Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  Head freed, the great black warhorse flew forward through the masses of men and left the front line behind. Hoofbeats fell in rhythm with the pounding of Daemon’s heart. A surge of adrenaline and the cheering screams of his army stilled his conscience and the final pulls of doubt.

  The raid had to happen. It was best for his people, best for his army.

  It was best for him.

  Blood spilled as a raking sweep of his sword took the head of one of the city’s sentries, and the body crumpled into a useless heap on the ground.

  Then the wave of soldiers behind him crashed down on the village.

  Shouted commands became gurgling cries as the village’s defenders fell. Underling soldiers streamed past the bodies and the looting began.

  Men rolled barrels from a nearby shed and tossed sacks of goods from another down the street. Near the edge of the village, raiders piled the spoils on a stolen wagon bed, its team of horses having panicked and broken free. Daemon left his horse beside them in hopes the lone warhorse would be enough to drag it to the ruins. He couldn’t see how far it was to the labyrinth’s walls; smoke poured from buildings and left a gray haze in the air.

  Men shattered the doors on houses and dragged out baskets and crates of foodstuffs. Daemon hacked his way through a thin line of men blocking the road, working toward the center of the town. The sound of mothers and children screaming seemed dim in his ears, buried beneath the crackling crunches of wood and bone. Metal rang above the choked cries of men as they fell. The village defenders fell into clusters to better their odds.

  Then, swallowed by the heart of it all, Daemon saw nothing but war.

  It was exhilarating and terrifying. He gasped for breath as he watched another man drop. Rivulets of blood flowed down his sword. He shook droplets from the blade as he wheeled to drive it through another man’s chest. A weapon fell from the man’s hand before he ever had a chance to raise it. Battle was heady; the blood smelled sweet, intoxicating. Power burned in him like it never had. He wanted more.

  A sword whistled as it tore through Daemon’s cape. He bared his teeth behind his mask, growling as he spun, and slammed the back of his gauntlet across his attacker’s face. Another guard rushed him from the side and Daemon winced as the tip of the guard’s sword chipped at his mask. He knocked the blade aside with his own and delivered a swift kick to his assailant’s chest, driving the air from his lungs and sending him to the ground.

  The first man came at him again and Daemon barely had time to bring his sword around. The blades clashed and when the man stepped back to swing again, Daemon dropped beneath the sword’s reach and struck the man’s knee. The villager collapsed with a cry of pain.

  Adrenaline pounded through Daemon’s veins. He fed off it, thrived. His blade hungered; Daemon was eager to satisfy. He spun as the guard he’d kicked to the ground found his feet again. He took the man’s sword arm with a single sweep and his head with a second. Blood made his blade’s hilt slick. The force of his swing carried him around and he drove his sword through the chest of the man with the wounded knee.

  More blood! The craving burned in every inch of his body. Daemon’s eyes flashed red, blazing behind his mask like fire. The streets boiled with madness, the few remaining village defenders struggling to escape. One lashed out at Daemon as he passed and Daemon reacted before he knew he’d moved. His gauntleted knuckles smashed into the would-be soldier’s face. The exposed talons of his other hand dug into the man’s stomach and rent him from navel to throat. The man choked and staggered on his feet for a moment before his eyes glazed and he collapsed.

  Breath came ragged, searing Daemon’s throat. His gaze shifted to his upraised hand, the blood on his fingers, the bits of flesh and gore that slithered down his arm. The enraged color faded from his eyes and left them a dull violet as his hands began to tremble. His brow furrowed. What had he done?

  His eyes slid to the corpses that surrounded him, Eldani and Underling alike. What had he done?

  He felt his strength waning. He clawed the mask from his face, desperate for air. The wind hit his bare skin like ice.

  He fell to his knees and retched.

  6

  Market

  Though she searched for hours, Firal never found Ran’s path. She was positive it had been him that slipped into the ruins. She’d spent more time looking for him than looking for her journal. She found neither, and Ran hadn’t turned up in the temple for classes the next morning. Several days crawled by without him surfacing again.

