Brood of Vipers, Maggie Claire [e novels to read .TXT] 📗

“Maybe I’ll throw you into this cell for a change of scenery. What do you think, boys?” Alaric announces, and immediately the prisoners holler and praise their glorious, merciful king. “What do you say, Helena? Is that what you want?”

Helena groans in defeat, dropping her head as she whispers, “No, Your Highness.” As much as she may hate this man, the alternative offered by him is a far worse fate. “I would be pleased to accept your offer of freedom, Your Highness.” Each word burns like bile on her tongue.

It cannot be this simple, Helena warns herself, turning a skeptical glance toward Alaric as he pulls her out of the clutches of the prisoners. He says nothing else as he urges her to move, her knees buckling under the weight of her fears. After all these years, there’s got to be more to his plan than just sending me over to Cassè as a spy. He must be desperate; that’s the only reason he would come for me. That thought brings a tiny, rebellious smile to her lips.

Howls of screaming prisoners assault them as they leave, mostly insults aimed at the king. Helena lowers her head as she moves toward the exit, forcing herself to keep her eyes away from the cells. A shiver dances over her shoulders as she steps between the guards that line this part of the prison’s walls. The worst prisoners are kept here, close to the exit, she recalls, wincing as a burly guard on her right bangs his sword through the cell closest to him, slicing at the occupant to shut his mouth.

It had taken Helena a couple of years to figure out why Alaric put the worst offenders in this part of the prison. Why not house them deep in the depths of this place, where no light or fresh air can be found? With nothing more important to do, she’d spent the greater part of her days trying to understand the king’s reasoning, to no avail. It wasn’t until one of the prisoners from the first cells was drug down into the heart of the prison and housed beside her that everything made sense.

She never knew that young man’s name. By the time the guards had plopped him into the cell, he was screaming and groaning unintelligibly. “What’s going on?” she demanded, risking the guards’ wrath as the prisoner’s haunting cries burrowed into her mind. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Gouged out his own eyes. Couldn’t stand to face another day glimpsing freedom, knowing he’d never stand unshackled in fresh air again,” the guard replied grimly, shaking his head as he sighed. “The king’s ordered no treatment to be given to him. Might be days, might be weeks, but eventually, he will die. Going to be a long, horrible thing to endure until it’s done, Helena.” The guard had the wherewithal to look guilty and shaken by the experience, his face the color of a birch tree’s bark.

Freedom. The word rang in the air like the peal of a bell. The worst criminals are close to the exit, where they are constantly reminded of the lives they could be living. Fresh food on the guards’ plates, fine ale and camaraderie, cool breezes when the doors open…yes, that would be a constant, terrible way to torture the minds and hearts of us all. Helena looked around her darkened cell with a fleeting sense of gratitude. At least here in this gross, unlit hole, I can allow myself to forget the things I’m missing. I can let the darkness swallow me and make me a forgotten memory in the lives of those I once loved. Not that there is anyone out there on either side of the Devil’s Spine who cares anyway.

It had taken the young man eight days to succumb to his injuries, and by the last day, Helena’s nerves were raw from the sounds of his retching and incoherent, fever-driven outbursts. Eight long days for the stink of rot and infection to permeate the cells. Helena’s nose wrinkles at the memory. I can still smell his death. Her fingers drift up toward her shaggy mane, rubbing the oily strands before bringing them close to her nose. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to remove that awful odor from his demise. It stains me even now, four years later.

As Helena and Alaric make the last turn toward the outer doors of the prison, Helena notices a small circle of four other offenders waiting for their approach. Each one of the prisoners is still bound, the shadow of a guard towering behind them. Before Helena can ask any questions, Alaric wordlessly shoves her into the circle’s remaining empty space. A palace guard immediately falls in line at her back.

“A minor detail I neglected to mention, dear Helena, is that your freedom is not a guarantee.” Alaric drawls, a cruel smile upturning his lips as what little color is left in her cheeks slowly drains away. Sauntering around the circle of captives, Alaric’s face beams as he announces, “You are five of the most notorious traitors of Déchets. Normally you would rot in my cells until your bones crumbled to dust. However, I am a gracious, merciful king. And I am offering you a chance to earn your freedom by tracking down an unknown Windwalker that will take your ranks in my prisons.” Murmurs arise from the other four prisoners; whoever pulled them from their cells must not have shared the king’s plan. Alaric shifts, changing the direction of his path as he continues his explanation. “However, before I let you go, you must prove yourself to be worthy of such a gift. You will be given a week to heal and train with your guards. Then you will run the tunnel.”

Outraged cries ricochet off the close walls at the mention of Déchets most infamous, mysterious torture. No one who runs the tunnel has ever lived long enough to