Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  It was the eyes of the child that caught her gaze first, a stare so sharp that, even though it was only a painting, she felt as if the dark-headed boy’s eyes bored into her. Kifel and the woman with the mage-blue eyes sat with him, looks of contentment and peace on their faces—even the child’s, despite his eyes.

  There was a child, but something happened, she thought. Recollection of Ran’s words put a knot in her throat. The child he’ll never replace.

  “You look lost.”

  Firal yelped and wheeled to face the young man who had crept up behind her. He wasn’t much older than she was, if her guess was any good. He had the smooth olive complexion and fair hair that was common in Ilmenhith, the bright blue of his eyes refreshingly natural and a stark difference from the sharp, icy gaze of the woman in the painting beside her.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “Am I not supposed to be here? I didn’t know.”

  “Sorry?” He raised a brow and stifled a laugh. “Sorry for what? The palace is easy to get lost in. I barely know my own way around.”

  On second glance, he was just as out of place as she was, dressed in homespun clothing instead of the bright livery of a page. For that matter, all the servants she’d seen had been women or elderly men.

  Unsure how to address him, she mustered a polite smile. “I was just trying to get back to my room. Ran dumped me off on Medreal yesterday and she took me to speak to Kifel today, and now I haven’t any idea where I’m going.”

  “Ah. One of Ran’s girls.” He grinned at her. “He just sneak you in? Come on, I’ll take you back to the guest quarters.” He jerked his head toward a side passage she’d missed, having been too distracted by the paintings, and turned to lead the way.

  “I am not one of Ran’s girls,” Firal muttered, a prickle of irritation coursing through her. One of Ran’s girls? How many girls did he have?

  She fell in step beside the young man, casting a sidewise glance in his direction. The point of his ears was not as defined as she was used to seeing, though sharper than that of half-bloods, telling of a diluted bloodline. “Are you a friend of Lomithrandel’s, then?”

  “You could say that, though admitting it could be dangerous in these parts. You’ll learn that soon enough.” He smirked, a playful spark in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Are you new to Ilmenhith?”

  “I’m a mageling from Kirban. I came for the solstice, but I suppose I arrived a bit early.” She tried not to look at him again, though a part of her wanted to. His smile was lovely.

  “Ah,” he sighed, sympathetic. “So you have the joy of waiting. I understand, I’m stuck doing the same thing.”

  “Are you here for the festivities?”

  “No, just here on duty, I suppose you could say.” The corner of his mouth twitched, but he caught himself before it became a frown. “I joined the army hoping to take my father’s position as Captain of the Guard when I’m older, or maybe become one of the king’s knights someday. But I didn’t realize that becoming a soldier meant spending so much time as a message boy. It’s all go here, deliver this, wait for that.”

  “Sounds like the temple,” Firal laughed. “People come expecting the immediate glory that comes with magecraft, only to find that first year students spend more time doing chores than anything else.”

  The young man grunted his displeasure at the comparison. “I’ve been in this position for over a year. My lieutenant promises I’ll be given a real post soon, but I won’t hold my breath.”

  She did not reply, so they walked on in silence for some time before he spoke again.

  “By the way,” he drawled, “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “I don’t believe I gave it.” She smirked at him. He grinned back and she felt a strange tightening in her chest. He was flirting with her! And shamelessly, at that. The experience was new and quite odd.

  “Well in that case, let me introduce myself. I’m Vahn. Well, Vahnil, actually, but only my mother calls me that.”

  “I’m Firal,” she replied, grinning sheepishly. “And just that.”

  “Lady Firal!” Vahn paused to offer a sweeping bow. “It is truly a pleasure to be gifted with your company.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Just Firal. My name alone will do fine, thank you.”

  It didn’t take long for them to reach the open walkway that ringed the great hall of the palace. She vaguely recalled passing it the day before, on the way to her rooms after the evening meal. It was easier to travel when she knew where she was going, and her pace relaxed considerably.

  “The guests for the solstice started arriving in the city yesterday, so at least you haven’t arrived too far ahead.” Vahn glanced down into the throne room below. The throne remained empty, but the room was full of people rushing about. He shook his head. “At best it’s given you an extra day to prepare, since the ball is tomorrow. What color mask did you decide on? I hear green and gold are to be most popular this year, if only because everyone is tired of sporting the kingdom’s colors.”

  Her step faltered. “Mask?”

  “The solstice ball is a masquerade by tradition. Didn’t they tell you when you were invited?”

  “Oh, no. I completely forgot!” Firal groaned.

  “Well, what color is your dress? Perhaps I can still find you one, out at market. I’ve errands to run that direction, either way.” Vahn’s smile seemed a little too warm. She tried not to squirm beneath the weight of his attention.

  “It will be red and black, apparently,” she grumbled, casting him an apologetic glance when he seemed confused. “I didn’t choose the color, it was a gift.”

  He nodded and gestured for her to lead up the spiraling stairway. She was certain she knew the way now and didn’t hesitate to move ahead.