  Firal frowned in thought, her quill pen beating a quiet rhythm against the paper before her. A blotch of ink grew larger with every tap. Surely someone knew where he’d gone; perhaps one of the older Masters. The trick would be finding someone willing to talk to her about the matter, and finding a way to phrase the question without incriminating herself.

  “Firal!”

  The thud of Master Nondar’s fist against his desk jolted her attention back to the classroom. Firal swallowed hard, fumbled with her pen and gave her near-blank paper a panicked look before she met his glare.

  “Awake, are you?” Nondar adjusted his spectacles with a gnarled hand. “Good. You stay put. The rest of you are dismissed.” He eased himself back into his chair.

  Firal shrank in her seat as a flush rose into her cheeks. A few giggles reached her ears as her classmates gathered their papers and laid them on the Master’s desk.

  Nondar’s eyes remained fixed on Firal while the other magelings filed out of the room. Kytenia paused at the door to give Firal a wistful—or perhaps disappointed—look before she disappeared. Once the magelings were gone, Nondar sighed and looked over the mess of papers. Firal tried not to watch. Her gaze settled on the empty desk two rows over and she wondered again where Ran had gone. Why warn her away from the ruins, only to go there himself?

  “Ah, Firal. What am I to do with you?” Nondar studied her in burdened silence, then went on when she didn’t reply. “You know I find you a good student, when you’re paying attention. But it seems you’ve become more and more addled as classes have gone on.” He clasped his hands together and rested them against the edge of the desk.

  Firal fidgeted with her blank assignment and bowed her head. She liked Nondar, withered and old and cross as he was. A scolding from him stung more than she expected. The fact that he was the only half-blood Master had always intrigued her. His eyes were the same pale blue of all Masters, rimmed with black ink to mark his rank as leader of the House of Healing. But unlike most other mages, he showed his age clearly. Deep wrinkles furrowed his darkly tanned forehead, and his retreating hairline drew extra attention to the creases. His mouth was set in a tight expression above a well-groomed—if very long—beard, and his shaggy brows knit together in a look of concern. Magic slowed aging, sometimes dramatically, but the more diluted the Gift, the less effect it seemed to have. Firal couldn’t help but wonder what Kytenia would look like when she was Nondar’s age.

  “I’m speaking to you, dearest,” Nondar said placidly.

  Firal tucked in her chin. “I’m sorry, Master. I’m just distracted today. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Which is what you said the last time, and also the time before that.” He gave a halfhearted chuckle and the corners of his eyes crinkled with his resigned smile. “You are fortunate I am familiar with your usual academic performance. Tell me, child, what’s on your mind?”

  She hesitated, wringing her hands. Part of her wanted to spill everything. Nondar had always been the father figure in her life, not simply because they shared an affinity for healing. But she did not know if he had noticed the sideways looks and whispers that filtered through the classroom when she entered, and drawing his attention to the rumors about her own escapades would have been unwise. Instead, she cast another glance toward Ran’s conspicuously empty desk a few spaces away. “I was hoping Ran would be in class today. I thought I saw him going into the ruins several days ago and I haven’t seen him since. I wanted t
o speak to him. I think he was angry at me.”

  “Angry? Goodness me, that would be the day.” The old Master shook his head and rubbed the swollen joints in his hands. He gestured toward the papers strewn across his desk. “Would you pick those up for me, child? My arthritis is acting up after this morning’s rain. It’s an unusually wet season.”

  Firal bit her lower lip, but nodded and strode to his desk. “Where does he go whenever he leaves the temple?”

  “Lomithrandel travels frequently between the temple and his home.” Nondar frowned and his eyes narrowed until they almost disappeared amidst wrinkles. “Of course, only the Masters who work with him directly are privy to his particular circumstances, but surely you understand that he is...special, shall we say.”

  “How do you mean, ‘special’?” Firal gathered the papers and winced when one slit her fingertip. “Ow.” She slid the injury into her mouth and sucked to relieve the sting.

