Serpent's Crown (Snakesblood Saga Book 5)

by Beth Alvarez

  Still, on top of assuming he would help after the way she'd spoken to him, she assumed he was still capable of facing the former Archmage on his own. Such an expectation would have been laughable even if he'd been at full strength.

  “Wait,” Rune said, raising a claw. “Why is Vahn there?” The mention of his one-time friend's name had almost escaped his notice. The alcohol must have dulled his wits instead of his heartache. “I thought you said he was riding across the island.”

  Firal shook her head. “I don't know what's happened or what took him there, but both Rikka and Shymin said they saw him there. Rikka said he was a captive.”

  He frowned, the only outward hint of the emotions that warred within him. For years, Vahn had been his friend—his dearest and only true friend, at that. More than once, Vahn had laid his life on the line for him. Rune's heart leaped at the opportunity to repay the favor, but the bitter, selfish part of him reined it in. In his absence, Vahn had taken his wife, his child, even his crown and his place in the palace. How genuine of a friend could he be?

  “I can't seem to convince you any other way, so I've come to ask your help,” she said, pacing closer. “Not order it. I will hold council at dawn to decide what we will do. I can grant you clemency and power, give you a title and holdings. Wealth, land. Whatever you ask, I will give you as reward.” She stopped only a step away.

  He searched her face, his eyes narrowing. “Anything?”

  Firal swallowed and dropped her gaze to the floor. Her hand traveled up the front of her bodice and lingered at the base of her throat, saying more than words could. “Anything.”

  Again emotion warred within him. How could she spit such venom in her office, then offer herself to him like that? Anger roiled against the heartache that swelled in his chest. He wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her until she couldn't breathe. He wanted to throw her words back at her, tell her he hated her and see if it tore at her heart. And he hated that she stood so close.

  It would have been so easy to take what she offered. Already he imagined the salty flavor of her skin and the way he'd fit between her supple thighs. It had been years—a lifetime, for some Giftless men. Weren't feelings like this supposed to fade? Despite all the hurt and anger that scorched him from the inside, he wanted nothing more than to drown in her amber eyes and lose himself inside her. It was primal, base, but he knew it was the only way he could convey the depths of his feelings. He'd always thought himself good with words. Nobility had to be. With the storm of emotions she caused, words could never be enough.

  Yet all the longing that surged within him couldn't drown the resentment that welled up alongside the tide of desperation. She'd made her wishes clear when he'd written a letter to ask forgiveness and beg an audience. The silence that answered had been enough. She'd moved on and remarried. How little must she think of him, to believe he would lay with another man's wife? How little did she know him, after all the times he'd laid his heart bare?

  “I can't help you.” Rune stalked back to the table he'd had brought to his room and drew back his chair.

  Firal's mouth fell open and tears welled in her eyes. They clawed at his bleeding heart, so he didn't look at her again. Instead, he focused on refilling his empty glass.

  “I'm speaking of your daughter!” she cried, clutching her skirts in her fists and storming to the edge of his table.

  “And you didn't think to speak of her any time before now,” he snapped. “Before a moment where everything you think I can do offers you a convenience. In all these years, you never thought I might want to know I had a child?”

  “I was protecting her!”

  “A fine job of it you've done,” Rune murmured over the rim of his glass as he sat down and took a sip. It was crude whiskey, nothing like what he could get on the mainland. But it was strong, and it would do. The floor would roll like the seas beneath his feet before he was ready to stand again.

  Her cheeks flushed with anger, but she kept control of her tongue better than he expected. The woman he'd known would have flayed him with words. Instead, she remained cool and collected as she drew herself up with a sharp inhale. “You were supposed to save us.”

  He swirled the liquor in his glass and shrugged. “I'd say I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't really care.”

  Firal's mouth tightened and the fire in her eyes turned to frost. “So,” she said, smoothing her skirts. “You've become just as much a monster on the inside as you are on the outside.”

