Brood of Vipers Page 14

  “How could you know such things?” Helena asks as the form turns eerily solid, as though she could reach out and actually run her hand through her daughter’s hair. Every detail is there, right down to the small dark spot just outside of her left eye.

  “I know all about you, Helena. I am in your head and heart,” the creature whispers with a sad smile, its voice changing to sound soft and ethereal. “Why did you leave me, Mother? Didn’t you love me enough?” The creature edges closer to the cliff, her toes hanging off the sides. “Why didn’t you bring me with you? Don’t you know how much I have suffered?” The visage of Helena’s daughter wails, tumbling off the ledge, her long ivory hair like comet’s trail behind her as she flies.

  Helena clenches her eyes against the sight. Not real, not real.

  “Are you certain?” her daughter’s sweet voice answers, the wraith’s shape sitting on the ledge once more. This time her body is broken and bleeding, as if she had truly fallen and cracked on the ground. A part of her skull shows along her right ear, and a bone is protruding from her left arm as she reaches out toward Helena.

  “Please,” Helena begs, another bout of sickness turning over her stomach. “Leave my daughter out of this!”

  A giggle that sounds like metal screeching against metal grates in Helena’s ears. Throughout it all, Helena still forces her feet to keep climbing, her legs to keep pushing, and her arms to keep reaching higher. The only way out of this demented hell is to reach that light in the ceiling.

  The rocks around her flare with a crimson light that pulses almost like a heartbeat. “What do you want, Helena?” The very crevices between the stones seem to cry out this question in mockery.

  “Freedom,” Helena whispers, biting her own tongue against the scalding pain of the rocks against her skin. They are burning hot, almost as though they had just come out of a fire. “I want to see my daughter again,” she growls through chattering teeth.

  “Is that all?” The strange voice seems to grow harsh, and a silent reminder and warning not to lie burns through Helena. The words she’s kept from speaking inch up her throat, almost as if they are living, breathing monsters writhing inside Helena’s chest. She shudders, fearing that when she opens her mouth, they climb out of her heart, spewing hate-filled blood as she bares the truth to all who hear. “Say it,” the image of Helena’s daughter demands, her broken body skittering closer on the rocks, moving more like a lizard than a human. “Tell me what you really want!”

  “I want to end the king’s rule…and his life.” Helena’s thoughts replay all of the faces of the forgotten. The three other prisoners who did not survive this tunnel. Ithel and the other slaves who had no choice but to endure their trials unto death. What is life without the right to live it your way? Her child and the man from Cassè who had taken them in and given them a home. All the friends and loved ones that she had left behind after the fall. Every evil, every injustice had the king to blame.

  In her rage, Helena climbs despite the scalding heat in the rocks, never once daring to look at her hands. Blisters pop and ooze, her finger joints scream against the hurt, pain signals plead for her brain just to let her body fall to the land and end the pain forever. But her blinding will and furious heart urge her onward. “I want the king to suffer! I want him to pay for all of the things he has done,” Helena cries, ignoring the pain lancing into her shoulders.

  The creature of the tunnel matches her progress, a small smile forming on its thin lips. It changes form once more, this time becoming a young boy that appears to be around the age of ten. His frame is wiry and small, and his skin looks tan from many days out in the sun. His blue eyes pierce Helena, stopping her from climbing higher in the tunnel. “Are you sure this is what you want?” the creature asks, his voice full of optimistic hope.

  “I hate the king,” Helena confesses, wondering who this new persona is supposed to be. Did I know this boy? Is he a face I should recognize? Or am I seeing the real face of the monster who has been tormenting me? The idea that her assailant is a child fills Helena’s heart with pity. What would cause a child so young to be so cruel and heartless?

  Helena’s revelation of vengeance seems to please the boy. He plops down onto a ledge, his skinny legs swinging over the side. “Very well, Helena. I hope you manage to accomplish this goal.”

  “Really?” Helena stops herself from challenging the boy, wary of his sudden change in demeanor. “That’s it?”

