Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  The longer she thought about all that had happened, the more she thought her irritation with Ran was unfounded—or at least misdirected. She was confident she had every right to be angry he’d let her fumble through a lesson in swordplay with the king, but she’d let that anger overshadow the weight of what he’d done for her.

  Firal had gotten herself in trouble and been hurt in the ruins. Ran had rescued her, and the longer she stewed over it, the more she suspected he’d concocted the Underling rumors himself. Kytenia was right; Ran was a handsome young man. Firal had no doubt rumors involving him would have drawn unnecessary ire from her peers. For some reason, he’d chosen to try and protect her, and she’d shouted at him in return.

  No matter how it stung, Firal owed him an apology and her gratitude.

  When they arrived at the market, the sun’s light was fading and the afternoon’s heat had begun to give way. The market roared with activity, catching their small group and washing it into the sea of strangers.

  The other girls seemed perfectly at home amidst the teeming masses. They slipped between booths, wagons, market stalls and the crowds with an ease Firal envied. She’d never thought herself clumsy, but her skirts caught on carts, loose nails, belt buckles and the boots of passers-by. The gap between Firal and her companions grew and she struggled to close it.

  The market itself seemed foreign after the years Firal had spent in the temple. She’d ventured there with other Masters—Nondar sent her to buy fine paper for his office twice a year—but twice a year hardly fostered familiarity. Narrow stalls that were little more than wooden frames draped with thick canvas crowded the twisting streets, interspersed with larger tents that had three sides rolled up to capture the soft, pleasant breezes that came with the evening. Carts filled with baskets of fruits and baked goods roamed the dusty roads, and the crush of people grew so thick that Firal feared she might suffocate among the pressing bodies. Her heart thundered in her ears as nerves twisted her belly into knots.

  Ahead, Master Alira’s white robes flashed between the skirts and boots of shoppers. She had stopped. Beside her, Kytenia bounced on the tips of her toes and waved an arm. A moment later, she wiggled her way out from between a pair of arguing women directly in front of Firal.

  “Come on,” Kytenia said as she took Firal by the arm to hurry her along. “Rikka’s found her favorite seamstress. We’ll need to be measured before we can buy cloth.”

  “Measured?” Firal squeaked, squeezing her eyes shut and shielding her face as Kytenia dragged her along so forcefully Firal was sure they would barrel into the other pedestrians.

  Instead, a cool shadow enveloped them and the crowd seemed to disappear. Firal cracked one eye open, then the other, and sighed in relief. Aside from her companions, the seamstress’s tent held only supplies. A large cutting table rested in the middle of the tent, stools and wooden boxes and dress forms of all sizes around it. Colorful cuts of fabric and bright spools of thread piled high atop the shelves that framed two walls. Judging by the rough-hewn boards behind them, the seamstress had occupied this space for a long time.

  Rikka already stood on top of a wooden box, her arms spread. The seamstress circled her with a measuring tape, taking notes on a pad of the thinnest paper Firal had ever seen.

  “I’ve already been measured,” Shymin said when they approached. “I always thought taking measurements would take longer.”

  “Well, she does it all day. You’re bound to get fast that way.” Marreli stood beside the cutting table, playing with one of her dark braids as she inspected ink drawings illustrating the latest fashions across the island and the mainland. Her brow crinkled with thought.

  “Where’s Master Alira?” Kytenia asked.

  Rikka made a face and fought to keep from fidgeting. “She stopped at the papermaker. She’ll catch up with us once she’s done.”

  “I needed to go with her,” Firal sighed as she moved in line to wait her turn. “The last of my paper got wet.”

  “Really?” Rikka gaped. “We’re here to get dresses for the solstice masquerade, and you’re thinking about homework?”

  “What else would she think about?” Kytenia teased, and a hint of color touched Firal’s cheeks.