  The words cut deep, stabbed and twisted until everything in him came apart. Grief swelled and turned his stomach as the last tiny flame of hope he'd harbored extinguished, but the facade he'd carried since childhood never faltered. Ignoring the soul-deep agony that chilled his heart, he offered a smug smile and raised his glass as if in toast.

  Her face crumpled as she spun on her heel and stormed from his room. She slammed the door behind her so hard, it rattled on its hinges.

  His smile twisted to a snarl as the room fell silent, leaving only the sound of his drumming pulse to hum in his ears. Too quick, too loud. Stifling a roar as he came out of his chair, he flung his glass after her.

  It fell short and shattered on the floor, followed by the near-empty whiskey bottle.

  A monster, inside and out. Those words bit to the core, echoing and amplifying everything he'd ever hated about himself. Everything he'd always feared. The table tilted under his hands as he shoved himself back. The chair got in his way. He kicked it aside and it toppled with a crash.

  Rage burned in his chest and was mirrored in his glowing eyes. Gleaming, ruddy light danced around him, glinting off polished candlesticks and windows, mocking him from every angle.

  She'd been the only person who ever mattered, the only one he'd wanted to impress, the only one who ever made him think he could be something more than a beast. Yet to her, that was all he was.

  The standing mirror shattered before he realized he'd thrown something at it. The glass cackled as it hit the floor, taunting him as claws burrowed into his arms. The scent of acrid iron filled his nostrils and made him sick.

  Howling in anger and defeat, he fell to his knees and gritted his teeth against the pain as he rent rows of scales from his arms. Blood flowed down his fingers, sticky and hot, plastering the tatters of his sleeves against his torn flesh.

  Worse than anything, the pain or blood or the roar of his heartbeat in his head, was the aching knowledge she was right.

  22

  Decisions

  Though Rune heard someone knock, the sound was lost in the haze of memory between wakefulness and sleep. The clack of the door's latch roused him.

  “Oh,” a girl's voice squeaked from the doorway, and the door closed again.

  Rune closed his eyes. He didn't recall falling asleep, but the throbbing in his head made it hard to think. Stars still speckled the sky outside the windows, though he'd been on the stone floor so long, it no longer felt cold. His body ached from laying there, but the pain in his arms made it easy to ignore. Still, he didn't move, silently wishing for the empty embrace of sleep to take him again.

  It wasn't allowed the chance. Again the door opened, this time with the rustle of skirts and the quiet padding of slippered feet.

  “Fetch a mage, and bring warm water and a rag,” said a soft, motherly voice above him. Gentle hands touched his shoulder and stroked soothingly instead of shaking. “Come along now, my Lord Daemon. Her Majesty calls for you.”

  She touched his bicep and coaxed him upright with gnarled fingers. He didn't resist, moving mindlessly as she guided him to his feet and steered him toward the table. His legs were unsteady, but she was an unwavering support beneath his arm.

  “Here we are,” the old woman murmured. She caught the overturned chair with her foot and pulled it close enough to stand it upright. Then she guided him down onto it, her touch strong and confident.

  His shoulders sagged as he sat, his head bowed. He stared at his hands in his lap without see
ing them. He didn't want to see. What wasn't crusted with black blood was still green, glittering in the feeble light of the candle a maid placed before him.

  The bowl of water clacked against the table as the girl put it down in front of him. He smelled the steam from where he sat.

  “What is it?” another familiar voice asked from the doorway. A flurry of footsteps echoed in the room as the maid hurried out and someone else hurried in. Hushed whispers in the hallway were muted when the door swung shut.

  He closed his eyes again.

  “He needs healing, miss mage.” The old woman took hold of one of his arms and moved it aside. Leaning close, she pulled a knife from her belt and cut open the front of his shirt. Carefully, she peeled it back.

  “What happened?” the mage asked as she hastened to his side.

  “It doesn't matter,” the old woman replied gruffly. “It's over now.” She drew off his shirt and behind them, the mage made a quiet sound of surprise. The air that kissed his scarred back was cold, sharp.