  “Yes,” the boy replies, humming softly to himself before adding, “I’ve been waiting for someone like you, someone with enough drive to push on despite the pain. Someone who was so focused on their desire to see the king die that they didn’t care what happened to themselves. Someone who would do whatever it took, even if it meant dying, just to reach their goal.”

  “Why do you hate the king?”

  The strange being does not answer Helena’s question. It dissipates into a crimson cloud that gets absorbed by a pocket of glittering gems nestled in the wall. The glowing rocks suddenly fade, all the damaging heat in them disappearing like smoke on a breeze.

  The exit of the tunnel blinds Helena with its sudden closeness. A sob of relief escapes her parched throat as she clambers through the hole into the brilliant light of day. Her body shivers with a cold sweat against the sun-warmed stones of the king’s private courtyard. No one is ever allowed to enter this place without Alaric’s special permission. Heady perfumed flowers sway in the gentle breeze, their sweet aromas so cloyingly strong that they turn Helena’s stomach.

  I don’t want to look, Helena confesses, taking a few deep breaths before she inspects her injuries. Her wrists and elbows ache and pop, grumbling in protest as she lifts them off the ground. Most of the skin is charred and blackened, and somehow the sight of them causes the pain to intensify in Helena’s mind. A low, agonizing moan escapes her as she lets her hands fall back to the ground, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps. “Ithel,” she whispers the name repeatedly, unable to say anymore.

  “Helena!” Ithel cries as he races toward Helena, but the sound of his desperate voice does not stop her body’s convulsions. Immediately his soothing energy and healing explodes to life in her blood, siphoning away the hurt as he heals her damaged skin. Ithel sags on the stones beside her, dropping to his knees as his body grows weaker.

  When her hands are clear of blisters and her feet no longer resembling chewed meat, Helena finds the clarity of mind to speak once more. “How did you know?” Helena rasps, her terror-soaked screams from the tunnel causing her to grow hoarse.

  “I was there when the tunnel was created,” Ithel whispers, his fingers stroking her sweat matted hair. “I told you that you’d make it, didn’t I?”

  “Why not tell me what you knew sooner?” I wish I had the strength to smack him, she thinks wearily.

  “Your surprise at the tunnel’s unusual placement had to be genuine, or else the king would have realized his error in letting me train you. You would have probably died outright.” Ithel shudders, his fingers tensing and stilling on her chin. “As it is, Alaric must have forgotten about my involvement in the creation of the tunnel, and I wasn’t about to remind him. It worked in your favor, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You almost got yourself killed anyway, shouting advice to me from the sideline. Didn’t your demand that I ‘be honest’ give you away?” Helena snaps, wrapping her fingers around Ithel’s wrist, marveling at their smooth, unblemished flesh.

  “I paid my price,” Ithel growls, holding his other horribly burned hand up for inspection. “There are iron fillings in the wound. Do not touch it, Helena.”

  “I am so sorry,” Helena mumbles, unable to keep her fingers from reaching for his hand. Even without touching the metal, she can feel the thrum of its power, like the heat of a fire as you wave your hands over its flames. “What can we do?”

  “I’ll have to wash it out and pick at the filli
ngs that are too deep. It may take a while,” Ithel grumbles, shifting until he lay beside Helena’s prone form, facing up into the sunlight and closing his eyes. “For now, let’s just stay like this a while. It won’t be long before Alaric comes to find you.”

  “But those fillings will keep burning you if you leave them inside,” Helena protests, reaching up to brush Ithel’s cheek, hoping to get his attention and remind him of the urgency of his situation. Iron had a strange way of reacting to Windwalker’s skin. The elders claimed it was the magic in the Windwalker blood that couldn’t abide the material. They believed it weighs down the body, rendering magic ineffective. “Go get that wound cleaned now.”

  Ithel shakes his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. “I’ll deal with it myself once we are safely away from here. I do not trust Alaric’s medics. Those loyal to him might do me harm just to try and win favor from their liege.”

