Serpent's Tears (Snakesblood Saga Book 2)

by Beth Alvarez

  The Archmage went on. “They will not return, because as of tonight, we stand alone. The temple has severed its ties to the old ways, from the influence of a neglectful ruler. Let it be known that, from this moment on, we have seceded from King Kifelethelas's control.”

  The announcement sent an uproar through the crowd. Kytenia exchanged glances with her friends, all their faces pale in the mage-light.

  Rikka linked arms with Kytenia and Shymin and pulled them back as a wave of argument rose in the mages around them. Even the Archmage’s gestures and commands couldn’t calm the sudden fury that spewed from Masters and first-year magelings alike.

  “Come on,” Rikka said. “We’ve got to send word now, while the Masters are distracted. We’ll discuss what happened to Firal later.”

  Kytenia turned back and caught Marreli's hand. The younger girl's face was ghostly white, her eyes wide with fear as the group slipped from the crush of people. Kytenia swallowed. If they hurried, they'd have just enough time to pen a letter before someone noticed they were gone. If luck was on their side, they'd find a way to send it without being seen. And if not, then perhaps Firal was more fortunate than they realized.

  “You seem troubled, my liege.”

  Kifel frowned and lifted his quill from the paper before him. “Do I? I was hoping it wouldn't show.” He leaned back in his chair as he looked to the doorway. Medreal rarely knocked, though it never seemed an intrusion when she slipped into his office. She had been his nursemaid, once upon a time, which made her seem more like a mother and less like an adviser.

  She'd worn the eye markings of a court mage then, a practice she stopped not long after he had risen to the crown. He had always assumed her a mage trained in the old ways—a powerful one—but he'd never asked about her education. Now that he thought of it, she had stopped marking her eyes around the time the temple had been founded. He'd never noticed. He should have.

  “You do a fine job of concealing it, my liege. Only the watchful eye of one who knows you could see it.” Medreal let the door click shut behind her. She balanced a tea tray on one arm, a rolled and sealed letter in her hand.

  Kifel dropped his quill into its inkwell and rubbed his eyes. “Something doesn't feel right, that's all. It’s been several days since I received a report from the men I stationed at Kirban Temple. I don't expect anything too eventful, but I do expect regular reports.”

  “It’s natural to be distressed by such things. You worry enough about the temple as it is, what with your son and our kindly Archmage.” Medreal made her way across the room as he tidied his desk.

  Kifel snorted with a wry smile. Kindly? There were many words he might use for Envesi, but that wasn't one of them. Regardless of her tasteful phrasing, though, Medreal was right. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  “I don't mean to make you feel transparent, my liege.”

  Rain beat against the high arched windows of his office, leaving the interior dismal and dark, befitting his sour mood. Kifel gazed outside almost wistfully as Medreal laid the tray before him. “I also should have received word about the mages I requested for Ilmenhith. We're always in need of more healers. Temar received word they graduated Lomithrandel to Master, though I don't think him ready. I'm not even certain what he can do. He doesn't speak of his abilities. Still, there were several other students I had my eye on.”

  “Are you worried our people may soon need healing, my liege?” Medreal raised a thin brow. “All has been calm for what, thirty pents? Do you fear injury, or illness?”

  He sighed, pressing fingers to his temples. “I don't know.”

  The old woman pursed her lips and extended the sealed scroll to him. “Well, perhaps this contains something to brighten your day. It does not bear the army's crest, but I believe it's from a temple Master.”

  Kifel all but snatched the scroll from her hand. “It's too big to have come by pigeon. How did this get here?”

  “It was on my table, my liege. I do not know how it came.” Medreal bowed her head.

  Frowning deeply, he broke the seal and unrolled the smooth paper. The message inside was written in a neat and elegant hand. “I don't recognize this writing,” he murmured, but he read on.

  For the attention of King Kifelethelas alone:

  One day past, as you read this letter, your men were dismissed from the temple by word that came from Ilmenhith. The order bore your seal.

  A messenger from King Relythes of the eastern province will arrive in Kirban today to discuss control of the temple.

