Serpent's Mark (Snakesblood Saga Book 1)

by Beth Alvarez

  They had an agreement, and she didn’t come.

  20

  Negotiations

  The crisp morning air was refreshing after hours in the underground. Daemon would have preferred to stay in the caverns, sulking in the dark while he stewed over Firal’s failure to fulfill her end of their agreement, but life went on. Regardless of whether or not she’d come to their promised meeting, he was still a leader to his people, and he meant to make the most of it. He studied the site of his first raid with a shrewd eye.

  The village seemed lively, children playing in the streets while their mothers hung clean laundry in the sunshine. There were few men at work, the fields left fallow after the raid. Most who remained were injured, and the produce gardens between houses overflowed with weeds. A shame, as the weather threatened the harvests already.

  Daemon tried to suppress the twinges of guilt that stirred in the pit of his stomach. Lumia cared little for the villages they raided; procuring supplies was her only concern.

  He, on the other hand, couldn’t help the pity he felt for the village men, strangers who had suffered at the hands of the party he’d led. That hadn’t been his plan. It had never been his intention. The memory of the deaths he’d caused made his stomach lurch. He swallowed hard and willed it to settle. Whether or not he was the general, there was nothing he could do about the casualties now.

  It was strange to revisit the village after the raid. Daemon had circled Charth’s border before sunrise to avoid notice. Now he made his way down the hill from the northern side, knowing he wouldn’t escape notice as he entered the town. The eyes of the village folk weighed on him as he passed. He’d taken care to wear a travel cloak in a style popular in Ilmenhith, but save bowing his head, he could do nothing to hide his mask. It took effort to avoid meeting their distrustful stares. Instead, he put as much purpose into his step as he could. No matter what had transpired, he had to believe returning was the best choice.

  All the buildings looked the same and he almost missed the girl who darted around the corner of the house he’d been looking for. Her mother struggled with a basket of laundry on the porch stairs. He stepped forward and put a gloved hand beneath the basket to steady it in her arms. “Careful.”

  “Thank you, sir. I—” The woman stopped short at sight of his mask.

  Daemon’s eyes narrowed, slit pupils thinning. This was it. One last chance to bring his plans to fruition. “Is your husband about? There’s business I’d like to discuss with him.”

  “What manner of business?” she asked, voice gruff. If she felt more than uncertainty, she hid it well. A hint of suspicion lurked in her stare, but she stood her ground.

  “Nothing you need be concerned about,” he assured her. “Simply a proposal.”

  Little feet pattered around the corner of the house. He glanced down and the little girl squealed when she saw his mask. “You’re back!”

  “Hello, Lea.” Daemon managed to sound cheerful. “Are those boys being nice to you and Cara now?”

  Lea hugged her rag doll and grinned up at him. “Cara says she missed you.”

  “Lea,” her mother prompted. “Rouse your father from his nap, would you? Let him know we have a guest.” She frowned, but slipped inside after her daughter and motioned for Daemon to follow.

  He stepped in after her and closed the door. The front room was larger than he had expected and he silently envied the ability surface villages had to sprawl.

  “Now, what’s this about? Kena, who’s here?” The farmer appeared in a doorway and froze. The man’s leg was splinted and bandaged, marking his involvement in the skirmish before. His gaze lingered on Daemon’s mask and his expression darkened. “He’s not a leper, is he?”

  Daemon snorted a laugh. “I assure you I’m not.”

  “He said he had business with you,” the woman said.

  “A beggar, then,” the man concluded crossly. He leaned against the doorframe for support. “I’ve no business with beggars. What do you want? In case you haven’t noticed, this is a poor village in a poor state.”

  “On the contrary,” Daemon replied with cool patience as he unfastened the ties that held his cloak closed. “This area has plenty to offer, and I’m certainly no beggar. I’m interested in trade.”

  “Who are you, then? Hurry up and speak your case! My wife and I have plenty to do today.”