  It didn’t take long for all of them to be measured. The seamstress labeled each set of numbers with their names and the style of dress they’d chosen, along with the amount of material they would need. When she took Firal’s name, the seamstress paused. But she said nothing, her eyes narrowed as she wrote it down, scribbled something out, and added a note to the bottom of the paper.

  “Take these to the third cloth merchant down the main road and he’ll give you a discount,” the seamstress said as she passed out their papers and settled on the stool behind her cutting table. “Just remember to bring them back with you so I won’t have to measure again. I’ll close shop an hour after the lamps are lit, so hurry along.”

  Kytenia led the way this time, while Marreli latched onto Firal’s arm to keep her from falling behind. Other familiar magelings swirled in the crowd as more parties arrived to shop. Firal couldn’t help but wonder who else had been invited to the solstice masquerade. The temple’s mages would attend, but had any commoners been invited? She hadn’t heard. A few wistful faces on passers-by made her doubt it. Mages were a class of their own.

  “Oh.” Firal leaned forward so Rikka, who was just ahead, could hear her. “If the solstice ball is a masquerade, shouldn’t we look for masks?”

  “Not here,” Rikka called over her shoulder. “The nearest place you could find a mask maker is in Wethertree. We’ll have to get masks when we arrive in Ilmenhith.”

  Firal almost groaned. With as chaotic as the small market was, she didn’t want to imagine what shopping was like in the capital.

  “Here,” Kytenia called. They had stopped outside the fabric merchant’s tent, where racks of bolts and stacked rolls of cloth created makeshift walls. Rows of racks and tables piled high with cloth waited inside the large tent. The merchant’s desk sat square in the middle of it all.

  “Welcome,” the merchant called, waving them inside. His colorful robes were loose and airy, well suited to the heat, and his smile was warm and friendly. “Who sent you?”

  “Just ask if you need any help,” Kytenia murmured at Firal’s ear before she joined the merchant. She raised her note and pointed at the numbers, her low question lost in the racket of the market behind them.

  Firal blanched. She was as useless and out of place in a fabric shop as she would have been helping the seamstress with their dresses. She brushed her fingers over a nearby bolt and stared at the patterns. All her clothing was provided by the temple. She’d never purchased anything for herself. What did one look for in fabric? Against the back wall, Shymin fussed over a flaw in the middle of a panel of silk, while Marreli cooed soft sympathies. Rikka already had something tucked under her arm.

  “Do you see nothing you like?” The merchant sucked in his paunch and squeezed through the narrow space between his desk and the shelves to join her.

  Firal flushed and clasped her hands behind her back. “I don’t really know what to look for.”

  “There’s something for everyone. Sometimes you don’t choose your goods, your goods choose you. Let me see the note your tailor gave you, eh?” The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile as he held out his hand. “Perhaps I will have a suggestion for you.”

  She eyed the merchant doubtfully, but passed him the note. He studied it for a time, scratching his chin with fat fingers. Then he grinned, the white of his teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin.

  “Ah, yes! Yes, your goods are all ready.” He squeezed behind his desk and squatted to remove something from underneath the counter.

  “I beg your pardon?” Firal blinked in confusion, uncomfortably aware of the way the other girls stared at their exchange. When the merchant stood again, he held a thick package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. He pushed it toward her, and Firal ra
ised her hands and stepped back.

  “You must be mistaken, sir,” she protested. “I haven’t ordered anything.”

  “No, no, I remember quite clearly.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger and then ticked the same finger at her. “Don’t argue, it has all been paid for and you must take it. The receipts are drawn, and if you refuse, I will have to give it to your friends.”

  Her mouth worked wordlessly. The merchant took it as acceptance and thrust the package into her arms.

  “It’s a very good choice,” he reassured her. “The finest quality I offer. You will be pleased. And tell your friend thank you for me again, eh?” He gave a hearty chuckle and reached for a bolt one of the girls had left on his counter.

  Kytenia grabbed Firal’s arm and pulled her to the open front of the tent, a look that was half wonder, half scolding on her face.