  Last night, the Archmage announced secession from your rule.

  Please advise, but address anonymous response to Mageling Rikka.

  N.

  Kifel sagged against his chair, the paper curling against his tense fingers.

  “My liege?” Medreal questioned. Anxious, she tugged the neckline of her dress. When he did not reply, she leaned closer. “My liege, what is it?”

  He flung the tray from his desk. Tea spilled across his papers. The teapot shattered on the floor. “This is how she repays me?” He slammed a balled fist against his desk and rose so fast, his chair fell backwards. He backhanded the teacup that had fallen from the tray. It crashed into the window beside his desk.

  “Majesty!” Medreal staggered back from the cacophony of shattering glass. “Calm yourself!”

  “After everything I've done for her! After everything I've given her! How dare she?” Tea streamed across his desk in steaming rivulets. He planted his hands on the desktop and did not feel the burn. Cold rain blew in through the broken window. The droplets left dark stains on his sleeve. “How dare she?” Rage flashed in his emerald eyes. “She's declared herself independent of me! After all I've done to fund her follies, all I've done to raise—” He bit his tongue and stifled the words before they escaped. No. He wouldn't stoop to that. He wouldn't misplace the blame.

  Wary, Medreal drew back another step. “The Archmage? She can't stand independently of you, can she? Does she even have the means for it?”

  Kifel clenched his teeth and inhaled through his nose. His palms pressed harder against the desktop, the heat of the spilled tea seeping into his fingers. He leaned against the desk with his head down. “Relythes has his fingers in that pie, it seems. After so many years of peace.”

  “I'm not certain I would call it peace, my liege,” Medreal cautioned. “A truce, perhaps, but not peace. There has been no trade and no contact with the eastern half of the island since you brought the skirmishes to an end.”

  The king shook his head. His shoulders bunched tight and he willed them to relax, but they slumped instead. “She's sent my soldiers away. The men I sent to protect her. How did she convince them to leave? How could she?”

  “I can't answer that, my liege. Only she can.”

  It was an honest response, but the calm way Medreal said it still made him sigh. “Then I must go to the temple immediately.” He stepped away from his desk and lifted his hands. His fingers were red and sore. Resigned, he drew the tiny tea towel from the tray and dried his hands, leaving behind bright, angry marks.

  Medreal laced her fingers together at her waist, as composed as ever. “How shall I contact you while you are there?”

  Giving her a pointed look, he said, “Don't.”

  Despite the anger that still burned in his chest, Kifel smoothed his hair and righted the gold circlet above his brow. His face showed nothing but cool neutrality by the time he set foot in the hall. He did not wear a crown often and he couldn't say what made him pick it up that morning, though he was glad for its presence as he straightened his sleeves and stepped into the parlor where his court mages waited.

  The mages in blue-trimmed white all but leaped to their feet when he appeared at the doorway, abandoning their chessboards and books. Kifel's eyes narrowed. Ilmenhith's mages had enough duties to tend that they shouldn't have been lounging about and playing games. They were fortunate he was in a rush. “A Gate to Kirban Temple. The Archmage's office
, now.”

  The Masters bowed and hurried to take their places around the stone archway they used to anchor Gates. In no time, the air crackled with power. Kifel hadn't often thought of his Giftless lineage, but he cursed it now. Had he been born with a Gift, perhaps it would be easier to keep the mages in hand.

  The Gate grew still and the image within it stabilized. He waited for one of the mages to nod before he stepped through. The air in the Archmage's tower was hotter than that in the parlor, and he grimaced when it struck him. He drew a breath, his face stony once more as he strode down the narrow path to the doors of the Archmage’s office. He flung open the doors so hard they banged into the wall, spilling a shower of dust from the doorframe.

  “Temper, temper,” Envesi chided. She lowered her book and brushed snowy white curls away from her face.

  “Do not dare chastise me,” Kifel said icily.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Of course. You are a king, after all.”

