Pack of Wolves, Maggie Claire [epub e reader .txt] 📗

people still cowering in the market stalls. “She speaks truth! I can hear the voice of my Ddraig in my mind, and I can see his memories of the last few weeks. These creatures are not looking to harm you. Come out and let them see you!”

Her testament is a far greater asset to our cause than any fine words I could say. The minor house members know Enomena; they trust her word. Ever so slowly the men, women, and children creep from their hiding places until they stand before Enomena and myself. The elderly leader huffs, toddling back to her seat and murmuring curses at us for disrupting her nap. “Don’t know why I had to be involved in this if you’re just going to decide without me anyway,” she grumbles as she eases her old bones back to their seat.

Slowly the Ddraigs lower themselves until they can almost touch their claws to the heads of the tallest men. Seven of them find their Cadogans besides Enomena, but most of the minor house members go unclaimed.

“It’s not surprising really,” Siri informs me as the last of the Dadeni rituals are completed. “Cadogans are naturally strong willed and tough. Most of them are probably in the major houses, with only a few anomalies.”

“Still, seven more is better than nothing,” I reply, grateful that our first encounter has been a success. Now, turning my eyes toward the direction of my old home, we take flight once more.

***

The halls are dark and cold in the palace of the king of Déchets. No matter how many lamps burn in their sconces, the court maintains its gloomy gray shadows that haunt every crevice of the great hall. Tables are piled high with roasted game and mugs of ale, waiting patiently for Windwalkers and high-born citizens of the land to partake of their wares. Some people lounge on the velvet covered cushions that line the walls of the court, whispering among themselves as they conspire wicked gossip to languish away their hours of boredom. The occasional breeze is the only real sign that Windwalkers are among their crowd, gently wafting across the air from conversation to conversation like gnats following the odor of death.

Alaric, the king of Déchets, presides over this room from a raised platform at the largest of the tables. He leans heavily against the cushioned chair, whose gilded back has been carefully shaped to resemble large snakes preparing to strike. Glancing up, he can just make out the golden fangs of the cobra-like image right over his head. Similar snakes coil around the armrests, their open maws facing outward right underneath Alaric’s clenched fists. He’s always loved the symmetry of this seat, squashing the heads of two vipers while another one rears up at his back. It is a symbol for his kingdom—against all foes, seen and unseen, he will be the victor.

“Is there anything you need, my lord?” Emeric questions, looming from the shadows on the right hand of the king. High enough born to be useful, but low enough born to be a servant, Emeric takes great pains to satisfy his liege. No request is ever too absurd. Should he ask it, Alaric knows that the foolish boy would throw himself off the palace wall, “as long as it pleased his king.” Alaric rolls his eyes as Emeric refills his wine glass, his shaky hand splashing more of the drink outside the glass than inside its rim.

A flash of bright silk attracts Alaric’s wandering gaze. He idly leers at the beautiful women that catch his eye from the shadows. They smirk and flutter their eyelashes, hoping to lure their supreme leader into their snares. If they only knew what dark desires lay in the king’s heart. Alaric smiles, wickedly imagining all the ways he would love to abuse their blind lust, casting them aside when his inevitable apathy returns.

“Do you want their names, sire?” Emeric whispers, noticing his majesty’s distraction. “I can find out for you, or perhaps I can maneuver one of them into your private quarters—”

“No, Emeric,” the king growls, forcing himself to restrain his fantasies as he sneers at the young, feebleminded noble. Eager and loyal as a lapdog, and just as stupid. So desperate to win favor with me, aren’t you? This knowledge only fuels the hatred in the king’s already blackened opinion of the young man.

Suddenly, a burst of blinding fire explodes in the center of the room. Within the blazes, the visage of the king’s youngest son writhes, his voice moaning as though he is burning alive among the flames. Alarmed cries pepper the air from the frightened onlookers, most of them rising from their cushions to get a closer look at the last moments of the prince of Déchets.

Alaric, on the other hand, sneers as he watches his youngest child’s face flicker in the dancing fire. “So, you’ve gone and gotten yourself killed. Good riddance to a waste of breath, if you ask me. Who did the deed? One of the other priests you were so intent on following? Someone who was jealous?”

“I’ve seen the Ddraigs,” Antero’s voice crackles as though the words are fashioned from the fire itself. “One of them did this to me.”

The king laughs, a slow halting wheeze as though it is a reaction he is unused to feeling. Then it grows to a booming roar that thunders through the entire hall. “Well, Antero, perhaps you’ve finally been useful. Death is all you were ever good for, but you’ve gone and made it worthwhile.”

Antero’s eyes flash with the flames, pointing his finger at his father. “They are gathering forces to attack you.” The fire begins to flicker and die around Antero’s feet, slowly dissipating and fading away on the breeze. Antero’s eyes widen, his voice pouring out of the fire at a rapid pace, as though he is trying to fight the flames and stay alive just a few moments longer. “The Ddraigs have already found their leader—a pitiful,