If not for the defensive wall, she could almost fool herself into believing she was safe here. “How much of a danger are the wraiths and mulgars to your people?” she asked.
“Every once in a while, the mulgars attack, but the walls have never been breached. Most are injured out on patrols.”
They washed the bowls in rainwater. Denan flicked his fingers and headed toward the dock. “Come on. There’s still so much I want to show you.”
They went back to the keyhole platform and dressed, and he insisted she wear a hat. They climbed into the boat and paddled out onto the exceedingly calm lake. A huge melangth broke the surface, bland gray skin mottled on the underside. “It lives under our tree,” Denan said. “So you’ll probably see it a lot.”
They paddled around the inner circle of trees, Denan pointing out people he knew. The children, all of them boys, waved enthusiastically back. They passed beneath branches woven into an elegant bridge. A little boy with wild blond hair pulled down his pants and peed off the edge, his little bottom pale and dimpled. His mother came out to scold him, waving embarrassedly at them as they passed. Denan chuckled and waved back.
Larkin wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this . . . normalcy—like these women hadn’t been kidnapped and forced to marry their kidnappers, like these boys weren’t being raised to do the same to some innocent girl in their future.
Little islands sprouted like mushrooms and boasted wavering fields of grain. Men and women tended the crops side by side, looking up to wave and call out greetings as they passed. In the shallows, a creature flared and contracted, dozens of fins arranged like a yellow-and-black pinecone. She pointed it out to Denan.
“Brackis,” he said. “Don’t touch them. Each fin has a stinger.”
Larkin shook out her arms—she wasn’t used to paddling so much. He steered them toward another large tree, where a woman crouched, washing out clothes in the lake. She had a scarf tied around her long dark hair, and she dressed in plain brown garments like the ones Larkin wore.
“That’s my mother, Aaryn,” Denan told her.
Larkin recognized her from the wedding, though she’d probably been at the magic ceremony too. They tied off, and Larkin climbed onto the dock.
Aaryn took Larkin’s hands in her own, her rich skin a contrast to Larkin’s. “I’m sorry for all you’ve lost.”
Larkin blinked hard. “Where are you from?”
“A little town outside Cordova, smaller than Hamel.” She tugged Larkin toward the tree. “You arrived just in time. Mytin should be about done with dinner, but first, I want to show you my weaving.”
Mytin cooked? Larkin thought in amazement.
Aaryn took Larkin to a room filled with yarn and sticks like the ones she’d seen tied underneath the docks, which were in the process of being broken down to fibers. Aaryn showed Larkin how she wove those fibers into clothing.
“I could teach you, if you like.” She sounded so hopeful that Larkin could only nod.
Smiling, Aaryn called for Wyn and led them to a kitchen only slightly bigger than Denan’s, though this one was built directly over the water. Bowls were laid out, filled with fish, soggy greens, flat bread, and a creamy substance that Mytin drizzled honey on.
“Larkin, welcome!” Mytin still wore his mantle of authority, a collar that covered his shoulders and peaked at each corner, jewels dangling. “Has your thorn come out yet?”
Her hand strayed to her arm, still tender to the touch. “How would I know if it had?”
“It would come out, like a sliver,” Mytin said. “Probably sometime in the next three days.”
“It’s an old tradition that should have ended years ago.” Aaryn came up behind him and stirred something. “It does nothing but scare the new girls, and they always lose them.”
“If there’s even a chance a girl could have magic, we have to take it.” The way the older man was looking at Larkin, the weight of his expectation—he knew she’d used magic. She forced her gaze to the ground, angry that Denan told her to keep a secret he himself hadn’t.
“I don’t think magic is ever coming back for women.” Aaryn set down the bowl harder than she needed to. “Wyn!” she called, making Larkin jump.
A few moments later, Wyn pounded up the stairs, dripping wet and spear in hand.
“Dry off,” his mother chided, tossing him a towel. “Mytin, will you close the barriers to the wind? The boy’s going to be sick.”
“It’s hot out,” Denan said. “He’s fine.”
Aaryn shot him a look.
“I’ll do it,” Larkin said hastily. She wanted to touch the magic again, if only for a moment. She lifted her hand, the magic stirring against her skin. She pushed and spread her fingers out, the breeze against her face dying out.
“I bet she can’t handle a sword,” Wyn said derisively.
“Wyn!” his mother said.
Denan smacked Wyn on the back of the head. “I’ll teach her.”
Wyn rubbed his head and glared at his older brother. “Mother nearly killed Father with a sword when she was new.”
Mytin gave his son a sheepish grin. “Which is why we never take captives alone. It takes a unit.”
“Mother was a rich man’s daughter,” Denan said. “She had time and money for lessons, and her father indulged her because he wanted her safe from the forest.”
Aaryn clapped her hands. “That’s enough. Wyn, you had better behave or Master Ritland will hear of it.”
Wyn straightened in his chair.
Larkin hung back, feeling like the outsider she was. Denan spooned fish onto some bread, topped it with the creamy sauce, rolled it up, and brought it to her.
“I thought we could sit at the edge while my family takes the table.” Denan must have noticed her discomfort, for there were plenty of chairs.