  As cool and respectful as her words sounded, there was no mistaking that they were meant as a taunt. His eyes sparked with anger. “I am your king. And this is a school that I founded, if I must remind you.”

  “Oh, yes.” The Archmage leaned back in her chair, drumming slender fingers against her chin. “I'm afraid I would forget, if you and that boy of yours weren't so determined to remind me. He's so very like you, one might fail to recall he isn't yours.”

  His breath caught.

  She chuckled. “Or perhaps you want them to forget? What a pitiful creature. I don't know why you dote on him so.”

  “You gave me a child, but you gave me no heir. What else do I have?”

  “Ah, yes.” Envesi's eyes narrowed at the corners, hinting at a smirk she couldn't contain. “In that case, I suppose you'll be forced to pass your position to your mages when you die.”

  “I have no intention of dying any time soon,” Kifel replied. “Your interest in my demise is unsettling.”

  She gave him a disdainful look and then shifted her gaze to the tall windows that rimmed her office. “Please. We both know you aren't afraid of me. Besides, I can count those who still know who I truly am on one hand. A single generation, and already the island has forgotten. You doomed me the moment you refused a public wedding. Without an obvious heir to tie us together, what would I gain from your death?”

  “And what do you gain from abandoning my rule?” he asked. The surprise on her face gave him a small twinge of satisfaction. He wasn't supposed to know. He straightened and continued. “Your connection to me makes this even more absurd, whether the island knows it or not. Or do you want me to be remembered as the king who let an estranged queen tear his legacy apart?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “Your expectations are unrealistic and your ability to protect the temple is wanting. Spare me the dramatics. You shouldn't take everything as a personal affront. I don't love you, but I don't hate you, either.”

  “You used to.”

  “Hate you?”

  “Love me.” He leveled his gaze with hers, searching her mage-blue eyes. Despite everything, the cold lack of emotion was disappointing.

  Envesi regarded him solemnly for a long time before she pushed herself up from her desk. “People change, Kifel.”

  “No,” he said. “Minds do.”

  She strode to the windows and peered down into the courtyard. “This exchange is over.”

  “You're right,” Kifel agreed, brushing dust from his coat. Not dust; ash. It left a pale streak on his sleeve. “There was never anything to discuss. If you think you have the authority to pull Kirban out from underneath me, you're mistaken. You might think the temple is yours, but it rests on my land, and the mages answer to me. Don't think escaping me is as simple as telling my men to leave. You'll do well to remember your place before this is settled.”

  He strode out of her office before she could respond, his jaw set. He drew the door closed behind him, and his shoulders sagged as it clicked shut. It wasn't hard to tell she had not been intimidated. Perhaps he'd let her go unchecked for too long. But he'd never thought he needed to fear her—or any of the mages, for that matter. That overconfidence became clear now.

  Why had he come without any of his court mages? He was the king, but Envesi held no respect for that. He was powerless in her eyes, un-Gifted, and he'd walked into her office like a fool. Had she wanted, she could have crushed him. Kifel looked at the ash on his sleeve and dusted at it again as he started down the tower's stairs.

  It had been decades since the temple's founding. It was foolish to think something might have changed between them, yet he hadn't been able to smother the hope he'd kept kindled. She was not who he remembered; she didn't even look the same. He always remembered her as she'd been the day they met. The memory haunted him, even now. He tried to shake it from his head.

  As the only child left to his bloodline, Kifel's right to the throne had been uncontested. But heirs did not choose their futures, and Envesi had been chosen for him. Despite that, he'd hoped they would have the sort of relationship his parents had shared. They had not started their life together in love, but it had ended that way, and they had passed within hours of one another.

  He turned to descend another flight of stairs. In the heat of the day, with the magelings out cleaning the burned temple, the tower was all but empty. The library on the lower floors was desolate, nothing but lingering ash to show its books ever existed. He thought again of the smudge on his sleeve. The temple's destruction clung to him, whether it was his fault or not. Clearly, the Archmage felt it was.

