“She’s your daughter!” I tried to shout before one of my guards clamped his meaty hand over my mouth. I bit into his thick fingers, but my teeth couldn’t cut through the hardened callouses of the warrior’s hands. No matter how hard I fought, I could not break free. I could do nothing but watch as Ithel unknowingly choked the life out of his own daughter.
Helena whimpers, clenching her eyes tight against the memory. “It was just a dream,” she repeats nervously, the words sounding hollow and flat to her ears.
With the sunlight bursting through the window and the memory of the nightmare still clinging to the surface of her mind, Helena knows she will sleep no more this morning. Sighing, Helena moves away from the bed, dragging a ragged looking chair over to the window, content to watch the world wake.
She sits so still and quiet, so lost in her fearful musings that she doesn’t hear a servant girl bringing her a food tray. Helena fails to notice the kitchen maid until she is close enough to touch. The sudden proximity of another human being startles Helena out of her chair. She deftly twirls her fingers into a spiral, effectively creating a wind tunnel prison around the helpless servant. “Who sent you?” she snarls, preparing to attack.
“Please! I just brought breakfast. And I was told to stay and see if you needed anything for the king’s party tonight,” the pitiful child wails, covering her face with her hands. “This wind is cutting me! Please, make it stop!” Blood splatters on the floor under the servant’s feet, the red stains offering proof of her claims.
Regretting her hyper vigilance, Helena ceases the windstorm almost as quickly as it sprang to life. “Apologies, child. I will not hurt you anymore. But I would not sneak up on me again.”
The servant nods, staring at her toes. Small, stinging cuts crisscross the child’s arms. Her chin puckers as her mouth pulls tight. She wrings her hands and pinches the skin between her fingers to keep from crying. “D…d…do you need anything?” she asks with a sniffle, her knees wobbling as though they can barely hold her weight.
“Come here and sit down,” Helena declares softly, instantly morphing from fighter to mother at the sight of a terrified child. She holds out her hand to the servant, trying to force her face into a pleasant smile. “I truly am sorry that I’ve hurt you. Rest assured, it will not happen again. What is your name, child?”
“Amie,” the servant whimpers, shying away from Helena’s touch as she moves toward the offered chair.
Regrets burn deep in Helena’s heart as she watches the child cringe away from her. “And have you eaten breakfast yet, Amie?” Helena asks gently, pulling the table and tray closer. “The kitchens always send up more than enough food, and I’d hate to see it all go to waste.”
Amie’s stomach growls heartily in response, but the child does not move to take a single pastry from the plate. Her face loses all expression, her voice no more than a whisper as she challenges, “What do you want in exchange for this kindness?”
Pity swells in Helena’s heart at the wary look in the child’s eyes. This fear runs deeper than just me, I think. What horrors could a child so young have faced to make her so untrusting? “I want nothing—”
“Everyone wants something,” Amie interrupts, her legs bouncing nervously against the chair. Her stomach roars once more, the grip of the hunger pain so intense that Amie clutches at her midsection until it passes.
“Well, how about we make a trade? You eat your fill, and in return, you answer some questions about one of the guards,” Helena offers, her heart breaking as she watches Amie stare at the pastries, instinctively licking her lips.
“Really? That’s all you want?” Amie hesitates, her hand twitching at her side. She tightens her fingers into a fist to keep from snatching food off the plate before a bargain is finalized.
“Yes, Amie. All I want is a few answers. Now, please, eat whatever you like,” Helena declares, smiling wide when Amie lunges for the pastries, taking one in each slender hand.
Silence punctuated by smacking lips and sighs of contentment stretch between Helena and Amie. Only when Amie stops reaching for food, her eyes growing a little glazed at the intensity of the sugar rushing through her veins, does Helena begin her interrogation. “There is a guard in the palace named Andras. Do you know of him?”
“I do,” Amie replies, her eyelids beginning to droop. “What do you want to know about him?”
