Chapter Fourteen- A Life Paid for a Life Owed
What is home? I began to wonder about this on my third day of solo travel. Recently, the palace at Netherhelm has begun to feel like… home. The wretched place. I spit into the chasm alongside which my horse walks.
A gnawing part of me says it has more to do with who feels like home rather than where.
I snarl at myself and block all thoughts of the Executioner Prince from my mind.
His cruel beauty and wicked ways should not torment me so.
Still, as hours drag on and I ride further from him, there is something in me that strains.
A chord pulls taut, threatening to snap.
Perhaps it’s the life bond courtesy of Queen Ivy; I stare down at the marks on my arm.
Crowley, for his part, is zero help, constantly nagging through our connection about Fable. His intense longing for her is nauseating and I’m forced to share in his agony.
I ignore him, focusing on the hunt as we near my home. I cannot return home without an offering to my siblings.
“Glyndra,” I cast the spell for stealth as I sneak through the brush. Thorns snag on my skin and stick in my hair but the boar fails to notice me as Crowley flits around in front of it.
The boar snorts in frustration and charges at Crowley, who flies out of the way.
My pulse hammers when Crowley’s eyes, like chips of coal, find mine.
I nod and he dives, pecking viciously at the boar’s head.
A low grunt shakes the bushes around me, dirt kicks from the boar’s hooves as he takes off through a clearing.
“Wretched bird!” I huff; he was supposed to keep the blasted animal still. I take off in a sprint towards the clearing. The boar halts at the sound of my approach and Crowley takes the opportunity to make himself scarce.
Plan B, then.
The boar kicks and huffs, his tusks turned upward as if grinning.
My world narrows to the tight grip on my sword, the weight and hilt my familiar companions.
Finally, Crowley listens to my instructions and strafes the boar’s face like he once did to King Dreven.
The boar rears and snorts, the scent of its musk coating my lungs as I lunge.
Talons and violent kicks are all that occupy my vision as I strike.
The sword is an extension of me, of the promise I always made to come home, and that promise rings true.
With a clean arc, the animal is sliced open, blood spurting as it groans and chuffs.
Its great form hits the ground and I swear I feel it vibrate with the beast’s death.
The world around me resumes its indifference; leaves start to sway in the breeze again as I loose a breath. I crouch down, my palms finding dirt turning muddy with blood. A clean cut to the throat—perfect.
“May Xeusis hold you near,” I push the boar’s eyes closed.
Crowley caws in victory beside me.
“You were distracted,” I chastise him.
But then he tugs on my sleeve with his beak and I can’t stay mad. I huff in annoyance and load the beast up to be properly dragged on a cot behind the horse.
Soon, the weary road we travel greets us with a chasm yawning open just ahead.
Deep within the chasm, I can see the familiar comforting sight of snake scales sliding along and catching the sunlight.
Their numbers are in the tens of thousands, existing as one living, breathing hive mind.
One that my connection to is strengthening with the close proximity.
They know I have arrived; they have not attacked me for breaching the border surrounding their territory.
This many serpents poised to attack would drive the strongest of men to flee.
The Titan Boas and Dark Cobras hang from the trees to graze my face in greeting.
A chorus of slithering voices pass through my mind as they communicate amongst themselves.
The Serpent boy has returned.
He’s back.
The Serpent is home.
Ssssylvithria.
Ssssylvithria.
They begin to chant the Matriarch’s name to draw her to me. I call on her too:
“Sylvithria, mother of serpents, mother of mine. Will you grant me entry into your domain?”
The silver Diamondblood Constrictor slithers from the brush, her scales reflecting faintly green in that gorgeous way only hers do.
I feel my heart warm as she molts into her human form as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Her elderly face breaks into a grin, her long hair and shining scales keeping her modest.
“Harrow,” she sighs in relief and embraces me.
“Mama,” I share the sentiment and inhale the scent of home.
“You have arrived just in time, dear boy. We have a problem,” she squeezes my forearms. My stomach drops. Caelthar.
I ensure the horse is tethered safely at the opening of the chasm before we make our way down the steep slope.
“Jacksssss and Cain were certain they spotted you in Westwood—they went there two nightsssss ago and have not returned.” Sylvithria’s worry creases her eyebrows. Westwood is the western part of Groveridge, more dangerous due to its proximity to the dense forest that hosts the Venomwoods.
“I was not there,” I state the obvious. “I came from the Northeast. I didn’t even pass through Groveridge.”
