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

pop, grumbling in protest as she lifts them off the ground. Most of the skin is charred and blackened, and somehow the sight of them causes the pain to intensify in Helena’s mind. A low, agonizing moan escapes her as she lets her hands fall back to the ground, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps. “Ithel,” she whispers the name repeatedly, unable to say anymore.

“Helena!” Ithel cries as he races toward Helena, but the sound of his desperate voice does not stop her body’s convulsions. Immediately his soothing energy and healing explodes to life in her blood, siphoning away the hurt as he heals her damaged skin. Ithel sags on the stones beside her, dropping to his knees as his body grows weaker.

When her hands are clear of blisters and her feet no longer resembling chewed meat, Helena finds the clarity of mind to speak once more. “How did you know?” Helena rasps, her terror-soaked screams from the tunnel causing her to grow hoarse.

“I was there when the tunnel was created,” Ithel whispers, his fingers stroking her sweat matted hair. “I told you that you’d make it, didn’t I?”

“Why not tell me what you knew sooner?” I wish I had the strength to smack him, she thinks wearily.

“Your surprise at the tunnel’s unusual placement had to be genuine, or else the king would have realized his error in letting me train you. You would have probably died outright.” Ithel shudders, his fingers tensing and stilling on her chin. “As it is, Alaric must have forgotten about my involvement in the creation of the tunnel, and I wasn’t about to remind him. It worked in your favor, wouldn’t you say?”

“You almost got yourself killed anyway, shouting advice to me from the sideline. Didn’t your demand that I ‘be honest’ give you away?” Helena snaps, wrapping her fingers around Ithel’s wrist, marveling at their smooth, unblemished flesh.

“I paid my price,” Ithel growls, holding his other horribly burned hand up for inspection. “There are iron fillings in the wound. Do not touch it, Helena.”

“I am so sorry,” Helena mumbles, unable to keep her fingers from reaching for his hand. Even without touching the metal, she can feel the thrum of its power, like the heat of a fire as you wave your hands over its flames. “What can we do?”

“I’ll have to wash it out and pick at the fillings that are too deep. It may take a while,” Ithel grumbles, shifting until he lay beside Helena’s prone form, facing up into the sunlight and closing his eyes. “For now, let’s just stay like this a while. It won’t be long before Alaric comes to find you.”

“But those fillings will keep burning you if you leave them inside,” Helena protests, reaching up to brush Ithel’s cheek, hoping to get his attention and remind him of the urgency of his situation. Iron had a strange way of reacting to Windwalker’s skin. The elders claimed it was the magic in the Windwalker blood that couldn’t abide the material. They believed it weighs down the body, rendering magic ineffective. “Go get that wound cleaned now.”

Ithel shakes his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. “I’ll deal with it myself once we are safely away from here. I do not trust Alaric’s medics. Those loyal to him might do me harm just to try and win favor from their liege.”

“Please, Ithel—”

“Well, well, it seems your love withstood your jaunt in that wretched land after all,” the king sneers as he stalks up to Helena’s side. Alaric paces over to Ithel, kicking his leg hard as he gripes, “Seven days with this bitch, and you didn’t kill her. You even managed to keep each other alive throughout this test.” Moving up to Ithel’s head, Alaric raises his foot. Positioning it over Ithel’s nose, the king prepares to step down as he mumbles, “You are more worthless than I realized.”

Helena forces her exhausted, screaming muscles to move, hauling herself up until she stands toe to toe with the king. “I have earned my freedom. And Ithel’s.”

“Hmm…so you got cozy with her, too? You told her about falling from my grace.” Alaric saunters around Helena, sneering as though she is a piece of art from his collection that he suddenly finds to be in poor taste. “Well, I guess you will do, Helena. You will travel to Cassè, find the traitor, and bring him or her back to me alive.”

“And if I should fail?” Helena wonders, knowing full well she would not return to this land with her daughter. “I may be gone for months, years even, searching out your precious traitor.”

“I’ve given that some thought and I think I’ve come up with a rather marvelous solution,” Alaric replies with a wicked smile, the sight of which sends dread and bile up into Helena’s throat. “I’ve decided I will be keeping Ithel in this land as my personal guest. Six months should be plenty of time for you to root out the rogue Windwalker, don’t you think?” Alaric asks, smirking and savoring Helena’s outrage. A guard appears behind Ithel’s head. He silently reaches for Ithel’s limp arms, gripping smooth and damaged skin alike, and drags the injured man back toward the dungeons.

Helena lunges toward Alaric, fingers curled as if to claw his eyes out. “No! You promised—”

“Nothing more than I have already given. After all, Ithel was freed the moment you escaped the tunnel. The fact that he chose to run up here to you, freely giving you healing when he so desperately needs it himself, was poor judgment on his part. So, I will keep the former slave for insurance. Either you return with the traitor, or in six months, I kill your ex-lover. Am I understood?” Alaric questions, smugly satisfied by Helena’s silence.

“Helena! Helena!” Ithel wails as they drag him back down into the depths of hell. “Don’t worry about me! Just get out of here! Please—” The doorway to the king’s courtyard slams shut, cutting off