by Beth Alvarez
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to real people or events is entirely coincidental.
SERPENT’S MARK
Copyright © 2020 by Beth Alvarez
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Beth Alvarez
Edited by Savannah Grace Perran
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Edition: March 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-952145-02-5
Serpent’s Mark
Book One of the Snakesblood Saga
Beth Alvarez
For the posse
Contents
1. A Rune
2. A Ruin
3. Visitor
4. Borders
5. A Raid
6. Market
7. Rank
8. Leash
9. Queen
10. Strangers
11. Plans and Preparation
12. Departure
13. Lesson One
14. Arrival
15. Ilmenhith
16. Kin and Kindred Spirits
17. Solstice
18. Fire and Frost
19. Changes
20. Negotiations
21. Jealousy
22. To Rebuild
About the Author
Books by Beth Alvarez
1
A Rune
The ceremonial clothing never fit him. Daemon smoothed the ornate robes and the midnight blue fabric pooled around his toes. He understood the ruin-folk had little to offer, but that didn’t quell his irritation. Everyone in the underground had gathered for this ceremony. The least they could have done was ensure he was presentable. Instead, only the tips of his clawed hands and feet—both marred by glittering green scales—remained visible, while the rest of the outfit threatened to swallow him whole.
The fit was no different from the rest of his life. Pieced together from the scraps others left behind, a shamble everyone pretended was acceptable as they pushed the unsightly patchwork out of sight. His unwillingness to pretend alongside them was what landed him in this situation in the first place. In spite of what he was, the ruin-folk offered an opportunity for something better than patchwork. He supposed he should be grateful. Even if it meant wearing oversized robes.
“Lord Daemon,” a soldier called from his chamber’s doorway, “it’s time for the ceremony to begin.”
The robe would have to do. Daemon adjusted his plain metal mask before he turned toward the man. The soldier shuddered at the sight. Daemon pretended not to notice. He couldn’t blame the man for his discomfort. Behind the mask, Daemon’s violet eyes glinted, their unnatural glow and slit pupils hinting at the foul magics responsible for his existence. And then there was the small matter of his corrupted body.
As Queen Lumia’s right hand, her followers respected him. But he had limited contact with the army outside of the skirmishes they faced together, and he was as uncomfortable socializing with the soldiers as they were with him.
“Her Majesty doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” the soldier said as Daemon slipped past him.
“I know.” He expected reprimand for it, too, but he felt little guilt. If they wanted him to be prompt, they should have provided clothing he could walk in without stumbling. As if to confirm the thought, Daemon’s claws caught on the robe’s hem as he strode forward. He stifled a growl.
A handful of men waited in the hallway outside his quarters. They fell in step around him as he started down the twisting corridor to the throne room. It wasn’t a long walk, but it wasn’t one he’d been looking forward to, either. His heartbeat thumped a hard, unpleasant cadence in his ears, but he willed his breath to remain even.
He’d heard whispers of this blood oath, though no one mentioned what it would be like, and every tale of its purpose was different. Either way, it didn’t sound pleasant, and that was all he knew.
Regardless, Queen Lumia said the oath would cement his place among her people. Daemon didn’t mean to doubt his queen, but after twenty-five years among the ruin-folk, he wasn’t sure anything would. They’d been wary of him when he’d joined their ranks, and they were not prone to change. Daemon suspected little here was.
Though a large network of tunnels connected the palace and its hidden city to the outside world, the world seemed to stay just that—outside. The black stone palace stood underground; far from the feuding Eldani and Giftless men that claimed the surface of Elenhiise island. The tunnels doubled back on themselves so often only a seasoned explorer might have found the people living in their depths—or someone like him, who had stumbled over the Underlings by mistake five pents prior.
After today, he’d be an Underling, himself. A pitiful name, though whether they’d thought it up on their own or adopted it from the Eldani on the surface, no one seemed to know. Daemon saw little that distinguished them from the rest of the island’s inhabitants, though living in caves seemed justification for the title. The label stuck in his head and warred with the name of ruin-folk they seemed to prefer. That he still never knew which name to use solidified the lack of belonging he always felt.
A large tapestry hid the passage’s end and a soldier held it aside for the group to pass. The bright illumination of the great hall made Daemon wince and blink, and a moment passed before he could see. Dust and flakes of brittle cloth fell as the tapestry dropped back into place behind them. Everything here was old; it was a wonder the whole place hadn’t fallen apart from age alone. That was one thing Daemon could say about his robes. They may have belonged on a man twice his size, but at least they were new. Mindful of the trailing hem, he pressed on.
For the first time he could recall, fires blazed in the large iron braziers between black stone pillars, the ruddy light refracted in the hollows and recesses of the ribbed ceiling that arched far overhead. Crystal skylights might have let in sunlight if not for the rumbles of thunder that echoed in the skies. The firelight danced over the friezes of serpentine creatures that lined the tops of the walls, lending them the illusion of movement. Daemon tried not to look. Had the palace not been ancient, he might have suspected those sculptures were there for his discomfort alone.
