This is what Hawk must have felt, I realize, my past deeds playing through my mind like a highlight reel of all the good and bad I’ve done. I know that when I reach the end of them, I will be dead. It is a helpless feeling to slowly strangle on your own blood. He begged for such a fate from me; it’s only fitting that I die in the same manner. And Warbler. My gods, what she must have endured! This is nothing compared to her sorrows.
Iris? What’s wrong? Siri whispers through my thoughts, and I can tell she is running in the tunnels. Suryc heard Cyrus’s cry, and I can feel your agony. Talk to me!
Creeper, my mind continues its litany of the damned, heedless of Siri’s pleas. I earned this death for everything I put him through. But I don’t regret it. I see his miserable face every day, and I remember how it felt to watch him breathe his last, but I stand by my actions. He deserved exactly what he got. It was justice for all the things he stole from Warbler.
Siri, I suddenly call out to my Ddraig as my vision turns black, tell Cyrus I’m sorry I took so long to see that he was the better man. I blamed him for a great deal of things that were really beyond his control. Tell him I forgive him. Keep him safe. And tell him…that in the end…I….
IRIS, Siri wails, and I faintly hear the thundering of her feet as she enters the cavern where I lay dying.
I’m sorry, my friend. You were the best thing that ever came into my life. A light appears in my vision, a glorious warm pinprick of whiteness that grows ever closer.
“Iris,” Cyrus moans, wiping my face with his bloody hands. “Stay with me, Iris!”
But by now, the light is calling my name, and I’m too far gone to care for the problems of this world.
***
“I won’t do it! I won’t let another slave die so I can be healed,” Helena rasps from the infirmary bed, her head jammed into a pillow as if she can somehow escape the clutches of the slave approaching her side. His face is a mask of resigned acceptance, completely devoid of any traces of sadness or fear. He doesn’t even try to fight it. Helena shivers as the healer’s hand reaches for her wrist.
“It’s not your choice to make,” Ithel barks from his vantage point beside her, motioning for the slave to proceed.
“How many have died already?” Helena presses, shrinking away from the healer’s touch. “How many more—?”
“As many as it takes to get you ready for the tunnel! Or have you forgotten your impending trial?” Ithel snarls, hating himself for the way terror colors his words. The sight of Helena’s broken body filled Ithel with so much guilt that he’d attempted to give his own life force to heal her. While she’d drained most of his strength, an inner barrier shielded him from giving too much. Probably something the king did when he connected guardians to prisoners, to make sure we don’t die until the day of his choosing.
Helena says nothing as she watches the healer slave’s eyes glaze. A tear slips down her face when his body drops to the ground, already dust by the time it strikes the stones. “I hate this, and I hate you for it, Ithel!” she screams, her anger turning to anguish as the broken bones in her leg reset into their natural positions.
“I know,” Ithel mutters, berating himself even as he waves more healers to her bedside. But gods help him, Ithel still felt something for the woman. Even after everything she’d put him through all those years ago, he still loved her. “I’ll take your loathing if it means you’re still alive to give it.” Ithel’s own heart breaks a little more as he recognizes how pathetic and desperate he sounds.
“Get out of here!” Helena snarls, gritting her teeth as her finger bones snap. “Stay the hell away from me!”
“I truly wish I could.” Ithel wheezes as he moves out of the infirmary, giving Helena some space to grieve for the fallen healers. Stepping out into the sunlight of the infirmary’s patio brings a little comfort. In the corner of the tiny oasis drips a cascading birdbath, and the sound of the trickling waters offers some small measure of soothing relief to Ithel’s raw nerves.
Helena’s curses rattle through the air at intermittent intervals, often right about the time when Ithel feels like he’s finally beginning to settle down. Her voice is enough to drive him mad, a welcome and loathed distraction, like a thorn that itches when it’s embedded in the skin—oh how it aches when it is finally removed, but oh how glorious it is as it scratches from the inside out!
She can never know how deeply I still care for her. It is a fool’s wish anyway, Ithel notes with bitterness as he considers their morbid future. If she survives the tunnel, she’ll be sent back into Cassé, and if she fails in the tunnel, we both die. Either way, I end up empty handed.