  “Rolan,” his wife reprimanded as she lowered the laundry basket to the floor. “If it’s trade he’s after, you owe it to everyone to speak with him. You know how much we need.”

  The farmer’s scowl deepened, but he crept toward the low couches that formed a sitting area in the middle of the room.

  “Don’t mind him, please.” The woman shot Daemon an apologetic glance and gestured for him to sit. “This is Rolan, my husband. I’m Kena. It seems you already know our daughter. I’ll fetch some tea. Please, sit down, ah...”

  “Daemon,” he supplied. He eased back his hood and shed his cloak. The elaborate black-and-gold armor underneath was a vision he imagined haunted their dreams. “But I believe we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  Rolan’s jaw went slack, his eyes widening with memory and fear. Then his rage bubbled over. “You soul-blighted snag!” He whipped his belt knife from its sheath as he lunged forward.

  Daemon’s movements were so fluid that it took a moment for Rolan to realize his arm had been caught and redirected. His blade hovered just beside the gorget that shielded Daemon’s throat.

  “Most likely correct,” Daemon replied, plucking the knife from his hand, “but that’s hardly what I came to discuss. If you would please sit down, and refrain from shouting further profanities at me, I have a proposition you might be interested in hearing.”

  “You were the one who burned our houses! Killed our friends and family, good men I’ve known my entire life!” Rolan flexed his fingers helplessly, though his face contorted with fury. Daemon didn’t let go of his arm. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you here and now!”

  “Would you really do such a thing in front of your daughter?” Daemon nodded the direction the farmer had come from. Lea clutched the doorframe, watching them with wide, frightened eyes.

  Slowly, Rolan’s arm went slack. Daemon released him and they sank into opposite couches, almost simultaneously. Neither said a word. Kena brought a tea tray from the other room. Shaking, she sank to her knees and put it on the floor between them. It seemed all she could do to hold the teapot steady as she filled two cups.

  Daemon murmured a thank-you when she offered one to him. He took the cup from her trembling hands and stared at it for a time. Eventually, he settled the cup in his palm and awkwardly adjusted his mask. “Well. I’m not one for pleasantries, so let’s get right to it, shall we?”

  “Let’s,” Rolan agreed in a grumble.

  “Very well.” Daemon cleared his throat. “Simply put, our last visit ended poorly. Rather than face an unnecessary repeat of that event, I present you with these options.” He paused just long enough to allow his words to sink in, idly rotating his teacup. “One, we arrive at the edge of your town in three days and are met with good will. We exchange our gold for your goods, paying more than fairly. No one gets hurt. Option two, you notify the king of our intended visit, see if you have time for his forces to arrive, and have your town host the battle between us. Obviously, if we win, we’d be raiding your village for supplies afterward.” He paused again. “Third, you do nothing and wait for the same bloodbath to happen all over again.”

  Rolan and his wife exchanged looks and the farmer’s expression dissolved into a scowl. “I’ve no reason to believe you’d give us anything but a knife in the back. Who’s to say we don’t prepare for a peaceful trade, only to be slaughtered when we’re caught off guard?”

  “I’m to say,” Daemon replied, a gleam in his eye. “I protected this house during the last raid. For that, you owe me your trust, if not your lives.”

  The farmer leaned back. “I beg
your pardon?”

  “Come now, did you think it was luck that your house was not targeted? Please.” Daemon scoffed. “I saw your child in the streets before the raid. She was kind to me. I placed this house under my protection for her sake. If you doubt me, you’re welcome to ask her about the crest the Eldani king’s men found on your door.”

  Rolan looked at Kena once more, both at a loss for words. Daemon cleared his throat again and leaned forward to leave his teacup on the floor. “In any event, you have three days to think on it. You will have no way to contact us, so don’t try. My men will arrive armed, but hopefully our weapons won’t be needed.” He pushed himself up and settled his discarded cloak over his armor once more.

  “How am I to make this decision?” Rolan asked, his voice cracking with dismay.

  “Speak to the other village folk about it. Then prepare yourselves.” Daemon shrugged. “Good day, and please tell Lea goodbye for me.”

