Pack of Wolves, page 9
“Thirteen,” Fox corrects, reaching for another one of his vials as he continues to adjust his tincture. “Hotheaded, overly proud, and very cocky. I shudder to think what he’ll be like when puberty sets in.” Fox pauses long enough to capture Bittern’s eyes with his own fierce gaze. “If he wants to be a healer, he’s got to learn to deal with the difficult patients too. I’m doing it for his own good.”
“I…I get it,” Bittern admits, her mind drifting back to the days when Warbler was alive, puttering around the kitchen, singing a beautiful melody that was far too good for anyone in that house to hear. If we’d been tougher on her, maybe she’d have survived. Despite her deep-set resolve, Bittern’s chin wobbles at the memory of those dark days when Mynah proved herself to be just as brutal as the rest of the house.
“Don’t,” Fox interrupts her reverie gently, passing a small cup of cold water to Bittern. “Don’t let your mind dwell on the ‘if only’ scenarios. You’ll drive yourself mad, and that’s not a wound I can heal.”
“How did you know?” Bittern demands, glancing at the cup in her hands with a mixture of longing and fear. She’d let herself grow unfocused, and she missed important details like whether or not Fox put something special in this glass. The last thing she wants is to ingest one of his medicines unintentionally. Even herbal supplements can be deadly if the apothecary means you harm.
“It’s my job to read people,” Fox replies, turning back to his table. “Even without the luxury of seeing your entire face, I can tell something troubles you. A memory stirs in your eyes, clouding your sight and causing your lips to curl down. And given the fact that we were just speaking about a child, I suspect you’re remembering someone young from your past. How’d I do?”
“Just shut up,” Bittern snaps, closing off the rest of Fox’s prying words. If her water cup wasn’t made of glass, she’d toss it at his feet with her rage.
Fox smirks but says nothing else on the subject. His body relaxes marginally as he works, taking comfort in menial tasks while he considers the fate of the two women behind him. No doubt Impala will continue to hound them. He never quits until he gets his way. Fox snarls softly, recalling all the women he’s had to patch up after Impala finished with them. It’s a wonder Wolf hasn’t taken him out yet. I wonder what stops him? Waving off the thought, Fox adds a few drops of water to the petals, letting their essences blend into the liquid.
“Suppose we should thank you then, for coming to our aid with that guard,” Bittern mutters, hating the begrudging feeling rising up in her veins. “I’m not one for big ‘thank you’ speeches, but I think we owe you a great debt. That guard—”
“You owe me nothing,” Fox cut her off, pouring the mixture into a cheese cloth to strain out the flower petals. “But you should be warned—there aren’t many in the pack that will take you in with those bird masks on. If you want to join the ranks, you’ll need a new identity.”
“I have no intention of changing,” Bittern snips, her voice gruff as she challenges Fox. “Nor do I care to fit in with you people.”
“Then you won’t last long,” Fox replies, feeling a pit in his stomach as he walks over to Grouse’s side. Handing her a small vial, he gently instructs, “Drink this down now; I’ll make up some more for you after you’ve cleaned up. Then you’ll lay down on one of the sickbeds and rest for a few hours.”
Wordlessly, Grouse takes the vial and swallows its contents. The mixture barely touches her tongue, and if it has a taste, she doesn’t notice it. Her mind is far away, reliving the slimy, sweaty touch of Impala’s hands wrapping around her throat. She doesn’t even realize that the two children come in with heavy buckets of steaming water. The splashing sounds as they empty these buckets into the tub barely register in her ears.
“Grouse, the bath’s ready,” Bittern whispers, gently tugging her friend toward the wash basin. “Will you be okay in here alone?” she asks, waiting for a quick nod of Grouse’s head before she motions to Fox to leave the tent.
Outside, Fox and Bittern take their places on opposite sides of the cooking fire, each one quietly assessing the other’s weaknesses in silent observation. “She’s lucky to have someone like you,” Fox finally announces, quietly appreciating the woman’s strength and tenacity. “So, what will you do with yourselves if you aren’t going to join us properly?”