She took the plate in relief. She dangled her feet in the water, glowing fish nibbling at her heels as she ate.
“What is your father?” she asked soft enough his family wouldn’t hear.
Denan looked at her, his brows drawn, then his head came back in understanding. “Oh, you mean his position. He’s the Arbor. He represents the White Tree. It’s a religious title.”
“And does the king answer to him?”
“No, but my father does advise him. It’s—”
Wyn stood behind her, looking sullen. “I’m sorry I said you were a bad fighter.”
Larkin studied the boy. He’d clearly been sent to apologize and wasn’t happy about it. “You don’t like me much, do you, Wyn?”
His answering glare said it all.
“Wyn,” Denan chided.
Larkin held out her hand to stop Denan. “Why?”
Wyn stuck out his chin. Tears filled the boy’s eyes. “Why are you more important than me because you’re a girl?”
“Wyn,” Denan said, gently this time.
The boy dashed tears off his cheeks, still glaring at Larkin. “You don’t even like him, and he’s spent all his time with you since he got back.”
“We’ve decided to be friends.” Or at least not enemies. “And you can spend as much time with my friend as you’d like.” Or all your time.
Wyn considered this before he gave a curt nod and plopped down beside his older brother. Denan planted a kiss on the boy’s tousled hair.
Larkin leaned across Denan and whispered to Wyn, “Maybe we could be friends too.”
Wyn considered it. “Are you going to the king’s party tomorrow? Father says I have to.”
Denan shook his head. “The new girls don’t go to parties—too much fuss.”
Wyn shot her a challenging look. Larkin knew a test when she saw one. “I won’t make a fuss.”
Denan raised a single brow. “You’d have to pretend you actually like me.”
Wyn folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “You said you were his friend.”
She forced back a wince of guilt and lifted her hands in surrender. “I am! And I will!”
“There will be music,” Denan said carefully. “Larkin, you might not like how it makes you feel.”
A breath of unease fanned through her. “What will it make me feel?”
“It’s a state dinner,” Aaryn said. “The music will ensure everyone tells the truth.”
Larkin shot Denan a look. “Don’t ask me any questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”
Mytin laughed. “I’ll ask for more seats at our table.”
She busied herself eating and listening to Wyn tell Denan all about his classes. Clearly, the boy adored his older brother. Larkin missed her own little sister so much in that moment, and she grieved for the younger sister who wouldn’t remember Larkin at all.
Denan must have noticed. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Wyn. It’s late. Time for everyone to go to bed.”
“But I wanted to go swimming,” Wyn whined.
Denan glanced toward the setting sun. “It’s too close to dark.”
“Why can’t you go swimming after dark?” Larkin asked. That would be the best time to see all the glowing creatures.
He searched the waters. “At night, the waters belong to the lethan.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Let’s hope you never find out.”
The next day passed with more training and a midday swim to cool off and gather their lunch. In the heat of the afternoon, Denan began teaching her to read, though she wasn’t sure why. She’d never be a merchant. When evening came, Denan handed her a towel, a bar of soap that smelled of lime, and a vial of oils that smelled of marjoram. “If you follow the path around the tree, the third space between buttressed roots is perfect for bathing. After you’re done, put on your dress robes.”
She bit her lip, anxiety twisting her middle. “I won’t be able to tell a lie—that’s all the music will do?”
“It also reminds us how connected we are.”
She frowned. “The music—it affects you as well?”
“Not like the heartsong. Our sigils make us more resistant to the rest.”
“I don’t trust you when I have all my wits about me. Yet you expect me to make myself even more vulnerable to you?” The night before, he’d played a lullaby that put her to sleep. And her day had started with music that had made her eyes spring open, eager to start the day. But what happened when he used his magic to make her do something she didn’t want to? He’d done it before.
“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Yet you told your father I had magic, after you made me promise to keep it a secret.”
Denan rubbed his hands together. “My father knew you would have magic before I met you.”
She didn’t believe him. “How?”
“He was there when the tree gave me the amulet. He made the connection between my future wife and my ahlea sigil. I still did not understand. The day we met, I heard Sela singing and found her in the meadow. I stood far off, making sure she was safe and hoping she’d find her way back to your town on her own. And then you came, my heartsong, your hair as red as the beak of the copperbill in my vision.”
She held out her hands in a helpless gesture. “What do you think I can do for you, Denan?”
“We’ll worry about that when your magic manifests.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not even sure I have magic.”
“I’m sure.”
She rubbed her lower back. It had been aching all day. “What if you’re wrong?”
“There’s a way we can prove it.” He said it like a challenge.
She wet her lips. “How?”
“Go back to the font. Ask the White Tree yourself.”
She hesitated—but the more she understood, the sooner she could escape. “All right.”
He let out a long breath. “The bathing spot is that way. Wave your arm to close the barrier.” He inclined his head in the direction she should go.
Larkin removed her clothes and stared at the blood on her underclothing. Her insides hadn’t been twisting with anxiety, but cramps. What was she supposed to do? There wasn’t another woman around to ask about it, and she hadn’t seen any rags in her room.
