Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  By the time Firal set out from their lodgings, the market had begun to stir with life. The palace towered over the city’s expanse, casting long shadows over its heart in the morning light. The longer she looked at it, the more her stomach fluttered. It seemed too soon to make her way there, but where else was there to go? She didn’t know where to look for other mages, but they would reach the palace for the festivities eventually, regardless of where they stayed.

  Firal expected the palace would turn her away. After all, one afternoon spent in the company of royalty hardly justified allowing her into the palace early. If she was fortunate, perhaps someone in the palace would take pity on her and give her a coin to pay for another room at the inn. Her sense of time had grown muddled in the ruins, but she was certain the solstice was still several days off.

  Gentlefolk roamed the tidy cobblestone streets within the city walls. Most left her alone as she wound her way toward the palace, but some gave her looks that made her skin prickle. She wished she had worn her mageling’s robes, anxious for the visible rank the clothes would give her. As it was, she was dirty and unkempt, looking more the part of a beggar than a prestigious mage. Embarrassed, she bowed her head as she walked.

  The streets of Ilmenhith radiated from the palace like the spokes of a wagon wheel, starting at the wide avenue that ringed the palace walls and stretching to the city walls behind her. Banners of blue and silver rippled in the breeze, sending shadows rolling across the road. No guards patrolled the tops of the high stone walls that sheltered the palace gardens from common folk, though guardhouses stood at regular intervals along its curving length. North of the palace, the streets grew empty. No shops stood on this side of town, no signs for inns hanging in front of the large buildings. She assumed that meant they were houses, though some were as large as the temple’s dinner hall.

  The lack of guards stationed at the palace gate came as a surprise, though she should have expected it. Rikka and Marreli had both been born in Ilmenhith, and they’d often said the city was so peaceful that occasional patrols were enough to maintain safety.

  Firal puzzled over what she was supposed to do at the gate, looking up the walls and over her shoulders, pursing her lips and inching closer to the large portcullis. She laid her hands on the sun-warmed metal with a frown. The courtyard on the other side was pristine, but what she could see of it was rather featureless. A plain, tree-lined path led to the stairs of the palace. Large as the arched doors at the front of the castle had to be, the gate was far enough away they looked as if they covered a mouse hole. She leaned forward, straining to see the empty yard, and startled when the portcullis rattled dully in the gateway.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” The words that came from the other side of the wall were unmistakably angry.

  Firal let go of the iron bars and stepped back in a hurry. Maybe visiting the palace had been a bad idea. She opened her mouth to speak when a figure in white swept into view on the other side of the portcullis. The words withered on her tongue.

  Ran spat a curse the moment he saw her face, white robes swirling as he ducked back behind the wall.

  “Lomithrandel!” Firal shrieked, banging her fists against the gate. “You get back here right this instant! You left me in the ruins! Do you have any idea what could have happened to me because of you?”

  “You didn’t see me!” he snapped, his back to the wall. Only the toes of his boots remained visible.

  “What? Of course I saw you!” And what had she seen? Her mouth dried as she recalled the fleeting glimpse she’d just caught. White robes, trimmed with blue to mark him as a Master of Ilmenhith, his eyes rimmed with black ink. Her stomach sank. “You’re a court mage?”

  He groaned and pushed himself around the corner to glower at her. “What are you doing here alone? You should be with the rest of the mages.”

  Firal snorted. “I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Besides, I was coming to the palace for the solstice anyway, wasn’t I?”

  Ran eyed her a moment. His shoulders heaved with his sigh. “Hold on.” He disappeared to the other side of the gate. A low clank overhead caught her attention, followed by a whir and a rattle. The heavy portcullis lifted at an agonizingly slow pace. Firal watched until it clanked to a halt at the top of the archway. Then Ran reappeared before her, caught hold of her arm and hauled her onto the stone walkway in the courtyard.

  “Come on. I don’t have time to stand and fuss over you all day,” he growled. He hit a latch embedded in the wall with his palm before he started toward the palace doors.

