“What do you mean if we survive?” Helena’s eyes snap up to inspect Ithel’s furious expression, flinching as she notices all the subtle changes from their years apart—a small scar over his upper lip and a longer, wicked counterpart through one eyebrow. His icy eyes are now haloed by sun wrinkles, giving his already angry countenance a cold, assessing squint. He keeps his hair closely cropped to his scalp now, but Helena remembers how it used to fall to his shoulders, catching the sunlight in its auburn waves. And his mouth, which used to be constantly on the verge of a smile, now bears deep frown and worry lines.
If Ithel notices her scrutiny, he does not react as he answers her question, confirming Helena’s deepest fears. “If our prisoner dies, so does his or her guard. I think it was the king’s way of keeping the guards invested in his plan.” He jerks Helena through a side corridor to the closest infirmary, his rough hands like sandpaper on her fragile skin. “Everything has turned into some sick form of entertainment for the king and his court. People kill each other in the streets out of greed and sport. Death and meaningless destruction are a daily part of our lives. That’s what has become of Déchets while you have been languishing in the dungeons, Helena,” Ithel barks as he shoves her toward the open arms of the awaiting medics. “Now do what they tell you. You look like hell.”
The bright lights nearly blind Helena as tentative fingers brush the open, unhealed wounds that crisscross around her wrists and ankles. The medics crowd around her, whispering to each other as their insistent fingers poke and prod her flesh. I feel like a side show of the circus rather than a prison patient. The snide thought keeps Helena from hyperventilating at the proximity of so many new faces after years of isolation. Step back, she longs to command as another medic’s dark eyes loom on her left. I crave space and open air. Just let me have a moment’s peace!
“Helena,” they all suddenly whisper at the same time, addressing her as though they speak with one voice. “Use our strengths to heal yourself.” They force their energies into her, assaulting her body even as they speed her recovery. By keeping their mental connections one-sided, Helena has no choice but to obey and endure their ministrations. The naming bonds are an invasion that Helena has always abhorred. Some of the medics grow faint and drop to the floor as the process continues, and more step out of the shadows to replace them.
It feels like hours before the barrage of energy stops pulsing over Helena’s body. Now her skin bears thin scars and fading, yellowed bruises, her hair no longer filled with lice and crawling bugs. Her eyes hold no brightness from fever and infection. Even her figure has filled out to healthier proportions, and for the first time in years, her stomach churns in preparation of food. For so long, she has been so numb to hunger that the sounds from her growling stomach are threatening to her ears. She catches her reflection in a mirror, running her fingers along her full lips once more. No signs of dehydration, no flaky, cracked skin. The alterations are so striking that it brings fresh tears to Helena’s eyes.
Ithel waits in the corner of the room, his cool eyes never missing any detail even as he appears bored by the scene. “Food over here,” he announces with a yawn, dropping his gaze to his bowl immediately after he finishes speaking.
Helena crouches over the nearest nurse, her hand brushing hair from her cold forehead. “She’s dead!” Staring at the other medics, she wails, “They all are dead! But why? Why would they do this? Why didn’t they stop sending me their energies before they drained themselves dry?” Helena’s skin grows clammy, her stomach lurching as it floods with guilt. They killed themselves for me! They are dead because of me!
“They were slaves, Helena, not doctors and nurses. Part of the king’s rule has been reinstituting slavery. He keeps slaves to serve in his house, and he has his magicians spell them to give up their life forces when he commands it.” Ithel slides a bowl of something warm and steaming toward her, not bothering to look and see if she takes it. “They knew they were going to die, Helena. Don’t feel guilty. You couldn’t have stopped it even if you’d known.”
Helena’s hands quiver as she holds the bowl, now repulsed by her need to eat. “I’m sorry for them. Truly.”
“Just eat, Helena,” Ithel demands gruffly, turning his cold, furious stare on her until Helena’s hand slinks toward a spoon.
Helena barely takes a sip of the stew and immediately regrets it. The lukewarm, oily liquid tastes like ash when she finally swallows. Choking, Helena waves off her guard’s assistance, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I…I didn’t ask for this, Ithel. And I don’t think I can eat anything right now.” Not so soon after witnessing all this death and destruction.
