Viper

by Bex Hogan

  ‘My wife has long been in her grave. Perhaps it’s time I took another.’

  His grip is surprisingly tight. He’s holding me in a way that’s controlling rather than seductive, and as he presses himself close to me I’m no longer just angry. I’m also afraid.

  ‘Just think,’ he says, lowering his head towards mine, ‘a king and his Viper queen. We would be invincible.’

  His mouth is on mine before I have time to stop him, and his tongue forces its way in. I can taste how much wine he’s consumed.

  On instinct I push him away. I stare up at him only to see anger flashing in his eyes, humiliation at my rejection. You don’t refuse a king.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I say, desperately trying to think how to salvage the situation. I cannot afford to make another powerful enemy.

  The King takes a step away, considers me for a moment, and then returns to his seat. I sit back down too, and for a moment we don’t move, frozen in time like a portrait.

  I may be still, but inside everything’s racing. My heart. My thoughts.

  He is not a good man and I feel nothing but contempt for him. I wonder how many of the killings he’s instructed my father to carry out have actually been to protect himself, rather than for the good of the Isles. He is as much a traitor as my father is. Worse – he’s a coward, content to hide away in safety while others suffer. But the depressing reality is he’s still my best hope in this murky pool of politics.

  ‘I’m very flattered by your offer,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.

  ‘But you decline.’ The King is not going to be easily placated.

  ‘It was unexpected, that’s all,’ I say, hoping to stall him. ‘Will you allow me some time to consider?’

  Another gulp of wine is consumed before he answers. ‘Very well.’

  I inwardly sigh with relief. ‘In the meantime,’ I say, determined to reclaim this discussion, ‘you still need my help. My father is out there plotting against you and destroying your Fleet. Soon he will have control of the seas, then the other islands. Then he’ll come for you. Unless someone stops him. Let me be that someone.’

  The King locks his fingers together, pressing them to his lips. ‘How?’

  ‘I need a ship. And the support of your Fleet. The support of your crown.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘You think you’re capable of such a feat?’

  I hear his doubt, his sneering condescension, and meet it head on. ‘Yes.’

  He considers this for a moment. ‘Why?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Why are you here, wanting to help me? You want peace? Run away, I’m sure you’ll find some. This isn’t your fight, so I’m wondering why I should trust you?’

  I look him right in the eye. ‘He’s made it my fight.’

  The King holds my gaze and I tilt my chin in defiance. I will not be the first to look away. Perhaps he senses my resolve, because finally he nods slowly. ‘Very well,’ he says at last. ‘You may have your ship. The rest? Well, I’m sure you will allow me some time to consider?’

  He’s throwing my own words back at me.

  ‘It may take a few days to make the necessary arrangements, though. For now, stay. Consider my offer. Remember, I can give some measure of assistance to a usurper. But I can give everything to my queen.’

  In other words his support is entirely dependent on whether I marry him or not. ‘Thank you, but I’d rather keep moving. If my father finds out I’m here, none of us will be safe.’

  ‘Nonsense, I insist,’ he says.

  ‘And Grace?’

  ‘She will have to enjoy our hospitality from the dungeons for the time being, but she will be well fed and unharmed.’

  Though I’m unhappy at the thought of Grace trapped in such surroundings, there’s little I can do about it, and I’m more than confident she can take care of herself, so accept his offer. As if I had a choice.

  The King escorts me to the door, but stops me before I can open it.

  ‘I can be a generous man, Marianne,’ he says, sliding his hand round my waist. ‘Come to my chamber and perhaps you could persuade me to give you the Fleet along with your ship.’ And his hand rises to my breast as he leans in to kiss me again.

  If he were any other man, I would break him, would step over the pieces of his body lying on the floor without a second glance. But he is the King. He has all the power here. And he knows it.

  Instead I move away slightly, putting some space between us, but looking up at him with what I hope is an alluring expression. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. It’s been a long day,’ I say, forcing as much of a smile as I can. ‘I really should get some sleep.’