  Firal did not reply, letting him lead the way as the portcullis behind them rattled back down to the ground.

  The castle was constructed of white marble veined with pale blue-gray. Ran dragged her inside and shut the door behind them. She slowed, gaping at the magnificence of the entry hall. A dozen marble pillars lined the center of the room and a rich, silver-trimmed blue carpet ran between them. At the far end, two large, peaked doors closed off what she assumed would be the throne room.

  Banners hung upon the walls, each displaying the royal crest—the seven-pointed star with a ringed center she knew from her mother’s pendant—again in blue and silver. Silk streamers decorated the marble columns and live trees in massive stone basins along the walls. Natural sunlight lit the room, filtered through glass skylights in the vaulted ceiling that soared three stories above. Each floor hosted an open walkway around the top of the great hall. Servants roved up there, some pausing to peer down at their visitors with curiosity. Ran caught her wrist and dragged her onward.

  The throne room was decorated like the hall before, but the carpet here ended in a large circle before the throne’s dais, the center emblazoned with the royal crest. High arched windows lined the walls and the skylights were fewer. Between the panes of glass overhead, the ceiling was painted deep blue, constellations depicted with faint lines to link the stars. Firal couldn’t help the tingling sense of wonder as her eyes traced the map of the sky.

  With no queen to rule alongside King Kifel, his throne stood on its own, elegant in its simplicity. The wide silver seat was modeled like twisted vines and a single large sapphire cut into countless facets was embedded just above the headrest, set off by the blue velvet upholstery. Somehow, Firal had expected Kifel would be there.

  “Stop gawking and hurry up,” Ran chastised. She had been so distracted by the sights that she hadn’t realized he’d let her go. He stood at the foot of one of the two staircases that curved up into the corners of the room behind the throne, their tops converging in the center of the second floor.

  She flushed and hurried to follow him upstairs. “Where are we going?” Her voice echoed in the vast room. She winced at the sound of her own cluelessness.

  “To speak with Medreal. Kifel’s steward, I suppose you could say. She’ll know what to do with you.”

  “Will I, now?”

  They both jumped. Firal turned to face the woman who had appeared at their backs without so much as a sound. Ran grimaced and did the same.

  The woman was stocky and looked perfectly pleasant, her skin dusky and her white hair drawn into a messy bun at the back of her head. Her eyes were so dark they appeared black, and they glittered with some hint of amusement. Though she wore simple clothing, the air she carried held too much dignity to mistake her for a mere servant.

  Ran scarcely opened his mouth to speak before Medreal held up her hand, keeping him silent. She smoothed her apron and stepped forward to give Firal an appraising look. “And what is it you’ve dragged into my palace this time, hmm?”

  “Your palace?” Firal asked. She felt a spark of something in the woman, something strange, but muted. A Gift that had never come to fruition, she assumed. She gave Ran a sidewise glance.

  “Kifelethelas may rule it, but I run it.” Medreal grasped Firal’s jaw and turned her head to look her over. “Hmm...looks as if she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days. I hope you’re not keeping her awake, young man.
”

  “It’s nothing like that!” Ran choked out, his eyes so wide they looked ready to fall from his head.

  The old woman gave him a skeptical look, but turned with a wave of her hand. “Well. Come along, then, and you can tell me what it is like. It’s about time for a bite to eat, and you both look like you could benefit from it.”

  Firal didn’t protest. With the sun reaching its zenith, the morning meal was farther behind her than she’d first realized. She wouldn’t object to something to make up for the meals she’d missed. Ran seemed reluctant, but he nudged her forward, letting Medreal lead the two of them through the twists and turns of the hallways that sprawled out in every direction.

  Even with an assortment of tables and vases, narrow benches, chairs, and obscure paintings to adorn the walls, it didn’t take long for Firal to lose her bearings. It was astounding how she kept ending up in mazes of walls and doorways, never knowing which way she was meant to go. Trying to watch where they were going made her dizzy, so she settled for following with her eyes focused on Medreal’s back.