  His cape fluttered as he turned to exit, and he stepped into the sun with a renewed vigor. In the blink of an eye, everything had changed. Whether it was for better or worse, he didn’t know, but for a moment, Daemon felt a renewed glimmer of hope.

  The sun climbed into a strangely cloudless sky as the road spilled into a wide, rocky plain. Kytenia squinted against the light. Gradually, the path became wider, though the mages still rode single-file. Deep ruts left by wagon wheels marred the road and led the way to settlements on the island’s eastern half. The first time a horse stumbled over the furrows, Alira moved them to the side of the road.

  They had ridden without cease, Alira refreshing horse and rider alike as needed. At first Kytenia thought it the simple sharing of energy between mages, but when she paid closer attention, she realized Alira was replenishing their strength with power drawn from other sources. Kytenia didn’t like the idea of magic being used in such a fashion and suspected Rikka did not either, but they had no right to argue with a Master.

  Farms and tiny villages stood along the road, markers posted at intersections to offer directions down each narrow lane that branched from the main road. The city of Alwhen loomed on the horizon and as they traveled near, the city’s long shadow made Kytenia feel small.

  Alwhen was worlds different from Ilmenhith. Save for the castle, the city was squared and low, lacking the soaring heights that Ilmenhith boasted. The castle rose above the city in a grand display, though it was blocky and squat compared to the steep spires of the palace they’d just visited for the solstice. And while Ilmenhith’s palace was all sleek white stone and curves, Alwhen’s castle bore dark, boxy parapets and shallow peaked roofs of deep gray slate.

  It was solid; Kytenia admitted most of the construction in the Giftless lands was. Her own home village in the southern reaches of Elenhiise was not that different. The solid architecture offered protection from the savage storms that sometimes swept the island. Ilmenhith didn’t need such protection, relying on the mages to protect the city. Mages were welcome among the Giftless and many Masters roamed the eastern side of the island to offer healing and aid, but Alwhen had no court mages of its own.

  The city grew in clusters around the castle walls, some of the ramshackle structures built against those walls for support. Kytenia cringed to think how easily it could blow over.

  No one said anything as the Master led them past buildings that could have been houses, if not for the painted shop signs that hung outside. Kytenia hadn’t really believed Alira meant to hire craftsmen from Alwhen, but seeing her suspicions were correct still made her frown.

  People stopped to watch them pass, some of them slack-jawed. They had to be a spectacle, Alira with her eye-marks and her Master’s white to mark her as a mage of great importance, two magelings trailing along behind her in ball gowns. Though covered in dust from the journey and ash from the temple, Kytenia still thought those gowns remarkable.

  The eyes that weighed on them made Kytenia self-conscious. She rearranged her hair as they rode, settling curls around her ears to hide their point. As mages, it was unlikely they would be bothered. No one disrespected a mage. But they were not wearing their robes, and not all Giftless folk looked kindly upon Eldani. She knew from experience how the Eldani behaved as if they were better or more important than Giftless humans. It didn’t matter that Kytenia’s face and figure showed her heritage as a half-blood; her ears were still peaked. Though no one had treated her family poorly, she suspected it was because her Eldani father lacked the Gift. That the Gift had risen again in some of his children had been regarded as a miracle.

  Rikka’s head turned when they passed what must have been a carpenter’s shop, unfinished furniture and wood stacked around the outside of the building. When Alira didn’t stop, Rikka twisted in her saddle to face Kytenia and raise a brow. Kytenia shook her head to discourage conversation.

  They reached the castle walls in the early afternoon. The gates stood wide as if to welcome them, broad banners of vermillion trimmed with bronze fluttering against the walls to either side. A pair of guards stood beside the gateway and paid them little mind as they passed. The courtyard was empty, save the four guards beside the heavy wood doors of the castle. The men watched them without interest.

  Alira drew to a halt halfway through the courtyard and dismounted. She smoothed her white robes before starting toward the castle’s main doors. The girls followed.

