Serpent's Tears (Snakesblood Saga Book 2)

by Beth Alvarez

  Most of the mages sat in their places at the long council table, though a few seats remained notably empty. Firal's place at the head was flanked by places for the three Masters that now led the mages in Ilmenhith. Each of the four seats lacked an occupant. The magelings did not dare borrow those chairs for rest, sitting on the floor or milling about the room instead, refilling wine goblets and otherwise making themselves useful.

  No one noticed the door had opened until Master Nondar spoke. “Our young queen has written a letter to be delivered to King Relythes at once.” He waved the scroll and glanced over the faces gathered.

  “I will deliver it.” Shymin stood, earning surprised looks from Rikka, Kytenia, and Vahn. They'd been sitting in the corner for some time, saying little and doing less.

  Nondar beckoned her with a finger. She offered her sister and friends a smile before she joined the white-robed old man. A small cluster of Masters formed around them, stretching and mumbling as they prepared to open the Gate. He held out the message and clasped a hand over Shymin's fingers when she took hold of it.

  “You are to deliver it to Relythes alone,” he told her, expression hard. “No one else.”

  She eyed the parchment and nodded. “Are we going to war with the eastern lands, Master?”

  Nondar shook his head. “That is not for me to say, child. Deliver the message. We will open the Gate for your return in an hour's time.”

  “Yes, Master.” Shymin bowed her head and stepped back to wait as the Masters opened a crackling Gate against the wall. The light was blinding; she squeezed her eyes closed against the brilliance. When she reopened them, she blinked at an image of the palace in Alwhen. She'd expected the building the mages had been given, not a direct Gate to the king's location. Sparing a look over her shoulder for her friends, she tried to reassure them with another smile before stepping through.

  The tingling energies of the Gate were hardly pleasant, but she'd grown used to them. Shymin smoothed her robes as the Gate's power winked out behind her to leave shimmering sparks in the air. With fortune, she'd be able to deliver the message and have time to speak to the Archmage before the Gate to take her home opened.

  Sentries at the palace door gave her nods of greeting as she slipped inside. The air within was thick with smoke and she restrained a cough. She couldn't imagine why Relythes hadn't replaced torches with mage-lights after the mages arrived in Alwhen.

  Shymin hurried to the throne room, but slowed when the people seated nearest the king came into view. Fortune smiled upon her, it seemed. The Archmage and her Masters sat beside King Relythes.

  “Another one of your magelings for a meal,” Relythes grunted, giving Shymin a thoughtful look. “Do you lack proper accommodations for feeding your people, mage?” The tilt of his gaze indicated he spoke to Envesi. Shymin expected an outburst at the disrespectful tone he used, but to her surprise, the white-haired woman smiled as if it were in jest.

  “Majesty,” Shymin said, spreading the skirt of her robes as she dipped in a bow. “I come bearing a message from Queen Firal of Ilmenhith.”

  The Archmage's smile cooled and a startled look flitted over her features, if only for a heartbeat. Then she caught herself and settled into a look of frosty neutrality. Shymin tried not to cringe. She'd not had time to deliver information regarding Firal's claim to the throne to the Archmage. Naturally, Envesi would be displeased by the surprise.

  “Queen!” Relythes scoffed. He rested his elbows on the table and held out his hand. “Give that here, girl.”

  Shymin crossed the room without looking at the Archmage again. The roll of fine paper was light in her fingers—too light for the burden it must bear—as she deposited it in the king's hand. Then she stepped back, clasped hands before her and waited with her head bowed. She felt Envesi's eyes boring into her like daggers of jagged ice.

  A long silence dragged past as he read. Shymin glanced at Melora and Alira, the other Masters at the table, and studied their faces. They were close enough to read the message, but neither of them tried. Both white-robed women wore pinched expressions that still managed to show no more feeling than what the Archmage displayed. She almost wished one of them would read over his shoulder, just so she could catch some sort of emotion that would reveal some hint as to what she'd just delivered.

  Relythes snorted and let the letter roll itself closed. “She's invited you, as well,” he said, with a sidewise glance toward Envesi.