Bittern stares hard at Fox, unable to answer him as she considers his disarming compliment. Lucky to have me. The idea is preposterous in Bittern’s thinking, but she does not argue the point. Warmth grows in her chest despite her best efforts to dampen the compliment’s effects. “I…I…well, I don’t know,” Bittern finally responds, turning away from Fox as if she can somehow shield herself from his view merely by making it impossible for him to look into her eyes.
“Do you intend to desert?” Fox’s focus sharpens on the woman as he waits for a response. He holds his breath, a little surprised to realize that her answer matters so much to him.
“No,” Bittern declares, wishing she had the guts to leave this place behind. “Grouse needs me still.”
“I have a proposition for you then,” Fox whispers, quickly shielding his head when Bittern curses at him.
“Proposition? You’re just as bad as Impala!” Bittern snarls, reaching for the heavy cast iron skillets that sit beside the fireplace, waiting for someone to need them. Gripping the heaviest one’s handle in both hands, she raises it high, swinging it like a baseball bat. With enough luck, maybe she’ll take Fox’s head clean off his shoulders. “How dare you lure us to your tent under the guise of friendship?!”
“I was talking about a job offer,” Fox admits, scuttling away from Bittern as she advances closer. Despite the threat, Fox cannot help but admire the woman all the more. “I need extra hands in the infirmaries, especially if Wolf’s going to try and build the master house like he intends. War will come, and bodies will pile up fast. You and Grouse can assist me, and in exchange, I can offer you shelter. Impala and others of his ilk will not dare to bother you if you work for me.”
Fox’s words slowly sink into Bittern’s thoughts. Making sure to miss her own feet, Bittern drops the skillet and slumps back down beside the fire. “That’s really all you want? Extra workers?” Bittern can hardly dare to believe such good fortune would fall into her lap so easily. When Fox nods, Bittern feels a genuine smile burst to life on her lips. It’s the first time she can remember feeling so pleased in years. “Grouse and I would both be satisfied to accept your offer.”
Fox sighs in relief, rubbing his knee absentmindedly as he asks, “What kind of life did you lead in the House of Vultures? Was it really so cutthroat that you’d beat each other in the head with skillets over a simple misunderstanding?”
Bittern scoffs, her voice lowering as she whispers, “You have no idea.”
***
I always hated this room, Alaric admits to himself as he stares at the ostentatious tapestries that adorn both sides of the walls as far as the eye can see. Everything about the place feels warm and inviting—all the things that Alaric abhors. His royal ancestors decreed long ago that the throne room was to be lavishly furnished and ornate, a sign of wealth and vitality for all visitors to witness. His throne is slightly oversized and dripping with plush purple velvet. The thick, crimson runner under his feet reminds him of a long tongue reaching out to devour its prey.
Alaric has spared no expense to add his personal touches to the room, starting on the night when his father’s heart finally stopped beating. Rather than being at his side, Alaric had been here, already sitting on the throne, forcing servants to rip the tapestries down. He’d forced the palace’s seamstresses to work around the clock, turning these richly colored wall hangings into gruesome displays of death and destruction. Then that scarlet runner fabric had been split so that it gave the illusion of a forked tongue. Alaric had searched his land for the best blacksmiths in his realm to fashion iron fangs to place at the base of the steps leading up to his throne, giving the stage an illusion of a giant viper’s mouth.
The snake had always seemed like a perfect symbol for Alaric’s kingdom. All the great literature that included snakes portrayed them to be crafty, vicious, and cunning—everything that Alaric values. These monsters with their shining eyes and venomous fangs quickly became one of Alaric’s greatest obsessions. He’d even gone so far as to fashion a viper pit that connected to this room. Should a guest of the court enter this place and displease Alaric, he or she could find themselves sliding through a hidden chamber, well on their way to becoming the next meal of the king’s pets.
“Send in the border guard,” Alaric commands, flippantly waving his hand in the direction of the entrance. “Let’s get this over with. The Lady Vatusia and I have far better things to be doing.”
