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

by the time it strikes the stones. “I hate this, and I hate you for it, Ithel!” she screams, her anger turning to anguish as the broken bones in her leg reset into their natural positions.

“I know,” Ithel mutters, berating himself even as he waves more healers to her bedside. But gods help him, Ithel still felt something for the woman. Even after everything she’d put him through all those years ago, he still loved her. “I’ll take your loathing if it means you’re still alive to give it.” Ithel’s own heart breaks a little more as he recognizes how pathetic and desperate he sounds.

“Get out of here!” Helena snarls, gritting her teeth as her finger bones snap. “Stay the hell away from me!”

“I truly wish I could.” Ithel wheezes as he moves out of the infirmary, giving Helena some space to grieve for the fallen healers. Stepping out into the sunlight of the infirmary’s patio brings a little comfort. In the corner of the tiny oasis drips a cascading birdbath, and the sound of the trickling waters offers some small measure of soothing relief to Ithel’s raw nerves.

Helena’s curses rattle through the air at intermittent intervals, often right about the time when Ithel feels like he’s finally beginning to settle down. Her voice is enough to drive him mad, a welcome and loathed distraction, like a thorn that itches when it’s embedded in the skin—oh how it aches when it is finally removed, but oh how glorious it is as it scratches from the inside out!

She can never know how deeply I still care for her. It is a fool’s wish anyway, Ithel notes with bitterness as he considers their morbid future. If she survives the tunnel, she’ll be sent back into Cassé, and if she fails in the tunnel, we both die. Either way, I end up empty handed.

“You need your strength too. Take mine, sir,” a small healer slave coos as she approaches his knee. Her long, dark hair shadows her face, cascading down her thin frame. She peeks through the tresses enough that Ithel can see the beauty in her emerald eyes and the glory of youth still tinging her features with childlike innocence.

“How old are you?” Ithel shudders as her tiny, cold hands touch his.

“Eleven,” the child whispers, her voice no more than a sigh. Her voice is soft and completely devoid of emotion as she inquires, “Do you wish to take my strength? Or shall I give it to the woman in there?”

“Things are very wrong here,” Ithel murmurs to himself bitterly as he drops to his knees before the little girl, wrapping his hands gently around her wiry shoulders. “Listen to me carefully. I want you to go down to the kitchens and speak to the maids that make bread. Tell them you were sent to meet Mercuri. They will guide you to him. When you meet him, he will ask you who sent you, and you tell him ‘Helena’s guardian.’ He will give you some food, and he will take you someplace safe.”

“But I’m bound to the king. My life is forfeit to the ones who need it more than I do.” Even as the child protests against Ithel’s plan, the glimmer of a future dares to shine in her eyes.

“Is that what you want, to die before your life’s even begun?” Ithel snaps, gripping the child’s arms tight enough to leave bruises. When she cries out, he drops his hold and whispers, “I’m sorry, girl. What is your name?”

“Raissa, sir,” she whimpers, rubbing her arms as she shivers.

“How did you end up a slave, Raissa?” Ithel questions, keeping his voice soft and his hands at his sides.

Raissa shifts back and forth on her feet as she tells her story. “My family owed money to the king, and I’m the only child in the family that doesn’t have Windwalker abilities. They sent me here to pay off their debts.” Her head droops as she adds, “My mother’s last words to me before she sold me to the king were, ‘Finally found some way for you to be useful.’ My father said nothing at all—he’d barely spoken two words to me after I did not show signs of Windwalker magic. They knew that when they sold me, I’d become a slave and probably die to heal someone else. They didn’t care.”

Ithel’s heart breaks for the child as her lower lip begins to wobble, and he pulls her up in his arms for a gentle, comforting hug. “I’m going to tell you a secret, Raissa. The spells that the king uses on his slaves are indeed very powerful, but less so on children. You are young yet; I suspect that you can resist its draw if you fight it. Mercuri has some friends that can help you. They will make sure you find your way to freedom,” Ithel assures, setting Raissa back on the floor and turning her so that she’s facing the door. “Go quickly, and speak to no one in the halls. Can you do that?”

“You’re sure?” Raissa gives Ithel a long look before she relents, wrapping her tiny fingers around his. “Thank you, sir,” she exclaims as she scampers off in search of a new, free life.

It hardly feels like a victory as Ithel reseats himself by the waterfall, praying Raissa finds her way to safety. How many more children have been forced to give up their life energies as slaves? How many of them could have been spared if they’d known they could resist Alaric’s spells? How many good lives have been lost simply because they have no Windwalker talents? How long will this madness be allowed to continue? Ithel wipes his eyes as he weeps for the lost ones, silently adding his and Helena’s names to the litany.

As the sun gasps its final day’s breath, Ithel stomps into the infirmary. Helena sits up in her bed, her body covered in a patchwork of bruises at various stages of