“You need your strength too. Take mine, sir,” a small healer slave coos as she approaches his knee. Her long, dark hair shadows her face, cascading down her thin frame. She peeks through the tresses enough that Ithel can see the beauty in her emerald eyes and the glory of youth still tinging her features with childlike innocence.
“How old are you?” Ithel shudders as her tiny, cold hands touch his.
“Eleven,” the child whispers, her voice no more than a sigh. Her voice is soft and completely devoid of emotion as she inquires, “Do you wish to take my strength? Or shall I give it to the woman in there?”
“Things are very wrong here,” Ithel murmurs to himself bitterly as he drops to his knees before the little girl, wrapping his hands gently around her wiry shoulders. “Listen to me carefully. I want you to go down to the kitchens and speak to the maids that make bread. Tell them you were sent to meet Mercuri. They will guide you to him. When you meet him, he will ask you who sent you, and you tell him ‘Helena’s guardian.’ He will give you some food, and he will take you someplace safe.”
“But I’m bound to the king. My life is forfeit to the ones who need it more than I do.” Even as the child protests against Ithel’s plan, the glimmer of a future dares to shine in her eyes.
“Is that what you want, to die before your life’s even begun?” Ithel snaps, gripping the child’s arms tight enough to leave bruises. When she cries out, he drops his hold and whispers, “I’m sorry, girl. What is your name?”
“Raissa, sir,” she whimpers, rubbing her arms as she shivers.
“How did you end up a slave, Raissa?” Ithel questions, keeping his voice soft and his hands at his sides.
Raissa shifts back and forth on her feet as she tells her story. “My family owed money to the king, and I’m the only child in the family that doesn’t have Windwalker abilities. They sent me here to pay off their debts.” Her head droops as she adds, “My mother’s last words to me before she sold me to the king were, ‘Finally found some way for you to be useful.’ My father said nothing at all—he’d barely spoken two words to me after I did not show signs of Windwalker magic. They knew that when they sold me, I’d become a slave and probably die to heal someone else. They didn’t care.”
Ithel’s heart breaks for the child as her lower lip begins to wobble, and he pulls her up in his arms for a gentle, comforting hug. “I’m going to tell you a secret, Raissa. The spells that the king uses on his slaves are indeed very powerful, but less so on children. You are young yet; I suspect that you can resist its draw if you fight it. Mercuri has some friends that can help you. They will make sure you find your way to freedom,” Ithel assures, setting Raissa back on the floor and turning her so that she’s facing the door. “Go quickly, and speak to no one in the halls. Can you do that?”
“You’re sure?” Raissa gives Ithel a long look before she relents, wrapping her tiny fingers around his. “Thank you, sir,” she exclaims as she scampers off in search of a new, free life.
It hardly feels like a victory as Ithel reseats himself by the waterfall, praying Raissa finds her way to safety. How many more children have been forced to give up their life energies as slaves? How many of them could have been spared if they’d known they could resist Alaric’s spells? How
many good lives have been lost simply because they have no Windwalker talents? How long will this madness be allowed to continue? Ithel wipes his eyes as he weeps for the lost ones, silently adding his and Helena’s names to the litany.
As the sun gasps its final day’s breath, Ithel stomps into the infirmary. Helena sits up in her bed, her body covered in a patchwork of bruises at various stages of healing. Her eyes are full of fire and hatred as she watches her guardian approach. Yet before her mouth can open to scold him, Ithel bellows at her, his voice hoarse and full of pleading.
“Listen here, Helena! You’re going to beat the tunnel. Do you hear me? You’re going to succeed. And when you do, you’re going to find a way to dismantle the king’s reign.” He crosses over close to her side, leaning over so their faces almost touch. “And I’m going to help you do it—whatever it takes, Helena. Promise me you’ll bring Alaric’s reign to an end.”
Helena stares hard into Ithel’s eyes, defiance warring with her fears as she spits back, “How can you be so sure?”