  The old woman dunked the rag into the water and wrung out the excess before she laid the cloth against his wounded arm. He winced, but didn't pull away.

  “I'll be brief,” the mage murmured. She pressed cool hands to his shoulders, her thumbs against his neck. The chill made his skin rise in gooseflesh, the reaction only magnified by the eerie feeling of her energies pouring into him.

  A wash of warmth followed and the pain in his head and his arms subsided as his torn flesh knit itself back together, as seamlessly as if it had never happened at all.

  “You've been through a great deal, my lord,” the old woman said, refreshing the rag and sponging his arm until his scales began to come clean. “But the queen needs you.”

  “No one needs me,” Rune croaked. “They need something I can't give.”

  She huffed and reached for his other arm. “Oh, hush now. There's no time to be feeling sorry for yourself. We need the leader you were, my lord. Even my boy says it.”

  He tilted his head just enough to look at her. The dark eyes in her bronzed face looked so stern and piercing, he would have recognized her even in the dark. She'd been good to them; a friend to him and like a mother to Firal. Minna's presence should have been a relief, allayed his fears that the people he'd been forced to abandon had struggled without him. Instead, it served as one more harsh reminder of his failures.

  He lowered his gaze again, afraid she'd see through him now that his facade was cracked. “I'm not that person anymore. I can't help anyone.”

  “Don't be silly.” The mage knelt beside his chair. Rikka had worn yellow robes when he'd seen her last, though she—like everyone else—had changed. Her transformation was minor, less noticeable than the white wings in Kytenia's hair.

  Rikka's eyes had always been blue; now they were just bluer. Her hair was a different shade of red, now sporting the orange tint of henna. It was difficult to think of her as a Master. A Master of a House of affinity at that, with delicate black markings painted at the corners of her eyes. It hurt to think how many of them must be stronger than him now.

  Rikka touched his bare shoulder, her fingertips gentle and reassuring. “You're the only person they knew to call for help. Your daughter is counting on you, Ran.”

  Startled, he glanced at Minna. The old woman nodded and continued her work without a word.

  “How did you—” he started.

  “I was there when Firal found out,” Rikka said. “A few days after you escaped, right before her formal coronation. She was ill and Kytenia offered to heal her. But it wasn't the sort of illness that could be healed.” She smiled sheepishly, though the expression was quick to fade. “That was when we found out you'd been married. Firal was so frightened. Worried about her safety and the safety of the baby. So Kytenia told Vahn to marry her.”

  The words took a weight from him. Rune lifted his head, just a little, but found the movement easier. “Kytenia told them to?”

  Rikka nodded. “It was the only thing she knew to do that would ensure they'd be safe. Nobody was happy, but everyone thought it best. I think it was hardest on them. Vahn and Kyt, I mean, since they had planned to wed.”

  So Vahn hadn't stolen his wife. With all the bitterness that came from learning of their union, this new information was a relief and a blessing. Rune had asked Vahn to protect her. He never would have imagined that was what it would take.

  “There.” Minna gave his arm one last swipe with the rag and dropped the cloth into the murky bowl. “Just like it never happened.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  Minna offered a sad smile and patted his hand. “Now to get you ready. The two of you will have to chatter later, miss mage. Council will be meeting soon. That's why someone was sent to fetch him in the first place.”

  “Of course.” Rikka blushed and pushed herself up. “I'll see you at the meeting, Ran.”

  Minna hurried her along, then paused at the doorway to take bundles of things from the maids waiting outside. None of the girls dared do more than peek inside, though they whispered furiously amongst themselves until Minna shut the door in their faces.

  “Rotten little gossips,” Minna grumbled as she carried the bundles to the bed. “That sort of behavior would never be tolerated in Core.”

  She unfolded the cloth wrappings and held up a coat to inspect the embroidery. “I hope one of these fits. I know you asked for something to be made, my lord, but you'll need to be properly dressed before it arrives. Can't have you tending a formal meeting in...” She trailed off, her mouth twitching. The tatters of his bloodied shirt lay on the table before him. “Well, I'm sure one of them will do.”

