Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  “Unless he is crowned, he can’t call himself a prince, so he will not acknowledge our relationship. Adoption is unheard of in noble families, too much concern over rightful succession. That’s why, until I give him a formal title, he won’t speak of it.” He paused, shaking his head before adding, “But I can’t do that. It isn’t as simple as he thinks.”

  Firal bit her lower lip, feeling the hot prickle of eyes on them as the king spun her across the marble floor. “Then why would he want the secrecy? Wouldn’t it be easier for him if he didn’t have to play at the sort of double life he’s trying to lead?”

  The troubled look that crossed Kifel’s face made her regret her choice of words, but the shadow was fast and fleeting. “His way of life is his own choice. But it does allow him to avoid controversy, which has always been a problem in the palace.”

  Firal pursed her lips. “Because he’s your son, but not your heir.” Ran’s would-be rank explained why he was so often absent from classes, why he was excused for it, and why his feeble half-truths about his absences were acceptable in the eyes of Masters. “I always assumed they made exceptions for him in the temple because he might be of a weakened mage bloodline. I suppose it isn’t because he’s not full-blooded Eldani, after all.”

  “Well, my dear,” Kifel said, a wan smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “I am not full-blooded Eldani, either. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  She turned crimson as she realized her murmured musing was likely out of line. Then his words sank in. “You’re not?” She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He was handsome, but more like a hero from a storybook instead of the delicate nobles she’d come to associate with Ilmenhith. His jaw was strong, his brow proud. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was Ran’s father; they bore the same appearance of strength.

  Kifel shook his head and his gaze drifted across the ballroom. The feast seemed to be over now, the floor more crowded than before. He spoke in a low voice, mindful of the ears around them. “Several generations ago, one of my ancestors took a Giftless woman as his bride. At the time, there were wars between our respective rulers, so their marriage was met with public outcry. They were accused of having wed only to calm the war. Unexpectedly, of course, the royal court later discovered her letters patent declared she was a half-blood.” He smirked. “Forged, of course, but people settled after that. She lived an unusually long life for a Giftless woman, and over the years, all the fuss was forgotten. My great-grandmother was born to them. Then came my grandmother, and my mother. I was the first male child born into the royal family in generations. Of course, when I looked more the part of a seasoned warrior in adolescence than my father did at the height of my parents’ rule, the old rumors stirred up again.”

  Firal bowed her head. “I suppose after seeing that all his life, Ran would want to spare you from unwanted scrutiny as much as he spared himself.”

  “One could suppose,” he agreed, and left it at that. The rest of their dance was wordless.

  As if from nowhere, Medreal appeared beside them and touched their arms to halt their dance. “Majesty, a moment?”

  Kifel released Firal with an apologetic smile. The forced cheer faded the moment he turned to his stewardess. “What is it?” he asked, a note of anxiety in his voice. “Is it—”

  “No, it isn’t him.” Medreal pulled Kifel aside.

  Firal tried not to listen in, her brow furrowed with effort, but she couldn’t have made out the urgent whispers that passed between them if she’d wanted.

  After a moment, Kifel returned, smoothing his coat with both hands. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. That uneasy note returned to his words. “I’m afraid something urgent has come up. Please try to enjoy the rest of your evening.” With a jerk of his head that beckoned Medreal to follow, he stepped away and disappeared before she had a chance to say a word.

  “What was that all about?” Kytenia asked from the crowd beside her.

  Firal clapped a hand to her chest and exhaled hard. “Why must everyone sneak up on me like that?”

  “Sorry.” Kytenia’s voice dropped. She waved away her dance partner. Firal wasn’t surprised to see it was Vahn. He flashed them a grin before a woman caught his arm and dragged him back into the crowd.

  “Now,” Kytenia said as she inched closer and lowered her voice. “What was all that?”

  “I don’t know.” Firal struggled to smile and knew her attempt fell short. “I think I’m ready to finish this expedition, though. I’m not sure I’m ready for this sort of life. I know this is an exciting event for everyone else, but it’s been strange for me. It’s not quite what I expected.”

