Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  “That didn’t take long,” Firal said.

  “If you’re as tired as I am, I’m surprised you’d complain.” He took hold of her arm once more. This time, she didn’t resist.

  They made their way closer to the walls of the inner city and stopped at a shabby-looking inn. Daemon took the innkeeper aside and spoke to him so quietly Firal couldn’t hear a word, though she caught the gleam of gold when he pressed something into the innkeeper’s hand.

  The room they were given was small, but clean. Firal tried not to make a face when she saw only one bed. She settled on it and wrapped the blankets around her shoulders. After days traveling the underground tunnels, it was a comfort to have normal furnishings again.

  “I was hoping I’d find a jeweler who could fix my necklace,” she said, disheartened. “I doubt any of them could finish it before the solstice, though.”

  “It’s just as well, since you can’t pay them.” Daemon lingered beside the door until a woman brought a tray of food and a pitcher of wine. He took both from her with a murmured thanks and locked the door after she’d gone. There was no table, so he put the tray in the middle of the floor and sat beside it.

  Firal slid to the floor to join him, taking the blankets with her. She was glad to lay eyes on real food, even if it was only a slab of overcooked pork, a mass of something she supposed was yams, and a few pieces of buttered bread. She had just begun to eat when Daemon put out the lamp’s flame and left them in the dark.

  “No complaints,” he ordered before she had a chance to speak. “I’m hungry too, and I can’t use a fork with my mask on.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you put out the light.” She scraped a fingernail along the crust of her stale bread. The hall beyond their door was dark and the shutters over the window allowed only the thinnest sliver of moonlight to enter the room. Her plate was a faint white outline on the floor; she could make out nothing else.

  “Just eat,” he said.

  Their hands collided over the tray now and then, and they took turns mumbling apologies until blind exploration of the plates proved they were empty. She caught the sound of scraping metal as Daemon retrieved his mask from the floor.

  “Why do you wear that mask, anyway?” Firal shrugged the blankets higher on her shoulders and searched the floor for her cup.

  “My flesh will scorch, melt off my face and turn to ash if it’s exposed to the light.”

  She choked on her wine.

  Daemon laughed. “No. Actually, I’m just ugly.”

  “Well, I want to see you.” Firal reached toward him in the dark, guided by the faint light of his eyes. He caught her wrist and she twisted it in his grasp, wriggling her fingers. “We’ve spent what, nearly a week together? Day and night? And you’re still a mystery.”

  “No.” His hold on her tightened and he pushed against her arm, forcing her back. “Don’t ask again.” He didn’t lift his voice, but the low threat in his tone sent a shiver down her spine.

  She set her jaw and leaned closer. “At least let me touch you.”

  He paused, his crushing grip on her wrist easing a shade.

  “All I know is the color of your eyes and that we’re nothing alike. If I’m going to be spending more time with you in the future, I want to know who I’m with.”

  His mask clinked against the floor again and a warm stirring of air—breath—flowed over her hand. He closed his eyes and all traces of light disappeared. Slowly, he pulled her hand closer, but didn’t let go. She flexed her fingers once before reaching out, toying with tangles as she slid her fingers into his hair. It was gritty with dust and damp with sweat at his temples. Moving closer still, she lifted her free hand to lay a palm against his cheek.

  His face was smooth, skin soft beneath her touch. She wasn’t sure why it surprised her, considering his mask sheltered his face from the sun. Her fingers and thumb found the barest hint of stubble along his jaw. He couldn’t have grown a beard if his life depended on it. His eyes never opened and he didn’t try to stop her.

  Her thumbs traced his well-proportioned nose and angry brows, her fingertips sliding over the tops of his ears. Smooth and nicely rounded, the top of the left pierced with two rings, several more in either lobe. He bore no Eldani blood, then, no trace of a point to his ears. Another mystery, coupled with the magic might he possessed.

  “So that’s what you look like,” she murmured, leaning closer. The musky-sweet scent of him tingled in her nostrils and she inhaled deeply. “I don’t see why you need to wear a mask. You feel like—”

  “That’s enough,” Daemon said.

  Firal cringed and drew back. She’d overstepped her bounds.

  He moved away and she heard his footsteps cross the room. He returned a moment later and placed something on the floor before her. She reached for it in the dark. A candle.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “Another lesson. I want you to show me how to make fire again.” It was not a request.

  She hesitated. Was she ready to touch magic again? The hair on the back of her neck still prickled, though the strange residue of energy seemed to be gone and her head was clear.

  “All right,” she agreed, letting her hand hover over the candlestick she couldn’t see. “I suppose we can practice until it’s time for bed. You remember what I told you before, correct?”

  “Something about focusing on the source of the warmth, catching it and making it grow.” He managed to sound impatient even when he was being compliant. Fabric rustled as he sat.

  Firal groped in the dark for his hand and clasped it in both of hers when she found it. She traced a finger over his smooth scales. “You probably can’t feel the shift in the air current that’s caused by the warmth, can you? It’s a very delicate shift. I apologize that I didn’t think of it before. Instead of waiting to feel the sensation of the energy flowing through the air, you’ll have to learn the timing between the focus of your energy and the shift of the flame’s potential.”

