Chapter Fifteen- The Serpent has Returned
Departing the Venomwoods feels akin to running away with my tail between my legs. Sylvithria says nothing, Jacks won’t look at me, and all I receive from the Council is a series of curt nods.
I can’t dwell on it and my rage has taken on a living breathing form inside of me.
I force myself to ignore the longing within me for Thorne. It’s ridiculous and one sided. It must stop. Still, it feels like chords are being wrapped around my throat and pulled tight.
When I make it back to Zena, I find Crowley perched upon her head with a slip of paper in his talons. I let out a huff of air and pry it from him gently.
Serpent, a broken nose and a broken rib are wholly inconvenient at social events. Please do better as this note serves to remind you that our lives are linked.
—T
I hastily scribble a note back, not bothering to ask Crowley if he went to Thorne and Fable on his own, or if Fable brought the note to him. I’m choosing to believe he held his post as a loyal familiar would.
Princeling, kindly jump up your own ass and die. Would you?
—H
I tread carefully through the northernmost edge of Groveridge, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of Caelthar. He would have to be incredibly stupid to remain here and his cowardice does not lend me to believe he would. Still, I refuse to let him catch me off guard.
“Good girl,” I murmur to Zena as she eats from my palm. The bland tavern food sits heavily in my stomach as I pet her side. “A few more hours.”
The acrid stench of smoke burns my eyes; it’s early enough in the day that the bodies burned overnight on the edge of the village would still be angry and red. Their bones fighting against heat and stubbornly hanging onto charred flesh. I frown and tighten my blightmask around my face.
Groveridge has an ongoing issue with a respiratory disease that they can’t seem to stop the spread of that requires almost nightly burnings of the deceased.
There’s a man huddled against a stone well, hunched over and coughing.
He spits blood in the dirt and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
I can see that he’s starving, his face gaunt, his arms too boney.
He’s a few days out from being a body on a pire.
I swallow. The King stopped dispatching healers here as punishment for its increase in Stonebound children, who are in his words ‘weakening the kingdom’.
It was true that at least a handful of Netherhelm women had settled with Stonebound Terramora-born men.
This came after a unit of Terramora soldiers were stationed here under royal order, an agreement which was meant to strengthen alliances with Terramora a decade ago.
Look how that worked out. Now Dreven refers to the children that they produced as an ‘erosion of blood,’ a fracture in the kingdom’s foundation.
I think, personally, our relationship with Terramora can be repaired and the people of Groveridge healed.
But that would require a better king, a selfless one.
He can’t see past the fact that they are aiding Frostguard in the war against us.
He refuses to acknowledge his hand in forcing them to do so.
I shake my head and look away, needing to get the hell out of here.
“Clixinyer,” I enchant the horse to ensure the last five hours of the journey drops below three hours.
My body aches, each gallop knocking the wind out of me.
But I have to get back. I need to get to Thorne.
I ignore the gnawing accusation in the back of my mind that insists I just want to get to him.
Is it possible that I miss him? No. I’ve simply existed in his shadow for the better part of the last two years, that’s all.
My mind snags on Caelthar again, the reason I was even in Thorne’s path at all. I want to call his bluff, to point out that if he could take down Thorne, he would have already.
But then I remember the night he caused Thorne’s curse to falter and I still don’t know how he did that.
How did he make Thorne vulnerable? Surely it isn’t easy, because it only worked that one time.
Something stirs inside me at the prospect of calling Caelthar’s bluff, my entire being revolting against putting Thorne’s life on the line.
Just as I make my way through the west of Whitmire towards the final road to take me to the palace, a familiar sound halts me.
Cruel laughter intermingled with sobbing floats to me in the chilly air. Night has fallen, the smell of burning fires and alcohol rich in the air. It’s the roasted meat and whimpering that has me cursing under my breath. Here we go.
The vile people that tend to make up the upper class have a tendency not to be satisfied with having everything.
See, the money the nobility possess makes them invincible—as long as they stay loyal to King Dreven.
The power they have makes them heartless as they learn they have the ability to make or break those beneath them.
I hop off of my horse and stride towards the noise.