Lady Vatusia ignores the king’s words, silent and well concealed in a sliver of shadows created by one of the large marble pillars that stand like giants around the room, carrying the heavy burden of the ceiling on their backs. If Alaric hadn’t watched her disappear into the darkness, he’d never have been able to find her. She is the perfect spy, accustomed to not moving and drawing attention to her position. What’s more, she will serve as a first line of defense, attacking the newcomer if he even breathes in a threatening manner. She is brutal; her methods of finding out information from the enemy are so intense that even some of Alaric’s most battle worn generals cannot stand to be in the room with her.
The king feels himself smile as he thinks of the Lady Vatusia’s last victim. She’d fileted the skin from his bones for hours without even batting an eye at his incessant cries. If anything, she seemed to relish the sounds of his despair. That was when she’d let her real powers shine. “Vibría.” Alaric sighs out the word like a caress. He can feel Lady Vatusia’s eyes boring holes into his skin, as if she can somehow pry open his mind and read his dark thoughts.
Oh, that she could, Alaric wishes wistfully, wondering how she would react to his many visions of her in his bedchamber. Would she be repulsed or pleased to know how desperately I want her? If Alaric had his way, Lady Vatusia would be his queen. It doesn’t matter if she is enamored with Lord Xanti. Alaric will find a means of having her, no matter how long it takes.
Clearing his throat, the king forces his mind onto the business at hand. “What’s taking so long? Where’s the border guard?” Alaric’s voice rings out, calling the guards at the door into action. “Find him and bring him to me now!”
Minutes slink by even more slowly than the border guard as he stumbles through the throne room. He throws back his dark hood to reveal closely cropped hair the color of the midnight sky. His skin is rough and calloused from hard days and harsh winds in the mountains. His gray eyes give nothing away as he approaches the king, calmly taking note of every guard, every weapon, every window and every exit. Such is the custom of most border guards; they learn quickly that what most call paranoia is sometimes the only instinct that stands between life and death.
The stranger bows low at his king’s feet.
“Well?” Alaric growls, his patience already worn threadbare. “What’s your name? What brings you away from your post?”
“Sire, I am called Matthais, and I’ve met with someone who I believe is trying to become the first king of Cassé. I bring a message from him: an offering of peace.” The border guard stands, holding up a scroll of paper for the king’s viewing. “He wrote his request for you, but he asked me to speak on his behalf.”
“And you would do such a thing? For a citizen of that land?” Alaric sneers, raising his hand toward Lady Vatusia. One quick motion and she’ll send the man down into the vipers’ pit before he takes another breath.
“Sire, this man has met with me on many occasions in the past,” Matthais persists, holding up the scroll closer to the king’s face, hoping that something on the page will catch his eye. “He came to the Devil’s Spine outposts at a time when he was desperate to save his people from starvation. I used that situation to develop a trade route, of sorts. I kept his people alive. Now he supplies me with everything I ask for. Everything.”
Alaric hesitates, considering the implication of Matthias’s words. “Such an asset should not be tossed aside lightly. You mentioned a peace offering. What was it?”
“He knows the Ddraigs are moving,” Matthias explains quickly, going through his last conversation with Wolf. “He’s willing to help us capture the Ddraigs, so long as we provide him with a weapon that will break his brother’s spirit.” Matthias sucks in a breath, hoping his explanation has convinced the king to look favorably on him.
“You know what he’s asking?” Alaric speaks softly, though his words are not meant for Matthias’s ears.
Lady Vatusia steps out of the shadows as if she’s just materialized from the darkness itself. “It is a rare gift he desires,” she hisses, her eyes sparkling as she considers the request. “Would you ask this of my people?”
“Such an ally is worth the sacrifice, is it not?” Alaric questions, genuinely curious to hear the lady’s response. Are you cruel enough to send one of your own kind over the mountains, not knowing if he or she will survive? Or have I finally found the chink in your armor? The king wonders, assessing Lady Vatusia’s solemn face. Loyalty to her people—a perfectly exploitable weakness. What would you give me to spare the rest of the Vibría from my reign?
