Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  Before he could escape, she slapped him so hard his mask rang with the blow.

  “Don’t do that! Don’t you even dare! Do you have any idea what you could have done?” She cradled her hand to her chest and glared at the steel shield over his face. “A single mage should never open a Gate! They should never even try! You could have unmade yourself, trying something like that!” Her voice cracked and she fell back to sit on her heels.

  He stared at her, dead silent, for so long it made her want to hit him again. What in the world had possessed him to try something like that? How had he even discovered the complex manipulation of energy required for a Gate?

  Daemon pushed himself up and shook out his cloak. “The solstice ball happens in Ilmenhith a week from now,” he said, somewhat shakily. Hadn’t he known what could have happened? “We’ll begin lessons immediately. I’ll take you to Ilmenhith myself, by foot, and you’ll teach me along the way. When you arrive back in the temple after the solstice, we’ll begin nightly lessons in the ruins.”

  Firal gaped. “We can’t walk to Ilmenhith from here!”

  “You’ve seen the passages underground, and I know the ruins better than anyone.” His voice grew steadier as he spoke, though he flexed his hands as if they still tingled with the power he’d tried to manipulate. “The carriages will have to loop around the outermost edges of the ruins and follow established roads. I can get us there just as fast, if not faster.”

  She got to her feet and brushed at her knees. “No Gates.”

  “No Gates,” he agreed.

  “Then it’s a deal.” Firal adjusted her dress and checked the necklace tucked into her bodice.

  “Good. Let’s go.” He turned and started down the hallway at a brisk pace. “We’ve got a lot of distance to cover.”

  She sighed, picked up her skirts and started after him, both of them unsteady on their feet.

  13

  Lesson One

  “I think it’s going to rain again,” Firal called ahead as she fought her way through a thick patch of overgrowth. Progress had been steady when Daemon cut a path for her, but he’d climbed the leftmost wall some time ago. He walked along its top with no regard for her inability to keep up. She stumbled when she made it past the tangle of weeds, her skirts twisted about her ankles. It took her a moment to right herself and run after him. “Should we find someplace to take cover?”

  Daemon paused. Smoky-white clouds had filled the sky, their underbellies heavy and gray. A darker, smoother shade of gray had already swallowed the horizon. “Nah,” he replied, starting forward again.

  “Well, you might be all right with getting wet, but I’m not.” Firal scowled when he made an abrupt turn above her and she scrambled to follow. She’d almost missed the opening to the new path.

  “It’ll clear up,” he said with a touch of amusement.

  He’d barely spoken since they started off, but the farther they went, the more his mood seemed to improve. It was a sharp contrast to the growled orders and barbed comments she’d gotten from him before. His voice was rather pleasant when he wasn’t in a foul mood, she realized with a blush. She shouldn’t have found anything about the situation pleasant.

  Firal turned her thoughts to her aching limbs. “How far do you think we’ve come?” It had been several hours since they’d stopped for a rest. The muscles in her legs burned with fatigue.

  “Hard to say. The ruins double back on themselves so often, it’s easy to lose track of distance.” He spread his arms for balance and took a wide step over a hole in the top of the wall.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  He looked skyward, paused, and turned atop the ruin wall until he located a brighter spot in the clouds. “A bit before noon.”

  Firal frowned. Her stomach grumbled; she hadn’t brought any provisions into the ruins yesterday, only planning a short trip. If he’d let her gather her things from the temple, she would have fetched food from the dinner hall.

  Her sullen silence didn’t go unnoticed. The weight of Daemon’s eyes made her skin crawl.

  “We’ll walk until dusk,” he said, firm enough to still any debate before it happened. “Then we’ll set up camp and stay put until morning.”

  She stifled a groan. Nothing but the sprawling hallways of the ruins lay ahead. She understood the need to hurry; with clouds veiling the sky, it would be impossible to keep a sense of direction and navigate the ruins after dark. But understanding didn’t alleviate her desire to complain about the decision, and she bit her tongue to keep it still.

