Suddenly, she moans, and the sound is both soothing and excruciating to Ithel’s ears. “She lives! But my gods, what kind of life will she have? The healers aren’t miracle workers, you know? She’ll wish she died, you mark my words!” someone shouts from the crowd of onlookers. Soon, Helena’s screams are too gut-wrenching for them to witness, and they disperse from the scene.
“Ithel,” Helena slurs as she calls his name, her shattered hand twitching as if she tries to raise it in his direction.
Ithel sinks to his knees beside her, pouring his own life force into her healing. If I die, it is just. I caused this injury; I should be the one to sacrifice for it. “I’m so sorry, Helena!” He chokes on the words, his fingers searching for a place he can touch her without causing more pain. His lips long to ask for forgiveness, but his tongue stays quiet. Such a kindness should not be offered to him. It would salve his conscience, but it would not stop her agony.
Ithel doesn’t know how many healers perish in their efforts to save Helena’s life. He passes his energy into her until he begins to sway. Despite his best efforts, his body refuses to give its last breath, self-preservation kicking in. Ithel drops to the stones beside Helena, noticing every detail in her broken face. His mind is so focused on her that Ithel neglects to hear the striking of fine leather boots on the stones by his back.
“So, you finally just killed her?” The king of Déchets sneers as he surveys the scene. “Can’t say I blame you, but I never would have thought you’d have the balls to do it.” Another healer races up to Helena’s knee. “Oh, I see! An impulse reaction, and now you’re filled with regret. My first assessment of you was correct, after all. Coward!” The king kicks Ithel hard, pounding his boots into Ithel’s back as though he attempts to break his victim’s spine. When that grows tiresome, Alaric saunters off, whistling merrily as he moves away from the grisly scene.
“Sir? What about yourself?” One of the healer slaves questions Ithel as she assesses his waning strength.
“Just take care of Helena. Keep her alive, whatever the cost,” Ithel mumbles, his fingers curling into Helena’s hair before he blacks out.
Chapter 4
Wren barely makes it inside his tent before Lynx springs into action behind him, pressing a serrated blade to his throat. “The only thing that’s keeping you alive right now is the fact that my child is here,” Lynx growls as she scans the tent for any weapon Wren might use against her. “Why did you sell me out as a spy? I was only following—”
Wren hisses sharply over her words, motioning to the billowing tent flaps. Anyone could be outside listening to their confrontation. Wren’s overly paranoid nature swings into full effect determined that no one else would slip through his defenses and thwart his plans again. “Come with me.”
“Why?” Lynx resists, tilting her head to check on her son, who lies peacefully sleeping in a basket by her feet. That distraction is all it takes for Wren to pounce, slamming his head back into Lynx’s mask. While she recovers from the attack, Wren carefully slides out of her grasp. Before she has the chance to retaliate, Wren lifts his hands in defeat.
“I don’t want to fight,” he whispers as he slowly backs out of his tent into the cool night air. “Leave the child. No one will bother him. Follow me, and I’ll tell you everything.” Quickly scanning the grounds to be certain that no one else moves at this late hour, Wren sprints for the huge field that stands open and empty in his path. Just beyond it lies the ocean, whose unending waves drone on in a constant, monotonous roar that will drown out all sounds of their conversation. Noise cover and a clear line of sight—the two things that will ensure that the mistakes that put Lynx in peril are not recommitted tonight. Wren doesn’t turn to see if Lynx obeyed his wishes. Every second his back is exposed is another opportunity to become Death’s friend. He doesn’t breathe easy until his feet muddle wet sand and the ocean’s song is a relentless melody in his ears.
Keeping his back to the ocean, Wren halts suddenly in place while Lynx rushes up behind him. She barely manages to stop before running him through with her blade. Both of them breathing hard, they gulp a few breaths before Lynx shouts, “I want answers, Wren! Why did you name me a traitor? Why say you are trying to help me and then sell me out to Wolf?”
“It was the only way to keep myself safe.” Wren winces as he says the words, hating the veracity in them.
“You mean you’d sell out a mother and newborn just to stay alive?” Lynx raises her blade once more, her mouth drawing back in a sneer.
“My safety is the only thing that’s protecting you and your son, so don’t get all high and mighty on me,” Wren snaps, slapping the tip of her blade away from his chest. “I put the focus on you, but I’m going to be the one taking the big risks.” Playing both sides never ends well, Wren reminds himself with a frustrated sigh. How did I get mixed up in all this? The image of that sleeping boy appears like a ghost in the mist. You could not bear to see him harmed. That’s why you’ll take these reckless chances.
The memory of the tiny Ddraigs sidling up to him when Suryc carried him to the hatching den flares up in Wren’s memory too. Suryc had cornered Wren about his loyalties then, hoping