  Vahn followed a few steps behind. “Well, I’ll do my best to find you something to match. I’ll have it sent to your room if I find it. Otherwise, don’t worry. I’m sure you won’t be the only one coming from Kirban without a mask for the masquerade.”

  “Thank you, Vahnil.” Firal stopped outside her room, uncertain whether it was proper to invite him in or simply bid him farewell. He didn’t let her wonder for long, sweeping into another bow and stepping back before she could say anything else.

  “Just Vahn, please.” He grimaced, though the expression morphed into a grin as he straightened. “Ran and I only hear our full names if Medreal’s after our heads. I’d rather not hear it from a pretty lady as well.”

  Her amber eyes widened at the compliment. She retreated into her room and slammed the door closed.

  On the other side, Vahn laughed.

  17

  Solstice

  Carriages began to arrive at the palace early the next day, the long line taking hours to work its way past the castle gates. The city boiled in chaos, merchants striving to make one last sale, innkeepers moving guests to make room for those who might have more coin, and all of the madness visible from the hundreds of windows set in the palace’s uppermost floors.

  Firal watched the arrivals with a lump in her throat. She was certain her friends would be among them. She couldn’t imagine them giving up the opportunity to attend the event, but she wasn’t sure what she could do to find them, or what to say if she did. How could she explain her presence, or that she’d arrived days early? How could she explain her place in the palace without betraying the trust Ran had shown in revealing his secrets to her?

  Troubled, she forced herself away from the window.

  Her dress had been delivered to her room that morning. Firal assumed Kifel sent for it; she certainly hadn’t thought to have it delivered to the palace.

  Her mask had been another surprise. It arrived not long after the dress, bundled in linen and accompanied by a note. She’d expected a teasing message from Vahn. Instead, it was a single line of flowing script.

  Don’t forget our bargain. -D

  She supposed she should have been grateful. She didn’t know whe
re Daemon had gone or how he’d gotten the parcel to the palace, but it was the second problem he’d solved for her. That he thought she would forget her half of their agreement rankled.

  Firal double-checked the latch on the door before she stripped out of her nightclothes to dress. With her gown, mask, and all her meals delivered to her room, locking the door meant respite. She had grown tired of batting away maids, irritated by their insistence that she needed help to bathe and dress and put up her hair, all things she could do by herself.

  Though she had requested a chance to speak to the court mages before the event, they’d not had a moment to spare for a mageling girl come to visit from the temple. Firal had expected that. During the ball, they wouldn’t be able to escape her. But the ball would be her last chance to speak to them, too. What if they tried to evade her questions? What if her necklace wasn’t enough? Fear wriggled itself into her belly as she slid into her dress.

  To the credit of the seamstress Kifel had chosen, the gown fit better than anything Firal had ever worn. After spending most of her life relegated to old clothing either too big or too small, it felt odd to wear something made just for her. She turned her back to the mirror and craned her neck to see the fastenings and, after attempting to do them on her own, almost called for the maidservants she’d locked out.

  She couldn’t say she cared for the style, but it wouldn’t do to insult the king by refusing to wear his gift. It was elegantly made, the fine black and red silks worked with an expert hand. The bodice fit snug against her slightly too-ample curves and left her pale shoulders bare, a fashion popular in Ilmenhith that seemed positively scandalous to her. There was a thin silver-gray shawl to go with it, but even with the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she felt naked.

  The red silk created a wide, ruched panel down the front of the bodice, flaring at the waist to add a broad swath of red down the skirt’s front. Matching red gores flashed in the full skirt when she moved. Considering the airy colors of the king’s office and the pale blues and greens he always wore, the colors of her gown seemed unlike something Kifel would have chosen. She wondered again how much Ran might have been involved.

  There was the small matter of jewelry, as well. A maid had brought a close-fitting collar of white gems to her room and said the king wished for her to wear it. It stood tall against her throat and cascaded over her collarbones, drawing too much attention to her exposed shoulders. Firal doubted any but the wealthiest women would have jewels to compare. Why did he wish her to stand out? Especially at an event orchestrated for the sole purpose of exposing his son to potential brides! She shook her head in disgust, though the thought gave her goosebumps. She rubbed them away and frowned.

  One could do worse for a husband than Ran, she supposed. For all that she found him infuriating, he was handsome, charming, and wealthy, despite his lack of a crown. But courtship was not why she had come to the capital. She twisted her thick ebony hair into a bun and pinned it in place. Had she gotten the chain of her mother’s necklace repaired, she would have worn it instead of the king’s jewels. Instead, her precious pendant would have to be tucked inside the bodice of her dress.

  The ways of nobility were strange, but at least she’d be free of them soon. Despite her desperation to see the court mages and secure the answers about her parents she sought, Firal was more than ready to return to the comfortable shelter of mundane life at the temple. And eager to resume her not-quite-so-mundane lessons with Daemon, though she was quick to shake that thought from her head. She added one last pin to her hair and reached for her mask.

