Silver Serpent

by Michael DeAngelo

  *****

  She walked down that alley, a new set of flowers in hand. They weren’t as beautiful as the roses she was given, but they would serve a much greater purpose. The herbalist, Ormund, explained that grinding their petals down and putting those into a broth would help to pass a summer cold.

  Her mother always treated her so well, she thought. It was time to return that favor.

  As she went on her way, she saw dark clouds in the sky. On that afternoon, when the sky was blue and clear, those few black ones seemed so out of place. Ciara realized her mind was just playing tricks on her. They weren’t dark clouds but black plumes of smoke. Deep in her heart, she knew where those pillars of ash rose from. The girl threw the flowers to the ground and broke into a sprint, charging down the alley.

  Her pace only faltered for a moment when she saw a man in the shadows beside that row of houses. He looked up at the blaze that roared out of the side of the farthest one. His face was concealed by darkbrown fabric beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but his eyes were still visible. Ciara studied them for just a moment, noticing how eager they were—and somehow familiar.

  She cast those suspicions aside and kept to her route. The girl burst through the door of her house, already thick with smoke. She coughed away that itchy feeling that made its way to the back of her throat.

  “Mother!” she cried.

  The girl ran up the stairs, enveloped by those billowing black clouds. Already wheezing from her rapid sprint down the street, she gasped for air, and swallowed only a mouthful of smoke and ash.

  Ciara fell to the ground, coughing and gagging. Tears wrenched their way from her eyes and cascaded down her face, leaving dark trails when they mixed with the soot that already covered her delicate skin.

  She reached for the door to her mother’s bedroom and could already feel the heat beyond that handle. There was only a moment of hesitation, though. Ciara furrowed her brow and reached down, turning that piece of brass and throwing open the door.

  With a new source of oxygen, the flames on the opposite side of that wall roared to life. Like a blast of fire from a wizard’s wand, it sent Ciara teetering backward. Beyond that roar and sinister crackle, she could see the person who meant the most to her hanging off the bed. Flames crept along the floor just beyond her, but she was unmoving.

  Ciara’s eyes opened wide, and she stepped forward, but those flames were too oppressive. “Mother!” she cried again. That brief appeal sent more smoke into her lungs, which she worked at expelling.

  When she looked up again, the ceiling that met with the wall to her mother’s room danced with flames. The blaze grew so powerful and bright she could no longer see Cassandra beyond it.

  There was no time, Ciara thought. She could wait no longer, despite the pain, despite her fears. She charged forth, through those flames. It was too late, she realized. The flames on the ground had reached Cassandra and ate away at her face and hair like a hungry beast.

  Ciara reached her mother’s side and pulled her away, back onto the bed. The pillow smothered away the fire that resided on Cassandra’s once silky black hair, but her face was already red and blistered.

  She couldn’t linger on that image for long, she realized. Time could be set aside to mourn her mother’s beautiful looks when they were out of the fire. With renewed vigor, Ciara propped beneath Cassandra’s shoulder and tugged her off the bed. She had always thought of her mother as a petite woman—a little taller, though she had a narrow frame. But in those moments, when Cassandra was not conscious to help her, she almost couldn’t bear the weight.

  “Is someone in there?” Ciara heard someone shout.

  “We’re here!” she cried. She was surprised by the sound of her own voice. Gone was the siren’s call, replaced instead with a warble of some strange beast instead. “We’re here!”

  She pulled Cassandra through the threshold of her room and was met by a sturdy fellow at the top of the stairs. He looked at the unconscious woman as though he had seen a monster but accepted the burden from Ciara. At once, he hoisted Cassandra onto his shoulder and carried her down the steps.

  Relieved of that weight, the girl collapsed to her hands and knees at the top of the flight of stairs. She coughed and coughed, until she saw spots in her vision. When she looked down, everything was blurry. Ciara didn’t feel it when a hand reached out to her and pulled her up off the ground.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed, but she realized she was outside. Smoke still billowed into the air, and everything seemed at once distant and too huddled together. Those sights were still too much to comprehend, so she focused on words instead.

  “I sent for the arcanists. If the fire spreads, they should be able to stop too many of these houses from going up in smoke.”

  “Did anyone see what happened?”

  “It’s the middle of the summer. They didn’t have a fire going.”

  “Maybe it was a cooking fire?”

  Somehow, that last bit of the exchange had Ciara reeling from her stupor. She was reminded of the man who stood just beyond the row of houses. As comprehension came back to her, she looked down and noticed her mother just beside her. The man who pulled her from the house worked at breathing new life into her, but Ciara could tell he was losing hope.

  She fell to the ground beside Cassandra and grabbed her hand. “Please, Mother,” she sobbed. “You can’t leave me like this.”

  Ciara clung to the hope that all was not lost.

  *****

  The young woman adjusted her outfit, tugging at the leather straps that held up the rest of her attire. A single look at her reflection deflated her somewhat, and she bowed her head.

  Gone were the days of pretty dresses and tumbling golden hair. This was her life now, and it would have to do.

  She smoothed out the ruffles in the shirt beneath the vest and combed the knots out of her tresses with her fingers. She grabbed the quartet of glasses and pushed her way out of the kitchen.