  They turned abruptly and moved down a narrow flight of stairs. At the bottom, a door stood ajar. The smell of warm food was almost overpowering. The rattle of pots and pans indicated someone at work on the other side.

  “We’ll be eating in the kitchens, then?” Ran asked, displeased.

  “Unless you plan on cleaning the banquet hall yourself, after the meal.” Medreal gave him a dark look. If his place as the king’s surrogate son had given him any rank, he clearly held none with her.

  The kitchen lacked the vaulted ceiling the rest of the palace boasted, though it seemed airy and well-lit. Wooden beams stretched overhead with nails driven into them, from which hung pots and herbs, smoked meats, strings of vegetables, and countless other things Firal didn’t recognize. Men and women dressed in the plain garb of servants circled about like busy ants. A small table with several chairs around it stood far to one side and no one paid them mind as Medreal led them to it. Scarcely a moment after they sat, a pair of kitchen maids brought trays of food and a kettle of tea.

  “You’ll have to excuse me if I seemed discourteous upstairs.” Medreal smiled warmly and smoothed her hair as she made herself comfortable. “Allow me to introduce myself more properly. I am Medreal, friend and adviser to King Kifelethelas, stewardess of his household and one-time nursemaid to his children.” She paused there, giving Ran a look.

  Firal hid a smile behind her fingers. It was no wonder he held no authority with her, then, if she’d been the one to see to his diapering. “A pleasure to meet you, lady Medreal.” She couldn’t give a proper curtsy at the table, but she still bowed her head respectfully.

  The glitter in the older woman’s eyes brightened, then disappeared as she reached for the teapot. “So, tell me, Lomithrandel. Why are you sneaking young women into the palace?” Medreal asked, her tone dangerously neutral as she poured tea for the three of them.

  Ran hesitated to answer. “I found her at the gates. I don’t think she has anywhere else to go.”

  “And are we in a practice of taking in every needy person, now?”

  Firal tried not to squirm at the needling in the older woman’s tone, though a surge of indignation rose along with the flutter in her stomach.

  “She’s a mageling from Kirban,” he replied, leveling his gaze with Medreal’s without flinching. “As someone who will eventually serve the king as a full-fledged mage, she has every right to be here.”

  Medreal’s smile seemed to catch him off guard. “That doesn’t make her any less needy.” Her tone was gentle, but there was an intensity in her eyes when she glanced at Firal. It was a piercing look, one that sent a shiver through her from head to toe. The response didn’t go unnoticed. “Are you quite all right, dear?”

  “Fine,” Firal lied, though the old woman’s penetrating gaze made her heart beat faster.

  “You’ll have to excuse me if I missed your name,” Medreal said, adding honey to her teacup and gesturing for the two of them to help themselves as she stirred.

  “Firal, my lady.” She tried not to flush at the courteous reminder that she hadn’t even introduced herself.

  The elder woman’s mouth tightened. “And your surname?” she urged gently.

  Firal bit her lower lip and ducked her eyes. “It’s only Firal, my lady. My mother saw fit to leave me with the mages, but she didn’t see fit to leave a family name.”

  “I see.” Medreal pushed back her chair and rose with her teacup in hand. “Very well then, Firal of Kirban. I will have to make sure there is a room to accommodate you. We have a large number of guests coming who will expect to stay in the palace. Please stay here and enjoy some tea. Both of you.” She gave Ran a glance that indicated she expected him to be there when she came back. When he merely averted his eyes instead of arguing, she excused herself without another word.

  Firal let her attention settle on Ran. Her jaw clenched as he pushed the jar of honey toward her. “Well, it’s nice to see you’ve finally remembered some manners.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” he murmured.

  She snorted. “Is that it?”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” he replied, never looking up, swirling his spoon in his teacup.