  “Your friend? What in the world, Firal?” Kytenia whispered. Her eyes dropped toward the package in her friend’s arms. “What is he talking about?”

  “I don’t know!” Firal whispered back. “I don’t even know anyone who would have the money, except—” Her eyes widened and she stopped short. A crimson shade crept into her cheeks.

  “Except who?” Kytenia eyed her.

  Firal swallowed hard. It had only been one quick lesson in swordplay. Surely he wouldn’t have even remembered her name.

  “What’s going on?” Rikka nudged Firal’s shoulder as she joined them. “Someone bought your cloth?”

  “Do you think it was Ran?” Marreli asked as she appeared at Rikka’s elbow.

  “I doubt it,” Firal said. Then again, perhaps it had been Ran. Master Nondar had just spoken of special cases and how he must have considered her a friend. Perhaps Ran had gleaned some sort of knowledge about the king’s plans for the solstice ball before the rest of the students. His latest disappearance would have given him time to visit the market. It almost made sense, but where would he have gotten the money? Firal took another step away from the tent to give herself space to think.

  “I doubt it was Ran, I don’t think he knew she would need it. Come on, Alira will expect us to be with the seamstress.” Shymin started down the street, seeming to expect they’d follow.

  The other magelings arranged themselves behind her and trailed along like chicks behind a mother hen.

  Firal studied her toes as they walked. “Kifel,” she managed.

  “Who?” Marreli asked.

  “I think...I think it was Kifel.” Firal’s stomach gave an uncomfortable flutter. “I didn’t realize when Ran introduced us. I’d never heard anyone refer to him as that. I didn’t know he was the king until later, and—” She croaked as her voice failed her.

  The procession stopped and all of them turned to stare at her.

  “What?” Rikka asked.

  “I met him the other day,” Firal added lamely.

  Kytenia’s jaw went slack. “The king?” she repeated. “King Kifelethelas?”

  “I told you, I didn’t know it was him!” Firal blurted. “I just ran across them while they were practicing with swords, Ran didn’t even tell me who he really was until afterward!”

  “Ran was practicing sword-fighting with the king?” Marreli gave her a skeptical look.

  “Firal, you didn’t tell us about this!” Shymin cried. “Tell us the whole story!”

  Grimacing, Firal hugged her bundle to her chest as if she could hide behind it. The crowd felt too close again, and the sense of suffocation returned. “Look, can we talk about this later? We’re right in the middle of the market, and Alira will be waiting.”

  “Fine,” Kytenia sighed. “Let’s finish here. When we get to the temple, we can go back to my room. We can sit and talk there.” The room Kytenia shared with Shymin was far enough back in the dormitory that it was unlikely anyone would notice if they were up late. Chances were, once Firal shared her story, they would be.

  “Ouch.” Shymin scrunched her nose and flicked aside the rock she’d found in her sandal. “You know, this whole solstice thing had better really be something. My pocket hurts from all that spending, my feet hurt from all that walking, and my ears hurt from listening to everyone else complain!” She brushed out her skirts as she hurried to catch up with the others.

  It was well after dark, and all the girls dragged their feet. Mage-lights glowed above the temple in varying colors, suspended in the air without anything to hold them.

  “Oh come on, Shymin. I don’t want to hear it.” Kytenia shifted her paper-wrapped bundle in her arms. When the other girls had gotten cost estimates from the seamstress, Firal thought it looked as if their eyes might fall from their heads. Kytenia was the only one of them who could do needlework with any sort of skill, and had elected to sew her dress on her own. There wouldn’t be enough time for the rest to learn before they had to travel.

  Firal, of course, had no need to learn. The girls—including Firal herself—had been scandalized to learn the seamstress’s services were already paid for. The style of Firal’s dress, too, had been chosen for her. And while her stomach twisted at the idea that the merchant could have sent her off with the gaudiest cloth he had to offer, she had been pleasantly surprised when the seamstress opened the package. The bundle contained lengths of the finest silk any of them had felt, cuts dyed the richest red and deepest black Firal had ever seen.

