Brood of Vipers Page 13

  “Helena—”

  “Please,” Helena pleads, her heart fluttering in her chest as she cries, “It has nothing to do with us. I just cannot face this knowing you are watching. I don’t want you to watch me die.”

  “I do not have a choice, Helena!” Ithel rips the blindfold away to stare into Helena’s eyes. Her furious, angry, defiant eyes, the very ones that still haunt his dreams. “I am just as much a slave as all the people who have given you their life’s strength to heal you every day since we pulled you out of the prisons. Can you not see that?”

  “What are you talking about?” Helena demands, shocked by his sudden revelation. “You are a slave?”

  “I mean, if you get hurt in the tunnel, I have been spelled to force my energy into you for healing, even if it brings my own death.” Ithel’s voice shatters as he pulls her unyielding form closer, finding comfort in her proximity even as he grieves his own circumstances. “Every one of the ‘guards’ used in this trial is a slave, Helena, including me. I am supposed to keep you alive at all costs. Alaric told me you’d enjoy the irony of the situation; he said you’d really get a kick out of standing over my body as your energy drains mine dry.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me sooner? And how did you end up enslaved in the first place? When I left, you were still in the border guards! What happened?” Helena cries even as she struggles against his closeness. The familiar scent of his skin is almost too much to bear.

  “I defied the king,” Ithel breathes into her hair as he pushes her gently aside. “After you left me, I lost my mind. Neither the palace nor the border guard stations offered me peace and rest; everywhere I went, I saw you hiding in the shadows, haunting my mind with memories. So, I joined the patrols that ventured up high into the mountains to escape you. Terrible things happen in the Devil’s Spine, Helena. People—both Windwalkers and Cassians—are abused there. It’s nothing short of torture and mass killings. And I participated in it all, doing what I was told and feeling no remorse. I was angry at you, and I used my rage to fuel my hatred of anything and everything that landed in my path. I did unspeakable, horrible things, Helena, and I was proud of it all.” Ithel steps out of Helena’s reach, bracing his hands against a window frame, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “I felt nothing but hate during those days until they asked me to kill a child. A young, innocent girl.” His body trembles as he relives the moment in his mind. “She was the daughter of some high-ranking man in Cassè. The border guards had caught her and decided to send her back as a message—a defiled, deceased warning to her family. It was to be carried out by my hand at the king’s special request to prove my loyalty.”

  “What did you do?” Helena places her hand against his muscled shoulder, already knowing the answer. The young unnamed child had belonged to her neighbors; she’d returned safely to her home after a couple weeks, unwilling to speak about wherever she’d been. How close had the patrols come to finding us? Helena realizes, feeling justified for keeping her child indoors as much as possible in those days. How easily it could have been my own daughter!

  “I let the girl escape into the woods, with a pack of food and water and a general direction to travel to find her way home. When word got out that she hadn’t died by my hand, I was sent back to the palace in disgrace. I was immediately stripped of my rank; I became Alaric’s first slave.”

  Helena’s lungs burn in her chest long before she realizes she has stopped breathing. “I’m so sorry,” she wheezes, wrapping her arms around Ithel in a tight embrace. “It was all my fault; I should never have left you behind. You have to know that I truly believed you would be safer in the guard. I didn’t want you to be labelled a traitor…like me.”

  “I’d have followed you anywhere,” Ithel whispers, leaning back to kiss her forehead softly before slipping the blindfold back in its place. “Now go beat this trial, so we can finally be free.”

  Inside, Helena’s very soul feels like a caged animal paces through her blood as Ithel leads her to the trial’s unknown location. Every heartbeat fuels her rage. She welcomes the darkness of the tunnel. Something primal and wicked is awake inside her now. Nothing will stand in her path.

  Ithel carefully removes the blindfold. Helena’s eyes easily adjust to the semi-darkness of the cave. Though she knows the four other challengers are nearby, she cannot focus on them. Off to the left, a seat has been carved into the stone of the cavern’s walls. It is a crude throne, yet it serves its purpose well enough for Alaric. Helena’s furious glare is only for the king. He meets her anger with a smirk and a nod, too sociopathic to care about all the hurt he has caused.