  Kytenia hugged her arms to herself. “I can’t say I blame you. For all the excitement there was over it, the ball hasn’t been all that spectacular. It seems like something is missing. Surely they didn’t call us all here just because of the time of year.”

  Firal gave a sharp, humorless laugh.

  Kytenia arched a brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Nothing I think I’m supposed to repeat,” Firal said. “I’ll tell you later. You go ahead. None of the Masters have come to dance, so I’m going to go find a court mage and...well, you know. Dance with someone tall, dark and handsome for me, would you?” She gave Kytenia’s arm a pat and retreated before her friend had time to protest.

  The banquet hall was mostly empty now, people crowded around the wide doors to the ballroom while they waited for an opportunity to join the dance. Firal’s footsteps faltered when she reached the end of the crowd and emerged between the banquet tables.

  Most of the Master mages still lingered beside the tables, separating themselves from what she was sure they considered childish frivolities. Firal skimmed their faces, lingering on those who were unfamiliar, searching for the blue bands on white robes that would signify a court Master. She’d expected them to cluster together, as the temple’s Masters did, but when she found one, the woman sat alone.

  Steeling her resolve, Firal clenched her hands in her skirts and crept closer. “Excuse me, Master, may...may I speak to you for a moment?”

  The Master mage turned her head to face Firal, as disinterested as if an obnoxious child were tugging at her sleeve.

  Firal fought back the queasy feeling in her stomach. “While I was here, I was hoping someone could tell me about my mother. I was told she was a court mage, but no one in the temple seems to know anything about her.” She fished her broken necklace out of her dress and held it out.

  The woman straightened when she saw the seven-pointed star on the pendant, intrigue creeping over her face. She stood and smoothed her skirts. “You’ll need to speak with Temar. Come with me.”

  Firal’s heart climbed into her throat as she followed the woman through the vast banquet hall. They wove between tables, crossing to the edge of the room where a small cluster of nobles and white-robed mages stood conversing.

  The Master crept around the group and leaned close to whisper something to another woman in white. Then they both turned, the second woman murmuring a pardon before slipping away from the crowd.

  Unlike the first Master, this woman greeted Firal with a warm smile. “Well met, child. I am Temar, head of Ilmenhith’s court mages. I hear you have need of me?”

  Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, Firal nodded. “Yes, I...I hoped you could tell me about my mother.”

  “Ah,” Temar chuckled softly and waved the other Master away. “You must be the girl Ran mentioned. I apologize that we didn’t get to speak sooner. He approached me yesterday to ask I meet with you, but the solstice has kept everyone busy. What is your name?”

  “Firal, Master.” She curtsied, not sure how she was supposed to address such a high-ranking mage. The only Master above Temar was the Archmage herself. Flustered, she presented her pendant on one outstretched palm. “This was my mother’s necklace. It was the only thing she left for me. I’m afraid I don’t even know
her name.”

  Temar made a small, thoughtful sound in her throat as she took the pendant from Firal’s hand. She turned it between her fingers. “Yes, this is certainly one of ours.”

  Firal’s heart leaped. “Please, Master, I just want to know who she is and where she’s gone. I’ve been alone in the temple my whole life. If I could just find her, or at least learn her name—” The words caught in her throat and she could not finish.

  Slowly, the court Master lowered the necklace back to Firal’s hand. “I’m afraid I can’t identify her by a necklace alone, and your name is not familiar to me. I only rose to this position five pents ago. She may have served before me. But I am certain our records can tell you what you need to know.”

  “Really? Can you show me? Could you take me there now?” Firal clutched her pendant with both hands to keep them from shaking.

  “I’m afraid not.” Temar raised a hand before Firal’s heart could plummet. “Some time ago, the Archmage elected to move our records from Ilmenhith to the temple. It’s easier to maintain archives where many Masters can control the climate. Only the most recent volume is kept here. What is your affinity? I will pass instructions to the head of your House to allow you full access to our records.”

