House of Vultures by Maggie Claire (read my book TXT) 📕

else? I havenever bothered to challenge that idea until now. “Why do yourpeople hate us so much?”

“We hate what we do nothave,” Antero grumbles. “We seek to possess, to have everythingwithin our immediate proximity. We want to control this part of theworld too.” I had heard a rumor once that Déchets is a prosperousland where people are greedy and careless, wasting their lives andresources until nothing is left. My mind stops its reveling whenAntero finishes his explanation. “We hate that yousurvived.”

“Explain,” I bark, feelingpersonally affronted. “You did not want me alive?”

“That’s not what I meant,”Antero barks, his words slowing with his efforts to disobey.“We…tried to…end…your race once. Wipe…you all…off themap.”

“What? How?” I demand,unable to wrap my mind around the implications of hiswords.

“What you call awindstorm…it was an attack from Déchets,” Antero snarls as blooddribbles down his chin.

No, it couldn’tbe! The causes of the windstorm have beenlong debated ever since its occurrence. Such a phenomenon had neveroccurred before, nor since. It is an unanswered stain on ourmemories that will not be forgotten. Whatkind of weapon could they possibly have that would cause humanbodies to disintegrate?

We were nearly obliteratedby Déchets. I have undeniable proof confessing everything to me.They are the reason I lost my family, and why the House of Vultureseven exists. When word of this gets out,Cassé will seek vengeance. I will be right there among thefighters, leading the attacks if I am able. Nothing will stop any of us fromretaliation. We will see Déchets fall.

“Who ordered the attack?”I need the name of our terrorist, someone tangible that I can hate.The people will need a scapegoat. A war cannot be fought without aspecific target.

Antero strains against my control,desperately searching for a way to keep from answering me. Nomatter what he tries, he cannot keep the words from rolling out ofhis mouth. “Our king gave the order. My father.”

It is a sucker punch to mystomach, hearing that I saved the son of the man who had takeneverything from my lands. A darker, vicious part of me rears itsugly head at his revelation. I could killthe boy and send his father a pair of boots made from his son’sbody. I’d weave his scalped hair into laces, use his bones foreyelets and braces. I’d send the meat to his father’s cooks, toprepare him a special meal. Only after the king had eaten would Igift him with the shoes and the knowledge that he’s just dined onhis own son. “Does your father know thatyou are here?” I ask, carefully considering whether or not my planswould be the act to start the war. The desire to face this king, topaint the walls of my bedroom with his blood, overwhelms mysenses.

Short sighted,my rational mind chides. You need the rest of Cassé on your side. Besides, youcouldn’t kill the boy when he was hurt. How does knowing hisfather’s sins justify taking his life?

I’m not sure which side of my thoughtswould win the argument, but I never get the chance to find out.Antero’s next words deflate my plan, as he shakes his headdespondently. “My father cares little for what I do. I chosepriesthood rather than become a warrior like all of his other sons.He calls me his greatest disappointment.”

If you killed him, itprobably wouldn’t even hurt his father at all. I feel my eyebrows crinkle as I try to understand Antero’smotives. “Then why did you come into this land? Why search for aweapon in the Pith if you are not a fighter?”

Antero’s eyes grow bright withremembered pain. “To prove that I am worthy of being his son. Icame to try and make him proud. Instead, I bungled my efforts, justlike I always do. My dad will let me die in these lands. If you tryto send a ransom note or are thinking of trading me off, don’tbother. The king would happily leave me here to rot.”

I cannot allow myself to pity him. Togive my hands something to do, I begin stripping the bark off anearby walnut tree. “Take the three lobed leaves from that saplingand start crushing them until their sap shows.” Inky black juiceoozes on my fingers as I demonstrate what I mean.

“What arethey?”

“We call it saxifrax,” Iexplain as I whittle away the sharp edges of the walnut bark plank,boring two holes into its surface for eyes. I will fashion it to bea half-mask, like what most houses have adopted in recent years.This one stops at his nostrils and rises high on his forehead. Justenough of a disguise to maintain anonymity while remainingfunctional.

When it is done, I wrap the barkinside the saxifrax leaves, making certain that no part is leftundyed. “Hurry! We’ve got to get this stuff off our hands, or elseeveryone will see that your mask has been recently dyed.” I hopthrough the forest floor, crossing muddy puddles on the way to theRiver Sangre.

Yet when we reach the water’s edge,Antero freezes along the shore. “Your water is blood!” He exclaimsas I dip my hands into the current. The dye scrubs off when I graba pumice stone from the river’s floor.

“It is fine. It is algae,that’s all,” I call over the water’s roar. “It is not always likethis.”

Antero does not move an inch, his eyeswide in hysteria. My explanation of the color has not calmed him atall. “I cannot wash in blood. I cannot even touch it. It goesagainst everything in the priesthood.”

“It is not blood, see?” Ihold out my hands, dripping with clear water. “It is an illusionfrom the algae, nothing more.” Still, Antero refuses. “Look, thelonger you stand there the harder that dye is going to be to getoff. You’ll be scrubbing your hands bloody.” I scrunch my eyesclosed when he stays in his place, impatience getting the better ofme. “We don’t have time for this!” I shout exasperatedly.Move, I command, pullingon the strands of the bond in our minds. Wash your hands until the dye comes off. Do not stop until notraces of dye remain.

Antero growls as his feet move,rigidly walking to the River Sangre. I can feel him fruitlesslyfighting against me. He curses at