“Ithel,” Helena slurs as she calls his name, her shattered hand twitching as if she tries to raise it in his direction.
Ithel sinks to his knees beside her, pouring his own life force into her healing. If I die, it is just. I caused this injury; I should be the one to sacrifice for it. “I’m so sorry, Helena!” He chokes on the words, his fingers searching for a place he can touch her without causing more pain. His lips long to ask for forgiveness, but his tongue stays quiet. Such a kindness should not be offered to him. It would salve his conscience, but it would not stop her agony.
Ithel doesn’t know how many healers perish in their efforts to save Helena’s life. He passes his energy into her until he begins to sway. Despite his best efforts, his body refuses to give its last breath, self-preservation kicking in. Ithel drops to the stones beside Helena, noticing every detail in her broken face. His mind is so focused on her that Ithel neglects to hear the striking of fine leather boots on the stones by his back.
“So, you finally just killed her?” The king of Déchets sneers as he surveys the scene. “Can’t say I blame you, but I never would have thought you’d have the balls to do it.” Another healer races up to Helena’s knee. “Oh, I see! An impulse reaction, and now you’re filled with regret. My first assessment of you was correct, after all. Coward!” The king kicks Ithel hard, pounding his boots into Ithel’s back as though he attempts to break his victim’s spine. When that grows tiresome, Alaric saunters off, whistling merrily as he moves away from the grisly scene.
“Sir? What about yourself?” One of the healer slaves questions Ithel as she assesses his waning strength.
“Just take care of Helena. Keep her alive, whatever the cost,” Ithel mumbles, his fingers curling into Helena’s hair before he blacks out.
Chapter 4
Wren barely makes it inside his tent before Lynx springs into action behind him, pressing a serrated blade to his throat. “The only thing that’s keeping you alive right now is the fact that my child is here,” Lynx growls as she scans the tent for any weapon Wren might use against her. “Why did you sell me out as a spy? I was only following—”
Wren hisses sharply over her words, motioning to the billowing tent flaps. Anyone could be outside listening to their confrontation. Wren’s overly paranoid nature swings into full effect determined that no one else would slip through his defenses and thwart his plans again. “Come with me.”
“Why?” Lynx resists, tilting her head to check on her son, who lies peacefully sleeping in a basket by her feet. That distraction is all it takes for Wren to pounce, slamming his head back into Lynx’s mask. While she recovers from the attack, Wren carefully slides out of her grasp. Before she has the chance to retaliate, Wren lifts his hands in defeat.
“I don’t want to fight,” he whispers as he slowly backs out of his tent into the cool night air. “Leave the child. No one will bother him. Follow me, and I’ll tell you everything.” Quickly scanning the grounds to be certain that no one else moves at this late hour, Wren sprints for the huge field that stands open and empty in his path. Just beyond it lies the ocean, whose unending waves drone on in a constant, monotonous roar that will drown out all sounds of their conversation. Noise cover and a clear line of sight—the two things that will ensure that the mistakes that put Lynx in peril are not recommitted tonight. Wren doesn’t turn to see if Lynx obeyed his wishes. Every second his back is exposed is another opportunity to become Death’s friend. He doesn’t breathe easy until his feet muddle wet sand and the ocean’s song is a relentless melody in his ears.
Keeping his back to the ocean, Wren halts suddenly in place while Lynx rushes up behind him. She barely manages to stop before running him through with her blade. Both of them breathing hard, they gulp a few breaths before Lynx shouts, “I want answers, Wren! Why did you name me a traitor? Why say you are trying to help me and then sell me out to Wolf?”
“It was the only way to keep myself safe.” Wren winces as he says the words, hating the veracity in them.
“You mean you’d sell out a mother and newborn just to stay alive?” Lynx raises her blade once more, her mouth drawing back in a sneer.
“My safety is the only thing that’s protecting you and your son, so don’t get all high and mighty on me,” Wren snaps, slapping the tip of her blade away from his chest. “I put the focus on you, but I’m going to be the one taking the big risks.” Playing both sides never ends well, Wren reminds himself with a frustrated sigh. How did I get mixed up in all this? The image of that sleeping boy appears like a ghost in the mist. You could not bear to see him harmed. That’s why you’ll take these reckless chances.
