The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  He closed his eyes, readying himself for the stinging heat—

  But the flames stilled.

  Séverin’s eyes flew open. Blue light knifed through the flames. Their once intense scarlet hue dimmed as more and more shards of blue light shredded them. Séverin blinked, his hands falling a fraction. Great waves of smoke poured into the air. Where the flames had burned red, now they flushed blue at the roots, as if an infection of ice had grabbed hold of their heat. The blue spread upwards, swallowing the flames whole before cascading back down to the ground and leaving nothing but veils of indigo mist. Beneath his feet, the stones hissed and steamed. Slowly, the world gained clarity as the smoke dissolved into the air, revealing the cold night and its colder stars. When he looked to his left, he saw that the brick-walled alley once choked off by the troika fire now presented a clear—albeit charred—escape.

  “We’re alive!” whooped Enrique happily.

  He looked at Séverin, grinning and hopeful, and Séverin almost—almost—grinned back. But in the abrupt departure of the flames, Séverin remembered that he still had his arms raised. As if that could’ve saved them. Shamed, he lowered his hands. His chest heaved, sweat slicked down his spine, and his mouth tasted of smoke. He was so … uselessly human.

  But that could change.

  Enrique kneeled in the snow, his face still joyful, still hopeful. “Séverin?”

  Séverin remembered the first time he met his historian. Back then, Enrique was merely a sharply dressed university graduate. A boy with a book tucked under his arm as he paused to study a statue in L’Eden’s museum gallery.

  * * *

  “THIS DESCRIPTION IS ALL WRONG,” Enrique said.

  Séverin felt taken aback by this boy who spoke to him like an equal. No one spoke to him like that in L’Eden, and the effect was … refreshing.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s not a death deity. It’s the sun god. Surya.” Enrique pointed out the breastplate and dagger.“Those markings on the statue’s shin represent the markings of boots.”

  “Hindu gods wear boots?” asked Séverin.

  “Well, Hindu gods who might not have originated in India,” said Enrique, shrugging. “It’s believed that the sun god Surya originated in Persia, hence his depiction as a Central Asian warrior.” He shook his head. “Whoever bought this was a fool in need of a real historian.”

  Séverin grinned, then held out his hand: “My name is Séverin, and I am a fool in need of a real historian.”

  Séverin turned away from Enrique and the hope in his eyes. The cold reasserted itself in the alley and the stinging winter air slashed against Séverin’s skin. His hand went to the Tezcat spectacles buried deep inside the pocket of his jacket.

  He could no longer afford to be a fool.

  Up ahead, his gaze went to the cleared exit.

  “What are we waiting for?” demanded Hypnos. “Let’s go!” His voice rose as he stared at the smoldering troika where the House Nyx members had fought to escape.

  It looked too still, too empty.

  “Wait,” said Séverin, holding up his hand.

  Someone had rescued them. Someone had also set a trap for them. Someone was now waiting to see their next move.

  His mind whirred with names and faces and threats, but no one rose to the front of his thoughts. At the end of the alley came the sharp snap of boots against the concrete. The person’s gait was measured. Purposeful.

  Séverin reached for the blade concealed in the heel of his shoe. He snuck a glance at them all—Zofia’s snow-damp hair clung to her face, her blue eyes huge. Enrique crouched in the snow. Hypnos clung to Laila, staring unblinkingly at the troika. And Laila—Laila looked only at him. Séverin turned from her, dread cold in his heart. They were in no shape to fight. They had nothing but hats full of melted snow and a handful of weapons that slipped in their damp grasps. Still, he drew himself up, tense and waiting until the figure finally stepped into the light.

  Séverin thought he had to be mistaken. But the moonlight didn’t lie. His scar pulsed, and the briefest memory—of being held close and kept safe—disappeared in a flash of blue light.

  “Now … who do we have here?” said Delphine Desrosiers, the matriarch of House Kore. She lazily stroked the sable ruff of her coat. “Why, there’s the engineer with the arson charge.”

  Zofia’s eyes flashed.

  “A historian in need of a haircut.”

  Enrique scowled and flattened his hair.

  “A courtesan.”

  Laila raised her chin.

  Hypnos coughed loudly.

  “And you,” said the matriarch, in an affectionately loathing voice. “And, finally, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie … the Order’s favorite treasure hunter. Whatever are you doing so far from home?”

  She smiled, and her teeth caught the light.

