Silver Serpent

by Michael DeAngelo

  “I’m more concerned with how you managed to emerge from the place unscathed,” the Silver Serpent said.

  “Who is it, Raymond?” a warm, feminine voice asked from within.

  Raymond looked back to his home, but stopped himself from speaking. He looked to his visitor, who cocked her head to the side, curious with how he would respond.

  “Just a moment, Robyn,” he called back. “I’ll be right in.” The King’s advisor swung the door shut and leaned against it, then. “You’ll have to forgive my wife. She’s been concerned ever since the incident.”

  “I have reason to believe she has just cause,” Marin said. She swung a book forth from her pack and opened it to a dog-eared page.

  It didn’t take Raymond long to consider the image that stared back at him.

  That illustration, drawn only in black ink, seemed to jump off the page. The description mentioned a woman who could disarm a man with a baleful cry. In times of unrest, her scream could break glass, deafen those who listened to her, or even steal one’s breath away.

  He read the title on that page, arching his eyebrow as he considered the possibility. “A banshee?” he wondered.

  “If that was what the judges faced, you may have found the means to combat it. How did you escape their fates?”

  A sigh shook his frame as he pushed himself from the door. “Many of the citizens of Argos don’t recall it anymore, but…I was once a renowned bard. My wealthy father didn’t particularly care for that—no son of his was going to waste his time venturing to pubs and seedy taverns when he could be making a name for himself in more financially rewarding ways. He thought to put me on a merchant ship he owned, in order to make sure our cargo arrived at ports without anything going missing.” He chortled then as he recalled his past. “I don’t think he considered just how much singing is to be had on those old vessels.

  “Though my lungs are weary,” he went on, “and my voice is better used to convince less scrupulous men how to best keep their coins in their pockets, my reputation from those days is still as strong as it ever was—to the right people. I was called forth to judge the would-be songstresses who wanted a chance to sing at the King’s upcoming celebration.”

  Marin clicked her tongue, then. “I’ll need you to focus, Lord Bellweather. We’re running out of time before the next person could be hurt.”

  He nodded and waved that worry away. “I’m getting to the point. My ears, like my reputation, have remained sharp all these years. Though it’s a bit…arrogant, I suppose you could say, no music has tickled me quite the way my own did all those years ago. So many times you hear some shrill thing who thinks she can—” He stopped himself, then, and reached into the pocket of his vest. Out came two folded pieces of cloth, no larger than a copper coin each.

  “You plugged your ears,” Marin deduced.

  “It’s nothing I’m proud of,” Raymond confirmed.

  “Keep your pride,” the Silver Serpent spoke. “You just dealt a blow to the person who harmed your son. And I’m going to make sure they reap what they’ve sown.”

  She tossed the book across to him, and by the time it was in his hands, she was already walking away.

  *****

  The moon no longer had a chance to shine against the streets of Argos. Darker clouds obscured it and cast down rain that pattered against stone and wood. The precipitation also played its tune against the cloth awning Kelvin lingered beneath. In his red attire, he was glad no one was about to see him. As he reached Torrah Lane, though, and heard the boisterous crowd on the streets and in those buildings, he knew he would not remain hidden for long.

  He advanced until he happened upon those lit streetlamps and peered as far as the rain would let him. One of those buildings on that street seemed more popular than the rest. Patrons carried flagons of ale out into the rain for a moment while they smoked on their pipes before returning inside.

  Just on the periphery of that lantern light, Kelvin looked back down at that ledger. A few drops of precipitation landed on the name he looked at: Ciara Delaine.

  He let a little sigh exit his lungs. His costume would shield his identity well enough, he supposed, but it wouldn’t allow him access to the building. No, there was no way he was walking through that front door.

  The prince shrugged. He wasn’t exactly making a habit of proceeding into the front doors of many establishments. With his path clear before him, he bowed his head and ran around to the side of the street, cutting behind into a back alley.

  Tall wooden crates stood in the dark alley, holding refuse for each of the businesses. The Silver Serpent’s apprentice weaved around those garbage containers, counting the buildings beside him until he was sure he was at the rear of the tavern the judge’s notes indicated. When the crimson-clad fellow tried that back entrance, he found the way unlocked and proceeded inside.

  Immediately, Kelvin smelled the thick, frothy scent of the ale. He was no stranger to alcohol and spirits—he was fifteen and a prince, of course—but his father’s drink of choice was wine, and that was the drink he had in moderation as well. The aroma of the thicker liquid overwhelmed him.

  He remained in that back room, just beyond the tavern’s kitchen, listening to the boisterous crowd in the next room. They weren’t too rowdy, but who could guess how they would react to the sudden appearance of the masked man in the place he assumed many of them frequented?

  When those voices quieted, a chill moved up his spine. Had they heard him somehow? Were they preparing to rush into that back room?

  Those questions fell to the wayside as he heard a soothing voice from the adjacent room. A woman’s haunting intonation carried just the right inflection and power, and at once, Kelvin felt his interest piqued. He inched closer to the door and realized he recognized that tune.