Alaric’s hopes quickly deflate when the lady hisses with laughter. A game of cat and mouse then, the king realizes, furious as he watches the lady saunter up to the throne like a wildcat that’s just scented its next meal. She’s taunting me! Wicked woman! I— Alaric sighs as his eye draws down the length of the lady’s lithe and graceful body, only wanting her more.
“There is one among our ranks that would love the chance to test his skills against a Cadogan. I will allow him to go.” Lady Vatusia paces around Matthais, but her eyes never leave the king. “If that is what you desire, of course…sire.” Lady Vatusia half-smiles as she adds the title, barely able to stifle the flash of anger that reddens her cheeks.
Maybe not as in control as she pretends to be, the king declares to himself, sharpening his attention on her blush. “Prepare him to travel then.” Alaric nods once, waving off Matthias as he rises from his throne. “Tell this would-be king that I will expect him to come through on his side of the bargain immediately. Make it clear that if he keeps me waiting, I will not rest until he’s begging for death.”
Alaric breezes through the hallways, eager to be back in his war room. Soon, my enemy will be delivered into my hands! Soon, I will mount the head of a Ddraig on my walls. Soon, my lands will span both sides of the mountains. And soon, the lady will be mine!
Chapter 7
“Try it again,” I coach from the skies, carefully draping my body between the scaled, plate-like protrusions on Siri’s tail. It’s not the safest place to be, but it gives me a full view of the nomads learning to fly with their Ddraigs.
That means I have the perfect vantage point to watch them fail. Every. Single. Time.
“They’re not listening,” Siri huffs, the tip of her tail flicking in annoyance, the smallest, razor sharp scale nearly slicing into my cheek.
“They barely understand your language, Iris. And they won’t trust an outsider,” Drake mumbles as he skirts the sky on my right, his Ddraig’s lips pulling back into a vicious smile.
“I’m not an outsider! I’m their leader,” I assert, wishing I could just cover my ears and ignore them both. Doubts nibble at my thoughts, threatening to devour my mind if I don’t find a means of casting them aside. What if he’s right, Siri? What if I never manage to lead them? I keep failing them, and I don’t know how to stop!
“I just meant that you aren’t a nomad,” Drake replies, unaware of the mental conversation I’m trying to have with Siri. “They see you still as a member of the major houses, and that breeds distrust.”
“But how do I fix that? I can’t take away my past!” I snap, barking another command at one of the nomads as they tumble back to the earth in failure. Safety’s not a concern; none of the Ddraigs would dare to let their Cadogans hit the ground.
“I have an idea…not that you’ll care to hear it,” Drake sighs, waiting for me to take the bait. It’s a testament to my level of desperation when I ask him to explain. “Look, I know that you, Siri, and Ekard had some kind of history before I showed up. And whether he’s meant to or not, Ekard has hinted to me of his disappointment at not being the leader. He wants control, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get it while I’m around.”
I don’t like where this is going, Siri whispers in my ear, and I can sense her worry pulsing through my blood.
“You need someone to teach the nomads; someone who already has their trust. Someone like me.” Drake pauses, as if he’s waiting for me to laugh or scream at him. “Appoint me as their trainer—it will give Ekard some measure of authority, and in turn, you will not have to worry about him trying to overthrow you.”
Yet, Siri growls as she angles her body away from Ekard, preparing for an attack. Giving him authority will only increase his desire. It’s like tasting a fine meal before you store it all away. He’ll never be satisfied until he gets it all.
“It’s a fair compromise,” I answer Siri aloud, also addressing Drake. As much as I hate the idea, we can’t keep wasting days on the nomads. “There’s still a lot of ground to cover, and less than half of the Ddraigs have found their Cadogans. We’ve got to keep moving.” Besides, I’ve seen nothing out of Drake that makes me think he’s thirsty for power. We’ll keep an eye on him, but maybe this act will stave off the attack I saw in my vision.
Or it will cement it as the only future, Siri counters, her voice flat and emotionless.