“Don’t let their deaths stop you from gathering your strength,” Ithel admonishes, tossing a crusty of bread at her elbow. “Finish this bowl, then get another helping of soup and at least two more pieces of bread. You’re going to need it.” When Helena hesitates, Ithel growls, “Or do I need to force your mouth open and pour that soup down your throat myself?”
Reluctantly, Helena picks up her spoon once more. “What were their names?” she whispers as she eats, unable to savor her first real meal in years. The bread feels like putty in her mouth, and when Helena swallows, she fears it will spackle her throat shut. Gasping, she reaches for a glass of water, wishing instead that she could wash away the deaths that stain her memory. I wonder if I went back to my cell if I just shut myself back into that darkness and contented myself with the idea of rotting away down there—would Alaric allow it? Or would he kill me? Would he come after Ithel? It is the thought of causing Ithel any more pain than she already had that stops Helena’s feet from scurrying back toward the dungeons.
“I have no idea what their names were, Helena,” Ithel mutters as he chews, stirring his soup and avoiding her gaze.
“Liar,” Helena challenges, her hands shaking as shock finally begins to wear off. Her mind still cannot register that her skin is no longer aching from dryness or splitting and oozing in an effort to provide its own moisture and relief. “Tell me their names, Ithel; I know that you know them. You always took time to learn people’s names, even among the low-born. It was the first thing I loved about you.”
A cup slams onto the table, making Helena’s mouth go dry. “Let’s not pretend you ever gave a damn about me. Not after everything you did.” Ithel picks up their bowls, carrying them to a wash basin and ignoring the fact that Helena still has her spoon. “Rest here on one of the cots. No one will disturb you. There are extra robes in the cabinets so you can change clothes. I will find you later this afternoon to begin training. Do not leave this room under any circumstances.”
“What about them?” Helena points to where the bodies should be, but only a huge pile of sand remains. “Well, can I at least go out to the balcony?”
Ithel doesn’t turn around as he calls back. “No. Stay indoors and in this infirmary. If you leave, I will know, and I will immediately throw you back into the prison myself. I don’t care what the king would do to me, so don’t think you can browbeat me into submission. Do not test me, Helena. Much has changed during your prison stay. Including me.”
Only once Ithel is gone does Helena chance a wistful glance outside. The palace is still as lavish as she remembers, a stunning marble creation etched into the side of a mountain. A shining city on the hill; an unparalleled gem of Déchets. The market towns bustle with activity as people buy and sell things they do not even need. So very different from Cassé, where people starve and struggle on a daily basis.
Helena’s stomach grows heavy with her meal. How can I face these next seven days? Ithel, her former lover, the man she’d betrayed so many years ago. Then the tunnel. How can I hope to survive? And if by bittersweet mercy I do win this challenge, how can I return to Cassé? How can I face all those people I failed? Her mind races with hopeless possibilities even as her body begins to fall into an exhausted sleep.
***
“They are selling our people to Déchets as slaves?” I shriek as Fox, Cyrus, and the rest of my former house relay the horrors of their encampment with Wolf to me, Enomena, and Drake. We’d all shared our true names, but I still felt comfortable using the house names with Bittern, Grouse, and Goldeneye. It gave me some sense of normalcy in this chaos, a reference point to ground my mind. Hard to believe I might ever look back on the House of Vultures and be anything but repulsed by it, I murmur to Siri through our bond, but she does not respond.
“I got the impression that this is a regular agreement he’s made with the border guards.” Cyrus’s voice breaks in as he adds another log to our campfire. The embers sizzle as they sink into the sand outside the Pith caverns. We had quickly returned to their safety after escaping Wolf’s claws at the House of Piranhas. Traveling day and night, we made it back to the Pith in less than two weeks, stopping only when we found nameless unchosen. The Ddraigs searched through the people quickly, hoping to find their Cadogans. So far, at least half of the Ddraigs who fly with us still have not found their warriors.
