Through blood and betrayal, her grandfather had left power the same way he’d come into it. And now, standing in the sacred tree, was his successor. The new Master Druid.
Don’t panic! Larkin couldn’t lose control in front of all these people. She closed her eyes in a futile effort to banish the images. But the iron smell of blood remained in her nostrils. As did the gurgling sound of her grandfather gasping his last breath in her ears.
“Larkin,” Denan whispered from beside her.
He had protected her for months—letting her stay home while he and the king had met with the druids. But she couldn’t avoid this ceremony. Not if she wanted the pipers to take her seriously. Steeling herself, she made herself face the druids.
They were halfway across the platform. Close enough that her gaze met Garrot’s, and everything disappeared. He was haggard and thin, shadows like bruises filling the pale hollows of his face.
The price of the blight he bore? If so, he deserved that and more.
Her ears rang as another memory swarmed her. Her shoulders and wrists ached as she fought the men holding her. Garrot dragged Bane up the scaffolding steps and wrapped the noose around his neck.
“No!” The word had ripped from her throat. Bane could not die. He was a childhood of fishing in the rivers and teaching her to overcome her fear of the water. Of warm bread and jam when she could never get enough to eat. Her first love. The man who saved her over and over again.
How could life exist without Bane?
“Don’t watch,” Bane said.
Garrot glared at her. “Make her watch.”
And then the trapdoor snapped open.
At the edges of her awareness, the druids marched closer. Words without meaning passed over her.
“Get her under control,” King Netrish snapped under his breath.
Standing on her tiptoes to see over the tall sentinel’s shoulder, Iniya watched with a furious frown. She shook her head in disgust and mouthed, “Do not embarrass me.”
“Larkin.” The brush of Denan’s nose against her cheek brought her back with a start. All her sigils were alight; the only thing keeping her sword and shield from forming was Denan’s bruising grip over her sigils. He left his place to stand directly in front of her, his body blocking her from view.
“He should die for what he’s done.” She would either charge Garrot or fall into a puddle of sobbing. She wasn’t sure which would be worse.
“Breathe with me. Listen to the music.”
She turned her face into the hollow of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, letting him shield her, letting the music flow through her body, find the dark tension and fear, and turn it to light.
He tucked her smaller hands into his large ones. “Feel the power coursing through your sigils.”
The buzzing pain filled her like a river overflowing its banks.
“You are stronger than he is. He can’t hurt you. Not anymore.”
Denan was right. Larkin had all the power here, and Garrot would do best to remember it. Five deep breaths, and the fear had abated enough for her to leave the safety of Denan’s body. To face the man who had taken so much from her.
He would take no more.
“I’m ready.”
Holding her hand tight, Denan shifted back to his place. Larkin forced herself to meet Garrot’s gaze. And this time, he was the one to look away. A tiny victory. Yet it expanded in Larkin’s breast, forcing her back to straighten and her jaw to tilt up.
She surveyed the rest of the druids. The robes and belt made it obvious that of the three hundred men present, all were Black Druids. The ruling class of the druids. The warriors. The men who knew the secrets of the Forbidden Forest and refused to tell their people, instead letting them believe some insatiable beast called their daughters into the forest to their deaths.
They stopped a dozen steps before the dais.
For a long moment, the groups stared like two armies sizing each other up. It was as if the ghosts of the dead pipers swirled about the druids, crying for justice. But just as strong was the grief of the druids, the fathers and brothers of generations of girls who’d been stolen from their homes.
Garrot looked to their king. “We will not come a step further until your music has ceased, Piper King.” His voice was low, but it carried. A voice that had remained gentle even as he’d bound Larkin’s chained hands to the crucible.
Every one of the druids was probably wearing a dampener gifted them by the wraiths. The music could not control them, only influence them. Garrot would be far better served by fearing the enchantresses and their warrior magic than the pipers’ music.
Frowning, King Netrish motioned to the band, who stopped playing. The comforting magic faded, leaving only fear and anger sharp enough to cut.
It was into this sharpness that Larkin’s little sister stepped down the stairs of one of the side branches. At five, Sela’s strawberry blonde puff of hair framed her face like a halo. With her emerald eyes and willowy build, she was a beautiful girl. But her bearing was not that of a child, but a woman grown. A woman with all the power of the White Tree at her beck and call.
Not yet, Larkin wanted to scream at her.
Larkin tugged Denan’s hand to get his attention and tipped her head toward her sister. His mouth tightened.
Sela stepped through Alorica and Tam, who were too busy watching the crowd to notice until the Alamantians parted reverently for Sela—as they had never for Larkin. For not only was Sela the voice of the White Tree, she had accomplished what Larkin could not: she had broken the curse. At least in part.
Enchantresses casually repositioned themselves to protect the girl if the druids made any aggressive moves. Hurrying to catch up, Alorica bent down and whispered something to Sela, but the girl ignored the woman and kept marching. Alorica shot Larkin a look—should she stop Sela?
By then it was too late.
Iniya caught sight of Sela and rolled her eyes, her head in her hands, as if she couldn’t quite believe she had such idiots for granddaughters.
Sela stepped directly into the path of Garrot and his Black Druids, her hands folded behind her back, her expression exuding a serenity Larkin could only hope for. “Garrot of the Black Druids, the White Tree is most eager to see what kind of man you are.”
Alorica and Tam shifted close enough to snatch her out of harm’s way in an instant.
Garrot’s brow furrowed as he studied the little girl in confusion. “Sela?” He glared at the king. “What is the meaning of this?” Judging from the tone of his voice, he was clearly offended that a child had been sent to greet him.
Larkin released Denan’s hand in case a fight broke out.
“She is the Arbor in training,” King Netrish said. “And she has found ways to communicate with the White Tree no one has ever managed before.”
All the Alamantians present were strung tight—each would fight to the death to protect Sela. Larkin would fight at their head. Denan’s hand twitched toward the sword missing from his waist. Enchantress sigils flickered, the light catching on the jewels of their gowns and throwing prisms across the crowd.
The druids shifted uneasily, their gazes flitting to the enchantresses surrounding them. As if they’d just realized that the women wearing a king’s ransom of jewels and fine gowns could kill them where they stood.
Sela pulled up the sleeves of her simple green dress, revealing the sigils curling prettily up and down her arms. “Though I appear as a child, my mind bears five centuries of memories and knowledge.”