Two violet-colored Blood Racers wrap around my legs in greeting as we enter Sylvithria’s cave.
“Tara, Laya!” I reach down and let the twin snakes claim my arms. They’re small, not nearly as thick or as long as my arms.
Are you going to find Jacks? Tara asks through our mental connection.
And Cain? Laya asks.
Jacks and Cain? They say in unison.
Being able to hear them again is as comforting as shrugging on my favorite cloak. Their close proximity allows me to tap back into the singular mind of my serpent siblings.
“Yes, my darlings,” I answer aloud.
“There wassss a raven who came with a note for them. I assumed it was Crowley.” Sylvithria places some shiny thread in a pile.
“Crowley has not been sent in two months,” I reassure her.
This catches her attention.
“And why issss that,” her eyebrows shoot to her hairline.
“I’ve just been… busy,” I scratch the back of my head nervously.
“Do you have any idea what those boyssss are up to?” She sighs. “I’ve got forty-two thoussssand and sssix serpents to look after. The sssimple fact that they chose a human form is bad enough, but keeping track of them…” Her voice trails off as she tosses a ladle into a pot of water.
“And what of Fangborne Vryss of the Mooncoil? He oversees the boys’ den, what does he have to say?” I push.
Vyrss is one of eight Fangborne Serpents who are part of the hierarchy of the Venomwoods, overseeing a smaller portion of the snakes which Sylvithria oversees. While her venom is sacred and her word is law, she relies on the Council of Eight to keep things running smoothly in the Venomwoods.
I was also part of the Mooncoil den, led for decades by Vyrss. But I can still name every den, every Fangborne who runs them, and every snake that occupies the Venomwoods.
“He doesss not know what led them away and he has lost mental communication with them.” Sadness fills Sylvithria’s voice.
“Call on the Council of Eight. I know what’s going on,” I tell her. She is so deeply bonded to me that she knows my commands never come from disrespect but from my nature and training. She nods.
It takes hours, but eventually the entire council convenes at the massive black weeping willow tree that sits in a clearing on a cliff.
It overlooks the ocean and belongs only to the serpents.
No person would brave the Venomwoods to settle here.
I take mental inventory of the Fangborne in their human-esc forms:
Vryss of the Mooncoil, ancient and frowning.
Mov of the Deathcoil, her gorgeous red hair flowing in the wind.
Lienit of the Darkcoil, annoyed to be here but showing off his onyx scales.
Kigon of the Ashencoil, his dark skin glowing in the sun.
Rixen of the Addercoil, anger seeping from her dark eyes.
Blume of the Cobracoil, braiding some fabric in between her fingers.
Locken of the Diamondcoil, basking on his rock in the sun.
Scixt of the Crimsoncoil, giving me a death stare. She still holds a grudge after we slept together a couple of years ago.
“The Serpent Boy returnssss again,” Kigon smiles at me, his toned arms held wide.
“I’ll always come back,” I embrace him.
“You don’t have to,” Scixt snaps.
“Give it a ressst,” Rixen taps her friend’s arm.
“Yeah, he brought boar for the younglingssss,” Blume takes my side.
“Quiet,” Sylvithria raises her arms and we all stop chatting. “Vryss, two of your human-formed serpents have gone missing.”
“Yes, madame,” he stands to answer her. “Though they live, I cannot reach out to them.”
“You have not felt the sssevering of their lives from yours?” Sylvithria asks.
“No.” His brown hair catches in the wind, long strands falling down his back.
Snakes die often of natural causes or by falling victim to predators as it’s the way of life in the wild. But when two human-presenting serpents go radio silent, it’s cause for alarm.
“I would have felt it, too. They’re still alive,” I pipe up. Something like guilt or doubt stirs in me. Would I know?
“What if they simply chosssse a human life and left us?” Locken asks, bothering finally to sit up on his rock.
“They wouldn’t do that,” I insist. “And if they did, I would still be able to communicate with them and I can’t.”
Attention turns to me, eyebrows furrowed.
“Yes, your magic is sssspecial,” Rixen glowers. Jealousy. I was granted my magic by Sylvithria’s venom and they believe that it connects me to my brothers. It’s partially true.
“Harrow believes he knowsss what’s going on,” Sylvithria announces.
“I think they’re being targeted because of me,” I admit aloud. A weight seems to lift from my shoulders at this confession.
The council erupts with questions, blame, and concern.