  “You will each run the tunnel separately. The order has already been arranged,” a guard announces from his place beside the king. Unsurprised, Helena shrugs when her name is called to compete last. No doubt to cause her the most terror, to watch helplessly as the others try and fail to beat an undefeatable test. “Your task is simple enough. Reach the other side, and you will go to Cassè to gain your freedom,” the announcer explains with a bored voice as if it is a simple feat to accomplish.

  “What is in the tunnel?” the other female prisoner asks with a shiver. Silence greets her query as a guard steals up beside her. A quick slap with his metal-coated fist is enough to stop any further questions from us all as blood oozes down her chin.

  “Dai, you’re up!” the announcer shouts. The skinny boy who’d shown his fear at the very beginning of our trial shuffles up to the front of the line. He glances at each one of his competitors, terror causing his eyes to well with tears.

  “What now?” he trembles as he rasps, his voice more of a croak. The announcer points up into the ceiling. While most of the room’s ceiling is low enough to touch, there is a dark expanse right over our heads. A single rope ladder sways eerily, and Helena swears she can hear laughter echoing through the darkness overhead.

  “That’s the tunnel?” the stocky male named Bryn shouts as his face pales. “I always thought of a tunnel as horizontal, not—”

  A punch from a nearby guard silences his words. Immediately Helena finds Ithel’s watchful eyes from among the other enslaved guards on the right side of the wall. It can’t be a coincidence. How did he know the tunnel would require a climb? He’d made her practice vertical maneuvers all week long. Ithel’s face is impassive as he stares straight ahead, unwilling or unable to meet her eye.

  The boy, Dai, barely survives ten minutes in the tunnel. A loud, terrified shriek fills the air as his body tumbles toward the cavern floor. A dull thud sounds on his impact, a crackle of breaking bones, then a gurgling choke as blood fills his mouth. Dai’s body is purple with bruises that had formed during his climb. Far too quickly to have been the result of the fall.

  Helena cares not if it hurts her pride as she shields her eyes from watching the boy’s landing. Turning her face to the line of enslaved guards, she, unfortunately, stands witness as Dai’s guard falls to his knees. His eyes roll back into his head, his mouth hanging open in an unvoiced gasp. He convulses, the king’s spell sucking every last breath from his lungs in an effort to save the child. Finally, the guard’s body crumples to the ground, turning to dust as it hits the rocky floor.

  I should have kissed Ithel and told him I loved him one last time, Helena laments, tears streaming down her face. I should have told him about his daughter. I should have explained that I took her into those lands to teach her about Cassè, to train her to be a weapon we could use one day to bring down Alaric. Now I’ll never get the chance.

  “Great gods of old, some kind of monster attacked that boy! Look at those deep gashes and burns!” Bryn mutters his eyes on the darkness above him. “What is up there that could cause such wounds?”

  “You’re about to find out,” the announcer says as he pushes Bryn forward. Kicking and screaming, it takes four men to push the stocky prisoner up the tunnel’s ladder.

  “What is your name?” Helena
whispers to the shivering waif beside her, using the chaos of Bryn’s protests to steal a moment with the child. The girl’s hair appears silver in the dim light, her blue eyes seeming to glow with their own defiant light. You could almost pass for my child, Helena shudders, grateful her daughter isn’t in Déchets. No doubt if she had been, Alaric would have forced her to watch her mother’s trial and subsequent demise.

  “Evaine,” the girl whimpers, sidling closer to Helena for comfort.

  “And what great ill did you do to the king?” Helena wonders, wishing she could smuggle Evaine out of this place.

  “I loved his son, Antero,” Evaine whimpers as tears glisten down her cheeks. “But I am low born. I was the kitchen maid that used to take him a tray when he worked in his room. It was a very common thing, and somewhere along the way, we fell in love. When the king found out….” Her words die as she sobs and wipes blood from her chin.