  “Please, Ithel—”

  “Well, well, it seems your love withstood your jaunt in that wretched land after all,” the king sneers as he stalks up to Helena’s side. Alaric paces over to Ithel, kicking his leg hard as he gripes, “Seven days with this bitch, and you didn’t kill her. You even managed to keep each other alive throughout this test.” Moving up to Ithel’s head, Alaric raises his foot. Positioning it over Ithel’s nose, the king prepares to step down as he mumbles, “You are more worthless than I realized.”

  Helena forces her exhausted, screaming muscles to move, hauling herself up until she stands toe to toe with the king. “I have earned my freedom. And Ithel’s.”

  “Hmm…so you got cozy with her, too? You told her about falling from my grace.” Alaric saunters around Helena, sneering as though she is a piece of art from his collection that he suddenly finds to be in poor taste. “Well, I guess you will do, Helena. You will travel to Cassè, find the traitor, and bring him or her back to me alive.”

  “And if I should fail?” Helena wonders, knowing full well she would not return to this land with her daughter. “I may be gone for months, years even, searching out your precious traitor.”

  “I’ve given that some thought and I think I’ve come up with a rather marvelous solution,” Alaric replies with a wicked smile, the sight of which sends dread and bile up into Helena’s throat. “I’ve decided I will be keeping Ithel in this land as my personal guest. Six months should be plenty of time for you to root out the rogue Windwalker, don’t you think?” Alaric asks, smirking and savoring Helena’s outrage. A guard appears behind Ithel’s head. He silently reaches for Ithel’s limp arms, gripping smooth and damaged skin alike, and drags the injured man back toward the dungeons.

  Helena lunges toward Alaric, fingers curled as if to claw his eyes out. “No! You promised—”

  “Nothing more than I have already given. After all, Ithel was freed the moment you escaped the tunnel. The fact that he chose to run up here to you, freely giving you healing when he so desperately needs it himself, was poor judgment on his part. So, I will keep the former slave for insurance. Either you return with the traitor, or in six months, I kill your ex-lover. Am I understood?” Alaric questions, smugly satisfied by Helena’s silence.

  “Helena! Helena!” Ithel wails as they drag him back down into the depths of hell. “Don’t worry about me! Just get out of here! Please—” The doorway to the king’s courtyard slams shut, cutting off Ithel’s words.

  That wound, the iron fillings—how long until he is rife with infection? Will it cause him to lose the arm? Helena trembles, biting her lip to keep from crying. “I hate you,” she mumbles under her breath, scowling at the king.

  “Did you understand my terms, Helena?” The small, frail hand clasps Helena’s elbow, its razor-thin fingers jabbing into her skin just enough to cause pain but not enough to draw blood.

  “Yes.” The word grinds out of Helena’s mouth, and she struggles to resist the urge to rip her arm out of the king’s grasp.

  “Say it nicely.” The hand twists ever so slightly until Alaric’s fingernails slice deep into her flesh, almost as if the king is trying to etch her bones with the terms of their agreement.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Helena spits as though she has been poisoned, defiantly glaring into the king’s eyes.

  “Say it, Helena. Or I will draw a knife and really give you a reason to be hateful,” Alaric challenges, his voice deadly calm.

  I know exactly what he wishes to hear. The idea of even breathing the words makes me want to vomit on his shoes. Helena raises her chin, keeping her mouth tightly closed.

  “For the slave’s sake then? I will make sure his wound is cared for.” Alaric smiles when Helena’s resolve wavers, pleased to have found a bargaining chip he can use to keep her in line. “Healing for the ex in exchange for one special word. All you have to do is say it.”

  For Ithel, Helena’s heart begs, even as the thought of uttering what Alaric wishes to hear makes her wish she could drive a knife into her gut. For the one man of integrity in this horrible place. For the lover, I’ll have left behind twice. I can say the word if it protects him, can’t I? To save Ithel’s life the way he has done for me, surely I can demean myself just a little. Helena sighs, closing her eyes as she whispers, “Yes…Father.”

  “Wonderful!” A cackle of glee erupts from the king as his icy lips brush Helena’s cheek. Alaric pushes the hair back from Helena’s ear, leaning close as he whispers, “Remember, you have six months to find the traitor, my daughter, or I will kill your precious Ithel myself.”