The memory of the tiny Ddraigs sidling up to him when Suryc carried him to the hatching den flares up in Wren’s memory too. Suryc had cornered Wren about his loyalties then, hoping he’d choose the side of the Ddraigs, preying on his emotions by showing him the helpless young. That Ddraig just wants to protect his own, much like I seek to keep Lynx’s child from harm. Wren drops his head, wishing he could detach himself from the crazy ideas already taking shape in his mind.
He must have grumbled audibly as he recalls the black Ddraig’s plea for aid, and Lynx eyes him suspiciously, asking, “What’s wrong?”
“I think I just decided to join the fight,” Wren admits, cursing himself for getting too involved, even though a small part of his heart feels relieved to finally have a cause that matters this much to him. “And it appears that I’m going to be the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.” But it’s nothing new to me, is it? Wren declares, silently offering up a prayer that he’ll find a way to survive this mess.
Lynx’s mouth falls open as she finally comprehends Wren’s plan. “You’re saying that while Wolf watches me, waiting to see if I sell him out—”
“He’ll hopefully miss the fact that I’m the real threat,” Wren finishes, a thankful sigh of relief escaping his lips when Lynx’s knife falls in the dirt. “I’ll make him grow to depend upon me, to trust my judgment even more than he values the rest of his pack. I’ll use Fox’s leaving to my benefit, letting Wolf believe he’s the betrayer, selling out Wolf’s secrets to Iris and the Ddraigs. Whatever it takes to keep suspicion off me, I’ll do it.” Wren scans the field, his keen eyes watching for any signs of movement that might point to someone spying on them.
“Why?” Lynx demands, absently clutching her stomach as if the gesture could protect her son.
“Loyalty to my old house, my own damned love of intrigue, or downright insanity, I don’t know. There are a thousand different answers to that question,” Wren explains, his mouth hardening into a slim, straight line across his face as he prepares to explain his plan to Lynx. “If we’re going to survive this, you’re going to have to trust me completely. There may be times when I have to say and do things that hurt you. If Wolf tells me to beat you, I won’t bat an eye as I do it.”
“I can endure anything you put me through,” Lynx whispers, her gaze on her shoes. “I’ve already been through worse, believe me. Just keep my son alive and safe.”
Wren nods as if her demand was already anticipated. Then, with carefully practiced motions, Wren strikes out hard and jabs a fist into Lynx’s jaw. She lands on the ground at the impact of the jarring blow, and already a bruise blooms to life under the edge of her mask. “That’s to give us a story should any guards see us return to the campsite.” He slips an extra shirt from the deep pockets of his coat, wadding it into a ball as he steps toward the fallen woman. “Carry this as if it is your son. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I caught you trying to escape my tent.” In a softer voice, Wren murmurs, “I’m sorry it’s come to this. Every time I end up hurting you, please remember that it’s just a part I’m playing to keep us alive.”
“Fair enough.” Lynx hesitates to receive the outstretched bundle, rubbing her jaw as she exclaims, “But just how do you intend on becoming Wolf’s right-hand man? He’s not easily
fooled.”
“Neither am I,” Wren adds with a mirthless laugh, hoisting Lynx off the ground carefully. “However, tonight, we were nearly caught because there’s a bigger threat in our midst. But I think I know who it is, and I’ve already got a plan to get rid of him. I’m going to drive some doubt into Wolf’s mind.”
“Just like that?” Lynx scoffs, dusting off the coating of wet sand that covers her pants with grit. “You really think it will be that easy?”
“A few well cast shadows are all it takes to seed mistrust. The rest will happen naturally, especially since Wolf’s already feeling betrayed and vulnerable. It won’t take much for his mind to assume there might be more traitors in the camp. I just have to make sure his thoughts lead him toward Jackal and away from myself,” Wren exclaims as he hands Lynx the shirt bundle that will pass for a newborn. “Trust me. If there’s any one thing I’m good at, it’s this kind of game. Wolf will never know what hit him.”
“You better be right,” Lynx acquiesces, still unconvinced as they turn and hurry back to camp. “We’re depending upon you now.”
