Knowledge a child shouldn’t have.
Garrot blinked in surprise.
“It is because of Sela that the curse was lifted from the women of our kingdoms, Master Druid,” Mytin said.
“There are refreshments.” King Netrish gestured to the tables in an obvious attempt to diffuse the tension. “The band could perform a song if—”
Garrot held out his hand. “We came here for the embedding ceremony. Not a party.”
King Netrish stiffened in affront. “As you wish.”
Turning her back to the druids, Sela lifted her hem, climbed the dais steps, and took her place beside Mytin. Larkin hadn’t liked this arrangement; she wanted Sela with her and Denan. But Sela was technically an Arbor, so Larkin had been overruled. She took comfort in the dozen enchantresses—Alorica and Tam among them—at the base of the steps who could flare their shields if the druids tried rushing the font.
Netrish nodded for Mytin to begin.
“The White Tree chooses who will receive their thorns,” Mytin said by rote, as if he’d given this speech hundreds of times. He probably had. “If the thorns take root and become a sigil, the magic will grow as they do. But you should be aware that each sigil is its own sentient being. You will have to train them, as you would a child, communicating with them using the music played from instruments made of the White Tree.”
“The enchantresses don’t use music,” Garrot pointed out.
“Enchantress magic is warrior magic,” Aaryn said. “We have no need of pipes or flutes in order to flare our swords and shields.”
Garrot glanced at Larkin again before quickly looking away. Was it possible he was afraid of her? The thought was heady enough to smother her fear, leaving only righteous fury in its wake.
Mytin stepped back and dipped a chalice into the font. “Only the Arbors, royalty, and an initiate seeking their thorns may step onto the dais.”
The king shifted to the side, leaving the way up clear.
The Arbor held out the dripping cup. “Who will go first?”
Garrot didn’t even glance at the men around him before climbing the steps. Iniya shot him a hateful glare—she despised Garrot even more than she despised everyone else. In this hatred, Larkin and her grandmother were one.
As he drew even with Larkin, her hackles rose. She was glad Denan stood between her and Garrot. If he wasn’t, she would have killed the druid where he stood. As it was, Denan took her hand; she wasn’t sure if it was to show support or to pin her sword hand in his. Maybe both.
Garrot took the cup, peering suspiciously into the liquid. “Now what?”
“You drink,” Mytin said. “Then push your palm into the conduit thorn.” The thorn was as thick as her wrist at the base and culminated in a wickedly sharp, hollow point.
The whole ceremony was somewhat different from when Larkin had received her thorns—Sela’s doing. Apparently, with the breaking of the curse, some of the old ways were coming back.
Garrot tipped up the chalice and drained it in a couple enormous swallows. Gaze hungry, he pressed his hand into the conduit thorn and gasped. His blood rolled through the font like angry thunderheads.
“Mm.” Sela’s eyes danced beneath closed lids. “There is darkness within you, Master Druid. Darkness battling with the light. It is too soon to see which shall win.” She opened those eyes, which shone with preternatural light. “The White Tree will give you no thorns.”
Larkin let out a breath in relief. Nothing good could come of a man like Garrot having more power than he already did.
Garrot pressed his thumb into the bleeding wound and glared down at Sela. “I am the Master Druid.”
She tipped her head to the side. “And Master you shall remain, though you will have no magic.”
He took a step toward her. Denan let go of Larkin’s hand, and she flared her sigils. If Garrot took another step toward her sister, he would die, treaty or no.
Sela’s sigils pulsed white, casting a brilliant glow. “Spill blood within this tree, and every single Idelmarchian will die where they stand.”
Larkin waited for Garrot to make a move. From the crowd came the gentle tinkling of jewels as the enchantresses moved into a fighting stance. This was the moment she had been dreading, the moment when Garrot finally revealed how selfish he really was.
But something shifted in his hard expression. Something like regret. “I will, of course, acquiesce to the White Tree.”
Larkin didn’t relax—surely this was a trick. But Garrot stepped to the side and motioned for the next man to take his place before the conduit thorn. Mytin motioned for Garrot to step down. He shook his head, clearly refusing to go. For a tense moment, no one knew what to do.
“Let him stay,” Sela said without taking her gaze off the druid.
Denan shot Larkin a baffled look. Maybe the battle they had been anticipating, planning for months, wasn’t going to come to pass. Larkin released her hold on her magic. For the first time since the druids appeared, she allowed herself to sink back on her heels.
A sudden warm wetness splattered against her right side and clouded her vision. She blinked, rubbing her eye to clear it. Her fingertips came away red with blood.
That’s when the screaming began.
CHAPTER FOUR
Long Live the King
To her right, King Netrish stumbled. A bolt shaft stuck out of his chest, blood quickly spreading. Larkin reached for him. Pain flared in her right forearm. Another bolt appeared in the king’s chest. He staggered back.
“Larkin, shield!” Sword out, Denan turned to face Garrot, who held up his empty hands.
Flaring her shield, Aaryn stepped before the king and Sela.
Her body sluggish with disbelief, Larkin mirrored Aaryn’s movements, her shield lifted to protect from above. Mytin dropped beside the king and pressed his hands against the wound. Tam bounded up the steps and stood before Sela with his weapons drawn. Gendrin rushed to his father’s side and took the man’s other hand in his.
Aaryn called out commands to her enchantresses. With a precision born of weeks of drilling, they snapped into position. Alorica and two dozen enchantresses spread their shields over and around the font, effectively locking Larkin and the others inside a nearly impenetrable barrier. Other enchantresses created a shield wall and trapped the druids in a long column. One of the sentinels tossed Iniya over his shoulder and carried her to safety toward one of the upward branches, where ropes were waiting to take her down to the boats.
The Black Druids bunched together, looks of defiance on their faces.
Denan gestured to the White Tree Sentinels standing guard at the six sets of stairs leading up into the boughs. “Find who did this!”
They raced up the steps.
King Netrish made a gurgling, gasping sound. The horror in his eyes . . . Larkin had seen it many times—the look on the face of a man who knew he was about to die. Gendrin gripped his shoulder and hand, murmuring reassurances.
“Magalia!” Mytin called for the healer.
There was nothing the healer could do, not for a man with an arrow in each lung. The king was as good as dead. Light, what will this do to his family?
“We are unarmed!” Garrot shouted from behind her.
Larkin rounded on him. “You did this.” He had orchestrated this attack on their king. She should never have allowed this monster into the city. Never allowed him the chance to hurt her or anyone else she loved ever again.