“You hate that the healer slaves die to save you, right?” Ithel questions, pointing to the pile of sand swirling around the bed. “You hate what the king did to the people in Cassé? Don’t you want to see him suffer for it? Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t want him dead!”
“Of course, I do,” Helena agrees with a grumble. “But I don’t want anyone else to die for me either!”
“Let them do their jobs, Helena.” Ithel raises his hands to stop Helena’s protests as he shouts, “I hate it too! And if there was another way, don’t you think I’d have found it by now? But crying over these losses solves nothing. We can grieve over them once the world is right again—once you’ve had the chance to change the way Cassé is run. For now, let every death that heals you make you angry.”
“It already does that, Ithel! I just want to stop it!” Helena cries, throwing off her blanket as she stumbles to her feet.
Ithel’s fingers grip like a vice around her shoulders. “Then use your fury to beat Alaric at his own sick and twisted game!”
Helena’s face slowly releases its furious scowl, slowly turning to a cold, emotionless expression. Her breathing slows as Ithel’s words take effect. Challenge your rage; let it drive your success. Only the fire in her eyes shows any sign of her true feelings. Her next words surprise Ithel, her voice as frozen as the winter’s snow. “Drug me again, Ithel. I want to be ready for whatever the king throws at me. And when I win this challenge—when the time is right—I will find a way to kill Alaric.”
Chapter 5
“You seem rather chipper this morning,” Jackal winks as he smacks Wren’s elbow with a knowing grin. “So, does that mean we should be expecting another bundle from Lynx in the coming months?” His bawdy laughter erupts at his own crude joke.
“Hardly,” Wren snorts, covering his rage in carefully controlled expressions. He schools his mouth to return Jackal’s smile and forces his tone to sound conspiratorial as he adds, “I took great care to make certain she’d not carry my child.”
Jackal roars once more, cuffing Wren’s shoulder. “That oughta show her who’s boss!” He slaps another cut of roasted deer onto his plate before he saunters off to find his men. Turning back, Jackal gives Wren another long eye before he inquires, “You want to come join my crew around their fire this morning? They’d love to hear all the gory details of you punishing the spy.”
The longing to beat the stupid grin off Jackal’s face nearly overwhelms Wren’s carefully maintained disguise. “You go ahead. I think I’ll give a report to Wolf first.” Wren moves toward the stairs, putting as much distance between himself and Jackal as possible.
“Oh, that’s not the kind of story Wolf would enjoy.” Jackal scoffs at the idea, waving Wren to move closer. “Wolf’s only interested in that sort of thing when the discussion turns to his precious Ddraig sympathizer. Otherwise, his snarling frown makes the men so uncomfortable that they stop talking mid-story any time Wolf approaches.”
Perfect. Wren genuinely feels a slow smile creep across his features. I can use that little detail to drive a wedge between Wolf and his second in command. He revels in the simplicity of his plot to remove Jackal from his position of power. It’s almost too easy. Wren dismisses Jackal with a wave as he replies, “Just the same. I think I’ll go talk to Wolf first.”
Jackal shrugs and saunters out the door, whistling as he makes his way to his men’s campsites.
Wren waits by the steps a few heartbeats before hurrying to the kitchen table instead of up to Wolf’s room. He hopes that Wolf will find him here alone and ask him why he does not join the other soldiers. A simple, innocent question—that’s all it takes to begin the greatest deception of my days.
Wren chews his venison quickly, the flavor untasted on his tongue as he remembers the events of the evening. After formulating a bare bones plan with Lynx, he spent the remainder of the night determining his next steps. Thousands of possibilities and problems raced through Wren’s wide eyes. He played each scenario like a mental movie, pausing and repeating each event until every detail was perfected. It wasn’t until the wee hours when the sun was whispering its first light into the world that Wren finally slept.
Despite being bone weary, Wren feels at ease with his lies. Getting Wolf to question Jackal’s loyalty won’t be as difficult as Lynx feared. Breeding that kind of mistrust is as simple as breathing for Wren. A shiver of excitement races down his spine, and the smile on his lips is entirely genuine. The thrill of the hunt has begun. While the quarry may not be animal, the chase is very similar. The moment when Jackal is removed from Wolf’s side will be just as rewarding as a kill shot.