  The rest of the tavern smelled just like the flagons of ale, only worse. The patrons there weren’t altogether unpleasant, but when they imbibed too much, things could get a little out of control. Ciara had learned how to move her hips to avoid the unwanted touches of a few of those drunks from time to time.

  She set down her collection of drinks at two different tables and pulled the old rag from her belt, wiping down a third table where those who once sat moved on. Ciara jerked upright when she felt a firm slap on her rear. She gnashed her teeth together and fought against the urge to look back and see who had gone about it. They were already moving along, she had to remind herself.

  Still, those tears in her eyes had to be hidden. She continued toward the kitchen once more, picking up those few empty flagons she could find along her way. The door swung ajar, and another serving girl kicked the door open for her, offering a polite smile as she passed. Ciara breathed out a quiet sigh as she accepted that kind gesture.

  Alone in the kitchen again, she braced herself on the trough on the far wall. Swallowing away all the emotions that vied for control over her, she reached up and wiped the moisture from her eyes, taking care to preserve the smoky color she had painted upon them.

  “You still look beautiful—no need to worry about that,” she heard, and a smile found its way to her face at once. She turned about to see the familiar face there. It was a bit worse for wear, but those scarred bits were covered by a sky-blue veil. Nothing could diminish Cassandra’s warm smile. “I hate to see you in a place like this. So I’ve found something better for you.” She held out a rolled piece of parchment, waving it in the air.

  Ciara crossed over to her and plucked the paper from her mother’s hands. She unfurled the roll of parchment and read its contents, and that smile upon her face diminished. She looked at her mother with pain in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong, darling?” Cassandra asked.

  The young woman stared at that half-beautiful face before her. There was no intention to hurt her so.
Cassandra looked at her with as much love as anyone could, and she truly believed that everything was fine, that nothing had changed.

  The delusion stung in Ciara’s heart as surely as any knife would have.

  “It’s nothing,” Ciara croaked. “Thank you for showing me this. But that isn’t my life anymore. I’m happy here.”

  “Dear girl, I could always tell when you were unhappy,” her mother said. “You have a beautiful voice still. When you chant—when you hit a certain pitch—there’s no telling what feelings you could inspire in someone. Don’t give up on your passion, my darling.”

  Ciara struggled to keep those tears from resurfacing and wrapped her mother in as tight an embrace as she could. When they separated, she gave a curt nod and plucked up another quartet of ales.

  Cassandra was already on her way out of the kitchen, but she proceeded out through the tavern. Her daughter’s eyes widened, and she followed as quickly as she could, taking care not to spill any of the alcohol she held onto.

  Many of the patrons there kept to their conversations, though a few peered up from their tables at the shrouded woman. Some noticed her retained beauty, while others could see just beyond that veil, at the terrible burns left behind. Ciara moved to usher her on, to spare her from that embarrassment, but Cassandra cared not.

  Her daughter halted in that moment, seeing that strength in her. Perhaps it was better not to let their scars define them, she mused. She stood there in the tavern and watched as her mother walked out into the street, illuminated for a moment in that lantern light before the door swung shut again.

  “Wasn’t that the lass you were always longing for all those years?” Ciara heard.

  “Yeah, Vargo’s old lady. Before he died, I mean,” another fellow said.

  The third man at that table chortled. “That time is long gone. Any affection I had has burned away like that withered side of her face.”

  One of his companions laughed at the heinous offense, but the other one leaned back and looked away. When he did, Ciara was left with a clear view of the fellow who had slung that insult. It was the eyes she remembered first. At one time, they were eager, but that night, it was only wickedness she saw.

  Harold Tolbert sat there, oblivious to the young, damaged woman in front of him who served drinks and shrugged off lewd men. As he caught a glimpse of her, she stormed away like the tempest scorned.

  She made her way into the street, breathing in clean air that made her lungs burn, and the memories of the fire that maimed her mother replayed in her mind. Ciara seethed and walked away from the Tavern on Torrah Lane, until she arrived at the little bridge that crossed over the canal. She looked to the sky, praying for composure or guidance or whatever she needed to make it through those vengeful thoughts.

  As she looked at those stars, a rolling wave of green and blue passed overhead. She arched her eyebrow as she considered that phenomenon and watched it continue west, until it faded into the horizon.

  She couldn’t explain it, but she felt a release then. It was as if the pain of that event those few years before had washed away. Ciara turned back to the tavern with new determination.

  *****

  Hearing all those other beautiful voices for the first time in as long as she could remember was bittersweet. Melodies she had thought lost to time echoed in her ears, and the pageantry warmed her heart. Those performers who she had grown to be friendly with in those times before offered her bright grins and gentle gestures.

  She swallowed away the tension, but she could only offer them an endearing smile. A young lad with coppery hair spoke to one of the nobler attendees—a beautiful thing with silky black hair like her mother once had. That lass was Lucrecia Conti, Ciara reminded herself. She wasn’t a fantastic singer, but she felt emotion in her heart when she crooned and chanted, and it empowered her words. Even if she hadn’t been attractive, she could understand how that boy could be so smitten.