  The woman sang no words. All she offered was an assortment of beautiful coos, two sets of five-note melodies that were enchanting and disarming.

  As Kelvin reached for the door, he realized how the song felt familiar to him. It was the same tune Charles hummed in the library earlier that day. The prince opened the door and saw the lone woman on the stage. She repeated those alternating melodies for three more bars before she let the sound linger in the air in a beautiful echo before dissipating.

  When she sang the words that would accompany the tune, the lad realized why the judges had determined to cross her name off the list. Those words were like a little croak—a sad irony that wasn’t lost to Kelvin.

  The patrons of the Tavern on Torrah Lane were not as understanding. Though they were enchanted by her cooing, the words lost their attention. Some even whispered insults to one another about the sudden shift in the quality of her talent. Those judgments were not lost to her, and her face contorted into an unpleasant scowl.

  “Let’s see any of you lot get up here and try your hand at this.”

  Those people in the crowd muttered and mumbled, but no one dared to challenge her on that. She sneered and went on, trying to rasp out the rest of the song. Her face had long before gone red in embarrassment, and she passed a pleading glance to the other corner on Kelvin’s side of the room. He looked that way and saw another room there—her sanctuary, no doubt.

  The woman swallowed away her humiliation and stood straighter. She cleared her throat and resumed cooing that beautiful melody that had enraptured the men there before. She was consumed with their elation for long enough that she didn’t see the masked fellow slip into that door to the side of the stage.

  Kelvin was thankful for the lone candle in that room. It was larger than he expected—as long as the kitchen, though perhaps only half its breadth. A chair sat against the northern side of the room, facing a mirror fastened to the wall. The dressing area was filled with trinkets and baubles other performers had left behind, but it was the scattered papers on the vanity desk that caught his attention. The lyrics Ciara sang on stage moments before were scribbled there. They were heartfelt and raw with emotion, but that sing
er did not own the voice to properly convey the feeling.

  He heard applause from the tavern and ceased his investigation.

  “That’s it, lads,” a male voice called out. “If you liked that chanting voice, we’ll be having Miss Delaine back here next week.”

  At once, chairs scraped against the floor as the patrons prepared to leave the establishment. The young prince stepped over to the far side of that room, where various outfits hung in an open closet. He stood just before that area, blending in with the costumes as best he could.

  The door opened, and the would-be songstress entered the room, a pained look upon her face. Ciara took a seat near the mirror and placed her elbows upon the vanity desk. She let her head sink into her hands, and several deep breaths steadied her and her emotions.

  “So what happened back at the music house?” Kelvin asked. He altered his voice to give it a more gravelly sound, and it was perhaps those odd rasps that made her jump and almost topple from her chair.

  She gasped, her eyes finally settling on the man in red across the way. “Who are you?” she demanded. “How did you get in here?”

  “I’m a man who knows the truth of what happened on Leister Alley,” he said. “And I’m here to see that you atone for what you’ve done.”

  “You know nothing of what I’ve done, else you would not be here,” she croaked.

  “Tell me, and perhaps we can find some way for you to redeem yourself. It is never too late to find your way.”

  “For some, it is,” Ciara lamented. “This life is not fair, and sometimes there is no redemption. Surely, those men at Leister House will never find a way to find kindness in their lives.”

  “Now that theirs are gone, you mean.”

  “A deserved fate,” she bade. “They were evil men who deserved firm justice.”

  “Justice is not delivered by those who are scorned,” he insisted.

  “And who are you to know what is right and wrong in this city? Have you suffered as I have? Have you felt the sting of heat upon your skin and the itch of ash on the back of your throat? Who are you to determine whether I need to atone for my actions in the first place?”

  He stood straighter as he considered that answer. The domino mask couldn’t hide his smile. “I am the Crimson Cobra, and I am here to help you into the light.”

  “There is no light for me, fool with a foolish name. Here, in this life I lead, there is only darkness. You could never understand the pain that I endure. If you suffer a wound, you can see it clearly. People pity you and offer their sympathies. When people see me, they see someone who hasn’t seen pain and endless discomfort. When they hear me speak, I am nothing but a joke—a fool to be mocked. Perhaps those people could be redeemed, those wicked people who would ridicule someone like me. But there are those who are beyond redemption.”

  “You don’t have to be one of them,” Kelvin pressed.

  “Yes, I do,” she bade. “As I said, you could never understand.”

  *****

  She swallowed away her anxiety but couldn’t ignore that scratch in the back of her throat. Ciara worked at suppressing a coughing fit, but it came anyway. She reached for a glass of water, ignoring those judging gazes around her.

  A serene voice piped up just beyond that curtain. It was powerful and strong, but not altogether unique. The young woman had heard crooners like that a thousand times, and they lacked imagination. Music was about more than just pitch and tone—every song should have been a journey. It was meant to be a beautiful story that could only truly be told once without losing its luster. Ciara shook her head, noting the subtleties that indicated the story had begun boring the singer. Of course it would bore those judges as well.