  “I can imagine. I am truly sorry.” Helena answers by patting the girl’s shoulder. Guilty of love. How terrible to face this horror for such an innocent crime. Dai, Bryn, Evaine—Helena will remember these names until her final days. She will chant them like an anthem to keep her going when she feels defeated. “Good luck, Evaine.” May the forgotten gods look upon you with favor. It takes Helena a few moments to realize she’s already counted the girl among the dead.

  Bryn makes it thirty minutes in the tunnel, a staggering, unexpected feat judging by the king’s bewildered expression. None of us are expected to survive this. Helena shudders as the realization settles in her mind. Was he even serious about using us as spies? Or has Alaric grown bored and needs a diversion from his one-sided battle with Cassè? Either, she knew, was possible.

  Suddenly a sharp crack of stone radiates above them, and the wailing of the falling man heralds his descent. Judging by the sound of the impact, Helena is certain his body has no bones left unbroken.

  This time Helena covers her ears, turning her back as Bryn’s bodyguard dies. What a waste! Helena wishes to scream at the king. What nonsense that you would kill us all for sport! Glancing at Alaric, she finds him staring straight at her, smiling widely as he enjoys the sight of her torment.

  Evaine’s fingers, as icy as if death had already claimed her soul, grip her wrist as a guard tries to pull her away. “Remember me, Helena! I beg you, do not forget this place! When you return, tear it apart in my honor!” She moves to stand in the only circle of light in the room, her hair catching its beams and gleaming gold. “Promise me, Helena! Destroy it in the name of the girl who died for love.”

  The shouts and prods of the guards force Evaine to move into position, but she makes no attempt to step onto the rope ladder. Her eyes stay fixed on Helena, waiting for a response. One guard pulls his sword, approaching her from behind with death in his eyes.

  “Evaine! For the love of the gods, move!” Helena shouts, her hands gripping her chest, watching helplessly as the guard inches closer.

  “I have no fear of death, Helena. My love already waits for me.” She smiles wistfully as she repeats, “Promise me, Helena.”

  “Yes, now go!” Helena screams, clawing at her own hair as she watches the guard’s sword raise.

  Evaine nods in acceptance and turns to face her executioner. The blade falls, and her head rolls gracefully off her shoulders. Her guard-slave’s body seizes, his death just as sudden as hers.

  The king, however, yawns as he waves a hand. “On with it then, Helena.”

  “You are a monster,” Helena cries, grief roaring to life in her, erupting from her chest in a low growl.

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in a long time.” Alaric simpers at her words as though Helena’s just offered him a glorious compliment. “At long last, we might find some common ground, Helena. How nice it would be to be on friendly terms again!”

  Helena’s feet trudge through Evaine’s blood, leaving crimson trails. Her mind is numb as she stares into the darkness. The ebony void above her seems to reach down with midnight fingers to tangle into her hair. How much can I endure in that emptiness before I go mad?

  “Speak truth, Helena! Whatever you do, speak—” Ithel’s voice stops abruptly with the sounds of a struggle.

  Her ears dimly register the words Ithel shouts, but she hardly cares about their meaning. She deftly maneuvers the rope ladder, and all too soon, Helena feels the bolts that connect the rope ladder to the rock. Patting the hard surface, she finds crevices to catch and pull herself up; her feet are slick from the muck on the floors. Helena slips off her bloody shoes, the calluses on her feet offering slightly better traction. The rocks tear and bite into her skin, but the pain just sharpens her mind.

  Nothing seems dangerous. It is just a rocky expanse as far as Helena’s eyes can see. A dim light shines high in the space. The freedom that no one dares hope to find taunts the prisoners from this high peak. The walls shimmer gray and blood-red—a glittering metal of iron ore that burns Windwalker skin and a strange stone-like substance that Helena does not recognize. Her fingers ache to touch one at about eye level, its surface almost as wide as Helena’s palm. I’m convinced that if I were to press my hand into it, I would come out covered in sticky, hot blood.