That left Denan. She didn’t want to talk about such things with Denan, but who else could she go to for help? She washed her clothes out and scrubbed herself, then she carefully wrapped herself in the towel. There wasn’t anything else for it. Face burning with humiliation, she went in search of Denan. She found him on the main platform, polishing a set of armor she’d never seen before. It was silver and embossed with the White Tree in the center, but even all his polishing couldn’t remove the dents and gouges.
He looked up at her, but she couldn’t meet his gaze. “I need rags.”
“Rags? For what?”
“For . . .” She glanced up, hoping he’d understand. His brow drew down in genuine concern, but there was no embarrassment or horror. Not yet. Curse him, why couldn’t he understand? “My monthly!” she blurted.
He was silent a beat. “Oh, that’s why your back was hurting. We don’t use rags for that. There’s a sheepskin with a belt in your room. Bottom drawer.”
She shuffled, knowing she needed to hurry or she’d have blood running down her legs. “I don’t know where . . .?”
He put his armor back in the trunk and closed the lid. “I’ll show you.”
In her room, he opened one of the bottom drawers in the armoire. Inside was a tooled belt and sheepskins, wool still attached.
“I can’t use those.” They were too clean and pretty. At home, she’d used rags that were falling apart and stuffed them into knitted underthings. They weren’t very effective, so she didn’t go out in public on heavy days for fear of leaking.
“I made them for you,” Denan said, sounding almost offended.
“I’ll ruin them.”
“You can’t ruin them by using them for what they were designed for.” When she made no move to take them, Denan sighed. “Larkin, why are you so upset?”
It happened. A drip of blood ran down her leg and skimmed the inside of her foot before soaking into the floor. She pressed her hands into her eyes to keep from bursting into tears.
“You’re embarrassed?” He said it like a revelation.
She nodded, relieved she didn’t have to say it.
“My armor was fashioned by the finest smiths the world has ever known, my uniform by my own mother. I’ve bled all over both. It washes out.”
“This is different,” she whispered.
“Blood is blood.” He pressed the underthings into her hand and stepped back. “I’ll go bathe, and then we’ll go to the celebration.”
“I can’t go out in public! And there’s no way I can wear the ceremonial robes. What if I stain them?”
He looked at her, genuine confusion on his face. “They wash.” He left her alone, bleeding on the floor. She looked down at the undergarments in her hand. He’d made them for her monthly, like her bleeding wasn’t an issue, like it was normal. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled the underwear on. It fit snug against her and was soft—unlike the soggy, ill-fitted rags she usually wore. She washed her legs off in the fountain and cleaned the floor as best she could, then she dressed in her ceremonial robes.
Denan came for her, looking handsome in his robes. He handed her a cup of tea he said would help with her cramps. She took it gratefully. They paddled the boat toward the gleaming amber tree. The wide staircase was covered with Alamantians, mostly men, all of them wearing the same fine clothes, though the mantles were all slightly different with different insignia embossed on the front.
All those strangers watching her. . . Larkin chewed her lip.
“Are you sure you want to go?” Denan asked.
“I promised Wyn.”
She hesitated before stepping onto the same stairs she had earlier. Would she see another vision? Gritting her teeth, she stepped down, and the vision instantly swept her up.
She hit the water hard, slicing clean t
hrough. There was something tight around her waist, pulling her down. The pressure from the water drove knives into her ears and made her scream until they gave with a pop. The pain receded, leaving her with a hollow ringing.
She gasped and came to with Denan holding her in his arms. Her ears were still ringing, the pain slowly fading.
“How many of these visions have you had?” he whispered.
People were watching them, looking concerned. She saw no point in lying to him. “Three. Maybe four.”
He glanced around. “We’ll talk about them later.”
She pulled away from him and straightened. A woman approached them. Not much older than Larkin, she had glowing ebony skin and tight curls, which she wore short. Her cinnamon eyes swept over them, hardening on Denan before sliding away again. “Denan, does your wife need assistance?”
Larkin cringed at being called his wife.
He wouldn’t meet the woman’s gaze. “No, Magalia. She’s suffering her monthly.”
Larkin would kill him. Just as soon as they were alone, she would kill him. For now, she settled for pinching his side. Denan’s mouth tightened, and he pulled her fingers free, covering the action by holding her hand. Reminding herself she needed to pretend to like him, Larkin allowed it.
Magalia’s eyes narrowed. “I have a tincture that will help. Come see me at the healing tree?”
“I’ll send a page,” Denan said. He had pages? He bowed and tugged Larkin away.
Larkin glanced back to see Magalia glaring after Denan, something like hatred in her eyes. “What was that all about?” she hissed at Denan.
He only shook his head. After she killed him, he would tell her what was going on. Larkin scanned the crowd, many of whom watched her curiously. She realized Denan still held her hand and suppressed the urge to pull away. Halfway to the archway at the top of the stairs, a man stepped toward them. He was middle-aged, bald and portly, yet still Denan tensed, his hand slipping free of Larkin’s.
“King Netrish.” Denan bowed without taking his eyes off the other man. “May I present my wife, Princess Larkin.”