  All her thoughts meant nothing unless the would-be songstress impressed those same judges. Perhaps they were looking for something a little more reserved. Maybe they didn’t want someone who could make a siren jealous or outperform the goddess of song and merriment.

  All Ciara could do was her best, and she would give it her all.

  But that scratch in the back of her throat would not relent. She worked at it for a few moments, hemming and hawing and pressing air out uncomfortably. Those other girls there looked at her with judging eyes, but she ignored them—all except one.

  “Here you go, my darling,” the woman said. She offered a glass filled to the brim with water.

  Ciara wore a bright smile as she accepted that gift. “Thank you, Mother.” Her voice sounded delightful, and even those women who were competing against her couldn’t help but smile at the pleasing tone.

  “Are you all right? You’re not getting sick, are you?”

  The singer shook her head. “I’ll be fine. It’s just normal stress from all the practice.” She gulped down a mouthful of the water and cleared her throat one last time. That scratchy feeling and croaking sound were gone completely. “That’s better!”

  Ciara’s radiant mother leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll be wonderful,” she bade.

  Light applause echoed from the other side of that curtain, and the girl who sang for the audience there emerged in the backstage area.

  “You sounded great, Seelie,” Ciara said. “I’ve got goose bumps just thinking about following you.”

  That girl, just a little younger than the one who offered the compliment, blushed and looked away in embarrassment.

  “And next up, the lovely Ciara Delaine!” they heard.

  Her mother drew closer and wrapped her in a tight embrace. “Show them just how beautiful your voice can be.”

  The girl made her way past the thick, red curtain and was applauded before she even took her place on the stage.

  “She’ll be incredible,” Seelie said. “Just to be on the same stage as her while she sings, even if there’s a sturdy curtain between us…it’s such an honor!”

  Ciara’s mother placed her arm around the other girl’s back and gripped her shoulder. Together, they listened as her daughter began her lovely serenade.

  *****

  Mother and daughter walked out of that auditorium and into the music house foyer. Ciara carried a bouquet of roses and bore a smile that made them all seem a little duller in comparison.

  “Cassandra,” they both heard.

  Ciara’s mother looked up and saw a nobleman who arranged events on Leister Alley. “Harold,” she returned. Though she wore that same grin that always made her look charming and personable, her tone shifted just enough for her daughter to realize they were not in preferable company.

  “I’m so glad to see you here,” the nobleman said. “You’ve done well with Ciara’s training, and everybody in there loved her.”

  Cassandra shrugged. “I haven’t taught her much—only to love what she does. She’s so expressive with her words that it would be a waste not to allow her to pursue this passion.”

  “I understand that notion completely,” Harold said with a wide grin.

  At once, Ciara’s mother lost her smile. “Well, we must be going,” she said. “After each of these lovely recitals, I like to prepare one of my daughter’s favorite meals. We’ll have to leave now to get it done in time.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Perhaps someday you would like to prepare a special meal for me.”

  Cassandra forced that grin back to her face when she turned to her daughter. “Ciara, why don’t you go and find Seelie and congratulate her again for all the progress she’s made, huh?” When the two adults were left alone, the woman let a frown come to her face for the first time in as long as she could remember. “How many times do I have to tell you, Harold? What you want is not what is meant to be. I can’t be with you; I don’t want to be. You were Vargo’s friend, and even though he’s gone, I don’t want to tarnish his memory by being with someone he was so well-acquainted with.”

  “Would he not want you to be happy?” the nobleman said. “I would make you as happy as you’ve ever been, Cassandra.”

  She shook her head. “You can�
��t force that on someone. I want you to stop making these advances on me. They are not wanted.”

  Harold stood there, but by the pain on his face, he looked as though he’d been struck. He squared his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “You know, Cassandra, Ciara has only come so far because of my intervention here at the music house. I’ve always made a point to save her for last. That doesn’t have to happen anymore.”

  It was the woman’s turn to wince. “You would take out your frustration on an innocent girl—your friend’s daughter, no less?”

  He displayed a mischievous grin. “The way I see it, it isn’t my fault you won’t give me a chance. All you have to do is relent one time, and I’ll prove to you we could really make something together. Vargo would want this.”

  Cassandra turned to find her daughter when the man grasped her wrist. “Let go of me,” she demanded. She ripped her arm away and sneered at him as she pushed through the ornate doors of the foyer into the street.

  “You’ll see,” Harold called out. “We belong together, Cassandra. And one day, you’ll be mine!”

  The woman couldn’t cast out the sickness in her stomach. Her daughter saw her in that moment of pain and rushed to her side.

  “What’s the matter, Mama?” Ciara asked.

  “It’s nothing, darling,” she replied. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Ciara swallowed away her own emotion, the rims of her eyes shining with moisture. “Whatever happened, you don’t have to deal with it on your own. I see the way Mister Tolbert looks at you. I’ll stop all this, if it means you don’t ever have to see his weasel face again.”

  That offer had Cassandra smiling as bright as she could again. “As I said, my beautiful daughter, don’t you worry about anything at all. You are my only priority, and your happiness is infectious. It is what I live for. If that man is the least of our problems, you and I will be just fine.”