrossed them and snapped to attention. Mytin climbed past them without looking back.
Larkin eased nervously past the guards. At the archway at the top of the concave space, she couldn’t take her gaze off the font.
“So her thorn has taken?” Mytin said.
“Not yet,” Denan answered.
“Then what are we doing?” Mytin asked in that mild way of his.
“Larkin wants to choose her path,” Denan said. He turned to her. “I was marked as the future king when I was twelve. When I was twenty-one, the tree marked me with the ahlea—the insignia of women’s magic. From the font came the amulet, which bore the figure of the White Tree—the mark of the Arbor.”
Larkin shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Before women’s magic was taken, all Arbors were women,” Mytin said. “They communicated with the White Tree in ways we haven’t been able to since.”
“You think I’m the Arbor?” Larkin asked.
“Yes,” Mytin said.
She pursed her lips. “And if I refuse it?”
Mytin chuckled. “You can’t refuse the calling any more than you could refuse your hands or your eyes. It’s a part of you.”
Denan spread his hands toward the font. “You have to ask her.”
“Her?”
“The White Tree has always been female.”
“How do I ask?” she said softly.
Mytin led the way, pausing before the largest thorn. “Push your hand onto the thorn.”
She flinched. “What?”
Mytin’s eyes were gentle. “You don’t have to do this, Larkin—not if you aren’t ready.”
Biting her lip, she examined the thorn and noted what she’d missed before—the tip was hollow. A drop of sap dripped from the tip into the font. It wouldn’t be any different than squeezing the amulet. Before she could change her mind, she gripped the thorn, feeling it slide into her skin.
Her blood swirled inside the point, mixing with the sap in mesmerizing patterns. Warmth swept through her hand, the pain gone in an instant. The sap spread through her, just as her blood spread through the sap. Within her, something foreign quested, searching, niggling.
“What do you want from me?” she cried.
The vision sucked her in.
Ahead, the White Tree’s light outshone the stars and even the moon. She stood at the head of a boat, her hair long and wavy down her back. She wore a headdress of gold and amber. Behind her, the women pulled up their oars, the boat bumping against the stairs.
Pulling up her gown of gold and white, she stepped into the water. Her bare feet touched the bark. Joy and sadness and longing curled up inside her, lighting her sigils so they burned gold. She climbed the stairs to a wide bough. She crossed i
ts wide expanse, the water gleaming turquoise from the tree’s inner light.
As she walked, she dropped her cloak, mantle, tunic, and trousers, so she stood in only her underthings, a weighted belt, and a necklace. Only then did she turn outward. Beyond the trees branches were hundreds of boats, all filled with her people. She took a pendant in her hand, the seed inside rattling against the metal.
She stepped to the edge, the bough swaying gently with the breeze. Swallowing her fear, she pointed her hands over her head and dove. Falling. Falling. Falling. She hit the water and sliced deep into the dark abyss, the weighted belt forcing her deeper.
Larkin wrenched free of the vision with a gasp, coming back to herself one breath at a time. She still held the thorn, her blood turning the sap pink. The tree wanted her help to plant a seed deep in the water. “Help me save my people from the pipers, and I’ll help you,” she whispered back.
A metallic hum started in her chest, like the singing of crystals. A feeling swept over her—need, desperation, a sense of time running out. Denan asked her something, but she couldn’t hear him over the singing crystals. She followed the sound to the other side of the font.
Her fingers brushed over the tips of the crystals, the points sharp, but not cutting. Her finger grazed one, and the singing stopped. Her breaths sounded unnaturally loud. She broke the thorn off, her right hand buzzing with need. She was aware of movement in her periphery, but she didn’t look up as she slid the thorn into the skin behind where her thumb and first finger met.
Sweet release flooded her, the pressure in her chest popping. She staggered, only to have another crystal start singing. This one she pushed into her left forearm. Another crystal sang, the thorn longer and wider than the others. The moment she touched it, the singing stopped, a hollow ache pulsing at the back of her neck. She swept her hair aside, positioning the thorn where it needed to be.
“Let me.” Denan took the thorn from her, sliding it into the skin of her neck.
Only then did the humming stop altogether, replaced by the pain. She came back to herself fully, staggering with dizziness. Mytin wrapped her welted wounds with a soft cloth smeared with salve that took away a little of the ache. He handed her a simple wooden cup filled with sap from the font. She drank it eagerly.
“What did the tree show you?” Mytin asked.
“It wants me to plant a seed.”
Mytin and Denan exchanged a weighted glance. “We’ll find a way,” Mytin said.
“A way to what?” Larkin asked.
“The White Tree is dying,” Denan finally answered. “Our people and yours are in danger.”
“My people are in danger? From what?”
“The barrier around the Idelmarch is failing,” Mytin said. “And when the tree dies, it will be completely gone.”
When the barrier fell, mulgars and wraiths would have free reign over her people. They’d all be slaughtered! “Can I plant another?”
“Perhaps,” Mytin said.
From below, music twined through the boughs, spinning around Larkin like a whirlwind before sinking deep inside her. Peace and contentment settled into her body like a pleasant drowsiness, chasing away the worry and constant fear.
When she opened her eyes, Mytin was gone. Denan held out a hand. “Dance with me?”
It took all her will to hold back. “You’re my enemy.” The moment she said it, she realized it wasn’t true—not anymore.
“Do you really believe that?”
She chose not to answer.
“You’ll be expected to know the steps when we go down.”