  Envesi had been an odd choice from the beginning, and so their union had been kept quiet. The daughter of a minor lord on the mainland, she had been selected specifically because of her heritage as a mage. Her power gave her prestige on Elenhiise, where their culture prized magic. Her eyes had already been mage-blue when she came to him, her tresses the blackest he'd ever seen. She had been striking, if not beautiful, and he had foolishly thought nothing mattered aside from appearance and respect. She had both, and if she had truly wanted to marry him, perhaps everything would have been different.

  As Kifel reached the ground level, his expression shifted to something as solemn as stone. He'd made many mistakes. He had been headstrong and rash, hadn't valued his bride as he should have. But her bitterness toward him had formed long before they were married. He couldn't blame it all on himself, and he had tried to make her happy. He had given her the temple, after all, in exchange for a child.

  The king stepped from the ruined tower and squinted against the sunlight.

  “You,” he called, singling out a mageling with her arms full of books.

  She froze. Something about her russet curls tickled his memory, but he'd seen so many magelings during the solstice that all of them seemed familiar.

  “Where can I find a mageling named Rikka?”

  The girl bowed and murmured something about retrieval before she dashed away.

  Kifel waited at the doors of the tower, his face unchanging. Mages gave him a wide berth and worried glances. He couldn't blame them; Envesi's announcement had already been made, and he knew he did not look pleased.

  After a time, the mageling returned with a red-headed girl in tow.

  He straightened. “Rikka, I presume?”

  The red-headed girl's eyes widened, but she regained her equanimity fast enough. She spread her skirts and offered a deep curtsy. “Yes, Majesty.”

  “Good,” Kifel smiled, though there was no mirth in him. “We have much to discuss.”

  All Rikka managed was a nod.

  4

  A Place To Belong

  Daemon shivered despite the morning's humid warmth. Clouds hung in thick sheets over the ruins, glowing soft pink in the sunrise. He rose from his perch atop a ruin wall, his rain-chilled muscles protesting movement. The morning's sentries would be out soon, his soldiers quick to follow.

  He dropped to the ground and knuckled his back beneath his cloak. A ha
ndful of men had camped with him at the edge of the ruins, though they left the wall-climbing to him. Some eyed him with solemn faces as he rejoined them, as if they sensed his doubts. But they had his armor ready and waiting, so he unfastened his cloak.

  Armor was something he didn't really care for; it was cumbersome and sometimes too showy. But he recognized his need for it and tried to cooperate while his soldiers helped him don it. One of the men pressed something into his hand and he turned it over to see what it was. “For good luck,” the man said.

  It was a simple jade carving of a scorpion, similar to the one he'd left in the village of Charth during his first raid. Daemon wasn't sure where the man had gotten it, but it was a pleasant surprise. If nothing else, it showed his men paid closer attention to what he did than he thought. A good omen for a new leader.

  He belted his sword at his side as the rest of the soldiers filed into the camp and the captain of the group joined him. He'd chosen Davan's group because he knew he could work with the man, and strengthening relations with the captain could only serve to aid him. “Is everything ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” Davan's reply was hoarse and uneasy, but the captain looked more confident than he sounded.

  “Good.” Daemon adjusted his mask and fastened his cloak around his shoulders again. Then he tied the scorpion amulet at his throat. He drew a claw over the rough jade, reminding himself why he'd liked the symbol in the first place. Venom wasn't a scorpion's only weapon. Often, it was a last resort. “We're moving now. Be ready. We don't know what we'll be facing today.”

  Silence met his words. Davan moved aside to let him pass, organizing the ranks as Daemon led the way. The cacophony of footsteps behind him shifted into the steady drumming of a marching army.

  Three days for the village to decide to meet them as friend or foe had been too much time and yet not enough. Daemon didn't think he’d need the two hundred men he’d brought, but he couldn't be too careful. He'd threatened to wipe them out if they didn't cooperate. It wouldn't do to show up without the means. The line of soldiers behind him threaded through the curving hallways of the ruins like a black snake, the rhythmic sound of their march driving concern from his head. The weight of his armor brought a pleasant warmth back into his limbs, and he took each step with growing vigor.