Brood of Vipers - Maggie Claire (good english books to read txt) 📗

Helena bites her tongue until she tastes blood. She waits in silence, determined to gain a small victory in this battle of wills with her father. Clasping her hands behind her back, she refuses to move or speak until he answers her question.

Alaric huffs, his hands itching to slap that smug expression off Helena’s face. “You will meet Andras in the morning. I expect you to be gone before the sun reaches its midday peak. If you are still here by nightfall, you will join Ithel in the prison cells. And if you are still in Déchets by the next sunrise, there will be a death order on your head. Do you understand?”

Helena nods once, asking, “If you put a death warrant out on me, then how do you expect me to come back with the rogue Windwalker?”

“In the border guards, there is a man named Mattias. When you find the Windwalker, bring him or her to Mattias. He and Andras will bring the prisoner to me, and you will have gained the freedom you so desperately seek.” Alaric’s toes strike the stone floor impatiently as if he’s now the one anxious to begin a long journey.

“And what of Ithel? Will you keep him safe?” Helena wonders, raising her gaze until she meets her father’s wicked sneer.

Her heart plummets down to her toes when Alaric chuckles under his breath and responds, “So, you do care for him then?” Alaric leans over a nearby infirmary bed, making a show of examining a row of instruments laid out on the bedside table. “If you fail to bring the Windwalker to justice in six months, Ithel will die. Once I receive word of the Windwalker’s capture, I will release Ithel from his prison cell.”

“You will have the medics clean out his wounds and keep him healthy,” Helena clarifies, her words sounding less like a question and more like a demand.

Alaric picks through the tools, his voice deadly soft as he whispers, “Naturally.”

“And you will ensure that he is released from the prison without being harmed,” Helena adds, silently noting that Alaric’s definition of a prison cell could be vague. If, for example, Alaric’s interpretation of a “prison cell” is a body that houses a soul, then Alaric’s promise of freedom from that cell could mean a death sentence. I’d be a fool not to believe Alaric might try to trick me, Helena reassures herself as she watches Alaric’s expression. Judging by the fact that he looks like he’s just taken a bite out of a rotten orange, Helena suspects her worries were justified.

“Very well. He will be released unharmed,” Alaric concedes, his voice tight. “But if you fail to bring me the Windwalker within a year, Helena, I will kill him myself. Very, very slowly. Perhaps I’ll even send pieces of him to you as motivation. A finger or toe every month, just to keep in touch—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Helena scoffs, struggling to keep herself calm and emotionless. I can’t let him see how he gets to me. “But why make we wait until tomorrow to start my journey, Alaric?”

“A feast, dear girl! We aren’t about to send you back to that retched land over the mountains without some food and entertainment!” Alaric announces, clapping his hands a couple times as he sighs and whispers conspiratorially, “It’s not every day that your only daughter is released from prison, you know. The court will want to celebrate your return to good graces.”

The prospects of sitting through a meal and whatever sordid entertainment Alaric could find almost makes Helena’s stomach lurch. However, Helena knows better than to argue. Make a fuss, and Alaric would probably increase the length of the feast just to spite her.

“Very well,” Helena replies, resigning herself to being the source of amusement for Alaric’s wicked court. “I’m sure you have preparations for such a grand event, so I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Dismissing me from your presence already?” Alaric pretends to pout even as he moves toward the door. “Oh well, we will have all evening to catch up at dinner, I guess.” Alaric drifts out of the doorway on the breeze, a gentle hum the only remnant of his presence.

“Glad you’re happy,” Helena mumbles under her breath as the tears she’s been holding at bay finally well in her eyes. She leans heavily against the windowpane, longing to throw it open and fly away from this wretched place forever. I’ll see it burn, she vows, wiping her hand across her cheek. Alaric’s precious kingdom will go down in flames before the year is done.

***

Once night falls deeply enough that all the campfires have died, Wren stands at the entrance to his tent, casting a wary glance at Lynx’s sleeping form. Her son stirs in her arms, his forehead wrinkling as if he’s in the middle of a nightmare. If everything goes according to plan tonight, I won’t have to worry about your safety anymore, Wren realizes, selfishly regretting that he may soon have to cope with their absences. I’ve grown used to seeing you both every day, to having someone to talk to regularly. You’ve let me imagine what life might be like with a child of my own; I will miss you.

But this is the right thing to do, Wren declares as he slips out of his tent and winds his way to the barn. Even with only the light of the moon and the twinkling stars, he manages to move without hesitating footfalls or excessive noise. At the rough-hewn fence, Wren slips through the heavy logs without touching them and opens the barn door just enough to keep its hinges from creaking.

Jackal and the rest of the captives are tied around the poles that anchor the hayloft in place. Most of them sleep, their heads drooping toward their stomachs, leaning heavily toward the ground. “That’s going to be hell on their shoulders,” Wren whispers as he sneaks up to Jackal’s side.

“What are you doing here now?”