I lean heavily against Siri’s warm scales, seeking comfort in her proximity while the other Ddraigs curl up around their Cadogans in my company. The eyes of the crimson Ddraig are ever watchful on my right, and I try to ignore his unspoken threat. We have far more important matters to attend to besides Ekard’s impending mutiny, Siri agrees, snorting in derision as she stares down Drake’s Ddraig.
Ekard opens his wide maw, glowing embers of flame roiling to life in his jaws. It is a mildly veiled threat, a reminder of his intentions that is only stopped when Drake intervenes. “Enough, Ekard,” he mumbles, but to my mind, the tone of his words is really saying, “Not today.”
“No doubt they have some established trade agreements in place with Déchets. So, how do we stop them before another slave shipment is made?” I wonder, turning our focus back to Wolf’s tyranny and traitorous actions. “I don’t want any more of our people being sold off like chattel.”
“But the enemy here is not a ‘they’ or ‘them,’ Iris; it’s just my brother. Cane is the only one responsible for this atrocity,” Cyrus snarls, turning an accusing glare at me. “And you put him in power, filling his head with all these fanciful ideas. He plays at becoming king because of you.”
I cringe under the weight of his words, knowing they are true. I have to clean up this mess. Take Wolf out of power before he even has a chance to complete the goal I set before him. “We’ll make this right,” I mutter softly, but my feeble words crumble like brittle bones until even I do not believe we can find a solution to the problems I’ve created.
“How many Cadogans did he sell to Déchets, do you think?” Bittern wonders, her fiery temper rising to color her words with hateful rage. The sight of her unmasked face covered in henna-like Dadeni lines still unnerves me. It gives her a wild, savage appearance that is only intensified by the resentment that never leaves her expression. “That man of yours is a menace, Iris. Can you bear it if we kill him?”
“He’s not her man!” Cyrus barks, a hand reaching toward his sword. “He’s a monster, and Iris would never choose him.” Cyrus steps in front of me, his eyes growing wild. “Especially not now. Right, Iris?”
“Well, you aren’t my man either. So stop fighting my battles for me,” I growl, standing up to challenge Cyrus’s outburst, wrapping my fingers around his thin shoulder. But though my words are harsh, my touch is gentle. When Cyrus whirls around to face me, the ghosts I see swirling in his eyes confirm my suspicions: his mind fights against an enemy that no longer exists. Can he perceive reality from the horrors of the past? Does he know he quarrels with Bittern and not the monsters that still plague his dreams?
I can hear Siri’s huff of disappointment rumble behind me, warm smoke curling around my limbs. Cyrus may not be your man yet, Iris, but he will be one day. Siri’s constant reminders of her bond with Suryc—and the inevitable end result of my coupling with Cyrus—only rankle my nerves. My opinion of Cyrus has drastically changed over these last few months: he’s not the sadistic asshole I once believed him to be. But I still cannot reconcile myself to the fate that Siri and Suryc have chosen for me.
Cyrus trembles under my touch, glaring at me as he prepares to argue his point. I can feel the tension in his bones like a coiled-up serpent ready to strike at its prey. Me, I shiver at the thought. He’s ready to attack me. Cyrus’s voice is a soft, deceptively calm growl. “Are you saying that after everything you’ve seen, after everything he’s put you through, you would still choose Cane? How can you be so stupid, Iris?!”
“Enough of this!” Fox interrupts the furious retort building on my tongue, Cyrus’s mouth hanging open as his hands begin to shake. “Your bickering solves nothing! And Bittern, we cannot dwell on the slaves already sold that might have belonged with the Ddraigs. There’s nothing to be done to save them now that they are in Déchets.”
“They’re probably already dead.” My head and heart ache with the memories of my last days at the House of Piranhas. Cane was acting like a madman. I doomed him by sending him on this mission to become the first king of Cassè. And I genuinely thought it was the right thing to do. What kind of monster does all of this make me? I have no answer as I expel a long sigh, closing my eyes in defeat. “I still can’t believe—”
“He’s a menace, Iris! You saw what he did to me! No amount of wishing could possibly blot out his sins!” Cyrus bellows, his hands lashing out to clasp my throat.