  After so many hours, every hallway began to look the same. They passed dozens of identical corners and traced more halls than Firal could count. More than once, they slipped through rooms with wide-trunked and mushroom-topped trees, and they were all so alike she wondered if they’d traveled any distance at all.

  Just when she thought her growling stomach wouldn’t let her go a step farther, Daemon stopped atop the wall beside her and tossed something her way. “Catch.”

  Firal barely snagged the dark-colored object from the air. She stopped in the middle of the corridor and looked down at her hands. The oval fruit fit into her palm. Its deep purple skin reminded her of a plum, though its surface was smooth and bore a waxy shine. “What is this?”

  “Food.” He held up one of his own before turning away to eat.

  “Where did you get it?”

  He snorted. “Didn’t you see the trees?”

  Doubtful, Firal took a tiny, experimental bite. Sharp, sour flavor filled her mouth and she squealed as the taste sent a violent shudder through her frame.

  Ahead, Daemon laughed.

  When dusk finally came, the moist air felt unusually cold. Lightning crawled across the undersides of the clouds and Firal counted the seconds before the rumble of thunder.

  “It’s still more than fifteen miles off.” Daemon said, voicing her thoughts. He did that too often for comfort. “We should be able to cover a little more ground before the rain gets—” A plump raindrop pinged against his mask and cut him short. “Or maybe not,” he murmured, chagrined.

  Firal gave an angry wail and sank against the stone wall. “It’s after dark, we’re still walking, and before I even get a chance to rest, we’re rained on!”

  Rolling his eyes, Daemon slid down from the wall. He caught hold of her arm and hefted her back to her feet. “Oh, come on. Did I say we were stopping here? We’ll keep going while the rain is light, and then—”

  “We’ll be soaked.” She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. His hand tightened and she gritted her teeth. “Or your stupid mask will get us hit by lightning, or—” When she couldn’t escape, she withered to ground like a ragdoll and glared up at him. She’d make them stop and rest, one way or another.

  “Stop that!” Daemon dragged her back onto her feet and gave her a shake. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Can’t we stop? We’ve been walking all day. I don’t think I can go any farther.” Firal’s voice cracked and she licked her dry lips. “I’m starting to feel weak.”

  “I’m not sure I’d say you were strong to begin with.” He held her fast, as if he expected her to try to slither away again. “Come on, there’s cover not far from here.”

  Reluctantly, she followed.

  Despite his continued reassurances, they walked in the rain for at least another half hour. As her strength flagged, his arm slid around her shoulders to offer support. Words fell short of the relief she felt when they rounded a corner and met an entrance to the underground. There was no elaborate doorway here, no frightful gate or sculpted monsters. A pair of simple black stone pillars rose to frame the stairway, which vanished into a cavernous hallway.

  The stairwell itself was well maintained, clean and clear of debris. Tiny channels carved into the stone diverted the flow of rain into deep trenches at the base of both black walls. The walls reminded Firal of those in the underground, swallowing every trace of light and leaving her unable to see. Unhindered, Daemo
n guided her steps without difficulty. Once the hallway leveled out, he settled her in the middle of the floor.

  “We’ll stay here for the night. It’s safe.” His voice echoed in the hallway, the sound so empty it sent a shiver down her spine. “You wait here, I’ll go find something to eat. And some firewood, if we’re lucky.”

  “You’re leaving me here alone?” Firal rubbed her arms when he let her go. “But what if—”

  “Wait here,” he repeated firmly. “Unless you want to spend more time in the rain?”

  She swallowed and turned away. The glow of his eyes in the dark would always be unnerving. “Fine.” Firal crossed her arms tight across her cold chest, not caring that it made her look like an impudent child.

  “Good.” He patted her head and left her there, the claws on his feet clicking a soft rhythm against the smooth floor as he crept back out into the rain.

  Firal glowered after him, rubbed her arms and drew her knees to her chest. As an afterthought, she took off her wet cloak and spread it on the floor to dry. She was too weary to snare the magic she’d need to dry it, or she might have used it for a blanket. If she was lucky, it would be dry by the time she went to sleep.

