“Are we going to turn on each other now?” Denan rubbed his eyes in exasperation or exhaustion or both.
A beat of guilt tore through Larkin. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
His trousers and sleeves wet with blood, Mytin crouched before Sela. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she said, as if she hadn’t just witnessed a man take two arrows to the chest and single-handedly stopped a massacre.
A sentinel jogged toward them, stopping just short of the dais steps. “We didn’t find anything, my prince. We’re going to make a second sweep.”
Denan nodded. “Tam, make sure they search everywhere. Take Alorica with you.”
“What about Sela?” Alorica asked.
Denan motioned to Sela. “Thanks to her shield, we don’t need you.”
Why didn’t Sela just shield us all from the start? Then we could have avoided all this.
Tam seemed about to argue, then glanced at Larkin. Muttering about obstinate women, he stepped down by Alorica, and the two left together.
Carrying her bag, Magalia finally managed to push through the last of the crowd. She took the steps two at a time and shouldered the king’s grieving son out of the way. She retrieved a pair of scissors and cut the king’s fine tunic down the center, revealing the black bolts piercing a canvas of blood and magic.
Denan crossed to the other side of the dais, the others trailing behind. “What do you need?” he asked Magalia.
Magalia sat back on her haunches, her head bowed. “I’m sorry, my king. The arrows are buried to the haft in your lungs—if I remove them, you’ll only bleed out faster.”
“No,” Jaslin begged. “No, please.”
Larkin felt a swell of pity for Jaslin, who believed that if the king fought, if he wanted to live badly enough, that he could survive this. That he could bargain or fight or steal his way out from under death’s cold grip. But there was no running from death. Not once it had you in its sights.
Death was blind to strength and deaf to pleas for mercy.
The king knew this too. He’d commanded the armies before Denan. He’d seen strong, hale men cut down in moments. Men who fought death with every bit of their considerable strength. Netrish brushed his fingers down his wife’s face, murmuring something too softly for Larkin to hear.
Then the king’s gaze shifted to Denan. “Are you really so eager to be king?”
Denan’s brow shot up. “You think I did this?”
“Father—” Gendrin began.
Netrish coughed, blood spewing onto his wife’s pale blue dress. His lips and teeth were painted a garish red. “Garrot was right. You’re the only person who benefits from my death.”
“You can’t believe Garrot,” Larkin said, aghast. “If anything, he plotted this with the wraiths!”
“I told you—” Sela began.
The king’s sigils flared brighter, so bright Larkin raised her hand to shield her eyes. And then all that light was suddenly gone. King Netrish’s face was slack, his body unnaturally still. Jaslin threw herself on his chest, sobbing. Gendrin buried his face in his hands.
“The king is dead,” Mytin intoned. His gaze shifted to Denan. “Long live the king.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Deadwood
Death was an intimate thing. And in this death, Larkin was an interloper. Denan, Magalia, and Mytin seemed to sense it as well. With a shared look, they all moved off the dais completely, leaving the man and his family alone with their grief. Larkin was nearly past the sentinels before she realized Sela wasn’t following them. She remained, watching the queen grieve over her king.
“Sela.” Larkin held out her hand for her sister.
Sela turned reluctantly away and glided down the remaining steps toward them. She didn’t take Larkin’s hand. “I will never understand why mankind craves darkness more than light.”
Those were not the words of a child. Or even a human. They were the words of an ancient, alien being. Sela, translating the White Tree’s thoughts—thoughts that had changed Sela so much that Larkin wasn’t sure how much little girl even remained. A different kind of grief threatened to pull Larkin down. She couldn’t let it. Not while there was still an assassin to deal with.
A dozen guards surrounded Larkin, Denan, and Sela the moment they left the dais. The enchantresses flared their shields above and to the sides.
Denan led them to the center of the platform. “Are we still armored?” he asked Sela.
She continued past them without looking back, six guards breaking away to surround her.
Larkin gestured to the slight sheen of gold at the edges of her own body. “You can see it if you know where to look.”
He scanned her and then his head came up in understanding. He stepped forward, taking her arm; the armor prevented her from feeling his touch, aside from the warmth of it. He examined a gash on her forearm. “You’re hurt.”
Only then did Larkin feel the sting of it. He sent one of the guards for Magalia with a tip of his chin. Larkin tried to recall when it had happened. Not with Garrot; he hadn’t even bothered to draw a weapon.
Then she remembered. “One of the bolts nicked me.”
The guards stepped aside to let Magalia approach them. She glanced at Larkin’s arm and reached into her bag.
Denan nodded for one of the enchantresses to shield Larkin. “Sela,” Denan called. “Release her shield.”
The faint outline of gold around her faded.
Denan’s brow drew tight with worry. “You were a target.”
She shook her head. “It was when I reached for the king.”
He didn’t look convinced. “What if the bolts were poisoned?”
Larkin hadn’t even considered that. A new kind of fear wormed its way inside her.
Magalia pressed a hand to Larkin’s forehead. “Are you feeling sick to your stomach?” Larkin shook her head. Magalia looked somewhat mollified. “If she’d been poisoned, she’d either be sick or dead by now.”
“You’re sure?” Denan said.
“I can’t know all the poisons in the world,” Magalia said. “But she should be fine.”
Larkin breathed out in relief.
Magalia poured a tincture over the wound, which set it to stinging. Larkin hissed through her teeth and looked away as Magalia pulled apart the edges and peered inside. It started bleeding again. Larkin watched the blood drip on her lovely dress. The dress Denan had given her. Would the stain ever come out?
Magalia reached back into her bag. “It’s only skin deep. Needs stitches though.” She pulled out a needle and thread.
Stitching would take too long; they had an assassin to find. “Just wrap it for now. Mama can fix me up tonight.” As their village’s midwife, she’d stitched plenty of women.
Magalia frowned in displeasure but handed Larkin a couple tinctures, showing her which needed to be drunk and which to wash the wound with. She set about bandaging the wound.
One of the sentinels rushed toward them, lowering his voice when he came close enough. “Your grandmother has had some kind of fit, princess.”
Iniya might be a bitter old woman, but she’d been a child once—a child who’d witnessed her family’s slaughter before being driven out of her own home. Pity welled within Larkin. “Violence triggers them.” Violence that made her relive that dreadful day and rendered her nearly catatonic.