Her resistance evaporated. She placed her hand in his, for once not cringing away from his touch, even when he placed his hand on the small of her back. He didn’t have to teach her anything. She followed his lead, the music becoming one with her body. The music melded from one song to another. They moved together in perfect step, effortless and dreamlike. Larkin had always loved to dance, but this was more than just dancing. This was its own kind of magic.
When the music finally trailed off to nothing, Larkin came back to herself slowly. Her head rested against Denan’s chest as if was meant to be there. His arms cradled her against him. She pulled back. He tucked her hair behind her ear, the backs of his fingers trailing down the side of her face.
“It’s the music,” she said breathlessly.
“The music stopped,” Denan answered.
He was right. It had stopped. And she still didn’t want to move. It felt . . . good to be held by Denan. When had she stopped hating him? Or had it been so gradual she hadn’t even noticed? “We barely know each other,” she echoed his own words back to him.
“I know you’re smart and brave and incredibly tenacious. I know you don’t trust easily, but when you do, that person has your undying loyalty for the rest of their life.”
She studied his eyes, black in the dim light. She knew things about him too—his endless patience, his leadership and high morals, and, most of all, his devotion to his family and people.
“Can I have a lock of your hair?” he asked.
“Why?”
He reached out, running his fingers through it, and she shivered. “A keepsake.”
He’d given her so many fine things that she could not deny him this. She nodded. He eased a small knife from his belt and stepped closer. She could feel the heat of him shimmering between them, his skin gleaming in the soft light.
He pushed her hair back from her shoulder. “Tip your head to the side.”
She exposed the length of her throat. He pulled out a tendril of her hair from the nape of her neck. The knife sang through it, leaving a long rope of copper in his hand. He tucked the knife away, wrapped the hair around his knuckles, and slipped the tendril deep in his pocket. She rubbed at the short, tightly curling strands hidden beneath her thick hair and glanced up to see him watching her with such intensity and longing that it took her breath away. He reached up, his movements slow and deliberate as if she were a bird he might startle away.
Instead, she held very, very still.
He cupped her cheek, and she felt the tremor start beneath his skin, as if he were touching something precious and rare instead of simply her freckled cheek. Something in her swelled, begging to rise and meet him. It was getting harder and harder to hold it back.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked breathlessly.
“Let me kiss you,” he asked.
A sweet pang shot through her lower belly. She had to look away—or risk being lost forever. “Don’t.”
He stroked her cheek, his fingers trailing down her neck before starting back up. She wanted this man, wanted his arms around her. To feel the press of his hard body against her soft one, his heart beating against her chest, his lips on hers. That longing dragged her gaze back to his eyes, the love in their depths tugging her upward, his full lips beckoning. Were they as soft as they looked? His hand slipped through her hair, cupping the back of her head and tilting her mouth toward his. She rose up to meet him, their lips a mere breath apart.
“Bane.”
Arms wrapping around herself, she whirled away from Denan. He let her go without a fight. How could she have forgotten Bane? It had only been a week. “The music, you promised it wouldn’t trick me.”
“It only strips away the lies we tell ourselves, the walls we build to protect and isolate us.”
Ancestors, what had she nearly done?
A hollow note sounded, cutting through her like a knife. She staggered back. She searched for the danger that had to be there, though she wasn’t sure where or how she knew it.
Denan snatched her hand. “Come on.”
She hurried after him. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t have to answer. Through the boughs of the White Tree, she caught sight of something rising in the distance—brilliant gold and red, like a serpent’s tongue.
Flames.
A tree burned.
Larkin followed Denan down the windi
ng staircase, past the startled sentinels standing guard at the entrance. She followed the men’s gaze through an opening in the branches. The tree burned, tongues of flame devouring the branches. On either side, men chopped at the connecting bridges in an attempt to keep the other trees from catching fire.
“No!” Denan cried, and he took off at a full sprint.
“Denan?” Larkin tried to keep up, but he was so much faster. The single long note of warning echoed across the waters, and she could swear the trees groaned. He passed the archway and sprinted past servants cleaning up the mess—they couldn’t see the burning from here. He reached the dock and pulled the mooring line free.
“What are you doing?” she cried as she reached the stairs.
He jumped into the boat. “That’s my family’s tree!”
Larkin thought of Wyn and his unyielding love for his brother, of Aaryn’s kindness, of Mytin’s adoration for his wife.
Denan pulled away from the dock, his oar digging deep into the dark water. Larkin dove after and grabbed the gunwale, nearly capsizing the boat. Denan pulled her in and threw her an oar. They paddled hard.
As they came closer, burning leaves sifted through the air, sizzling as they hit the water. Smoke burned Larkin’s lungs. They had nearly reached the tree—the heat of it blasting her face—when another boat pulled away, Mytin paddling. Aaryn was hunched over, sobbing with pain. Much of her clothing had burned away on her left side, the skin bright red and blistered.
“Where’s Wyn?” Denan called.
“I looked everywhere,” his father choked out. “I have to get your mother to healers.”
“You have to find him,” Aaryn wailed. “Please, Denan!”
“I will.” Denan dug in with his oar. As soon as they slammed into the dock, he shot out of the boat. Half standing, Larkin stumbled and went down to one knee. She pushed herself up after him.
“Stay by the boat in case he comes,” Denan said as he tied the craft off. “If he does, get out before the boughs come down.”
“But—” she began to protest, but Denan was already gone. “Wyn!” she called, hands cupped around her mouth. “Wyn, where are you?”