“He and I are getting ready to travel together, Amie. I need to know everything you can tell me about him. What’s he like? What are his strengths? Any weaknesses? Has he done anything wrong? Anything you can tell me that might be useful,” Helena presses, trying to lightly steer Amie’s thoughts toward the negative things that might be used as blackmail later.
“Andras keeps to himself most of the time,” Amie replies, rubbing her now slightly swollen belly while she thinks. “You know, this may be the first time I can say I am truly full since I got to the palace.” The pitiful child stretches her arms wide, her chin falling toward her chest as sleep drags at her mind.
“Amie, focus!” Helena cries sharply, reaching for the exhausted girl’s hand. “Come on!”
“Andras comes to the kitchen after every evening meal for a cup of coffee or an extra piece of pie. I think he’s sweet on one of the dishwashing maids, but he’d never tell her. He seems very shy,” Amie mumbles, her words beginning to slur.
“Has he ever been accused of doing anything wrong?” Helena presses, clenching her hands into fists and firmly placing them on her hips to keep from shaking the child.
“No, he’s good—” Amie’s head falls back against the chair, her soft snores pitifully finishing her sentence.
A half-hearted sigh of frustration sucks the air from Helena’s lungs as she slumps over to sit on a nearby infirmary bed, contemplating whether or not she should wake Amie. For surely, there has to be more to Andras than that, Helena muses, the bitterness of her cynicism burning on her tongue. “If Andras is so good, why does he stay here? What keeps him loyal to the king?” she wonders, leaning her head back on a pillow as she gets lost in the tangle of her thoughts.
Helena turns her head, eyeing the tray of uneaten pastries as her stomach roars in protest at its empty state. “Maybe the kitchen maid Andras is sweet on will be more forthcoming with information,” she decides, sitting up once more as she prepares to hunt down this supposed love interest.
The sudden realization that a figure leans on the doorpost, however, is enough to freeze Helena’s feet to the floor. Helena doesn’t recognize the man, shuffling through her memories for some signal as to his identity. He is tall, broad chested and stocky—the kind of man who’s perfect for the front lines of war. His eyes are dark, full of the spark of intelligence. He stands unnaturally still, barely even appearing to be breathing. It’s a trained skill, Helena knows, and immediately her heart sinks to her toes as she deduces the man’s identity.
“So that’s where the little kitchen scamp ran off too,” Andras smirks, calmly assessing the scene before him. “Eating your food while you root around in her head for my secrets.”
“Don’t blame the girl,” Helena pleads, angling to put herself between the guard and the peacefully sleeping Amie. “None of this was her fault—”
“I heard enough to know that’s the truth,” Andras interrupts, waving off Helena’s further protests. “Relax; I’m not after the child. But if she doesn’t get herself back down to help the cooks, she’ll have much greater things than me to worry about. The head chef has a cruel habit of smacking around the staff that shirks their duties.”
“I’ll make sure the chef knows her absence is my fault,” Helena vows, an indignant fire roaring to life in her belly at the thought of Amie being hurt.
“Better let me take care of it,” Andras replies, stalking deeper into the room with predatory grace. “The chef’s a pompous, patronizing piece of filth that despises women who challeng
e his authority. If you try and reason with him, you’ll only end up making it worse for her.”
His footfalls are completely silent, Helena notices as she analyzes Andra’s movements, searching for the reason why she hadn’t heard him approach. She tenses as he sidles up to Amie’s side, her muscles tight with unspent energy, ready to fight or protect the child if need be.
Andras smiles knowingly as if he’s just learned some valuable information about Helena. He picks up a piece of bacon from her tray of food. Yet all throughout his movements, Andras’s eyes never leave Helena, carefully observing her just as critically as she watches him. He bites off a piece from the bacon strip, chewing thoughtfully as he waits for Helena to make the first move.