  A light tap on her shoulder pulled her from her study. Another of the songstresses pointed to the curtain, and Ciara looked that way. That woman left the building with Lucrecia, leaving Ciara alone.

  “Next,” a voice from the audience called out.

  The young woman blew out a nervous sigh and passed between those curtains, emerging onto the stage, so familiar yet so different than she had remembered. It seemed bigger, as if there was more space between her and the audience. She approached the end of that stage, standing in the light that best allowed her to see those judges sitting at a table on the floor, beyond the plush seats.

  As she arrived there, a judge at the end of the table stood and crossed the way. Ciara noticed him intercepting the copper-headed lad, who turned and made his way toward the restroom just off the side hallway.

  “What’s your name, lass?” one of the remaining judges asked.

  She felt that scratch in her throat then. With a gaze to those three fellows, she tried to seal away that trepidation, but it was not to be. For there, among those judges who remained, was that familiar face—the one that had ruined her life.

  “Mister Tolbert,” she snarled, though her voice was naught but a whisper.

  “What was that?” the judge asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s Ciara,” she croaked.

  The two judges who did not know her raised their eyebrows or widened their eyes, but that familiar one narrowed his as he tried to place how he knew the girl.

  “You may begin when you’re ready,” the middle judge assured.

  She took a step back, just out of the light. The woman wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide her identity from Harold or if she wanted to alleviate some shame if she couldn’t perform as well as she used to. Still, when she took that one deep breath, it was as if nothing had changed.

  She chanted, beginning with a simple melody of just five notes. It had been so long since she performed in front of others that just conceding to that need invigorated her. Ciara pushed through, continuing her song—a lovely chant—until she left off on a high pitch that echoed throughout the music house.

  “You sound lovely, my dear,” the oldest judge said. “Where did you say you’ve been singing to prepare?”

  Ciara offered a meager smile she was unsure they would see just beyond that light. “I’ve been practicing at the Tavern on Torrah Lane.”

  “Your time there has no doubt given you plenty of chance to refine that beautiful chant. We’ll be looking for more diversity during this gala, however. Can you sing for us something with words, perhaps?”

  “Anything a bard would sing in the taverns all about will do,” the other unfamiliar judge added.

  She shook her head, but it was a subtle movement, and the three judges below held fast, waiting for her to proceed. “Well, go on,” one bade.

  Ciara blew out an anxious sigh and cleared her throat, but she knew nothing would dismiss those awful scratches that plagued her vocal cords.

  With a meek voice, she began her song.

  “A little louder, please,” the oldest judge requested.

  She obliged, wincing at her own voice. That sound was not lost to them, she noticed. They whispered to one another, concern apparent on their faces.

  Harold, on the other hand, wore a bright smile and looked to his peers. “She’s like a dying cat,” he teased loud enough for her to hear.

  The other gentlemen said nothing to him in return, but Harold started laughing at the sound of her voice. “A frog and a crow just gave birth up there on the stage.”

  Ciara’s eyes were filled with tears in an instant. They didn’t obscure her sight enough to miss the smirk that one of those other judges wore.

  “We can’t have her sing for the king,” Harold said. “Especially if there are children present.”

  The last judge couldn’t hold back a snicker either. As those two fellows gave into their own fits of laughter, Harold Tolbert finally made sense of the lyrics the woman sang. It was a song about a man who sought the affections of a woman who d
idn’t want him, so he burned her house to the ground to somehow woo her.

  That poor woman on stage saw him shift in his seat, swallowing away his tension. He finished jotting down one more thing in his ledger, and he gave a curt nod.

  “That’ll be all,” he said. “Next.”

  Ciara didn’t budge from her spot on the stage. She stood there, staring at the three judges—two of which finally brought their laughter under control.

  “Enough, enough,” the older fellow said. “Go on then, lass. Perhaps we’ll reach out to you for something a little less…”

  “Professional,” the other judge said.

  Still, she stayed there. When she did finally move, it was back into that light. “You all think of me as a monster,” she rasped. “But none of you are concerned with the monster who sits with you at that table.”

  The two judges who did not know the woman bowed their heads in shame. Harold glanced about the room with a look of shame etched onto his face.

  “That makes you all monsters,” she said, stepping to the edge of the stage. “And monsters need to be slain.”

  Without hesitation, she sang again, that high-pitched chant beginning in much the way it had for her first audition. The three men looked at each other with concern and confusion, but that moment of contemplation soon passed. Ciara sang louder and at an even higher pitch.

  Harold placed his hands to his ears, but it was too late. Her shriek pierced his eardrums, and blood coated his palms at once. Disoriented, he couldn’t focus on the image of that girl on the stage. His other peers struggled as well, groaning and crying out. As Harold’s hearing became a lost sense, his pain melted away, and he was afforded another glance at the familiar woman.

  She still sang, her mouth open wide, a visage of rage. He felt a force upon him, as if wind whipped past him. That was when he realized he couldn’t breathe. Every gasp produced nothing beyond a shallow wheeze, and he struggled for every bit of air he could find. Somehow, Ciara maintained that wailing note, too high for him to hear, even if his ears had not been damaged.