  “This doesn’t look like a carpenter’s shop,” Rikka whispered.

  Kytenia hushed her as the guards at the door crossed spears.

  “State your business,” one of the men said, his voice flat.

  “I am Alira, Master of the House of Fire, hailing from Kirban Temple. These are my escorts.” She gestured to Rikka and Kytenia. “I am here to speak to King Relythes. A message was sent by carrier pigeon with word of my coming.”

  The crossed spears lifted. “Proceed.” The guards motioned them forward and opened the doors. One tilted his spear to offer direction. “King Relythes will receive you in the throne room, straight ahead from where you stand.”

  Kytenia and Rikka offered slight curtsies as they passed the men, though Alira brushed past them with her chin held high.

  The inside of the castle was no cheerier than the outside, the dark interior lit with torches that made the great hall stiflingly hot. Greasy smoke clouded the open rafters overhead and stained the wooden beams with soot. They passed through several archways before the room widened, though its size barely accommodated the people crammed inside. A long table stretched nearly from the foot of the throne’s dais to the archway in which the mages stood. Benches at the table’s sides were packed with men and women in finery, all of them eating and drinking and laughing uproariously.

  On the throne was a man who seemed too short to be kingly, balding beneath his crown. While not fat, he was certainly not as fit as he could have been. His remaining hair was cut short, most of it graying—a sharp contrast to his thick beard, which was dark and peppered with only a few white hairs. His eyes lit with delight when he saw them and he opened his arms wide. “Come, come!” he shouted, waving them forward. “There’s always room for more fine women at my table!”

  “King Relythes of Eastern Elenhiise,” Alira called back over the noise of those who cavorted over the endless feast. “I expected more formality in our reception.”

  “That’s the problem with you mages,” Relythes laughed. “Everything’s always prim and proper. No room for any fun. Come! Sit, drink! Tell me why your Archmage has sent you.” He rose from his throne and gestured toward the table. A wave of his hands sent people scattering, making room for the three mages at the end nearest the throne. He descended from the dais at an easy pace and drew back the tall chair at the head of the table, easing himself down into it as Alira took a seat beside him.

  Kytenia had no desire to sit near the king, but she had no choice. She settled across the table from Alira and bunched her skirts against her legs to make room for Rikka to sit.

  “I was under the
impression the Archmage sent word ahead to establish our meeting.” Alira shook her head when someone beside her offered a goblet and decanter.

  “She mentioned something, aye, but I wasn’t sure if that was still the case,” Relythes said. A servant deposited a full goblet into the king’s hand and he swirled the wine in it absently. “Just being cautious, mind you. It’s not every day a proposition like this comes along.”

  Alira said nothing and Relythes sank back in his chair to study her. Despite his apparent playful demeanor, his eyes were shrewd. He sipped his wine without seeming to taste it. “It seems convenient, doesn’t it? The timing of it all. Between the Eldani king’s solstice, the attack on the temple and your Archmage seeking my...what would you say, patronage?”

  Kytenia’s eyes widened, but she kept the rest of her face blank. The Giftless rulers had always treated the mages fairly in exchange for the services they could provide, but Relythes and his people had about as much involvement with the temple as a rooster had with nesting. Part of it had been stubborn pride, but Kytenia suspected just as much was an unwillingness to associate with mages sponsored by a rival king.

  “In my opinion, sir, your people have a great deal to gain.” Alira’s expression never changed, though Relythes raised a brow at the informal way she addressed him. She was not speaking to her ruler, but his rank still demanded respect.

  “Has the temple really grown so autonomous it has the power to withdraw from the man who paid to found it?” he asked, resting his goblet on the table.

  Alira smiled grimly. “Until Kifel’s failure to protect it, the temple was able to provide for itself. Our mages are stationed across the whole island. Cities pay for their services with goods that can be sold easily, if not used. We are not asking for endless support. We seek only what is needed to rebuild. The benefit of our service is an invaluable resource for any patron.”