  Rune tried not to sigh. “What good am I going to do in a meeting of council? I don't have the power to do what they ask.”

  “You'll do as much as anyone, I suspect.” She lifted another coat, shook her head and cast it aside without a second thought. “The best you can, given the circumstances. Ah, this one should do. Let's see if it fits.”

  Easy for her to say. They hadn't threatened to kill her over a lack of cooperation. And no matter how he tried to put on a brave face and pretend it didn't bother him, there was still a part of him that went cold with fear whenever the thought of execution crossed his mind. The same cowardly part made him wish he could run and escape all the problems that had erupted since his arrival.

  Minna returned to his side with a thin shirt of white linen in her hands. A coat in the near-unchanging high-collared style of Ilmenhith hung over her arm. The color she'd chosen surprised him, for all it had seemed like a good idea the day before.

  “I don't know—” he started.

  She didn't let him finish, pushing the clothing into his arms. “Come on, now, get dressed. I didn't think to send for trousers, yours will just have to do. Fortunate they're dark. They won't show much dirt.”

  He frowned as she scuttled back to the bed and busied herself with folding the discarded clothing, but he didn't have many choices. If he didn't attend Firal's meeting willingly, he had no doubt she'd have her guards strong-arm him. He pulled on the clean shirt and rose to shrug into the blue coat. He trailed his claws over the silver embroidery on the sleeves and paused. He'd seen this coat before.

  It was his father's.

  “Minna—”

  “You'd best hurry,” she interrupted, returning to straighten his cuffs and collar. Then she stood on tip-toe to place something on his head. He twitched as the cold metal settled against his brow.

  “There.” Minna cupped his face in both hands and smiled warmly, though tears filled her eyes. “What a king you would have been, if only you'd had the chance to lead us.”

  Rune touched the back of her gnarled hand with his claws, his brow furrowed. “I'm not fit to lead anyone.”

  “I think you might be surprised, my lord.” She patted his cheek, stepped back, and wiped her eyes. “Go on, now. You've a little girl who needs you.”

  “I can't help her.” His voice cra
cked.

  “And who says you can't?” The old woman stared up at him with her lower lip in a defiant pout.

  “They want me to do things I'm not capable of anymore. They want me to be a hero, but I'm...” he trailed off, flexing his clawed fingers until he curled them into the palms of his hands.

  Minna huffed. “Who's to say you can't be a hero? No one gets to decide that but you. Heroism is a choice, Lord Daemon. Lifetree knows you've already been one to us.”

  Rune's brow furrowed and he squeezed his eyes closed.

  Gently, her hand touched his jaw. “Chin up, Lord Daemon. Never forget you were our king by right.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and bowed his head. He'd have time to argue with Minna later, when there wasn't a risk of guardsmen apprehending him for truancy. Instead, he ran his fingers over the embroidered cuff of his coat and turned toward the door. “Thank you, Minna.”

  She didn't look at him again, simply sniffed and waved him away as she returned to folding and sorting the unneeded clothing on the bed.

  Squaring his shoulders and lifting his head, Rune strode into the hallway and pretended he didn't see the serving staff milling about in their pre-dawn work. His fingers twitched and he forced them to be still, lest he find himself touching the embroidery again.

  Part of him wanted to remove the crown and inspect it, fearing it might be one of his father's as well. The one he'd commissioned for himself wouldn't be done until that evening and, while he'd requested one similar to what Kifel had worn, he wasn't so bold as to wear one styled after the king's.

  Workers stopped to look at him, some pale, others spooked. Did he look so frightful, dressed as he should have been? He had to admit Minna was right. The kingdom's colors were his by right, if not by birth. And though he knew the finery he wore belonged to his father, he doubted anyone else would recognize it. He knew because of the way he'd hung on his father's sleeve as a child, the way he'd studied the man's posture and tried to mimic it, the way he'd tried to engrave every word of approval into his memory. His throat tightened and he banished the thoughts as he made his way toward the council chamber.