Quiet and shy, my ass. Helena shivers under his scrutiny, all too aware that Amie’s assessment of the man couldn’t be more wrong. This man’s clever, hiding his constant awareness and assessment of others under such a guise. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Even now, he wants me to speak first just so he can have the upper hand. Helena swallows hard, her confidence fleeing as she asks, “What makes you so sure you can get through to the chef? If he’s as bad as you say—”
“Oh, trust me, he’s far worse than I’ve said,” Andras interjects, glancing down at Amie’s sleeping form. His face betrays no emotion or empathy for the girl’s predicament; if he feels anything at all, he hides it well. “But the chef is also a coward. He will not go against me.” Something about the flat tone in Andras’s voice and the flinty, hate-filled look in his eyes is enough to keep Helena from pressing him further on this subject.
“Why did you come?” Helena stumbles over the words, raising her chin a little higher in an effort to regain some of her confidence. The longer she finds herself on the defensive with Andras, the more she feels like shrinking into the wall and hiding until he disappears.
“For the same reasons you sat here bribing that child with sweets,” Andras shrugs, tapping his fingers on the back of Amie’s chair. “Information; I want to know who I’m traveling with and whether or not I can trust you to keep from being a problem.”
“I feel certain that Amie told me nothing useful about you,” Helena announces, confirming her ideas about the man when Andras offers her a predatory smile.
“She told you exactly what I would have expected her to say. I’ve worked hard to maintain that image of a shy, simple soldier,” Andras murmurs, crossing his muscled arms in front of his chest. “But you’d be a fool to believe the words of an adolescent kitchen slave.”
Despite the easy manner Andras intentionally portrays, Helena senses that he is still on alert, cautiously observing her behavior. Helena lets her hands fall open at her sides, forcing herself to stay perfectly still, schooling her face into a blank, neutral expression. “And why would you intentionally play a part to dupe your friends?” Helena asks innocently, feigning ignorance to the strategy at play while she considers her next move.
Andras chuckles, raising one eyebrow as he challenges, “Come now, Helena, we both already know that you are no fool. Why don’t we drop the pretense? You know what they say about honesty being the best policy—”
“When you’re the one holding the knife,” Helena interrupts, finishing the old saying with her hands held wide to prove she is unarmed. “Seems I’m at a disadvantage, Andras.”
Andras nods, resting his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist. His mocking smile only deepens the wound to Helena’s pride. “I can afford to be truthful with you, I realize that. But I’d rather hoped we could begin this journey on better terms.” When Helena does not respond, Andras shakes his head, mumbling, “In answer to your other question, surely you must know the merits of listening in on the gossip from the gabby kitchen maids. Most of their half-whispered secrets are full of juicy tidbits just waiting to be exploited by a cunning mind. I find it’s in my best interest to play the part of a quiet man who can’t muster the courage to meet their gaze, so they will speak freely in front of me.” Andras moves away from Amie’s chair, slinking over to stand toe-to-toe with Helena. “Aren’t you curious what they had to say about you?”
I hadn’t realized he was so tall, Helena muses, lifting her chin as she looks up toward Andras’s expressionless face. There’s much more to Andras than the bulky, dumb oafs Alaric used to hire to guard his palace. Escaping his custody will be far more difficult than I’d originally planned. “I’ve no doubt the outlandish stories the maids must have told about me are completely untrue. But thank you for explaining your methods so clearly,” Helena quips, forcing her feet to stay rooted in place, unwilling to cower in Andras’s presence no matter how intimidating he may be. Intimidation seems to be his weapon of choice. At least for now. Who knows when he will switch to a new tactic? Helena shivers as the small flickering flame of hope in her heart sputters and dies. I can’t let my guard down around Andras even for a second. Who knows if the man I see before me is real? Or is this another illusion, an image he’s created to deceive me?
“Oh, I don’t know,” Andras smirks as if he knows Helena’s innermost questions and backs away from her to lean against the window frame. “The maids had a great deal to tell me about your relationship with a certain jailed slave. Are you sure you aren’t interested?”
“Seeing as how I’ve was only freed from the prisons a week ago, are you sure the maids are the best sources of information about me? You’d get more accurate gossip from the guards,” Helena snaps, her temper rising. She presses her fingernails into her palms, fearing they will break the skin with her efforts to maintain her resolve.