Just as I suspected, they are hosting what they like to call a ‘Noble’s Feast,’ where they flaunt their wealth to the subjects who rely on them.
No matter how humiliating the event is, the members of the working class still crawl from their dilapidated homes in hopes of getting crumbs of the food the nobles have a surplus of.
I lean against a tree and watch. The grand wooden table is situated to face an extravagant courtyard, surrounded by graying buildings that lean with age.
Smoke fills the cool air and almost covers the stench of the clustering of filthy common folk.
Some of them use their small traces of magic to lift food, making me smile.
Small pastries twitching before flying towards the crowd.
No one seems to notice me in the shadows as one of the lords—Lord Ashe, to be exact—grabs a middle-aged woman and drags her into his lap.
“She smells vile! Like a hog!” He laughs and I watch the tears well in her eyes. Her two children watch on with dirt-smudged clothing. Her own are ripped and tattered.
In the dozen buildings surrounding the courtyard, some rich folk and other nobility watch on in curiosity.
A few wooden shutters threaten to fall off of two of the buildings that appear to host small shops on their ground floors.
Clearly, they are home to middle class shop-keeps.
The lesser commoners could only dream of owning a two story home, broken shutters and all.
I watch with growing anger as Lady Crowhurst kicks a teenage girl in the shin, forcing her to drop to her knees, the dry skin cracking and bleeding on impact.
“Now, eat!” Lady Crowhurst demands of the girl, pointing to a tart she stomped into the dirt.
This isn’t new, unfortunately. I have seen this all across the kingdom but it’s more openly done by the nobles who reside closest to the palace.
Meanwhile, two alarmingly young lords are forcing two peasant kids to crawl on the ground.
The young lords’ knee high socks are expensive enough to feed the peasant kids for a month.
While I watch, I send Crowley to observe Thorne.
He travels quickly, draped in my magic. I’m pleased to see Thorne lounging in one of the gardens enjoying the cool evening, half drunk and tossing the remnants of Luminaria flowers in the air.
The glowing petals cascade around his bright hair as he kicks his head back with a smile.
Though something in me aches to hurry to him, to see where finding him vulnerable and laughing in the garden could take us, bloodlust towards the scene unfolding here overcomes me.
I know I shouldn’t do this. After all, it’s been years since the Serpent of Netherhelm struck. Thanks to my own laziness and self preservation, the nobles are getting too cocky again. Too comfortable. The lower class is suffering for it.
Perfect, return to me. I instruct Crowley.
I reach out with my magic, sensing the three people I need to kill.
Lord Ashe, Lady Crowhurst, and Lord Tenebrin, who is currently sitting on some poor man as if he were a bench.
I roll my eyes and materialize a cloak, pulling it over my head.
There’s a scale pattern sewn into it, silver and blue with a serpent wrapping around the hem.
My irises narrow to that of a snake and I push off the tree with a wicked grin.
They don’t hear me approach and I drape an arm across Lord Ashe as I tilt the older woman’s chin up to meet my eyes. The man jumps and curses.
“Leave,” I tell her. I don’t need to use magic to compel her to flee, and she murmurs a string of thanks as she makes her exit.
I see bruises already beginning to bloom on her legs from Lord Ashe’s wandering hands.
She dusts her clothes off from where the plump Lord touched her and finds her kids in the crowd.
“What do you think you’re—” He stops talking when he sees my eyes. The others haven’t noticed us yet.
I whisper my instructions in his ear; he nods. Under my control, he can’t refuse, but I still see his body shaking from the effort as I drop a meat carving knife in his lap.
I skip away from him towards where Lady Crowhurst is dancing with a disinterested young man. He clearly just hopes to win her favor and earn something from her. Perhaps food, a trinket, even the chance to become a servant in her home.
“Lady Crowhurst!” I open my arms and bow. “May I have this dance?”
“And who are you?” She turns her nose up at me. My face is hidden by the hood so I turn slightly to showcase the scales decorating my cloak.
“I’ll give you three guesses and two of them don’t count,” I taunt her as I pull my sword free from my belt.
“No!” She cries.