  Chapter 8

  This pounding in my head will be the death of me, Wolf sighs, rubbing his temples as he sits in the only good chair on the porch of the House of Piranhas. The roar of the ocean tunes out the clattering swords as soldiers spar in the sand. He can’t even hear Lynx’s child whimpering in Wren’s tent. Yet Wolf feels his jaw tighten as another wave of nausea overpowers his stomach. He swallows hard, fearing he will lose the contents of his stomach in front of his men. Such a weakness cannot be tolerated. All because of that damned woman! Now I have to relieve the withdrawal symptoms from losing her. Why couldn’t she just stay with me?

  “Sir? Everything all right?” Jackal questions, stepping up onto the whitewashed porch. “You look ill.”

  “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask,” Wolf snarls, the blinding sunlight forcing him to squint. It feels like thousands of razorblades slice into his eye, hammering into his orbital socket in a reckless, relentless march to shred the fibers of his brain. Turning his face away from Jackal, he wheezes, “What do you want?”

  “I was told you had orders for me,” Jackal replies, his brow furrowing in confusion. “There was a notice on the table in my tent saying I was to report to you as soon as I could. Did you not leave it for me?”

  Wolf struggles to recall sending for Jackal. Searching his memory, he draws a complete blank. Yet rather than admit his mistake, Wolf states, “I decided to send Wren on my errand instead. Leave me, Jackal.”

  Jackal rocks back on his heels, his face a mask of rage as he challenges, “Was it really wise to trust that outsider? And why did you feel like you had to when you have me and Coyote and Hyena? We’ve been on your side since the very beginning.”

  “You dare to question my decisions now?” Wolf raises his voice, clutching the arm of his chair to keep his anger in check. If he should try to stand or make any sudden movements, Wolf knows he will pass out from the pain in his head. “If I decide Wren is an ally, then I expect you to do so as well. Is that understood?”

  ***

  “Fine,” Jackal hisses, stomping off without another word to his leader. He marches over one of the nearby communal campfires, grumbling to himself as he pulls a pot of stew from the fire. Serving himself, he plops down into the sand and slurps at his meal greedily. Only when he lowers his bowl from his chin does he realize he’s sitting across from his enemy. “So, I see you’ve managed to get in good with the big boss,
hmm? What’s your secret, Wren?”

  Wren keeps his face stoic, a difficult task when a wide smile of delight threatens to spread across his features. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Jackal,” he replies, feigning innocence.

  “I just can’t figure it. You show up here completely refusing to take on a new mask and join our House—a feat that should get you beaten and sent to live among the nameless unchosen—and yet Wolf decides not only to show you mercy but to trust you. What errand did he send you to do? Did you meet with his border guard ally, Matthais? Or is Wolf up to something else?” Jackal’s bowl trembles in his left hand, his right one slinking toward the knife in his belt.

  Wren forces his brow to furrow, blinking a few times as if he’s confused. “I’m sorry, Jackal. I don’t understand what you are saying. I’ve been here all day, and I’ve had no special mission from Wolf.” Keep still, and look him in the eye, Wren tells himself, counting slowly in his mind and matching his breaths to the rhythm in his head.

  Jackal hesitates, his head turning slightly to the side as he considers Wren’s words. “I had a message in my tent saying Wolf wanted to see me, but when I got there, Wolf said he’d sent you instead. You’re telling me that Wolf is lying?”

  “I don’t think so; Wolf doesn’t strike me as a good liar,” Wren replies, trying not to scoff at his own words. Control. It’s all about self-control. Wren drops his gaze down to his stew, forcing his mouth to stay silent for a few heartbeats to give the appearance of thought. Then he continues, “But now that you mention it, I do think something’s up with him. Wolf’s been having headaches—”

  “I know about that. He’s been having those ever since the Ddraig-loving bitch left him. Withdrawals or something like that. I didn’t quite understand it, to be honest,” Jackal interrupts, standing up and refilling his bowl.

  “Headaches and forgetting things—that’s not a good sign. Is it possible that these headaches are doing permanent damage to him somehow?” Wren asks the question outright, sowing the seeds of doubt in Jackal’s head.