Brood of Vipers Page 16

  “No! Cyrus!” I bellow, waving my real hands as though I can somehow change the vision playing out in my mind’s eye. “Don’t hurt him, Cane! Please!”

  I am helpless against the vision, forced to watch it unfold. Cyrus wheezes and drops hard, his breath already unsteady. Blood pools at my feet, and I watch as the spectral me rips the hood off her head and presses the fabric hard into his gaping wound. Use your strength to heal him! I silently order, wishing I could turn away and not witness Cyrus’s last moments. “I can’t save you, Cyrus! Why can I not—?”

  “This place repels such magic,” Cane explains giddily, grabbing my arm as he rips me away from Cyrus’s side. “Now, you will join me at your rightful place, and we will watch my brother die. Then you will bring the Carreglas over to this land as a gift to the king of Déchets. Nothing will stand against us now, Iris! I am the king of Cassè just as you foresaw, second only Alaric, the ruler of this land. You will be my consort, and my brother will cheat death no longer.”

  I drop to my knees when Cane passes his sword over Cyrus’s neck. Blood spurts across my chest, quickly draining from his gurgling body. My mouth hangs open in a scream, my fingers inching for Cyrus’s boot. Suddenly pulling an unseen knife hidden at Cyrus’s ankle, I launch myself at Cane. His face turns white as I gut him before he can take another breath, slitting his chest from navel to throat. By the time he hits the ground, his eyes have faded to sightless gray.

  “Oh, my love,” I mumble, weeping over Cyrus as his gurgled breaths slow. “Do not leave me in this place! Please! I need you, Cyrus.”

  “Well, well. That boy you just murdered wasn’t lying to me after all. He swore you would be useful to me, and here you’ve proved him to be right.” Alaric smoothly glides down from his throne, his cold fingers gripping my chin tightly, craning my head until my defiant gaze meets his. “Hmm…too bad you have to die. I’d have loved to break you myself. But time is of the essence, and I cannot let someone as strong as you survive to challenge me again. What a pity,” Alaric sighs, dropping his hold on me and sauntering back to his throne with a flourish of his hand. My body slumps as a rain of arrows spear my back. As I fall, I hear Alaric announcing, “Send the border guards through Cassé with a proclamation that their lands are now under my rule. Find the Carreglas and have it brought to me. Capture any Ddraig that you find and kill their warriors. I have big plans for them.” Flicking his icy cold gaze at me one final time, his gleeful voice taunts me as my sight begins to fade, “And to think, you wasted all of your effort to save your country only to end up dead anyway. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”

  “Iris?” Siri’s concerned voice rips me from the vision. When my eyes focus on her scaly form, I wrap my arms around her leg, assuring myself that she is not a figment of my imagination. Her warmth seeps into my bones, and a strangled cry erupts from my lips. I cling to my Ddraig like a child crying on her mother’s shoulder after a painful fall. “Iris, what did you see?” Siri whispers patiently, her body shifting until she forms a protective circle around me.

  “It was awful!” I bellow, my teeth chattering as the shock of the events finally loosens my tongue. “If that was the future that awaits us, Siri, I can’t bear it.”

  Siri’s eyes widen as she reads the vision through our shared memories. “Perhaps it is best that you continue to hold out against Cyrus’s advances. As long as you two aren’t a couple, we aren’t creeping closer to this end.”

  “Cyrus!” I gasp, recalling how it felt to watch him die. “My gods, that was horrible. If watching me die at the hands of the Vibría caused him to suffer even a fraction of what I just endured, then I understand why he hates them.” Dropping my hold on Siri’s leg, I clamber over her tail, frantically searching the gathering crowd of Cadogans for Cyrus’s familiar face.

  “Iris? Hey, let me pass,” Cyrus demands, shoving his way through the onlookers to get to my side. “What happened? Where is she?”

  A relieved sob tears through my chest as I rush toward my infuriating, complex, flawed friend. I don’t care that we’d been fighting only a few heartbeats ago or that I’d clearly refused and rejected his love. All I know is that in this moment, nothing will satisfy me but to hold him close, assuring myself that he’s alive.