  For a second I think he might strike me, such is the burning fury in his face, but then it’s gone, replaced with a cold smile. ‘Of course.’

  Without any outward sign from him, guards enter the room and I find myself flanked by armed men as I’m taken away from the food I’ve not touched and the King I wish I hadn’t.

  The day’s light is fading, and servants are working their way along the stone corridors, lighting candles to illuminate the gloomy space. We spiral upwards until we reach a room where the guards inform me I’m to stay. I ask after Grace but they tell me nothing, just shut the door behind me, leaving me alone.

  The room isn’t as grand as the others I’ve seen; it has no luxurious furs or velvet cushions to soften the cold stone. But there is a bed with clean blankets and I sit down on it, trying to sort through the thoughts buzzing in my head.

  That was a disaster.

  Does the King truly want to marry me, or does he simply want to bed me? I shudder at the memory of his touch, his unwanted advances. Could I give him what he asks for the sake of the islands? Would it be any worse than being married off to Torin by my father?

  I try to imagine kissing the King again and feel nothing but revulsion stirring inside me. Then I imagine kissing Torin and simply feel nothing. And then, entirely unbidden, I imagine kissing Bronn. His lips would taste like the sea, like laughter, like a thousand secrets shared between us. Like the wildest storm and the calmest ocean. Like a field of inkbells catching the breeze.

  Like betrayal.

  The reminder brings me up short. Pushing all thoughts of marriage aside, I force myself to focus on the biggest problem I face.

  The King may have agreed to give me a ship, but for all my good intentions I have no idea how to overpower my father and bring him to justice. The Viper is not the most feared man on all of the waters for nothing. Perhaps there is my answer. He must be lured on to land, where he doesn’t have the advantage of the Maiden.

  And I’m as good a bait as any.

  I can’t sleep. The night is too humid for comfort, the air from my open window providing little relief, and my troubled mind is unwilling to rest. Whatever else the King may want, there’s no point pretending he cares about the Isles or has the slightest interest in protecting his people. He cares only for himself. And what of his son? Where is Torin? What were his motives for marrying me? No one would endure the binding ceremony without good reason, and though I have no evidence, my instincts tell me he isn’t working with my father. I need to find Torin. I have to know if I glimpsed something more the day we met, or if he’s no better than his father. Only problem is I have no idea where in the Six Isles he might be.

  Faint scratching noises are coming from somewhere close by, and I wonder if it’s rats. I hope Grace isn’t having to share her cell with too many unwanted rodents. I wonder how long she’ll be stuck in her prison. I have a horrid feeling that might depend on how long I can keep the King’s advances at bay.

  The scratching continues and I roll over, hoping to ignore it, but then there’s a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere and I realise it’s not rats. Someone’s scaled the tower wall and is outside my window.

  Cursing the fact that I’ve had my knives taken from me, I slowly reach my hand out towards the heavy brass candlestick by my bedside, glad to feel its weight. Better
than nothing. Then I wait until I hear the soft drop of feet landing in my room.

  And my heart sinks. There are two of them.

  They’re almost by my bed now and there’s no time for doubt or hesitation. I swing the candlestick at the assassin closest to me, catching his temple. He crumples like a sail without wind, the knife in his hand clattering to the floor. But his accomplice is ready for me, her hand grabbing the other end of the candlestick and dragging me from the bed. I hit the stone ground hard, and roll fast to avoid her boot, which is aiming for my face. Adrenaline pumping, I spring to my feet, but she’s too quick, and this time her boot finds its mark in the small of my back, knocking me down again. She grabs my hair and drags me to the wall, shoving me up against it with her fingers pressing firmly at my windpipe.

  It’s Choke. And I can tell from the look in her eyes that she knows about Briggs.

  She says nothing, just squeezes my throat harder, and I know she doesn’t care about returning me alive to my father. She wants to watch me die right here.