  Now that she’d seen the cut of her dress, she was grateful for the anonymity the masquerade provided. And though the mask was pretty, it was not what she would have chosen for herself. Cut in filigree swirls that looked like fire, it was painted in mottled shades of red and orange. A narrow piece resembling a bird’s beak came to a point on her nose. Long ribbons of red and gold fastened to its edges, half of them to tie on the mask with and half as decorative streamers. She traced the mask’s edge with a fingertip and considered putting it on, but thought better of it. With magelings filling the palace’s sitting rooms, there was a good chance she’d see someone she knew downstairs. As embarrassing as her exposed shoulders were, she didn’t want to hinder any chance of her friends finding her before they were swept into the crowds of nobles and strangers.

  Smoothing her skirts, Firal took a final look around the room before she pulled on her black silk slippers. Fine shoes were perhaps the only luxury she would miss. She pressed a hand to her stomach to quell its nervous fluttering and slipped into the hallway. With any luck, she wouldn’t be looking for familiar faces for long. And maybe, with her friends at her side, tonight would offer the answers she’d longed for her entire life.

  Kytenia didn’t look up when the door creaked open again. A dozen or more magelings filtered through the room every few minutes, eager for their turn to primp in front of the mirrors. After the third group had come and gone, she no longer bothered to look up.

  They hadn’t been afforded time to gape at the palace before they were rushed inside and sent to a sitting room, now packed with magelings abuzz with final preparations. Kytenia was glad for the opportunity to preen, since she hadn’t considered that a jostling ride in the cramped carriage would rumple their skirts or hair. She tried to fix her upswept brown curls, turning her head to survey her work as she put the last few pins in place.

  “How is this supposed to go, again?” Rikka held the bustle of her skirt in both hands. She was a mess of half-tied ribbons and unpinned hair. Exasperation and defeat weighted her expression. Kytenia wasn’t entirely sure she’d finished dressing before their carriage came to collect them and they were forced to depart.

  “Didn’t we show you twice already?” Kytenia struggled to sound patient. “Let me finish and I’ll tie it up for you.”

  “It’s all right, Kyt. I’ll get it for her,” said a voice from the entrance, just as the door clicked shut.

  “Oh, would you?” Rikka twisted around. “I’ve spent at least twenty minutes trying to find where those blighted—” She cut herself short with a shriek when she saw Firal’s smiling face.

  “Firal!” Marreli cried, bounding from her seat and tripping over her skirt in her hurry to cross the room.

  Kytenia dropped her last hairpin and left it forgotten on the floor. She flew across the room, only a step behind Rikka. Firal laughed as they all tried to embrace her at once.

  “I get the feeling I was missed.” Firal squirmed to loosen the arms around her.

  “Missed? We thought we were never going to see you again!” Kytenia said. Her heart thundered in her chest, making the bodice of her dress feel too tight. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to rein in her excitement.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Firal’s brow furrowed.

  Rikka gaped at her. “You’re joking, right? You vanished! We were certain something horrible happened to you in those ruins!”

  A shadow of something flitted through Firal’s expression, though she dashed it away with a shake of her head before Kytenia could ask.

  “Something horrible did happen,” Firal said. “I stumbled into Ran. But I was able to find an escort at the last minute when I made it back to the temple. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, on the way home.”

  Kytenia pursed her lips. There was something about Firal’s words that suggested they weren’t entirely true, and the other girls exchanged worried looks before Marreli attached herself to Firal’s arm. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” She hugged Firal’s arm tight, her eyes lighting with a sweet smile when Firal patted her head.

  Kytenia stepped back and gave Firal a good look-over. It was hard to let her gaze slide any lower than the jewels at her friend’s throat, but seeing her in a dress that was the height of fashion among nobles was equally strange. “It seems you’ve done well for yourself,” she said, raising a brow. “Care to explain that, too?”

  Firal m
otioned her friends to one side of the door as another group of magelings came in. “I’ve been in the palace for several days. I’ve spoken with King Kifelethelas and the woman in charge of running the palace. It seems they wanted me to look my best, since I arrived with Ran, and...” Firal trailed off, her words burdened.

  There was something else she wasn’t saying, Kytenia thought, though the fact Firal and Ran were in the palace together was enough to make anyone suspicious. But Firal’s expression brightened, and she went on. “Well, a mage’s reception was better than I expected, I suppose I should say. I hope the rest of you have been treated as well as I have.”

  “You’ve been here longer than I would have guessed.” Rikka eyed the dress and jewels with a suspicion that rivaled Kytenia’s. “Did you have a chance to...you know...”

  “Not yet,” Firal said. “But I’m going to speak to one of the court mages during the ball. I’m determined to.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to make sure you have the chance.” Rikka hugged her once more. “Oh, I just can’t believe you’re here! Isn’t Shymin back yet? Oh, Firal is back with us and of course Shymin is nowhere to be seen!”

  Kytenia laughed and raised a hand to forestall the question she saw in Firal’s eyes. “She said she didn’t have enough pins for her hair, and that she needed a longer tie for her mask. Heaven forbid she ask to borrow some pins instead. Why, there are so many vain people gathered for the solstice I’d be surprised if there was a single hairpin left for sale in the entire city.”

  “I wish we’d spent as much time discussing masks as we did dresses,” Firal groaned. “I’d forgotten it was a masquerade.”