***
“This is where you sleep?” Cyrus wonders as he steps into the grand chamber that leads to the Pith caverns. I nod, unable to speak as Cyrus stares at me expectantly. When no explanation comes, he adds. “I just figured you’d have picked someplace deeper in the heart of the caves. Somewhere that’s easily defensible and holds less painful memories for you.”
Scanning the room, I understand Cyrus’s assessment of the place. After all, this is where Antero was burned alive, where I’d first discovered he was a traitor, and where Wolf had first been separated from my side. “Yes, there are strong memories here. It’s true. Some are difficult to recall,” I agree, surprising Cyrus when I add, “But there are precious ones too, Cyrus.”
“Like what?” Cyrus wheezes, and judging by his tense expression, I suspect he’s silently praying my answer has nothing to do with Wolf. Already feeling vulnerable and emotionally threadbare, listening to me praise anything about his monstrosity of a brother would probably send Cyrus into a nervous breakdown.
I offer him a wistful smile, recalling my first moments in the cavern mouth. “This is where I learned that Ddraigs exist. That knowledge completely rerouted my life. Now, this is the first place to defend against any invaders who might seek to steal into our lands. As long as I’m here, I can be certain the Ddraigs are safe. If danger comes, I can raise an alarm. I can fight to keep them safe.”
“You’re acting as a patrol,” Cyrus surmises, feeling a little small as he mutters, “How did you not see me the night I almost killed myself in this cavern?” Cyrus points to the lip that hangs over the steepest portion of the cave’s mouth. “That’s where I nearly….” He gulps as the feelings from that night take hold.
“You almost—” I drop my head to my chest, my eyelids falling closed, a chill seeping into my bones. How did I not recognize that he was this broken? I accuse myself, wishing I’d been paying better attention. “I sometimes spend the night up on land too. Sometimes the thought of being underground—of being swallowed up by the land itself—it’s too much for me. On those nights, I sleep under the stars.” My lip quivers slightly as I admit, “If I had been here, if I had seen how badly you were hurting, I would have helped you or tried to stop you. I…Cyrus, you have to know I would never wish you this kind of pain.”
Cyrus nods, turning his face up to the cave’s mouth. The angle of the entrance is odd, cutting off most of the night sky view. Still, Cyrus sees a few rebellious stars winking at him in the distance. “Maybe this is a bad plan, Iris. To be this close to the exit may only plague my dreams with ideas of escape. And I…I don’t want to hurt you any more than I want to kill myself.”
I point to the wall farthest from the cavern entrance. “Sleep there. I’ll bed down a few feet in front of you. That way, you’ll have to pass me if you sleepwalk again. I’m not a heavy sleeper anymore, so if you move, I’ll be sure to wake up.”
Cyrus obeys my wishes without another word, dropping his holey bedroll and blanket next to the rocks. He has no other items of wealth or usefulness that I can see. While he clears some wayward stones from his path, I set about building a small fire that will provide some comfort to us both on this first night.
It is awkward as we both prepare for sleep, attempting to adjust to each other’s needs for privacy and routine. By the time we’ve both managed to drop into our bedrolls, the air is thick with silence. For a few blinks of the eyes, we turn and stare at each other, too lost for words to speak. Then we shift away, pointing our backs at the flames as we wait for sleep to claim us.
I must have been exhausted from the trauma of my earlier Gwen vision. For all my boasting, I slept too soundly for my own good that night. I did not hear the scuffles of shoes or the metallic zing of a blade loosed from its scabbard. Nor was I aware of the fluttered disturbance in the air close to my body or the light, careful footfalls of someone approaching my side. I missed all of those warning signs, twisting onto my back to give Cyrus a better aim at my throat.
It is his voice that warns me of the impending strike, forcing my eyes to fly open. Immediately I meet Cyrus’s furious, dead stare, murder playing out in his nightmare. “You stupid, lazy oaf! If torturing you wasn’t this much fun, I’d have killed you weeks ago. Why, the first time I saw you enter my courtyard, I could have ruined you! The only thing that kept you alive was my feelings for Iris. I know she’ll want to be the one who deals the killing blow!” Cyrus’s body slurs the words as he sways, and his body refuses to coordinate his motions. The tone of his voice is altered, as though his body is imitating Cane as he reenacts the hateful memory.