  Firal’s knees went weak beneath her. The temple. The answer she’d longed for had been practically at her fingertips, all that time. Tears of mingled relief and excitement pricked her eyes. “Healing, Master,” she managed, dipping in a curtsy again. “Thank you, Master. I don’t know what to say.”

  The court Master waved a hand. “No need to say anything, child. I shall pen a formal letter to Nondar first thing in the morning. But if you’ll excuse me, I must return to our other guests. I hope you find what you are looking for. Do enjoy your time while you are here.”

  “Of course, Master. Thank you again.” Firal swept the tears from her eyes before they could fall and stepped aside to let Temar pass. Joy bubbled in her chest and relief made her legs tremble beneath her. She considered slipping into the ballroom to tell Kytenia what had happened, but the crowd changed her mind. Instead, heart pounding and hands trembling, she put her necklace away and paced back toward the tables with a hand over her heart.

  “It’s a little early to be retreating from the festivities, isn’t it, child?” The question caught her off guard, but she smiled when she spotted Nondar. He sat at the corner of a table, apart from another handful of Masters.

  “I’m not very good at dancing.” Firal joined him, pleased the old Master had come. She thought his age might make travel too uncomfortable. For a moment, she considered telling him what Temar had just said, but decided against it. Tonight’s was a private victory, one she would savor by herself. There would be time to tell others during the trip home.

  “Neither am I, anymore.” Nondar shifted his gnarled hands atop his wooden cane and chuckled to himself. The levity was short-lived and his expression grew solemn. “You caused quite a stir with your decision to travel without us, you know.”

  She flushed and tried not to meet his expectant gaze as she settled on the bench beside him. That wasn’t the happy sort of conversation she’d hoped for, but she owed the Masters an explanation. “I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” She removed her mask and toyed with its ribbons. “I was fortunate to find an escort and end up here, instead of dying somewhere in the ruins.”

  “Is that so?” Nondar murmured. “Then perhaps you understand, now, why you aren’t supposed to pass the mage-barrier without an escort. But that’s a matter we’ll discuss once we’re home.”

  Firal cringed at the reprimand. She’d expected something harsher, though the threat of punishment put a knot in her stomach. He wouldn’t dare deny her access to the records, would he? No; she chased that worry from her thoughts as soon as it landed. As the head of Kifel’s court mages, Temar held great authority. Even over Nondar.

  “Do you mind if I sit here for a while?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “I don’t mind at all, child,” the old master replied blandly, watching the dancers in the next room.

  “Thank you, Master.” Firal put the worry out of her mind and followed the old mage’s gaze. Nondar was a hard teacher, but a kind man, and she enjoyed his company. If not for his arthritis, she might have asked him to be her last dance. She supposed she could settle for her last dance being with the king, though he wasn’t the most graceful partner she’d had.

  For a moment, she thought it might be nice to dance with Daemon one more time.

  18

  Fire and Frost

  From the moment they set foot in the marketplace, Tren was unsettled.

  The market village outside of Kirban was eerily quiet. That wasn’t odd by itself, given the solstice festivities, but the houses looked as empty as the streets, windows lightless and streetlamps unlit. Market stalls stood with their sides rolled down and fastened against the drizzly weather, but peering beneath any of the covers showed every bit of merchandise—food, cloth, and otherwise—was still present. Didn’t they fear thieves? Weren’t they concerned about leaving their livelihoods unattended where anyone could have whisked them away?

  He didn’t think anything amiss, exactly—they’d planned this raid because it would be easy. A large number of people would have joined the caravan destined for Ilmenhith, as the chance to hawk wares in the capital was an unrivaled opportunity for most vendors. But nonetheless, he’d expected a fight.

  As it stood, it was less a raid and more a burglary. Tren’s men slipped into the market and collected foodstuffs and wares with ease. There was no need for caution; not a soul stepped from the houses, their windows shuttered and dark. Either there was no one left to protest, or those remaining didn’t dare confront his small army. The thought sent a thrill down Tren’s spine.