“What are you doing here?” Wolf barks as he slides into the kitchen with his unearthly grace. The purplish bruises of sleep deprivation discolor the skin under Wolf’s eyes. Almost absentmindedly, his fingers linger at his temple, attempting to massage away a headache that never seems to leave.
Wren notes each signal to Wolf’s distress, forcing his mouth to frown in concern. Unrested people are the easiest to irritate. Their emotions are already raw; I can manipulate that. “I simply wanted to report to you that the spy is safely ensconced in my tent. She had very little information to share with me.” Wren chews his next bite slowly, adding, “Are you feeling okay?”
“No,” Wolf snipes, slumping into a chair beside Wren. He opens his mouth as though he’s preparing to share all of his burdens, then closes it just as quickly. After a moment’s thought, Wolf mutters, “I’m still deciding what to do with the wretch, so you’ll have to keep her nearby for a while longer.”
Wren nods, seizing the opportunity to begin sowing seeds of distrust. “Well, I had an idea about the spy. Perhaps, after she breaks and tells me how she’s been getting information to the Ddraigs, we could use her to our advantage. We could plant some bad information and send the spy running back to Iris. Draw her out of her hiding place and lure them all into a trap. Get them to come to us, but make sure we have the high ground. She’d never be suspecting such a plan, and your brother—”
“Is too stupid to ever think of it either,” Wolf agrees with a wicked gleam in his eye as he stands and paces around the table. “I like it, Wren! Go explain it to Jackal—”
“I think it would be best if it comes from you,” Wren whispers, pinching his hands under the table to keep his smile from showing. A happy expression would disrupt his forthcoming lie. “Every time I try to join Jackal and his men at their campfire, they either quit talking or leave. It’s the strangest thing.” Wrinkle your brow, pinch your lips together just a little, blink once or twice, not too much. Wren walks himself through the body language that will make his words seem plausible. There’s time enough to revel in your victory when it’s complete. “Jackal and his gang will be sitting around the fire, discussing something in hurried whispers, but the minute I appear, their conversation stops altogether. Th
e subject changes, usually to something forced, superficial, and mundane. It’s almost as if—” Wren stops intentionally, dropping his eyes to his plate. The crumbs are there; now, Wolf just needs to take the bait.
“You think they’re planning something?” Wolf whispers, his eyebrows raised as he pauses midstride and turns on Wren. “Surely not! Jackal has been an ally ever since I removed Fox.”
“Right,” Wren shrugs, picking at the venison on his plate without eating any more. “I’m sure he’s been an asset.” Not enough, not enough. Wren’s mind races for something else that might paint Jackal as a traitor. “And the fact that Jackal was the one who caught Lynx out in the forest is just a coincidence. I guess I’m just tired.” Wren rubs his eyes for show, coughing to cover his sigh of relief. All the mental planning done the night before the deception begins always pays off in the end.
Wolf stares at him hard, watching for any signs of betrayal or manipulation as he mulls the implication. “You know, Jackal’s men clam up around me too.” He leans heavily against the counter, exclaiming, “I’d have said that kind of behavior was because you come from the House of Vultures if it wasn’t happening to me too.”
“I’m sure it’s because you’re the leader. They’d have no reason to want to overthrow your power. Jackal is not strong enough to take your place, and the men know that.” Wren pauses, biting his tongue to keep from babbling. Sometimes silence is more important than the words that you might say. Let the other person’s mind work the poison into its system while your mouth stays shut.
“Jackal is well liked among the men,” Wolf agrees, stalking over to the window where the first tents are visible. “But Lynx is the spy. You said so yourself.”
“She’s the only spy I’ve found, it’s true,” Wren agrees, cutting into his last venison strip to give his hands something to do.
“Of course, there could be others,” Wolf admits, shuffling on his feet in agitation. “That’s only smart planning in case one spy is caught. Another takes his or her place unnoticed.”
Brood of Vipers Page 9