  “Invited me to what, my king?” the Archmage asked with a smile too tight to be genuine.

  “The coronation and festivities afterward. It seems their good King Kifelethelas has gotten himself killed, fighting the same filth that tried to rise against me. Bah!” He flung the roll to the floor and cast Shymin a look that made her stiffen. “You, mageling.”

  “Yes, Majesty?” She fidgeted with the skirt of her robes.

  “Tell your queen,” he sneered as the word left his tongue, “that I have no interest in this little party of hers.”

  Shymin flinched at his tone and opened her mouth to speak.

  “But,” he said, holding up one thick forefinger to forestall her. “I will gladly attend the execution of Kifel's foundling prince.”

  Shymin was not the only one who gasped.

  Melora almost leaped from her chair. “They cannot be serious!”

  “Lomithrandel should have been next in line for the throne! What madness has taken the capital?” Alira demanded.

  “Hush, both of you.” The Archmage did not raise her voice, her words enough to silence the Masters.

  Shymin swallowed. Her head swam. She found herself staring at the king before she realized he was watching her, waiting for a response. “I shall tell her, Majesty. Thank you.” She bowed and turned to excuse herself. Silence ruled the throne room and her footsteps echoed loudly on her way to the door. The moment she passed out of sight, a fierce argument erupted behind her.

  Foundling? Lomithrandel? Execution? The Underling general's face flashed through her mind. The sight of him bloodied and snarling like some sort of beast as he battled the king was still fresh in memory, but to recall it now was jarring. She hadn't known him, with his darker hair, snake's eyes, and the scales that marked him some sort of monster. But it was him.

  Her knees trembled and she stumbled to the benches in the courtyard to sit. She turned the thought over in her head a thousand times before the air shifted with the power of an opening Gate. A handful of Masters appeared in front of her and offered no greeting before another Gate slid open for her return to Ilmenhith. On the other side, Nondar and the rest of the Masters waited.

  It took all her strength to get to her feet and cross through the portal. Her sister hurried to meet her as she stepped into the council hall.

  “Shymin, what's wrong?” Kytenia reached for her arm. Grateful for the contact, Shymin gripped her sister's hands for support.

  “They were not very happy,” she said, shaken. “Relythes said he would come for the execution.”

  Nondar's face grew grim, but he nodded. “Very well,” he murmured. The mages released the Gate and he turned to leave. “I shall inform the queen. Sit, child. You've done well.”

  Shymin sank to the floor where she stood. Kytenia sank with her and watched the tired Masters as they scattered. Shymin waited until they'd vanished, waited until Rikka and Vahn joined them on the floor to speak.

  “Oh, Kytenia,” she started, blinking against tears. “I think there's been a terrible mistake.”

  Firal ran a thumb over her carved seven-pointed star pendant, its surface worn from years of such caresses. There had been a time she'd been happy to have her pendant back in her hands, when she'd lost it in the ruins and feared it gone forever. But that was before she'd known who her mother was, and that for all the years she'd thought herself abandoned, her mother was only on the other side of a closed door. Now, the pendant seemed a harsh reminder of everything she'd wanted and lost.

  Still, it was her father's c
rest. Her crest. Throwing it away seemed wrong, though she'd gone without it long enough that the chain felt odd around her neck. Perhaps she would put it away, stow it in some jewelry box where it would be buried with the other riches she'd have lavished on her.

  It was difficult to imagine that only days ago, she'd owned three dresses. Now she had half an island, and not everyone on it seemed pleased at the sudden appearance of their new queen. She'd overheard Edagan and Anaide speaking of riots and letters from angry lords declaring their right to the throne. No such letters had reached her, though she was not surprised.

  “They think me unfit to rule,” Firal said, staring down at the pendant she wore. The door had made no sound when it opened, but she'd already grown used to the odd feeling of Medreal's Gift. It had the same note of wildness she felt in Rune. Her chest tightened at the thought of him. “The only reason the mages wish for me to have the throne is because they think me a puppet that will dance when they pull my strings.”