  Lumia led the thievery, draping herself with jewels and silks, twirling and humming to herself as the raid progressed. Though a number of men cast frowns in her direction, Tren knew better than to think her addled. Lumia was odd, no doubt. But there was a shrewdness about her that glittered in her crystalline eyes, betraying deeper capability than he suspected others knew she possessed.

  They had brought no carts. Once the men had filled their sacks with supplies, they turned south, skirting the edges of the ruins instead of trying to wind their way through the maze. Lumia called orders as they progressed, her lips twitching with a mysterious smile all the while.

  Tren didn’t respect the woman, not anymore; she’d proven herself too fickle and volatile for that. But he still served her unerringly. For the time being, she was useful. She spoke often of her plans to remove their people from the underground and her desire for Daemon to supplant the Eldani king, if only for the power it would grant her. He could have done as well or better on his own, perhaps, but riding the coattails of her success would be easier. If she failed, all he lost was time.

  When they came within sight of the temple, Lumia ordered the men into two groups. Most split off with the provisions they’d gathered and headed toward the tunnels hidden in the maze that would lead them back to the safety of the underground. Tren and another two dozen men stayed with their queen. Together, they slipped into the outermost hallways of the ruins.

  He’d expected the attack on the temple would be immediate, but their getaway hadn’t exactly been clean. The ground was muddy and they’d left clear tracks behind, all leading directly to the ruins. Tren assumed Lumia meant for them to stand watch until the rest reached safety. But knowing why they stood watch and being glad to do it were different things, and he grumbled as they waited for her next command.

  The moon crept behind rainclouds overhead and its feeble glow disappeared. The rain was not heavy, but it soon saturated his cloak. Tren adjusted it with irritation.

  Lumia did not seem to notice the drizzle. She scaled a wall to perch on its top and peer toward the temple.

  What was she waiting for? He knew better than to question her, but a heavy sens
e of uneasiness weighed on his shoulders. Sending only a handful of men to the temple was a deviation from the original plan. He didn’t like that, either. Why send the rest away? Scouring the temple’s expanse to find the Gate-stones would have been a challenge with fifty men, even with the information Daemon provided. Two dozen might be less noticeable, but with the mages gone, notice was hardly their concern. The market had been proof enough of that.

  “What a smart woman,” Lumia said, watching something in the distance. “Driving out the prying eyes before tending to dirty business. At least a half dozen messengers wearing the colors of Alwhen have left her tower in the past hour.” Despite the rain and wind, not a single golden hair was out of place beneath the hood of her cloak. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought it magic.

  “What do Giftless messengers matter?” Tren squinted at the sky overhead, unable to see anything else from his place on the ground. He figured it close to midnight, though he could no longer see the position of the moon or stars.

  “I think you’ll find they matter quite a bit. If she entertains messengers sent by King Relythes, then we’ve already made waves with our actions. That leaves one small problem to take care of before we can pursue what is rightfully ours.” Her head turned and her eyes followed the lane that ran to the east. Watching another messenger, perhaps.

  “What problem?” Tren asked, his prickling doubt shifting to a rolling wave of concern.

  A laugh welled in Lumia’s throat. “We move now. Come, men! Forward!” She leaped from the wall and left Tren and his men behind.

  The men took to their feet and assembled behind Tren to surge through the broken halls. They emerged from the ruins just as Lumia snapped an arm toward the temple.

  A tree in the temple’s gardens ignited with a boom. She cackled and twirled in the muddy path between the temple and ruin, her head thrown back and arms spread wide.

  “Take it apart and tear it down! Burn their temple to the ground!” she sang as the soldiers rushed to scout their assigned locations. She all but danced into the temple’s courtyard, sweeping a gesture from the burning tree, giving her arm a sharp twist as if to fling it away. Flame streaked from the branches, leaping upward to the boughs of the tree beside it. Leaves sizzled and the whole of the gardens erupted in flames with another deafening blast.