  Nondar did not reply right away, massaging the knots in his hands and staring into the distance. Eventually, he sighed. “As much as I would like to tell you, dearest, it isn’t my place to do so. I oughtn’t speak of it.”

  “Why not?” She tried not to sound disappointed.

  “The Archmage takes things said about him as a personal affront. I’m afraid I cannot speak of that further.” He took the ream of papers from her and tapped them against the edge of his desk to settle them together. “But then, you seem to be the closest friend he has. If you are gentle about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he told you of the matter himself. His Gifts are unusual and should be treated as such. But I will say no more than that.”

  His closest what? Firal could have choked. “You must be mistaken,” she protested. “Ran is the most popular young man here. I barely know him. He hardly has time to speak to me.”

  “Popularity has nothing to do with friendship, child. Just because many pine for him doesn’t mean he has friends. You, child,” he said, leveling one thick finger at her nose, “you see him for the person he is. That sets you apart.”

  She harrumphed. “I don’t see him as anything but an annoyance.”

  Nondar let out a rasping guffaw. “Yes, perhaps so.” He reclined in his chair and slipped the stack of papers into a drawer. “Now you’d best run along and join the others. If the lot of you are to meet for a trip to the market this afternoon, you won’t want to miss the outset. You won’t be allowed to leave on your own. I trust you shall pay better attention in tomorrow’s class.”

  “Of course, Master. Thank you.” Firal gave a quick curtsy and a nod of appreciation before she hurried to the door. The thought to ask when Ran might be back tickled her thoughts and she turned to ask, but stopped when she saw the troubled frown that twisted Nondar’s mouth. Another time, she decided, and hastened to meet her friends.

  The sun had already passed its peak when Firal rushed to her room to change out of her training robes. She hadn’t missed the look she’d gotten from Kytenia when she was held after class. They’d only just discussed the afternoon’s market trip that morning, and Firal was already late. She laced the bodice of her dress in a hurry and gathered her things, then opened the door. She yelped in surprise when she found Kytenia on the other side, her fist raised to knock.

  “Brant’s roots!” Firal clapped a hand to her chest and sucked in a sharp breath as her heart settled.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Kytenia flashed her a sheepish grin and lowered her hand. “I was just coming to see if you were ready. I wasn’t sure how long Master Nondar would keep you. The others are already waiting with a Master who’s agreed to escort us.”

  “I’m ready now,” Firal said, though nerves put an anxious flutter in her belly.

  The formal invitation for the magelings to attend the solstice masquerade in the palace had come that morning, and the temple had been in a tizzy ever since. Firal had no doubt the market would be chaos; she’d seen more than one doodle of a dress on the papers she’d gathered for Master Nondar.

  Firal was eager to visit the palace, herself, though for more personal reasons. For what might as well have been all eighteen pents of her life, she’d hoped to visit the king’s court and learn what became of her mother. She had pinned her hopes on her studies. Now the chance to bypass decades of struggle dangled before her, an irresistible morsel on a string. She gazed back into her room, pensive.

  Kytenia didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go, then. Have you got your money? Hurry and fetch it, if you haven’t.”

  “I have it.” Firal pulled the door shut behind her. Though the others planned for their dresses, Firal had more practical reasons to visit the market. Replacing her lantern came to mind—as well as the papers she doubted Ran would pay for. She touched a hand to the small purse hidden in her skirt’s pocket and weighed it in her fingers.

  A mageling’s income was meager at best. Firal’s was limited to a few coins earned here and there by running extra errands for Master mages. The idea of purchasing expensive fabric and a seamstress’s services was less than pleasant. Her life savings amounted to little more than a handful of copper pennies and a few silver coins she’d received as gifts from her teachers throughout the years. She hated to spend what little she had, but a trip to the palace demanded she look as if she belonged.

  “So, what did Master Nondar say?” Kytenia asked, looping her arm with Firal’s. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” Firal was surprised by that answer, herself. Her disastrous trip to the ruins seemed to have been forgotten, perhaps because the gossip had died down following news of the solstice. She hoped it hadn’t been long lived enough for the Masters to take notice. “He just wanted to make sure I was paying attention.”