“Cyrus!” I whimper, my fingers clutching at his hands, desperately trying to break into his vicelike grip. “Please!” The word is hoarse as a dull, burning ache blossoms to life in my chest. Tears turn my eyes glassy, blurring the sight of his furious, feral expression. “Cyrus,” I plead one final time, forcing my body to stop fighting against his. Rather than claw at his hands, I run my fingers down his wrists in calming, circular patterns, willing him to see that I am not his enemy.
A second before I fear my world will black out, Cyrus’s eyes clear. He drops his hold over me, and I fall hard into the sand, choking and coughing on the clean air now scorching through my bruised throat. Cyrus stares at his own hands a moment as if he cannot believe he almost choked the life out of my body. Then, before I can stop him, he runs over to the cavern’s mouth, dropping into the waiting darkness with an uneasy grace.
“Are you okay?” Fox demands, his assessing eye carefully running over the bruises now purpling the skin under my chin.
“I wasn’t going to say anything about Wolf,” I croak, rubbing the tender spots just under my jaw, the accusing eyes of my peers boring holes into me. “I was going to say that I cannot believe we have made it this far without more losses than we’ve already taken.” None of the others seem convinced by my words, and even Siri looks suspiciously at me. It’s unnerving, and I feel my body tense under their scrutiny, my shoulders creeping up toward my ears.
“You saw only a portion of what he endured,” Grouse pipes up, shifting her body to be closer to Goldeneye for comfort. “It was awful, Iris. I…I still hear his screams in my dreams. I don’t think I’ll ever stop hearing those tortured sounds.”
“Did he tell you about the shape-shifting creature that Wolf bartered for with the border guards? Or that he was forced to travel in a coffin?” Bittern’s voice is hollow as she recalls her days in Wolf’s caravan. “He won’t talk about what Wolf did with that monstrosity, but I know it changed him, Iris. Wolf broke some part of his spirit that we can’t seem to repair.”
My eyes are wet with tears, my breath lodging in my throat as I whisper, “He’s never said a word to me about it.” Still, I’d seen the damage through Siri and her connection to Suryc. I’d witnessed firsthand tortures Wolf inflicted on his brother, how his Vibría monster had stolen my face and used my mouth to fill Cyrus’s mind with poison. How he’d watched me die over and over again and then witnessed me rising up in my death only to torture him f
urther still. And I’d heard the gut-wrenching whimpers and moans of Cyrus’s terrorized mind splintering. As Siri had shown me everything Suryc allowed her to know, I’d endured it all as if it was happening to me. “I don’t know what to do to help him cope,” I admit in a soft voice, wiping stray tears off my cheeks as they fall.
Why would he come to you for help at all, Iris? Why would he share anything so personal with you? What have you done to deserve his confidence? Siri challenges before slamming a wall between us through our mental bonds. My mind clouds with images of the sky while Siri broods and probably plots against me. I hate that she can shut me out so easily. Is she shutting me out because of our quarrels? Or is something else going on, some strange plan that I’m not allowed to see because she doesn’t have faith in me?
I saved him, didn’t I? Isn’t that proof that I’m trustworthy? I long to scream, yet deep down, I know that is a weak response. The fact that I was the one who sent him back to his brother still plagues me with guilt.
“I should have done something to stop it,” Fox confesses, staring into the flames as though they hold some unseen cure to ease his conscience.
“We should have tried to stand up to Wolf more,” Grouse whispers, Bittern and Goldeneye bobbing their heads in silent agreement. “Though it might have cost our lives, we should have fought that bastard anyway. Or at the very least, we should have taken Cyrus and run away.”
“We all were at fault for Cyrus’s sufferings.” My voice breaks as the weight of my sorrow drops heavily on my shoulders. “I failed him more than any of you.”
“Fox, you did what was right in the end, standing against Wolf for the damned souls left to his mercy. The fact that you joined our ranks, prepared to die with us, says a lot about your character,” Goldeneye exclaims, patting Fox’s shoulder in comfort. “And Iris, I don’t think Cyrus holds anyone but his brother responsible for the things he’s suffered. He’s struggling now, but he will remember the real culprit in time.”
Brood of Vipers Page 2