  I try to claw her hands away from my neck, but she’s too strong. I’m struggling frantically now, my lungs screaming for air, as I feel around on the floor for what I hope is nearby. The tips of my fingers brush the blade that her companion dropped and, straining as hard as possible, I shuffle it into my grip – and then plunge it deep into her arm.

  Immediately she releases me and before she has a chance to recover I slam her head against the wall, instantly knocking her out. Coughing, I rub my neck, gasping for breath. That was too close.

  I check to see who was with her. A man named Turner. He once taught me how to fix the rigging, laughing kindly at my incompetence. Now he’s trying to capture me for my execution. Charming.

  How did my father find out I was here so quickly?

  I don’t have much time to wonder, because the scratching of boots on stone tells me there’s another Snake on the way.

  My fear is fast turning to annoyance. Really? Father sent three assassins for me?

  After removing the dagger from Choke’s arm, I climb up on to a table by the window. When the Snake drops in I launch myself on to his back, taking him by surprise.

  My arm wraps round his neck and presses tight to cut off his air supply, and he slams me back against the wall, trying to break my hold. When he does it a second time the air is crushed from my lungs, and I’m thrown off, crashing to the ground. I scramble to my feet and turn round, facing my attacker, and my heart stops.

  He’s alive.

  Relief is quickly outweighed by anger. Not only was he working with my father at my Initiation, but now Bronn’s come to take me to my death and I lose all sense of calm.

  ‘You bastard,’ I cry, running at him, knife raised. ‘You lying, treacherous, bastard.’ I aim for his chest.

  He defends himself, slamming my wrist so hard I drop the blade, but I don’t need a knife to cause damage. I hit him squarely across his jaw, so that he swears loudly. Good. I want to hurt him. Want him to suffer the way he’s made me suffer all these years. I strike again, but this time he’s prepared, ducking out of the way and trying to grab hold of me. I’m fast too, though, and manage to land another blow, this time to the side of his ribs.

  He recoils, and it gives me the advantage I need to unleash all my pent-up fury, pounding him again and again, so that he can do nothing but block my strokes, our arms moving with such swift synchronicity it’s like a dance. For a moment I get lost in it, the rush of fighting him, matching him. I can almost forget where we are. I am solely focused on how my body is moving, how his is moving, the shift between me attacking, then him, then me again. He’s good. So am I. It’s almost as if we’re trying to outdo each other, only to end up mirroring each other. I hadn’t realised how much I’ve wanted to do this for the longest time.

  And then his fist breaks through my defences and catches my chin, snapping me out of myself. Outrage flares quickly to the surface and I change tactics, kicking him in the gut. It buys me enough time to snatch the candlestick from the side of the bed next to the window, and swing it hard into his chest.

  To my surprise Bronn buckles, staggering backwards. The blade I dropped lies close by, and I snatch it up before launching myself on to him, knocking us both to the ground. I hold the knife at his neck, our faces close, both of us breathing heavily from the exertion.

  I didn’t think it would end like this between us.

  ‘Marianne.’ His voice is a fierce whisper. ‘Stop.’

  I press the dagger closer to his skin. ‘Make me.’

  ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I came to help you.’

  It’s about the last thing I’m expecting him to say and it winds me as much as any beating. But it can’t be true. He’s just using my emotions to weaken me, and I won’t oblige.

  This time I push the blade so hard against him I break the skin, a bubble of blood forming at the surface. ‘I don’t need any help.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’ And to my utter surprise he smiles. He’s impressed.

  ‘How the hell did you know where I was?’ I growl the words at him. He may be amused, but I am not.

  Bronn’s eyes flash at me. ‘The King sent word. He wanted to use you as a bargaining tool, to get the Captain to stop his attacks.’

  The King? That lying bastard. Did he always mean to use me as leverage against my father, or was it my punishment for spurning his advances? Either way, he certainly didn’t waste any time betraying me.

