Soon enough, they will notice my absence. Wren replays his plan while he waits, leaving no detail uninspected. The voices outside fade as the stragglers finally make their way to the grisly scene in the barn. Only a few more minutes now. Wren breathes deeply, turning onto his side, so he doesn’t face the tent opening. He maintains his slow, full breaths, feigning sleep as he hears footsteps approaching.
“Wren! Wake up, you fool!” Wolf snarls as he barges into the tent. His eyes dart wildly around the tent, noting every bloodstain and haphazardly tossed belonging. “Wren?” Wolf races forward to check and see if the man is even breathing.
“Hmph,” Wren groans, shielding his eyes against the bright light of day. I almost did too good a job, Wren thinks to himself as he struggles to speak clearly, his voice coming out rough and garbled on the first few attempts. “What happened?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Wolf explains as he raises Wren’s eyelids to check for a concussion. Ignoring Wren’s grumbling, he continues his examination, prodding the cuts on Wren’s face. “Looks like you and Lynx had an epic fight.”
“Oh.” Wren sits up, a wave of nausea hitting him hard in the stomach. “I remember. I found her rummaging through my stuff.” He puts his hands on his head to try and stop the spinning sensation. “She was muttering something about getting out of here. ‘Running back to Mynah,’ or something like that. I tried to stop her, and we had words. She fought back, then something got tangled around my neck. I must have blacked out.”
Wolf leans his head down to observe the bruises on Wren’s neck. “Looks like someone choked you. Probably Jackal. It seems he and Lynx have disappeared.”
“Jackal? What do you mean? Was he working with her?” Wren feigns surprise, picking at the dried blood on his hands to give his eyes somewhere to focus.
“He…he must have been,” Wolf declares, wiping his hand over his face. “I can’t understand it, but Jackal’s absence suggests that they helped each other escape.”
“I thought he was tied up in the barn,” Wren questions, rubbing his temples to shield his face. Cutting his eyes, Wren peeks to see if Wolf is buying into the lie.
Despite the early hour, Wolf’s bloodshot eyes and pale, hollowed out cheeks make it seem like he hasn’t slept for weeks. He shifts from side to side, clutching his middle as though it pains him. “The best I can tell, Lynx went into the barn and untied him. She or Jackal killed all of the other men tied up with him in the barn, probably to keep them from talking,” Wolf mumbles under his breath, his brow clenching as he struggles to solve the mystery. “I thought he was loyal to me. Hell, I thought they all were. What a fool I have been, it seems.”
All in all, Wolf looks deranged, Wren declares, satisfied that his work has been successful. “Show me what he’s done, Wolf,” Wren exclaims, putting on a show in dressing hastily and rushing to the barn to inspect the crime scene for clues.
In reality, Wren’s feet feel like lead weights. Icy sweat breaks out on his clammy skin with each hurried step toward the barn. The prospect of seeing his own handiwork in daylight has his stomach churning. Bile and gorge rise in his throat in expectation of the sight that lies just behind the barn doors. Taking a few steadying breaths, he forces the doors open and steps inside.
It shouldn’t surprise me, Wren reminds himself as he wanders through the lifeless bodies strewn on the moldy straw. I did this; all this blood is on my hands. Now, I must face it without showing signs of guilt. Emotionless, expressionless, cold. Wren takes a few steadying breaths, trying not to linger too long.
However, when Wren stops in front of Hyena’s body, he is unable to look away from his sightless, graying eyes. You did this, Hyena’s open mouth seems to scream. You are a liar. Betrayer. Murderer. The horrendous scent of offal and posthumously expelled body fluids assaults Wren’s nose. Around Hyena’s neck lies a deep crimson stain. It would almost resemble a choker necklace if it weren’t for the gnats and flies. They gather and stalk up to the bloody gash in search of a comfortable place to burrow and lay eggs. Able to stand no more, Wren rushes out of the barn, coughing out his disgust into the grass.
“I think I’m just going to burn the whole thing down,” Wolf announces, standing a few paces away from Wren. “But I just can’t believe it, Wren. I trusted Jackal; I thought of him as my second in command. He knew everything about my plans, and never once did he give me any reason to doubt his loyalty.”