  Cyrus does not hesitate to wrap his arms around me. “What’s wrong, Iris?” he whispers into my hair, laying a soft kiss on my brow as he rubs small circles on my back. “What did you see?” he wonders, silently comprehending that I must have had an upsetting vision.

  “I watched you die,” I whimper between sobs, wrapping my arms tight around his neck. “Cane slit your throat, and I couldn’t save you.”

  “The fact that you’d even want to means all the world to me,” Cyrus replies, his voice lifting with his smile.

  “Oh, don’t joke!” I snap, wiping my tears on his shirt.

  “I wasn’t,” Cyrus rasps, and my heart breaks all over again.

  Looking over Cyrus’s shoulder, I scan the faces of many concerned Ddraigs and warriors alike. The words of Lady Vatusia echo in my thoughts, and I wonder how many of these people will die if we must fight against the forces from Déchets. Between the Windwalkers, the Vibría, and the king’s trained army, we won’t stand a chance. No amount of preparation by a ragtag leader with no military background could ever prevail against such odds.

  But there is another way, a traitorous thought shivers through my mind. Take the Lady Vatusia up on her offer; go to Déchets as a spy. Take down your enemy’s organization from the inside out if possible.

  I cling a little tighter to Cyrus, wishing I never had to let go. It would be so much simpler if we could just live out the rest of our days in the Pith caverns, content with our Ddraigs and each other. Yet the faces of the nameless unchosen and the knowledge that my people are living as slaves in Déchets is enough to rip this dream to shreds long before I can make it a reality.

  “Cyrus, there’s something I didn’t tell you,” I whisper, knowing what I have to say will anger him once more. “And I think now’s the time we have to consider it—it might be the only way to save everyone.”

  Chapter 9

  “Just the man I wanted to see,” Wren calls out as he trots up to Wolf’s perch in the rocking chair on the porch. A wave of revulsion roils in his stomach. The scent of burning flesh still carries in the air, and the burning pyre still smolders. No matter how much time passes, Wren fears that the taint of unjustified death will forever stain this stretch of land. Speaking to the man who caused all that useless destruction is even harder to bear. Lying to him, however, is a far more satisfying endeavor, Wren reminds himself, swallowing his own emotions long enough to carry out his deception.

  “This better be good,” Wolf grumbles, leaning back against the rocking chair’s headrest, carefully keeping the wooden form from moving even the slightest inch. “I’ve got a terrible headache, and I’m in no mood for petty grievances.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Wren replies, struggling to keep his words from sounding sarcastic. “But I thought you’d want to know that I saw Jackal meeting with two of his cronies, and judging by the intensity of their conversation, I think they were plotting something.”

  That idea causes Wolf’s eyes to open wide despite the splitting agony that splinters his skull as the sunlight fills his view. “You think they are planning a coup? You really believe they seek to overthrow my reign even before it’s fully begun?”

  “I do,” Wren admits, hiding his smile behind his hand, rubbing his face as if he’s deep in thought. “But why take my word for it? Go and see for yourself. The three men were sitting by the campfires closest to Jackal’s tent.”

  “I doubt they’d be so bold to plot a mutiny out in the open in a campsite not even fifty feet from me,” Wolf exclaims, his eyes drifting closed even as his mind grows more alive and active with the idea of the possible threat. “Who was with Jackal in this sup
posed meeting?”

  “Hyena, Coyote, maybe a few others, I don’t know.” Wren offers the names with as little emotion as possible. “But maybe I’m wrong. An open planning session in full view would be a pretty stupid way to start a revolt,” Wren smirks, dropping to sit on the white-washed steps. “If I was involved in such a clandestine affair like that, I suspect they go into Jackal’s tent for privacy. They’d be far away from prying eyes that way. Of course, if they did, you’d have the perfect opportunity to sneak up on them and eavesdrop through the canvas. But you’d have to move quickly; if they are smart, they won’t meet for any length of time.”

  Wolf stands, gulping down air as he struggles to stay on his feet. Nausea overwhelms his stomach, and his teeth begin to chatter. “I…I don’t think I can get there,” Wolf declares, his knees growing weak. Another piercing throb in his head brings stars to his eyes.