Though the throne room was at least thirty yards from end to end and twenty or so across, it held but a fraction of the Underling hordes. This ceremony had been a long time coming and, as festivities in the underground were few, it had been eagerly anticipated by peasantry and soldiers alike. People pressed to the very edges of the room and excitement hummed in the air.
Beyond the spectators, a worn red carpet ran the length of the hall, from massive double doors to the steps of the throne’s ebony stone dais. Daemon had expected they would enter through the doors instead of the side passage they’d taken. The crowd shifted to clear a narrow path for his retinue. No one stood on the carpeting, though people sat along its edge. Once Daemon and his escort reached it, the path to the throne was clear. The queen waited ahead, and her delicate lips twitched into a smile when she met Daemon’s eyes.
Youthful and golden-haired, Lumia appeared as gentle as her throne was grim. Her fingertips traced the thorny shapes of the throne’s blackened iron arms and she shifted on a velvet cushion more threadbare than a queen should have allowed. She rose as he approached and, even with the dais beneath her, he had little more than to raise his chin to look her in the eye.
People filled the empty space behind them. The s
oldier that led his escort climbed the dais and dropped to one knee before the queen to offer an engraved iron collar on upraised palms. She took it and waved him away as she cast Daemon an expectant glance. He waited for the other men to take their places before he knelt at the queen’s feet.
“You kept me waiting,” she murmured.
“My apologies, my queen.” His voice echoed, tinny, behind his metal mask. “I was delayed during my return from the surface.” He lifted his head as she placed the collar around his neck. It snapped shut with a clack, the iron cold against his skin. He swallowed.
Each of the four soldiers of his escort produced chains from somewhere within their armor. Each affixed one end of their chain to one the throne’s legs and coiled the excess length on the ground. Then they moved back, loose ends in hand, ready for the ceremony to begin.
Lumia patted the side of Daemon’s mask and chuckled. “Don’t fret, my love. Your ordeal will not be long.”
Unsettled, he clenched his jaw as she straightened with a grand flourish of her arms and greeted the gathered masses with a brilliant smile. A reverent hush fell over the crowd.
“My friends,” she started, voice sweet as it carried to the far reaches of the dark room, “it is not often that I am gifted with such a servant as this. For years, you have witnessed his loyalty. He strives alongside us, aiding our growth, bolstering our strength as we prepare to rise anew.”
She turned and took the chains from the soldiers at her heels. The men retreated to join the crowd.
“In years past, you honored him with his name: Daemon. Today, he shall take the oath to make himself your blood, your kin, your kind.” She fastened the loose end of a chain to his collar with each word. The fourth chain, she held.
“It is in him I see our chances for survival. This is your brother in arms, your comrade. Not of your flesh and blood, not of your world, but destined to be a hero among us.”
A roar of approval swept through the crowd as she looped the final chain over the back of the throne, tying him close. Daemon licked his lips behind his mask and gazed up at her as she eased into the throne again. He had expected the crowd, but he hadn’t expected the chains. The entrapment made his skin crawl.
“I have chosen him to become my champion,” Lumia continued, a glitter in her cold blue eyes. Her smile set him on edge. “Not only for his courage or strength, though they are admirable qualities. Not only for his cleverness or the cursed appearance for which the surface world shuns him, but for all the things that make him what he is, and for all that his union with us shall bring. May he become an invaluable part of our family.” She patted the throne beside her. “Lay your hand upon the arm of my throne.”
Daemon shifted to her side, never rising from his knees, and rested his left hand against the cold iron. The skin of his upper arm rose in gooseflesh and he fought back a shudder. A soldier knelt at Lumia’s other side and presented a dagger with intricate patterns inlaid in its hilt. She drew the dagger and brandished it before Daemon’s mask. If the room had been quiet before, now it grew deathly still.
“My pet, as every soul in this room will tell you, our society is formed by trust, not power. Those bonds are represented by your chains.” She rested the tip of the dagger atop his hand and turned it so the width of its blade ran parallel to his fingers. He tried not to move. “You must place your trust in our forces to ensure your survival, though your instincts may scream otherwise. And because these men shall have trust in you, you must not abandon them. Our strength is in our solidarity. What say you?”
The watching crowd grew still. Daemon met her eyes without wavering. “I stand with you.”
“And you have. But you are not yet one of us, though you have lived among us. If you truly wish to stand with us, be a part of our people and help lead us to glory, you must swear fealty. As my champion, you must swear it on your blood.” Lumia’s blue eyes gleamed with the final word. “Do you trust me, Daemon? Will you place all faith in me?”
Daemon shifted beneath the weight of hundreds of unfamiliar eyes that scrutinized his position at their leader’s side. He hadn’t felt so much an outsider since he’d first fallen into the catacombs beneath the ancient ruins.