  His hand flexed beneath her touch. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I’ll help you. It’s much more complicated, but energy is just like anything else. When you push toward it, you make waves. It has to bounce back at some point. The harder you push, the harder it will return. I’ll show you when to catch the flow of energy. Gestures aren’t necessary, but they do help when you’re learning. You may outgrow them later.” She let her eyes slide closed as she waited to sense the flows surrounding the candle.

  The moments seemed eternal. Firal she forced herself to be patient. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she felt the delicate shift in energy beneath her hand.

  “Now.” She brushed her fingertips across Daemon’s palm, emulating the sensation of magic crawling across her skin.

  Daemon’s clawed fingers closed on the warmth and drew it upward. The candle wick sparked, flickered, and a thin plume of smoke scented the air as it extinguished. He growled.

  “Too fast.” Firal positioned his hand over the candle again. “You mustn’t rush it. Fire is difficult to start, but easy to manipulate. You have to feed it as you draw the energy to wherever you want it to be, or it’ll starve. Try again, but don’t pull so quickly.”

  He didn’t reply, but she felt him adjust the position of his hand. Much sooner than before, the flow of magic rose against her hand. She touched him to signal it and he grasped the ribbon of energy running between his fingers. The candle sparked again and this time, Firal turned away as light flared and the flame took hold.

  “Good!” She blinked hard to help her vision adjust. The candlelight glinted off his mask. Strangely, her stomach sank when she saw he wore it again. “Did you count out the time?”

  “Yes.” He pinched out the flame between one clawed finger and his thumb. “Show me again.”

  They repeated the exercise more times than she could count, each attempt coming to fruition faster. She felt him falling into the rhythm of it, pouring his energies into the
candle, counting the seconds until the flow presented the opportunity to bring the flame to life. After a time she stopped guiding him, leaving him to rely on the timing he’d learned.

  Firal drew back and clambered onto the wide bed. She sank into the down-filled pillows and the soft mattress, sighing in appreciation and letting her eyes slide closed in the first moment of contentment she’d felt for days.

  The candle continued to flicker in and out for a long time in the silent room. Eventually, it went dark and did not light again. She’d almost fallen asleep when she heard movement at the side of the bed and the rustle of his leather armor being discarded. Daemon settled on the floor beside the bed.

  Guilt stole through her heart. They’d traveled under the same circumstances. He had to be as exhausted as she was, yet he meant to sleep on the floor? She bit her lip. If he meant her ill, it would have already happened.

  “Daemon?” she murmured.

  He grew still.

  “I’m cold.”

  Seconds crept by. Then he climbed onto the bed beside her. He sidled close and nestled his face in her hair, his body curved close against her back. Drowsiness stole over her again and she gave in to it, relaxing into his warmth as sleep took her.

  Shymin picked at the twine on her ballgown’s wrappings. Arrival in Ilmenhith should have been a relief, but the city was so full of people, it was impossible to take in the sights. She had decided early on that it would have been foolish for any of them to get out of the carriage, lest they get separated. Though the other girls sulked, she at least tried to see something from the small glass windows. Bright banners and streamers decorated every street, even in the bustling marketplace at the city’s outskirts. Shymin could only imagine how resplendent the palace would be.

  At sunset, the carriage halted in front of the largest inn any of them had ever seen.

  The inside of the inn was different from the other buildings Shymin had seen in Eldani cities, shunning the airy feeling many seemed to favor. Instead, the owner had chosen dark, heavy woods for the walls and furniture. The front room doubled as a dining hall, its tables and chairs neatly arranged and most seats already filled with visitors. A number of patrons were students from the temple, but just as many were strangers. A long, polished wood bar ran across the far wall with a half-door behind it that never seemed to stop swinging, barmaids sweeping endlessly in and out of the kitchen with platters and mugs in hand. Master Nondar stopped just inside the doorway and considered that bar, but the empty seats were few, and none together.

  Rikka elbowed Shymin in the side and pointed toward a table as its occupants began to depart. The magelings hurried to claim it.

  The evening meal was already being served, tempting scents heavy in the air. Their meal had been paid for, as well as their stay. By the time they all sat, a barmaid had already deposited a platter of food at each place. After the modest fare they’d had during travel, the meal seemed a feast. Slices of duck in a thick herb gravy, buttered lentils and grilled leeks, wedges of sharp yellow cheese and coarse bread with a nutty flavor decorated the table. Shymin’s mouth watered. In the center of the table, the barmaid left a bowl of dates and a tray of sweet oat cakes dripped with melted butter and warm honey. The barmaid offered a pitcher of water and a jug of cider, and Master Nondar asked her to leave both.

  “I can’t believe we’re finally here.” Rikka admired her fork, even though it was plain tin. Compared to the temple’s worn furnishings, everything seemed fine. “This has to be the nicest inn I’ve ever seen. The plates are actually porcelain, and the cups are molded glass!”

  “Probably gets expensive when patrons get rowdy.” Shymin frowned at the finery the meal was presented on, self-conscious. The temple rarely served food on anything but plain earthenware or wooden dishes, both easily replaced. She couldn’t recall ever eating from porcelain.