  “Take a deep breath,” Wren suggests, pointing to a small knot in the porch railing. “Focus on this spot right here. Will the pain away from your mind’s consciousness.”

  “Had a lot of experience with neglected naming bonds, have you?” Wolf snipes even as he follows Wren’s advice.

  “Nope, but I’ve endured a few beatings in my day,” Wren whispers flatly, his eyes growing dark as the unwanted memories fill his mind’s eye. “Breathing through the pain and displacing my focus always helped me persevere.”

  “Only for a short time, though,” Wolf wheezes, squeezing the arms of the rocking chair until his fingers turn white. “The agony rears its ugly head no matter what I try. I’ve got to find a way to break the naming bonds as soon as possible.” Despite Wolf’s reluctance, the method works well enough that he can stand and walk down the steps without getting sick. A hard, unreadable expression passes over Wolf’s features as he exclaims, “Now, if you are correct about Jackal, then he and the other traitors will die. But if I find you are mistaken or willfully trying to breed trouble, you, Lynx, and her baby will be the next ones on the burning pyre. So, are you absolutely certain that you want me to investigate Jackal?”

  “I have nothing to hide,” Wren lies expertly, silently calculating how quickly he could jump down the steps, find Lynx and her son, and disappear if his plan were to fail. “It’s time to find out if your so called second in command can say the same.”

  ***

  “I don’t need any more healers, and I don’t need any more food! I just want to a little peace and quiet,” Helena bellows while she agitatedly paces around the infirmary.

  A sympathetic looking young woman shakes her head, a tremor in her voice as she protests, “But the king has ordered—”

  “I don’t care what Alaric said.” Helena’s voice drops to a low, dangerous growl. “I will see no one else this evening. Do you understand me?” She clenches her eyes shut, shying away from the memories haunting her mind. She cannot unsee Evaine’s tearless eyes and serene expression right before the guard brutally decapitated her. Nor can she forget the enslaved guards who perished in the effort to save the other prisoners clawing through the tunnel. And the dull thuds of the prisoners’ bodies slamming into the rock in freefall still ring in her ears. “Leave me,” Helena begs, more to the memories than to the slave still standing in the infirmary.

  “But—”

  “I won’t ask you again.” Helena’s voice grows deadly calm, her hands reaching for a tiny scalpel laying on a tray near the next sick bed. “I’ve witnessed a great many innocent deaths this day, but don’t think for a second that I won’t add your name to the funeral list. What’s one more?”

  The young woman gulps, backing away from Helena as if she was a wild beast with bared fangs and outstretched claws. Helena tosses the scalpel half-heartedly in her direction. It zips by the girl’s cheek, skewering the wooden frame surrounding the door. With a squeak of fear and surprise, the girl races out of the room, finally giving Helena the silence for which she’s been longing.

  Helena paces over to the windowsill, staring out at the horizon. In the distance, she can see the faintest outline of the mountains. Tomorrow I’ll be traversing those peaks again, Helena sighs, the thought of leaving this place naturally reminding her of Ithel’s predicament. He should be the guard going with me. I should have been able to protect him. Soon the silence Helena so desperately desired grows unbearable. Opening the window, a soft breeze twirls wisps of her hair, begging her to dance and play in its wake. Allowing the wind to stir in her blood, she lets it carry her out into the sky, hovering over the palace. Were it not for Ithel’s captivity, she would disappear on this breeze and leave Déchets forever. Yet to keep Ithel safe, she must play the part of Alaric’s spy. Unless I can free him now, Helena realizes wickedly, drifting on the wind until she’s in the king’s private courtyard where Ithel was drug down into the prison cells.

  A shiver ripples through Helena’s elemental form, the rank odor of the prison wafting up to her on the breeze. I have earned my freedom, she reminds herself even as her body freezes, refusing to enter the prison. I can go through this door and come back to see the sunlight. I am a prisoner no more. Yet Helena can barely hover above the doorway without gagging. Human waste and the sour stench of terror permeate the place. The scent of moldy food and filthy straw fill her nose, choking her, reminding her of the horrible days when she feared she was losing her sanity there in the darkness. Breaths come in short, ragged hitches while Helena tries to cajole herself into entering the prison. The guards who took Ithel into those cells probably didn’t venture deep. No doubt, Alaric wants Ithel to suffer at the doorway, constantly in view of freedom without getting to fully taste it.