Lumia stroked his taloned fingers with her free hand as if to soothe him. With the dagger pricking at the back of his hand, that seemed impossible.
He clenched his teeth behind his mask and silenced the protests that rose in the back of his mind. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be accepted? To belong? His voice came as little more than a whisper, hoarse in his throat. “I swear, on the blood that flows through my veins, to place all loyalty and trust in my queen.”
A metallic clang ripped through the stillness as the dagger struck the throne and a tingling shock lanced up his arm. Heat bloomed in his hand, then searing pain, and Daemon gasped a moment before he could make a sound. His fingers flexed before he could stop them. His hand writhed beneath the dagger that pinned it to the throne. A low, gurgling hiss escaped his throat and red light flooded the inside of his mask as his magic reacted to the pain. It surged within him, a mindless instinct that struggled against his control.
Lumia laughed and jerked the blade free. Thick, black ichor rolled down the blade and collected in a droplet at its tip.
“You gave me your trust and I betrayed you.” Challenge flashed in her eyes. “Would you trust a wicked queen again? Could you? Would you dare?”
He tried to pull his hand away, but she caught it and held him in place, her palm over the sticky wound in his hand. He couldn’t tell if the crowd cheered or jeered. Grimacing behind his mask, he tried to still the trembling of his arm.
“Come now, love,” she purred as she dangled the dagger over their hands. She turned the pommel between her fingers. “Will you trust me again?”
Pain throbbed with every beat of his heart. His eyes settled on the black blood that trickled down the twisted throne and he swallowed hard, his mouth gone dry. “Keep your hand there and I will.”
Lumia dug her nails into his wrist as she drove the dagger down. Her face remained perfect, still, oblivious to the pain as the blade tore through her flesh and sank into his. Daemon choked back a shout before it could escape, but he couldn’t help the strangled whine as she drew the knife back out. Her blood was hot, too hot, searing the wound in his hand.
“Pain means nothing to me in the face of glory, my pet. I do not fear it as you do.” She smiled and tilted the dagger to point its tip at his face. “Do you think yourself foolish now? Or perhaps too trusting? What ought trust be, between a queen and her champion?”
Daemon grimaced and clawed at his arm with his free hand. His head spun; he blinked hard to try and still it. Something hazed his vision and he couldn’t tell if it was smoke from the braziers or pain that clouded his senses. “Not...” It was a struggle to speak. He felt faint, though not from the injury or bleeding. It was the way her blood stung his flesh, burning as it mingled with his. Trails of black and crimson trickled down the arm of her throne to stain the floor beneath it. The copper scent of blood filled his nostrils, acrid and nauseating. “Not this.”
Lumia’s expression never wavered. The thud of her dagger came accompanied by the crack of shattering bones. “That’s not a very good answer, my love.” She pushed the dagger down harder and Daemon howled in pain. He slumped against the throne, his steel mask clanging against it and making his ears ring.
“Let me go!” he gasped.
“You are sworn to me, Daemon,” she announced. The icy tone of her words stung. “You are bound to me as my champion, to uphold my word and my law. On the mixing of our blood, you have sworn this to me.”
His resistance faded with each moment of pain. His lungs burned and his chest heaved. Unable to form words, he swallowed thickly and leaned forward until his mask rested against the arm of the throne. He didn’t see her withdraw the dagger to ram it through their joined hands one last time, but the crunch of bone elicited no more than a groan. E
xhaustion seeped throughout his body and it was all he could do to remain upright. He did little more than grimace as she wiggled the blade free one last time.
“It is done!” She held the dagger high overhead and the room roared in response.
Daemon drew back his hand the moment it was free, cradled it to his chest and stared at it in disbelief. The wounds were sealed, flesh and bone mended, though the pain lingered. Thin lines of intersecting scars formed a rune where the injury had been. He made a fist and rubbed the fresh scar with the palm of his other hand. Blood made it sticky, but the pressure eased the pain.
Lumia’s lips curved into a contented smile and she ran her fingers through his hair as he sank to the floor. “We will put you on your own throne yet,” she whispered.
She loosed the chains from his collar as she raised her voice for the gathered people to hear. “You now bear my mark. The mark of your new family. Now and forever, you shall see that as the mark of your queen.”
A low and wondering murmur rolled through the crowds in place of the cheers Daemon expected. Lumia stifled a sound of displeasure in her throat. The queen, too, had expected cheers.
The throng parted and Lumia lifted her chin as a small figure passed through the crowd. When he came close enough to be recognized as a sentry, she scowled.
The sentry muttered apologies as he shoved past the people clustered nearest the dais, daring to step onto it before he dropped to his knees in front of the queen.
“Your Majesty,” he gasped, struggling to catch his breath. “The scouts have reported someone in the ruins, approaching where one of our tunnels empties into the—”