  Without thinking about it, she tugged the broken chain of her necklace from between her breasts. She twisted the links between her fingers as the metal cooled. Having it back was a comfort, but she suspected that was the only comfort she’d get tonight. Idly, she rubbed the pendant with her thumb. She could do nothing else but wait.

  “Get up.”

  Firal didn’t know she’d fallen asleep until a clawed foot nudged her side to rouse her. She blinked at the shadows and fought off disorientation. Wood clattered to the floor and she pushed herself upright. Her toes hit the wood pile and she grunted.

  “How long was I asleep?” Her voice rasped in her throat. She grimaced and swallowed against the dry stickiness in her mouth. The dim purple glow of Daemon’s eyes was bright enough to locate him in the dark, but she could see nothing else.

  “Don’t know, I wasn’t here when you fell asleep.” The wood scraped against the floor as he pushed it into a pile. “The firewood is wet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The wood is wet. It has to be dried.” He sounded irritated at having to repeat himself. “Even if it were dry, I don’t have any flint. We’ll have to start it another way.”

  “Just draw a flame, then.”

  He hesitated.

  “You can’t make a flame?” She felt bad the moment she spoke. Summoning a flame was an easy trick when you had a teacher, but it wasn’t likely he’d ever get the knack on his own. She went on before he could reply. “Well, we’ll have to dry it out, first.” Uncertainty tried to creep into her words and she pushed back against it. A part of her had hoped he wouldn’t expect a magic lesson so soon, but a deal was a deal, and she wouldn’t go back on her word. At least the nap had refreshed her enough to do it.

  Firal fumbled blindly in the dark and twitched when he put his hand in hers. The texture of his scales was glassy and smooth, unlike what she’d expected. She traced the shape of his fingers for a moment before she moved his hand over the wood. She knew where that was, at least, having bruised her toes against it. “All right, let’s begin. All magic has a source.”

  “Yes, yes. I know that,” Daemon growled. “And the source must be contacted before you can draw energy to focus into a physical form.”

  Firal shook her head. “Not quite. It’s not so much an issue of contacting the source as recognizing it. It’s always there, waiting for you to touch and guide it. The magic flows with or without us. All we have to do is shape it. You said you already know some healing, correct?”

  “Some,” he replied reluctantly. “It’s performed by manipulating the energy flows of a person’s body.”

  “Not entirely, but that is the basic idea.” She let go of his hand and sat back on her heels. “I think we need to discuss the origins of magic before I can show you how to use it properly. I forgot you haven’t even had the basic lectures.”

  Daemon rolled his eyes. The gesture was impossible to miss in the dark. “Fine.”

  She gave him a reprimanding look, but continued anyway. “Magic is, in essence, the manipulation of energy around you. Anyone who is capable of sensing the energy flows can manipulate them. Some, like the Eldani without a trainable Gift, are able to contact it, but only unconsciously. To extend their lives, for example, they absorb small amounts of power from everything around them. Every object, every being, has an energy source that can be tapped, redirected, or borrowed. But never taken.”

  “What’s the difference?” He watched her too closely for her to be comfortable, even in the dark.

  Firal drew a breath. This would have been easier if she’d had time to prepare. “Borrowing something’s energy can weaken it, but only temporarily. Once it regains its energy, it recovers. If you take the energy from it, instead of borrowing, it may never regain that strength.” She frowned. “Especially when borrowing energy from inanimate things. You could never take all the energy the wind has to offer, but you could take everything from a tree. It could die slowly, or worse, it...” she trailed off and swallowed hard.

  “It could be unmade,” Daemon finished for her, unperturbed by the weight of his words.

  She suppressed a shiver and forced herself to go on. “You must be self-aware to wield the energy you’re borrowing. It can be used to do almost anything, if you know how to bend it. All mages have a natural affinity, though. At the temple, affinities are divided and governed by the five Houses. Affinities are what you excel at, but they also limit the energies you can draw on. If you don’t yet know yours, we’ll need to determine it, first.”