  Forcing herself to drift lower, Helena’s feet strike the stone walkways lightly as she materializes out of the wind. A reckless plan overpowers reason in her mind. Not allowing herself to think further and back out of her plans, Helena steps forward and opens the heavy dungeon door. The rank air assaults her nose, and Helena drifts back up into the wind, watching for the perfect opportunity to slip inside unseen.

  The prison guard sitting at the bottom of the stairs does not miss the sudden fresh breeze wafting into the first level of the dungeon. “Who’s there?” he grumbles, trudging up the steps to secure the prison once more. “Hello?” he calls out, searching the grounds for any signs of life and movement.

  Helena wastes no time, dancing on the breeze above the doorway, allowing it to pull her inside the prison. Once she finds herself behind the guard, she pushes all the air she can toward the guard. The sharp gust of wind causes him to stumble out of the prison. Immediately Helena slams the door. I hope my abilities are strong enough to carry us both, Helena worries as she skulks down the line of cells, searching for Ithel. “Where are you, Ithel?” she whispers under her breath in frustration as each passing cell is found empty.

  “Helena?” Ithel questions from the last cell on the first level of the prison. “What are you doing here?”

  Helena hurries over to his cell, and a strangling sob burns in her throat as she peers inside at her friend. Ithel’s face is bruised on one side, and a cut mars one lip. His left arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow, the poorly applied white gauze already covered with layers of grit and sludge from the filthy prison walls. “Helena, go now while you still can.” Ithel’s words are slurred by pain and medication, his eyes fever bright. “Leave me.”

  “I wanted to be sure that the king had kept his word to care for you.” Acknowledging that monster as her father still left a bitter taste in her mouth. “I’m supposed to leave in the morning with a new guard, Ithel.”

  “I know…I have a few friends in the guards, and they keep me informed. Your new guard, Andras, is a decent man. He is quiet, but he will protect you well. You could have had much worse.” Ithel coughs, a guttural rasp already forming in his lungs.

  “I’m not leaving here without you!” Helena hisses, cursing herself for not coming prepared with a key to unlock this doo
r.

  “I’ll only slow you down,” Ithel murmurs, pointing to his arm. “Some of the iron filings are still in this wound, Helena. Alaric’s agreed to send a surgeon to get them out a week or so after you leave.”

  Shaking her head, Helena pleads, “Come with me anyway, Ithel.”

  “How? I can’t use my magic, Helena. As long as the extra iron is in my arm, I am grounded. There’s no way we can both get out of this prison without our Windwalker abilities, and you can’t carry us both.” Ithel whimpers, sharp pains lancing through his wound, almost as if the metal in his arm bites deeper through the flesh, gnawing toward his bones. “Please, Helena, just go.”

  “I—I’m so sorry, Ithel,” Helena sobs, carefully reaching through the bars to touch Ithel’s pallid cheek. “I should never have left you behind all those years ago. I should have begged you to come with me to Cassè. You should have been with me when our—”

  “Hush,” Ithel mutters, a sudden chill quaking through his limbs. “Now’s not the time for regrets, love. Just go and be safe. Live well.”

  “I will come back here,” Helena vows, her heart breaking as a racking cough causes Ithel to double over. He slumps down to sit on the disgusting straw, leaning his head back on the grimy stone wall. “I’ll do whatever it takes to free you.”

  “Helena, you are not that stupid. Find a way to ditch Andras and never look back.” Ithel lowers his head into his hands. “Get to Cassè and rebuild your life there. Forget about me.”

  “No. I cannot leave you stuck in this cell. I know too well how it feels to be caged.” Helena’s eyes cannot focus on anything but the bars. Tightness in her chest blooms at the memories, all the days she had spent lost to madness in these cells. “I will find a way to—”