  Medreal quickly shut the the door behind her. “All rulers begin with no idea how to rule.” She offered a smile as she held up the tea tray. “Even if they think they know what they will do when they take power, doing it is another thing entirely.”

  “And what of those who don't know what they will do at all?” Firal tried not to sound hopeless.

  Shrugging, Medreal set the tray on the floor, of all places, and gestured for Firal to join her as she sat. “They're usually best served by taking time to think of what they want, first.”

  Firal crept closer. She did not sit, but hovered above the old woman as she poured the tea. Medreal always seemed to know when one's nerves needed soothing, and when a cup of chamomile could help. When the stewardess raised a cup in offering, Firal sank to the floor beside her. “I've haven't even been queen for a week and I've already made the worst mistake. I wasn't strong enough to face him, not then. I thought they'd simply stave off his sentence. I don't want Rune... Ran,” she corrected herself. Everyone seemed to know him by a different name; she wasn't always certain which one to call him. “I don't want him to die, but I don't know how to undo the judgment Anaide passed. Nondar said I can't. He says Ilmenhith is ready to rise against me as it is, and I cannot afford to offend the city's people by not putting him to death.”

  “Nondar is correct.” Medreal sipped her tea, her eyes distant. “Kifel was a quiet ruler, but he was loved. You are already in a precarious position, taking his place when you are all but unknown.”

  “But I didn't want his place!” Firal protested.

  Medreal arched a brow. “Would you prefer your mother take it?” When Firal clamped her teeth shut on any further protests, the stewardess chuckled. “Not all is lost yet, dear girl. He is a stubborn boy and will not go without a fight.”

  Firal sighed. A fight was what had gotten him into this mess to begin with. Again, resentment bubbled up in her as she thought of his betrayal. The idea of being used to access the throne made her ears burn with anger and her stomach roil. And the records. She would have to ask Nondar for the logbook she'd overheard them speaking about. She and Rune had traveled to Ilmenhith together—long before she'd known who he was—for the sole purpose of seeking the identity of her parents. He had already been a Master then. If he'd known the answer before they departed, then their venture had only served to help him into her graces. She could think of no other reason he would play along.

  Then again, if gaining her favor had been his intent, some pieces of the story did not make sense. The burning of the temple had driven her away, and despite everything, his claim he hadn't been involved still seemed sincere. She rubbed her ring with her thumb and stared absently into her cup.

  “He gave that to you, didn't he?” Medreal nodded in understanding even when Firal did not reply. “I knew from the moment he brought you into my palace that he'd find a way to have you. Stubborn, spoiled child would tear down the stars before giving up on something he wanted.”

  “He didn't start any wars for me,” Firal said bitterly. She tugged the ring free of her finger and left it on the tea tray with her cup.

  “Perhaps not. But he gave you a war to quell, and that is certainly a good way to start your rule. When the people hear of the bloodshed you were able to avoid, they will come to respect you.” Medreal swallowed the last of her tea and put her own cup back on the tray.

  Quelling a war. Nondar and the other two Masters kept saying the same thing. Firal fought her exasperation. “Everyone expects me to stop the war, but no one will tell me how they think I should do it. Nondar said I would know what to do by the time Relythes arrived, but he'll be here at sunrise and I haven't any idea.”

  “I would have thought it obvious, child.” Medreal's eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “You'll have to marry him.”

  Firal's jaw dropped. “You can't be serious!”

  “Well, what could be better?” The old woman frowned at her. “You'd unify the island under one rule. He's Giftless, so you'll outlive him easily. Even if you bear him children, they'll have to wait for you to die before they can take your place as ruler.”

  “I cannot!” Firal cried.

  “You can, and if you know what's best for your kingdom, you will. When Relythes arrives tomorrow, you will make the suggestion when you break your fast with him. You are young and quite lovely. He will not turn you down. Now, if you will excuse me, my queen, I must return this to the kitchen.” Medreal bowed and excused herself as quietly as she'd come.

  Again, Firal found herself feeling ill.