Andras’s smile grows as he notices Helena’s discomfort. Sensing Helena’s weakness like a predator after its wounded prey, he presses, “Yes, that was quite a scandal too. The king’s daughter in prison for treason. Abandoning the man she supposedly loved and betraying her father and her people, only to be captured and dragged back—”
“Enough,” Helena growls, even though she recognizes what Andras is trying to do. He’s baiting me to test my limits, to discover just how much pressure it will take before I lash out at him.
“That’s all it takes to get under your skin? I’m disappointed,” Andras exclaims sarcastically, crossing his arms as he pretends to pout. “From everything I heard about you, I was expecting someone tougher. It seems you don’t live up to your reputation.” Andras’s dark eyes narrow, his head turning slightly as he assesses. “Unless you are purposefully trying to appear weak to get me to lower my guard.”
“Let’s talk about you for a moment, shall we?” Helena demands, speaking out before he gets the chance to respond. “All of the guards are required to take a shift in the prisons at least once a month. So how come I never remember seeing you there? What hell-hole did Alaric pull you out of? If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve angered the king somehow, and he’s using this as a punishment. Because let’s be honest, if I know my father as well as I think I do, he’s hoping this is a suicide mission. Or at the very least, that I’ll screw up and give him another opportunity to try and kill me.”
“Maybe I’m an assassin he’s sending along to kill you and the rogue Windwalker,” Andras teases with a tight, forced smile. He stands very still, keeping his gaze trained on Helena, daring her to argue.
Yet everything about his demeanor alerts Helena that she’s hit a nerve. His clenched jaw, his purposeful stare, and his tense posture all point to his deception. “Nice try, but I’m not buying,” Helena replies, feeling a sense of relief at finally being in control of the conversation. “The coming days will be long and boring, Andras. I look forward to hearing how you’ve fallen on the wrong side of the king.”
Andras opens his mouth to speak, only to close it immediately. Absentmindedly rubbing his chin, his brow furrows as he struggles to come up with a response. After a few heartbeats of silence, the guard’s face softens to his neutral expression once more. Glancing down at Amie, he says, “I’ll take her
down to the kitchens and settle everything with the cook. No sense in spending all of today sparring words with you, Helena. We’ll have plenty of time to get on each other’s nerves tomorrow.”
After a surprisingly gentle awakening, Andras and Amie leave Helena in the empty infirmary once more. With nothing else on which to focus her attention, Helena’s thoughts plague her mind. Dreaded anticipation of tonight’s feast and the horrors it will hold builds with every passing hour. She replays her conversations with Andras in her mind, poring over the guard’s words and manners, searching for any more information that might give her an advantage. Wistful desire that Ithel was allowed to come with her to Cassè pierces her heart. “Andras is a wildcard, an unknown variable that I cannot predict or control. How do I protect our daughter from him?” Helena whispers, imagining Ithel standing beside her, his comforting presence soothing her raw nerves. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ithel.”
Hopeless, bitter tears drip down her cheeks when no answer comes.
Chapter 12
Wren awakens to the cacophony of clanging alarm bells and angry, cursing soldiers. He lays in his bed with his eyes closed tight, unwilling to let the sounds rouse him into movement. His head pounds excruciatingly, each sound from outside the tent piercing his temples like barbed spikes.
After saying his goodbyes to Lynx and her son last night, Wren had returned to his tent and set the scene for his alibi. He’d scattered his belongings haphazardly as if there’d been a fight. With his skinning knife, he’d cut a few gashes on his face and both sides of his hands. Punching the air in a fantastical fight, the blood splattered his belongings in believable patterns. Then he’d wrapped one end of a leather cord around the sturdy center pole of his tent. Oh, so carefully, he’d looped the other end around his neck and walked away from the pole. He choked himself hard enough to leave faint bruises; the headache had been an unwanted necessity to pull off the ruse. Finally, as the sun began to peek over the horizon, he collapsed on his bed, waiting for this moment.
Brood of Vipers Page 21