  Still, though his double-crossing stings it’s nothing to the treachery of the man in front of me.

  ‘The King is a fool. He should have known Father would simply send you to retrieve me.’

  ‘He sent Turner and Choke. I followed them to keep you safe.’

  The bloody nerve. He lost the right to keep me safe the day he cut me from his life.

  ‘Well, you’re a bit late, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m here now,’ he says, though I can hear it’s an effort for him to speak and I loosen the pressure of the dagger ever so slightly. His eyes are searching my face, like he’s trying to find an answer to some unasked question. Eventually he says, ‘I saw Briggs. What was left of him.’ I hear the concern in his voice. ‘Was that you?’

  The mention of Briggs’s name sickens me. I have no desire to think about what he did, or how I retaliated. And I certainly don’t want Bronn knowing what I’m capable of.

  ‘So you have been hunting me down?’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t come here to hurt you. I’m here to help.’

  Our eyes lock, and I see something of the boy I knew, the friend I trusted. The friend I loved. I so desperately want to believe him.

  But I don’t.

  ‘You’re my father’s man and this is a trick.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes!’ My father would enjoy nothing more than using my weaknesses against me. He must know my feelings for Bronn, complicated as they are. He knows Bronn’s betrayal would hurt the most.

  ‘We don’t have much time,’ Bronn says, indicating the unconscious assassins in the room. ‘Trust me.’

  He’s right. They’ll be awake again soon.

  ‘Why? Why should I trust you? Make me believe you don’t plan to hand me over to my father.’

  ‘Because we’re—’

  ‘What? Friends? After what you did? You’ve barely spoken to me in years!’ The full extent of my resentment towards him laces my words with venom, and he visibly flinches.

  ‘To protect you! I thought you understood that.’

  ‘Protect me?’ I practically spit the words into his face. ‘That’s what my father used to say as he forced me to cut open my skin and purge myself of weakness.’ I shove my palm in front of his face so he can see the scars. ‘Those words mean nothing to me.’

  We stare at each other, both hurt, both confused. But now is really not the time for this conversation.

  ‘You’re alive, which means you shot that man at my Initiation on
my father’s orders. If you were on my side, you’d be dead.’

  ‘I did it to stop your father beating you to death. I did it to give you a chance to run.’

  It’s not the answer I’m expecting, but I’m too disconcerted by the momentary tenderness in his voice to form a response. He hasn’t spoken to me like that in years.

  I shake my head, both in disbelief and to clear my thoughts. ‘No. He’d have killed you.’

  Bronn sighs. ‘I’m alive because I convinced him I was trying to show you up, but I was punished nonetheless. I can prove it.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say after a moment. ‘Get up.’ We manage to stand together, my dagger still firm at his neck in case it’s a trap.

  Then he lifts up his shirt. No wonder he went down when I hit him with the candlestick. His torso is etched with lacerations from where countless lashes have torn away flesh. They’re not healing well.

  ‘How do I know you’re not planning to hand me over to ingratiate yourself with my father?’ I can’t bring myself to look at him, knowing how he’s suffered, feeling bad about striking him on such painful wounds, yet not wanting to regret it because he damn well deserved everything he got.

  ‘You don’t. You’ll just have to take my word for it.’

  His voice is soft and I force myself to meet his gaze. On a face that’s long been unreadable his eyes burn brightly at me. I tried to draw it once, his face. The slant of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. But I could never capture its everchanging beauty. His face told tales of adventure and hardship. Of secrets and lies. Of sadness and regret. Until it stopped saying anything at all, its stories as lost as our friendship.

  But there’s something in those fierce eyes looking at me now, almost golden in the moonlight, that reminds me of the face I once knew. A glimmer of something wild and unpredictable, but achingly familiar.

  The next minute lasts an age as I make my decision.

  ‘Do you have a way out of here?’ I ask finally.

  ‘Of course.’