  Kytenia gave her a suspicious glance, but said nothing else as she led the way to the temple’s main gate.

  The group that waited for them was small, but Firal was glad to see the cluster was composed of only her nearest friends and Master Alira. The gates stood wide open, as they often did. With the mage-barrier that kept unwanted visitors at bay, the gates were largely for show. Half the temple wasn’t even walled in.

  Master Alira watched the two of them approach with a neutral expression, though it was easy to tell she had not agreed to take them out of a desire to visit the market. Nondar had likely asked her to travel with them in his place. Firal could imagine no other reason a mage of such high rank would agree to escort them. Alira’s eyes had not yet changed to blue, but she still painted them with the patterns of black ink that marked her as Master of the House of Fire. Unsurprisingly, the pattern she’d chosen mimicked flames.

  “Sorry we’re late, Master.” Kytenia lifted her skirts as she hurried toward the group.

  Alira frowned, but started down the road without a word. Her white robes swirled around her ankles. For a moment, Firal felt as if she should add her own apology. It had been her fault they were late. But the other girls—Rikka, Marreli, and Shymin—moved to greet them with bright smiles, and the urge to apologize subsided.

  “I heard Nondar kept you after class. Did he give you a scolding again?” Rikka’s blue eyes sparkled as she nudged Firal with her elbow. She stood out among the other magelings, milky pale and freckled instead of tan, her hair so vividly red it was almost pink in the sunlight. Any time she smiled, it looked like trouble. Now was no exception.

  Firal nudged back. “That is none of your business.”

  “He likely just slapped her hand with a ruler and called it a day.” Shymin flashed a sarcastic grin over her shoulder. As expected, Shymin and Kytenia fell in step together. The two of them looked quite alike, though Shymin was a bit leaner and a bit taller, and her face was just a hint more square. But her hair was the same curly brown and her eyes the same snapping hazel.

  Marreli giggled, but said nothing. Firal didn’t expect more than that. The youngest of their group, with a round, cherub face and her hair in braids, Marreli was also the weakest mage. A decade after she’d been accepted i
nto the temple, she still wore gray robes. She made up for her lack of power with cleverness in how she used it, though her head was often too far into the clouds for her clever solutions to come in a timely fashion. Even now, she appeared lost in a daydream, playing with the end of one dark braid and gazing at the sky.

  Firal listened as her friends settled into cheerful banter, though her eyes swept toward the nearby ruins. The market excursion was important, but she couldn’t forget her necklace. Once she made it to the palace, she was certain she’d need her mother’s pendant to gain the attention of the court mages. Fighting twinges of uncertainty, she walked.

  The road that ran from the temple to the market was rarely used. It narrowed to little more than a trail of hard-packed dirt once they passed the hedge walls of the temple’s gardens. Untended grasses grew tall to either side of the path, allowing only enough room for the group to walk two by two.

  There was little of interest along the road once they moved beyond the ruins. During Firal’s childhood, a number of farms had dotted the countryside. After heavy rains became commonplace and the good soil washed away, civilization began to move with the farmers, settling in temporary-looking villages of thatched buildings and canvas tents. The only permanent structures were guard garrisons and the chapter houses that belonged to mages, and there were neither near the temple.

  As they walked, the other magelings chattered about colors and styles and fashion, discussed which seamstresses were best, and debated which merchants they thought they could persuade into giving them better deals. Disinterested in the subject, Firal let her attention wander instead.

  Now and then the group passed fallen blocks or pillars alongside the path. Judging by the markings etched into their surface, Firal thought they had once been used as distance markers. The weather had long since rendered the markings indistinguishable. She trailed her fingertips over the face of a pillar as they passed. The shapes and hollows were familiar. Some corners in the ruins bore similar marks. The observation returned her thoughts to the events of the past few days, and Firal grimaced to herself.