  “Maybe, but with how many people here aren’t from the temple, I imagine they do brisk enough business to afford it.” Rikka glanced over her shoulder before she stuffed a forkful of food into her mouth.

  Kytenia shrugged. “With all of us here, and probably half the rest of Elenhiise to boot, there won’t be an empty inn for miles. I imagine we’re lucky to stay in one as nice as this.”

  “Do you think Firal is staying somewhere as nice?” Marreli asked, bringing the meal to abrupt halt. Shymin glared at her and Marreli shrank in her seat, a ruddy tinge to her cheeks.

  Master Nondar cleared his throat. “Wherever she’s staying, I’m sure she’s made herself quite comfortable.”

  The girls relaxed at the quiet dismissal, though Marreli still gave them apologetic glances.

  Shymin shrugged and returned her attention to her food, afraid to catch Nondar’s eye. She reached for her fork and mustered the will to eat, her appetite suddenly gone. “I guess we can only hope.”

  The others nodded and turned back to their plates. Together, they fell into a morose silence in the midst of the tavern’s noisy cheer.

  15

  Ilmenhith

  Ran straightened his sleeve and inspected his reflection. It was strange to see himself in white, and stranger still to see the black ink that rimmed his eyes. It would take practice to paint his eyes evenly. He was still too heavy-handed, afraid of poking his eye with the thin ink brush another Master had given him. Others painted swirls, patterns, or shapes, sometimes related to their affinities and sometimes merely designs they liked. He’d opted for simplicity, a plain line along the edges of his eyelids, as if they’d been lined with kohl.

  Though he looked the part, Ran still couldn’t think of himself as a Master. He’d had the white robe made to his specifications, having grown used to the way his blue robes fell at knee length. There were plenty of robes that size in the temple’s storerooms, though they would have needed alteration anyway; none of them bore the blue banding needed to mark him as a mage of Ilmenhith. Better to have one made. At least that way, the sleeves were the right length.

  “Perfect,” he said at last, turning toward the messenger who waited by the door. “No need for any other adjustments, thank you.”

  The messenger dipped into a bow. “And the other parcel, milord?”

  “With luck, it’ll be fine as it is.” Ran spared a glance for the paper-wrapped package on his bed. “Too late to do anything if it’s not, either way.” He smoothed his robes one last time before he crossed to the bed.

  The twine on the parcel came undone easily. Ran folded back the paper and brushed his fingers across the garment inside. The black and red silk snagged on his rough hands as he took it from its wrappings. It was perfect, just the way he’d envisioned. He shook out the dress and held it up for the messenger to see. “There, what do you think?”

  “Ah...bit of an unusual color, milord,” the boy said.

  Ran snorted, looking it over again. “My father said the same thing. Said she’d look better in green, but she wears green every day at the temple. Seems like she’d want to wear something else, once in a while.” He’d tried to explain as much to his father. Kifel hadn’t liked the choice of color, but he’d still paid for it as soon as Ran explained who it was for.

  With the gown draped over one arm, Ran fished a coin from his pocket. He flicked it to the messenger and grinned when the boy caught it. “Give the seamstress my thanks.”

  “Of course, milord. Thank you, milord.” The messenger bowed again and scurried from the room with his payment clutched to his chest.

  Tucking the dress back into its wrappings, Ran glanced toward the window. The sun peeked over the city walls. Just past breakfast time, he imagined. The rest of the court mages would be meeting with the Masters in the chapter house just outside the palace walls. He wasn’t expected to join them with any sort of regularity until the solstice festivities ended, but if he was in the city with nothing else to do, there wasn’t any reason not to. He couldn’t say how his father would react when he learned of Ran’s new position as a court mage, but it seemed like a good
idea to learn his responsibilities before meeting with Kifel.

  He peered into the hallway to ensure it was empty before he slipped out of his room. The door swung closed noiselessly behind him and Ran sprinted toward the small back staircase the serving staff used. If he hurried and he was careful, he might make it out without being seen.

  Firal woke alone, a cool hollow in the bed beside her. Daemon’s scent still clung to the sheets, all that remained to show he had ever been there. The tray and dishes from the night before were gone, the candle they’d practiced with back in its place on the bedside table.

  The room seemed more modest by daylight, though the wash basin and mirror against the far wall were more than enough to make Firal happy. Her hair needed a good washing, but her curls were so thick, the small pitcher of water on the wash stand never would have been enough. Still, she was not displeased to settle for washing her face and neck. Refreshed, she smoothed her dark hair back with wet hands and patted her face dry with the towel beside the basin.

  The innkeeper had a plate of breakfast ready for her when she reached the front room, the meal already paid for. Firal would have to remember to thank Daemon later. Breakfast was little more than ham, bread with butter, and eggs that had already gone cold, but after the sparse offerings Daemon had provided during their trip, it seemed fit for a queen.

  She hadn’t expected to see Daemon in the inn, but the morning crowd had already dispersed and it was strange to sit alone in an unfamiliar place. He had claimed to have business in the capital, she reminded herself, though she couldn’t help but wonder what it might be.