  “Why have you come?” A voice drones above Helena, bored and passive like this is all some farcical joke. A startled cry rings from Helena as she turns her head and meets the eyes of the speaker. The sudden image of the specter is almost enough to make her lose her grip on the stones. It is due only to strength that she does not go tumbling to the ground.

  “Why have you come?” the creature repeats, its face elongating, its jaw becoming more defined until it is Ithel’s visage.

  Speak truth. Helena recalls Ithel’s parting words before beginning this climb. Makes more sense now, she snorts, eyeing the visage floating beside her head curiously. “There are many reasons I am here,” Helena answers, hedging her honesty in vagueness until she better understands what she’s up against.

  “Such as?” The milky white face blurs and sharpens in pulse-like bursts.

  “I am forced to do this to get out of prison. Ithel’s life is tied to mine, so I must continue if I am to keep him alive,” Helena replies, shifting her weight on the rocks as she struggles to keep her grip. She reaches for a higher hand hold, hoping to move beyond the strange ghostly visage. Yet everywhere she touches, the rocks suddenly burn like molten lava, scalding her fingers until tiny blisters burst to life. She hisses, staring accusingly at the face that eerily shifts to resemble Alaric.

  “You go no further until my questions are answered,” the image explains, its voice lacking all emotion. “Now, why have you come?”

  “I want to return to Cassè. I was happy there,” Helena mumbles, gritting her teeth to keep her mind focused on anything other than the agonizing pain in her hands.

  Seeming to be mollified by Helena’s answer, the strange image nods once, lifting a feeble-looking hand and motioning her to move higher.

  Helena tries not to moan as the rock rips into her blistered hands. Some of the injured skin breaks open and oozes, making each handhold slick. Helena struggles to move deeper into the tunnel, but in only a matter of moments, the specter’s voice breaks the unnatural silence once more.

  “What do you fear most?” the shape-changer asks, its mouth opening unnaturally wide as its eyes glow crimson.

  Do not let your fear rule you. Helena coaches herself to steady her breathing. Do not focus on its looks. Ithel prepared you for this too. Do not trust your eyes. “Why should I answer your questions? You’ll only use what I say against me.” Helena stalls as she shifts her feet to a better position. Her left hand slips out of its handhold, and as much as Helena desperately longs to place it back into the crevice, she fears that doing so would only cause her more burn injuries.

  When she makes no move to touch the rock, an inhuman, red-tinged hand reaches out from a cre
vice above Helena’s head and catches hold of her arm. Every place its fingers land on her skin burns with the heat of a hundred suns. The skin of her wrist is raw and blistered, parts of it white and flaking, as though one touch would cause it to fritter away like ashes on the wind. The agony of it steals away her screams.

  “Do not try to outwit me, child,” the voice repeats with a laugh, as though it enjoys watching the suffering of its victims. “Tell me what you fear most.”

  “I fear loss. Losing everything and living a lie, and I hate being afraid.” Helena chatters through her teeth as the shock of her wounds erodes away her strength. Ithel’s energy tries to force its way into her veins, but she pushes it away. Not yet, she replies, hoping she can keep him from sharing too much of himself so soon. I can bear this. Save your strength until I am desperate; I don’t want to unwittingly kill you later, Ithel.

  “Some would call you wise for such fears. Others would say you are foolish, for those things are inevitable. People leave or die. Lies come as naturally as breathing for most of your kind too. You cannot manage to go through life always self-sufficient and honest. Fear is necessary too, even if it is unpleasant.”

  “Are you a philosopher? Is that the great terror of the tunnel then? Will you torture me by speaking truths that I would not care to hear?” My stomach roils with a wave of nausea. Are you that stupid, Helena? To provoke this strange beast that has already ruined your arm? she chides herself, staring deep into the tunnel that rises above her head, wondering how far she must go before she finds freedom.

  “Is that what you seek from me, child? You desire to be fearful? Then I can comply.” The voice turns soft as a willow leaf on her cheek as the eyes of the creature turn painfully familiar. Small frame, shock of white hair, wistful smile full of unspoken sadness and longing…the last image that Helena remembers of her daughter.