  “We are not so different, you and I.”

  Rune struggled to open his eyes. His muscles burned with exhaustion; fire lit in his neck and shoulders just from the effort of lifting his head. Fitted with manacles and chained in place, he dangled uncomfortably from chains not long enough to let his knees reach the floor. He was trapped, unable to rest. It had been deliberate, of course. If they kept him tired enough, there was no chance he could summon the magic he needed to break free.

  He cast one baleful look at the old woman crouched on the other side of the iron bars before he let his head fall. “How are you anything like me?”

  Medreal grasped the bars and leaned against them. She studied him, pity in her eyes. “The jailer has not been kind to you.”

  Rune snorted a laugh. If he was fortunate, the jailer would dump another bucket of cold water over him, wash away some of the grime and blood and sweat before their next session. The man seemed rather fond of his scourge; dozens of thumb-wide welts and wounds promised to leave ugly scars across Rune's back. “The threat of execution wasn't punishment enough, it seems.”

  “Perhaps I am at fault. Had I been braver, perhaps I could have taught you. Perhaps if I had, you would not be caged.” Her smile didn't touch her eyes. “Perhaps if you'd learned your magic from a proper source, you'd never have needed to return to that dreadful temple of theirs.”

  Ignoring the pain it caused him, he lifted his head to look at her again.

  “I've done you no favors by not speaking of my own Gift,” Medreal said, sitting on the floor and smoothing her skirts around her. “There are none left here that practice the old ways, save you and I.”

  He studied her face for a time, uncertain. He'd never heard of any other forms of magic, though the fact his was special had been drilled into his head since before he could remember. He'd always known Medreal was a mage, but had assumed she was like any other. Looking at her now, he wasn't so sure. It was impossible to say how old she was, but she hadn't bleached the way other mages did. Her hair was white, but it was the yellowed white of age, not the stark white that came from the surging energy of magic, and her eyes were still so dark they looked black.

  She nodded. “Yes, you see it now, don't you? My power is not like theirs. My power is like yours. Unrestricted. Unrefined. All the power of this world flows through me, I do not need to bend it to my will. I ask, it answers. You ask, it answers. We are the same.”

  “Why are you telli
ng me this?” Rune twisted his wrists against the biting iron cuffs that held them.

  “Because you have a choice, child.” Medreal reached for a pocket hidden in her skirt. “You may die tomorrow, or you may fight. And if you choose to fight, you should know what lies ahead for you.”

  “And that is?” He met her gaze when she lifted her eyes. The sight of them startled him, chilled him. Their color was unchanged, but her eyes glowed with a soft, otherworldly light, reflecting all the power she'd mastered and now embraced.

  “Eternity, Ran. Our kind live forever, unless we are killed. It is a long path, a lonely one. But it is yours to choose.” She searched his face and smiled at his surprise. “Thought you were special, did you? Thought you were the only one whose eyes could shine with the strength of all there is?” She chuckled. “With time, you will learn to shut the power out. It won't always feel like it's trying to consume you.”

  He shook his head and let it drop. “I don't see why I should fight, if an eternity of being alone is all I have to look forward to.”

  “Because, child,” Medreal said as she leaned forward and placed something on the floor of his cell. “Some things are simply worth fighting for.” Then she rose to leave, and he waited until the echo of her footsteps died before he opened his dimly glowing eyes again.

  There, on the floor, lay a simple ring of gold crowned with a serpent's tear.

  27

  Escapes And Exiles

  As the sun's first light painted the cloudless sky in muted pinks and yellows, Firal still lay awake. Weariness sat heavy in her bones, weighing her down in the bed she couldn't bring herself to leave. She'd spent the whole night struggling to think of something, anything, that could solve the problems that would rise with the sun. But the moon set, the stars faded, and when sunrise began to peek over the trees on the horizon, she had come up with nothing. Nothing sound, in any case. There was always the possibility of running away and letting the Archmage take Ilmenhith while she disappeared into the underground. But they'd hunt her, she was sure, eager to eliminate any threat she could present as direct heir to Kifel's domain.