  The girls picked at her the entire walk home, trying to pry out the rest of the story she’d started in the market street, but Firal stayed tight-lipped and intended to remain so until they were outside of Master Alira’s presence.

  When Alira stopped the temple’s main gate to dismiss them, each of the girls gave the Master a grateful bow and a murmured thank-you. The Master waved the five of them off with an irritated expression. Firal figured they should appreciate the silence. Master Alira was not known to be amicable and Firal did not know how the woman had been convinced to take them shopping.

  The girls managed to keep from asking questions on the way into the dormitory. As soon as the door closed behind them, Shymin spun to face Firal. “So?”

  Kytenia settled on the edge of her bed, put aside her package of cloth and retrieved a basket of colorful thread and embroidery floss from the floor. She looked up, a sparkle in her eyes.

  Firal shrank. “So what?”

  “So tell us, now that we’re alone!” Rikka crossed to the desk under the window and pulled out the chair. She turned it around to sit on it sideways with one elbow propped against the back. “Why would the king spend a small fortune on silk for your ball gown before we ever got to the market?”

  “Is it true he’s a widower?” Marreli asked. “Maybe he’s looking for a new queen.”

  “Hush!” Kytenia glowered. “Let Firal talk.”

  Firal blushed and sank to the floor as her friends turned expectant eyes toward her. Shymin and Marreli joined her, and everyone leaned in. She recounted the story and the strange way the king seemed to regard her, and the mage-lights over the temple extinguished themselves long before the girls finished their questions.

  7

  Rank

  The nausea did not subside. It had twisted Daemon’s stomach since the village surrendered. If anything, seeing the village men throw down their weapons and plead for their lives had made it worse.

  Davan had been the one to find him, maskless and retching, and pulled him to his feet. He’d been the one to order anyone who surrendered be spared, though he’d claimed the order came from Daemon’s mouth. Daemon appreciated the captain’s support, but it had driven home how unprepared he was to lead.

  It wasn’t supposed to end that way. He was supposed to have connections in the village, to have earned enough trust to open avenues for future trade. Instead, he’d only managed to protect one family. Raking his claws through his hair, Daemon hung his head. For the dozenth time in an hour, he regretted having immediately returned to the underground.

  Lumia paced her quarters, circling between her dressing table and th
e bed where he sat. “There’s no shame in inexperience, pet. Every warrior has to take a life at some point. You should be proud that you succeeded in taking so many without losing your own.” It didn’t show in her movement or tone, but Daemon could tell from the pinched neutrality on her face that her patience was growing thin. “Besides, you shouldn’t punish yourself for giving them what they deserved.”

  He shouldn’t have expected her to understand. In the heat of the moment he had relished the bloodshed, but the guilt that weighed on him afterward was immeasurable. Even the guards that met them in battle had hardly been trained. It wasn’t a proud victory; it was murder. But the dead would get no sympathy here, and neither would he. He swallowed angry words before they could leave his tongue and searched his tangled thoughts for something calmer to say.

  “They didn’t deserve to die. They were only peasants. Farmers.” Daemon doubted that made any difference to her. His claws traced over his mask, though he did not remove it. Instead, he buried his masked face in his scaly palms. He felt Lumia climb onto the bed and he cringed when she draped her arms around his shoulders from behind. Her fingers toyed with the laces at the front of his tunic.

  He batted her hand away. “I shouldn’t have let the situation grow the way it did. I let it get out of hand.” Idly, he wondered if she had ever even experienced guilt. “We should have gone in the night, raided in shadow and left before they knew we were there.”

  “Do not mourn for them, my pet.” Lumia pressed soft kisses to the back of his neck while she traced swirls on his sleeve. “If anything, you’ve done them a favor by freeing them of this miserable island. And now you know what you are capable of! You’ve seen the power you can have over men. Just imagine what it will be like when an entire kingdom is yours to command.”