It takes a great effort for Wren to stand up and keep his knees from giving way. He closes his eyes, thinking back to all the words he’d rehearsed for this moment. This is why you over plan everything, Wren reminds himself, letting his mouth follow the script in his head while he regains control over his emotions. “But you have evidence that Jackal was plotting against you, remember?” Wren lies smoothly, wiping his chin and striding away from the barn without looking back. “Maybe the others wouldn’t go along with Jackal’s plan, and that’s why he slit their throats. Maybe he didn’t want to run the risk that they would raise an alarm before he and Lynx could get away. Or maybe those poor devils had served their purpose, and Jackal was just cleaning up loose ends.” Before Wolf can respond, Wren adds, “It really doesn’t matter. The fact remains that he and Lynx are long gone by now.”
“Another one running off to join her,” Wolf spits, clenching his hands into fists. “Condor, Fox, and now Jackal. How many more will she take from me?” Wolf’s eyes glaze as he relives Mynah’s supposed betrayal; it eats away at his sanity. Words spill from his lips in garbled, paranoid ramblings. “No doubt Jackal and Lynx will share our location with the overgrown lizards. Fox has probably told her everything about the way I run my camps, so I can’t hide behind my usual defenses. And she will mount an attack, so desperate is she to take away my throne before I’m even fully declared king.”
“Then let’s get away from here,” Wren suggests innocently, relief flooding through his veins at how natural it had been to steer Wolf to this plan. So easy, Wren sighs, ignoring the angry protests of the spectral versions of Hyena and Coyote. The faces of the dead don’t seem to disappear from Wren’s mind; their voices whisper into his thoughts despite his efforts to quell them. “Wolf, let’s just go—”
“Where? She and her monstrosities will find us wherever we run,” Wolf snarls, unable to stomach the thought of turning coward and slinking off into the shadows to wait for his enemies to find him. “There was a time when I’d never have believed she would be my enemy. But now, there is nowhere to escape from her. She will scour the land in her search, Wren.”
“That’s true if we try and hide on this side of the mountains,” Wren interrupts, watching Wolf’s face for any signs of opposition. “We have allies in Déchets, right? Maybe it’s time for us to visit them.”
“She’d never look for us there,” Wolf agrees, the bright light of the sun boring into his skull, apparently causing his head to pound. It’s the thought of her, Wren knows, watching Wolf grit his teeth as another wave of nausea roils in his stomach. Wolf sways, knotting his hands in his hair as a soft groan burns in his throat.
“You are not well; if we do not figure out how to break this bond, it will kill you.” Wren shows his concern, carefully hiding his ambivalence to Wolf’s predicament. “Perhaps someone in Déchets will have the answers we need to spare you this agony.”
“Tell the men to break camp,” Wolf mumbles, almost biting through his lip as another wave of pain slams into him. “We leave for Déchets in two hours. Whatever isn’t packed by then gets left behind.”
“As you wish,” Wren whispers with a slight bow, walking back to his tent. So easy and yet, so costly, Wren thinks, grimly stomping through the rows of white canvas, shouting Wolf’s orders to the men. The stench of death still clings to Wren’s skin. The memories of sightless eyes and wide, bloody smiles torment Wren’s mind as the soldiers hurry through the camp to prepare for departure.
&nbs
p; Wren pauses, standing completely still in the middle of the chaos. He closes his eyes, getting lost in the cacophony of whinnying horses, grumbling words, and stomping feet. In the midst of the noise, Wren holds his body still, forcing himself to remain calm.
The hours pass quickly, and a hand clutches Wren’s shoulder. “Get moving,” a gruff voice demands, but when Wren’s eyes open, he sees no one standing beside him. A lone tent flaps in the perpetual ocean wind. The rest of the men have already stowed their gear and begun marching the caravan away from the House of Piranhas. Those that aren’t so fortunate to have a horse are running alongside, their steps as eerie as rolling thunder.
Alone again in a wasteland. How much longer can I bear it? Wren mumbles to himself, savoring the silence for a few heartbeats before turning away from his tent and hurrying after Wolf and his men.