When Cyrus speaks as himself, I can hear the strange, subtle differences in his voice. His fear raises his tone, and the cadence of his words grows erratic. Cyrus’s body trembles from the strength of the terror he still endures. It’s like watching a person possessed, two distinctly different personas being portrayed in the same form. Or a play where two characters are acted out by the same individual. The way Cyrus shifts into and out of Wolf’s mannerisms is eerily accurate, and it raises the hair on my arms.
“Iris,” Cyrus wavers, tears spewing down his face. “She wouldn’t send me here to die! I know she hates me, but—”
“But nothing!” Cyrus sneers as he shifts into Wolf, and I know the words I’m hearing must be from one of the many times Wolf tortured him. “She loathes the very thought of you! The only reason she sent you here is to suffer! She’ll come here and rejoice to find you broken and begging for death.” Wolf cackles, pointing a finger at an unseen addition to the dream. “And I hope the death she brings you is slow, brother. Slow and excruciating.”
“No!” Cyrus goes white, covering his head with his hands. “Iris? It can’t be true!”
Cyrus’s body goes completely still, his voice changing to a high falsetto. Something about the way he stands suggests a feminine nature. “Miss me, Wolf?” he mumbles, brushing a hand down his cheek as he simpers. “Ready to die, Cyrus?”
“No, please, no!” Cyrus wails as he scuttles away from me, cowering into a ball as he screams.
He thinks it’s me, I realize, growing cold as I watch him thrash, his brow breaking out into a clammy sweat. He sees me in his dream, siding with his brother. He actually thinks I want him dead! Dimly I recall the stories of the Vibría monster Wolf bartered for from Déchets, the shapeshifter he used to wreak havoc in Cyrus’s mind. Worse than any hallucination, the Vibría tortured Cyrus physically and mentally, using my face as its own.
Hearing these hateful words breaks my heart for Cyrus. While I’d heard about the terrors he’d faced, nothing could prepare me for how terrible it was in reality. Rising from my bedroll, I race over to Cyrus’s curled up form, hoping I can find a way to bring him back to the present. “Cyrus! Wake up!” I cry, attempting to rip the sword out of his clenched fist. It�
��s a wonder he hasn’t run himself through with it. His fingers are like long ice crystals, so rigid I fear they will snap when I try to pry them open. “Give me the sword, Cyrus!” I beg, reaching up to touch his face. I keep my voice gentle, hoping I can calm him with my soothing words. “It’s okay, Cyrus. I’m here. Please, let me—”
The feel of my fingers only agitates him more. “Get away! Get away!” he screams, his arms flying out in an effort to push his ghosts away. “You’re not real! You can’t be real!”
The sword bites deeply into my throat, my blood spraying into his face and eyes. The sudden onslaught of warmth seems to pull Cyrus out of his terrors. It takes him a minute to shake the dream out of his mind, but I see the look of horror as he recognizes what he’s done. The sword clatters to the stones as I fall to my knees. “Suryc! Siri!” His voice crackles with the force of his cries. “I need you now!”
I try to speak, but only a gurgling sound churns from my gaping neck. My fingers slide on my blood as I attempt to hold the skin closed, but I know it is a useless gesture. Every second is a step closer to death. My spine gives way, and I slump to the side, rolling onto my back. Immediately I choke on the blood pooling in my mouth, racking coughs lifting my body with their force.
Cyrus slides down to the ground, hoisting my upper body up to rest on his chest. I do not choke, nor do I breathe more than the faintest rustle. “Iris! Use my strength! Heal yourself, now!” Cyrus begs, his fingers entwining with mine as he puts pressure on the wound. “My gods, what have I done?! Iris! Keep breathing!”
My limbs quake and grow colder with every heartbeat. Despite Cyrus’s pleadings, I cannot feel the mental connection that would allow me to heal myself. And even if I could, I wouldn’t use it for fear of killing him in the process. Already I have slipped too far into Death’s grasp. My vision turns gray and dim, and I hear my body’s wheezing gasps slowing down each passing second.
Brood of Vipers Page 8