  “Really?” Firal asked, her tone biting with sarcasm. “I’d think you’d have plenty. You could apologize, for example, for abandoning me so far in the ruins that an Underling had to show me the way out. Or,” she plunked a spoon filled with honey into her cup to punctuate the word, “you could have told me you’d been made court mage. Imagine that, prince of Elenhiise and a Master mage both.”

  Ran slowly lifted his eyes to her face.

  “What, were you thinking no one would ever find out?” she snapped.

  “I’m not a prince.” He set his spoon aside. “I thought I made that clear enough before.”

  “Don’t lie to my face!” She flipped hair back over her shoulder, uncaring that the kitchen staff turned toward them at her outburst. “I saw the way she looked at you when she said she raised the king’s children.”

  Ran’s eyes darkened with anger. “I didn’t lie to you. I told you everything I could, and I was honest. Kifel is not my father.”

  “And how does a foundling like yourself become a king’s adopted child?” The words escaped before she knew what she was saying. The two of them had more in common than she’d ever realized. Both without real families, both struggling to fit in at the temple. She continued before he had a chance to answer and open old wounds that had never quite healed. “You could have told me about this ages ago, you know.”

  Ran sighed. “And what? Have the whole temple coddle me because I may end up being the only option for an heir? Have everyone falling at my feet and seeing me as a noble, have every girl chasing me because she wants to be a princess?” He shook his head. “Would you have treated me the same if you had known? Through all the pranks, the jokes, the teasing?”

  Firal squirmed, taken aback. “But I’ve never been kind to you.”

  “Exactly.”

  Her brow furrowed.

  He went on. “Everything you’ve ever said or done has been your reaction to me.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Not to the king’s son, not a possible heir, not an uncrowned and untitled prince. Just me. I can’t even begin to tell you what that means to me.”

  She chewed her lip. She hadn’t expected a response at all, much less one so earnest. Now she couldn’t think of anything to say, her temper defused. “Well,” she huffed finally. “You’re still just you. And your actions are just as unforgivable as ever.”

  Ran gave her a weak smile and turned his gaze back to his tea.

  A servant appeared beside them as if from nowhere. “My lady,” the girl murmured, sinking into a bow. “I am to lead you to your room.”

  Glad for the interruption, Firal pushed herself up. She brushed off her skirts as she stepped away from the table.

  “Firal,” Ran called a
s they reached the foot of the stairs. She turned her head to look at him. “Thank you.”

  The coals of anger still smoldered in the back of her mind, but she offered a single nod before she lifted her skirts about her ankles and turned to follow the servant girl.

  The girl led Firal back to the open walkway above the throne room, into a wide corridor beyond it, and up a small spiral staircase nestled in the curve of a turret. Two hallways joined against the small landing at the top of the stairs, both identical to Firal’s eye.

  The size of the palace made her uncomfortable. The temple was not small, but she suspected its grounds would fit within the palace several times over. The servant took her down the hallway to the right, where large paintings stood between closed doors, depicting each of the former rulers of the kingdom with their families. Plaques beneath the paintings declared names and the dates they had ruled. Then they rounded a corner, and there were no more paintings.

  “Is there no portrait of King Kifelethelas?” Firal asked in attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.

  “His Majesty had his portraits moved. He does not feel they should be displayed in a hall of remembrance until he has to be remembered.” The servant offered her a smile, but it did nothing to ease her nerves.

  The hall before them now was narrow, lined with smaller doors. Private bedchambers, Firal assumed. Halfway to the end of the hallway, the servant stopped to open a door that appeared no different than the rest.

  “You’ll be staying here, my lady. If you need anything at all, pull the bell-string beside the door and a servant will attend you. Once you are settled, I shall send a maid to draw your bath.” The young woman dipped in a curtsy and took her leave so promptly that Firal hardly knew what to do with herself. She peered into the room open before her, wringing her hands.

  The room that awaited was elegant, hosting furniture of dark wood with carved vines trailing up the sides and across the tops. The curtains, bedding, and even the oval rug on the floor were a deep green trimmed with silver; oddly earthy, compared to the airy feeling of the rest of the palace.