***
Rosined bows slither across their instruments as the king’s players perform their sultry, mysterious tunes. A single bright light shines in the empty space at the heart of the room. All the court tables line the walls like they are purposefully skulking in the shadows, hiding the debauchery of their guests in the thin veil of darkness.
A mixed blessing, Helena thinks to herself as she stalks toward Alaric’s seat, grateful not to see the horde of people that are certain to be watching her entrance. I don’t have to witness the court’s depravity, but I cannot see if any of them are preparing to attack me. A well thrown dagger or a precisely shot arrow could easily kill her before Helena can react. And Helena has no doubt that a few of the court nobles must be itching to bring her down. Is this purposeful, Alaric? Are you giving your men a fair chance to kill me? Helena wonders as she carefully inspects the darkness, searching for any sign of metal glinting in the low light. Or did you set up your feast like this just to make me feel fear?
A few bawdy laughs and outraged cries break through the music. There will be more than a few unlucky kitchen maids covered in purplish bruises by the end of the night. Helena’s face betrays none of her pity as she stands beside Alaric’s seat, trying not to sigh at his late arrival to his own feast.
“The king sure likes to make an entrance, doesn’t he?” Andras’s rough, rumbling voice whispers in Helena’s ear.
Startled, Helena struggles to maintain her composure, her heartbeat thumping wildly like the hooves of stampeding horses. “H…He’s always been like that,” Helena stammers, some inner part of her core trembling so forcefully that her voice wavers.
“I’ve noticed,” Andras mutters, the corner of his mouth crooking into a tiny smile, surprised to see Helena so easily flustered. “He’s been late to every one of these parties when I’ve been invited. Then whatever musicians he’s found for the night stop playing, and the king makes his grand entrance. Between you and me, I think he just likes the control.”
“I think you’re right,” Helena agrees, shocked that she’d never seen the pattern. Over the years, Helena had grown up wondering why Alaric would choose such a unique way to make his entrance into a room. Where most of the leaders she’d read about in the histories had music or an announcement of their arrival, Alaric had chosen utter silence. He expected everyone to stand completely motionless and silent. Alaric was to be the only person moving or making any kind of noise. If anyone so much as sneezed, he or she would find themselves thrown into the viper pit before they could see the next sunrise. There were no exceptions to this rule; Alaric had even killed one of his own sons just for interrupting his grand entrance to a feast. The boy was only six years old.
Now, hearing Andras’s assessment, Helena wonders why she’d missed it. Alaric’s late arrival to the palace was packed with people to bend to his will. The way he’d drag his feet and extend the entrance for as long as possible. It wasn’t a dramatic effect; Alaric was reveling in the control he had over his subjects. He thrived on watching them grow uncomfortable with their silence. He relished the way their eyes pleaded for him to speed up his movements, sneering at the court guests like they were caged animals in his personal menagerie.
“What’s the entertainment this evening? Do you know?” Andras asks, breaking into Helena’s revelation as he steps over to stand casually behind the chair at her right hand. “Probably something grotesque or terrifying. Your father isn’t satisfied until his guests are traumatized.”
“And here I thought you were devoutly faithful to the king. You better be careful; it sounds like you don’t approve of Alaric’s antics,” Helena retorts, cutting her eyes to watch Andras’s expression.
“I am loyal to myself. I tolerate your father,” Alaric replies in a soft, fury filled whisper.
Helena smiles, sensing that she’s regained some measure of control over the conversation. “And is it this dissenting attitude of yours that got you into trouble?”
Andras’s jaw clenches, his fingers digging into the wooden back of the chair. “We only met this afternoon, Helena. Don’t assume you know me.”
“Nor do you know me,” Helena quips, quietly watching Andras’s silent battle against his own temper. Interesting, Helena declares, curious to know more about Andras’s loyalties. Maybe he’s more of an ally than I first believed. “You know, Andras, if—”
“Hush, the music’s stopped,” Andras interjects, standing proudly behind his chair as he waits for the king to appear.