  “How do you channel energy if there’s nothing present for you to draw on?” Daemon asked, skeptical.

  “In that situation, you rely first on your own energy. You can still manipulate things outside your affinity, as long as you have the strength to tie yourself to it first. It just takes more effort, and it can be more draining.” She shrugged.

  “I can’t anchor myself to anything. I can’t feel it.”

  “You could feel it if you knew what you were looking for.” Firal pointed toward the wood. “For this, the starting point is water. So, see if you can feel the water there, first. Physically. To draw it out of the wood, you just have to find it, attach yourself to its energy, and pull it out.” She took hold of his hand again and guided his claws to the surface of the wood.

  Daemon’s hand flexed in her grasp. He moved his fingers away from the firewood, then closer to it. He spread his fingers wide, folded them together, touched the wood, let his hand hover over it. Long moments passed. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Liar. You can feel that it’s wet, can’t you?”

  “No, I can’t,” he replied, irritated. His voice echoed, sharp, in the confines of the narrow hall.

  Firal opened her mouth to chide him, then stopped as she recalled his scales. Perhaps he wasn’t as sensitive to touch as she was. Without that awareness, maybe he wouldn’t feel when he had the thread of energies in his hand, wouldn’t feel the gentle slide of the water’s energy flow against his skin.

  He pulled his hand from her grasp. “You do it. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe seeing you do it will help.”

  She bit her lip, but said nothing as she touched her fingertips to the damp tinder. Pressing down, she caught the minute sensation of the water on her skin. She snagged the water’s presence and drew her hand downward. The water seeped out of the wood. Then she flicked her hand through the air to snare the feeling of warmth in her fingertips, like grasping a strip of heated silk. It slipped and she tightened her hold to draw it upward. A tiny flicker lit and golden flames licked the firewood.

  Daemon flinched at the sudden spark. Firelight gleamed on the metal of his mask and his eyes squeezed shut.

  “Sorry.” Firal inched closer to the fire and held out her hands to take in the
warmth. Her stomach’s grumbling interrupted the stillness.

  “Hungry?”

  “That’s a stupid question.” She laid a hand on her stomach. “Did you bring any food?”

  He nodded, fishing beneath his cloak and producing a leather pouch that looked full to brimming. “Yes, but you’d better be really hungry.” He flipped back the lid of the pouch and spilled a portion of its contents to the floor. The black mass writhed and began to untangle itself, tails and claws waving as dozens of prickly legs kicked and crawled.

  She shrieked and scrambled backwards, her amber eyes wide. “Scorpions? Bugs are not food!”

  Daemon picked up one of the smaller sticks he’d slyly set aside from the rest of the kindling. It twirled between his nimble fingers. “Arachnids, actually. They have eight legs, so they’re not bugs.” He brought the sharp end of the stick down in the middle of a black carapace, spearing the vermin one by one.

  “I’d be even less likely to eat a spider, thank you very much!” Firal forced her eyes closed as she fought the heave of her stomach.

  “Oh, come now. They’re a delicacy in the underground. I went through a lot of trouble to catch these. You have to at least try it.” He plucked off their stingers with two claws, then swept them into the trench at the foot of the wall to let the water carry them away. “I’ve been told they taste a lot like lobster, or crayfish, which is why they’re so good with lemon. I couldn’t say, really. I don’t think I’ve ever had either. They taste a bit like chicken to me.” He held the makeshift skewer over the fire, seeming amused at the horrified look on her face.

  Firal shuddered. “They say everything tastes like chicken. Nothing ever does.”

  Daemon shrugged and turned the skewer. Pops and hisses filled the air as scorpion shells split in the heat. “Do you want to try some?”

  “No.” She gave him a disdainful look, drew back farther, and settled at the edge of the trench beside the wall. “You help yourself, but I think I’d be better off hungry.”