A tense hush descends, and Helena grits her teeth to keep from shattering the quiet by screaming. Her eyes dart from left to right, scanning for any sign of Alaric’s approach, longing desperately to move her head. As the minutes pass with no sign of Alaric, every ache in Helena’s muscles magnifies, each one screaming at her, demanding to move. Nerves fire off at random places on her body, her skin itching so torturously she fears she’ll be the one who ends up getting thrown into the viper pit tonight. It would almost be worth it, Helena thinks as her nose, left eyelid, and chin all beg for a relieving scratch.
Ten agonizingly painful minutes later, Helena catches her first glimpse of Alaric. He’s barely halfway through the room. She suppresses a groan, willing the king to move faster. I feel like a flea ridden dog, Helena grumbles to herself, longing to move her aching feet or scratch her upper lip. Anything to bring some measure of comfort.
A soft whimper bursts through the silence as Alaric continues his painstakingly slow pace. He pauses, turning his head to stare into the eyes of the young woman who made the sound. By Helena’s estimation, she looks to be barely fifteen. Her wide eyes and slightly aghast expression make it clear that she had no intention of breaking the silence. Offering her an icy smile, the king nods his head once, then continues on his procession. Yet his seemingly gracious reaction sends a shiver down Helena’s spine. That little cry signed your death warrant, Helena laments, wishing there was something she could do to protect the young woman.
Another twenty minutes later, and Helena finally wheezes a sigh of relief when Alaric announces, “Please be seated.” She picks at her skin, chasing the travelling itch down her knees and ankles, up her wrists, forearms, and shoulders, and around her lips, nose, forehead, and mouth. By the time she’s done, most of her skin is splotchy and covered in thin pink streaks from her fingernails. But at least it no longer feels like it’s crawling.
“Really, Helena, you look like one of the alley rat guttersnipes in withdrawal,” Alaric muses, glancing at Helena’s now disheveled hair. “I thought you would present yourself better. Like it or not, you are my daughter, and I expect you to represent my name well. It reflects on me.”
“Surely, the fact that you locked me away in the dungeons reflects on you too, Alaric. If I have bad manners, blame it on the habits I’ve learned from your guards,” Helena snipes, glaring at Alaric as she challenges him.
“I’ve been merciful,” Alaric laughs, waving his hand to alert the servers that the first course should be served. “You’re alive and free. That’s more than any other traitor to my kingdom can
say.”
Before Helena can respond, one of the servants places the first plate in front of her. It is small, holding a single clear orb. Inside the jelly-like substance is a lifeless baby viper. “You seriously expect us all to eat snake eggs, Alaric?” Helena exclaims, pushing the plate away from her as she struggles not to gag.
“The brood has too many already,” the king replies, picking up his knife as he prepares to cut into the egg. “Besides, it is considered a delicacy, Helena. A treat for all my subjects, wouldn’t you say?”
Who decides what foods are delicacies? Whoever picked out this gem should be hanged. Helena scoffs, fighting to control her breathing and staring over the table at the empty place on the floor. She tries to distract her mind from the sounds of strangled gasps and scraping utensils as the guests grapple with their first course. Closing her eyes, Helena lets her mind drift on the breeze, focusing on nothing more than her own gratitude that by tomorrow she’ll be far away from this place.
Alaric’s icy hand brushes her wrist, startling Helena back to reality. “My menu is not good enough for you, daughter?” He growls, staring at the uneaten viper egg on her plate.
“Does refusing to palate your meals earn me another prison sentence? If so, I’ll find my way to the dungeon,” Helena bites back, refusing to meet the king’s eye.
“Weak stomach? I’m surprised to hear that. It seems the guards in my dungeons haven’t been doing enough to toughen up my prisoners, hmm? I’ll remedy that tomorrow,” Alaric explains, patting her arm lightly. “I’m sure Ithel will be so thankful for the changes I’ll be making.”
Helena stifles a groan, turning her head as far to the side as she can, utterly disgusted by the king’s cruelty. I’m so sorry, Ithel, she laments, wishing she could speak to the man face to face. I’m not even there with you, and I’m still causing you trouble.
“You okay?” Andras wonders, his face looking a little green as he notices Helena’s distress. Helena nods, unable to speak out of fear she’ll say something that will only bring her more trouble.
Brood of Vipers Page 22