  PART II

  From the archival records of the Order of Babel

  From the Hindu text, The Book of Dynasty written by Vidyapathi Das

  1821 translation by Fitzwilliam Ainsworth

  Upon coronation, the new king makes offerings to the gods with bowls of spiced milk and honeycombs, gold coins wrapped in rose petals and the choicest of sweets. He must make particular obeisance to the various avatars of Saraswati, goddess of knowledge, music, art and [translator’s note: the writer of this text refers to Forging as “chhota saans,” or “the small breath” as it mimics the art of gods to breathe life into creations. Hereinafter, I shall refer to this by its proper name, Forging] Forging.*

  *Archivist note:

  It is most curious to see a reference to the avatars of the goddess Saraswati, whose religious purview seems most similar to the nine Muses of ancient Greece, and who is responsible for the ancient (or apocryphal, depending on one’s intellectual bias) guardian group, the Lost Muses. Perhaps an Indian trader brought back news of these Hellenistic deities and thus introduced it to the Indian continent’s consciousness? How else would they make such a connection?

  12

  SÉVERIN

  Séverin had seven fathers, but only one brother.

  His fourth father was Envy. Envy had a beautiful wife and two beautiful children, and a beautiful home with a window that looked out over a patch of violets and a murmuring creek. The first day, Envy’s wife said that he and Tristan could call her “Mother,” and Séverin wondered if he might be happy.

  But it was not to be.

  “I wish they had some other family!” Clotilde—who no longer wished to be called Mother—despaired.

  I did, thought Séverin. Once, he had Tante FeeFee, who loved him and held him close, up until the day she told him they were no longer family. After that, she became Delphine Desrosiers, matriarch of House Kore. He said he did not love her, but every night when Tristan had gone to bed, Séverin kneeled beside his mattress and prayed. He prayed that she would come. He prayed that she would love him again. He prayed and prayed, until his eyes drooped and he could no longer hold up his chin.

  One day, Delphine arrived at Envy’s home. Clotilde simpered and flattered. He and Tristan were dragged from the gardening shed where they lived and brought to the main foyer. A phantom twinge ran through Séverin’s hands, and he forced himself not to reach for her.

  Delphine took one look at him and left without a word.

  That night, Tristan sat beside him, their hands clasped like in prayer.

  “I will always be your family.”

  * * *

  SÉVERIN STOOD BEFORE a teahouse in Khamovniki District. Tinsel and Forged lights twinkled along the snow-dusted eaves. The air carried a faint whiff of steeped tea and the chime of demitasse spoons hitting the sides of porcelain cups. On the streets, bundled-up couples in long, gray coats and fur-lined hats spared them no glance as they disappeared indoors and out of the cold.

  Séverin watched, hawkeyed, as Enrique, Zofia, and Laila were led to a different entrance by the matriarch’s Sphinx and—at Séverin’s demand—the uninjured
House Nyx guards.

  “No harm will come to them during our private discussion,” said the matriarch, eyeing him and Hypnos. “Trust me.”

  He had, unfortunately, no cause to doubt her. Before they had shoved them into the carriage, the matriarch had stripped his jacket and taken out the Tezcat spectacles. For safe keeping, she’d said, smiling. On the carriage ride, he noticed Laila had removed her gloves to touch the House Kore carriage cushion and the matriarch’s forgotten fur stole. When he caught Laila’s eye, she shook her head. It was a clear signal—the matriarch was not behind the attack.

  But that didn’t mean he had to trust her.

  Hypnos caught his eye and shrugged. “Well, we did get kidnapped … but at least most of our clothes and equipment arrived safely?”

  “Small victories,” said Séverin darkly.

  At the entrance to the teahouse, a woman greeted them in a foyer lined with mirrors on each side.

  “Tea for four? And do you prefer black or green leaves?”

  “Red leaves,” said the matriarch. She held out her hand, where her Babel Ring—a twist of thorns—glinted dully.

  “A dragon or a unicorn?” asked the woman.

  “Just the horn and the flame,” replied the matriarch.

  The moment she finished her sentence, one of the mirrors lining the walls glowed a soft green and then parted in the middle, revealing a carmine-red staircase that spiraled up. Annoyingly, Séverin found himself curious.

  “Shall we?” asked the matriarch.

  Without waiting for them to answer, the matriarch and her guard took to the stairs. The mirror door seamed shut behind Séverin, and the last of the downstairs salon laughter vanished … replaced with the rich music of a zither. Hypnos closed his eyes, humming appreciatively. He’d forgotten how much the other boy loved music. When they were young, he remembered that Hypnos possessed a beautiful singing voice. That last year his parents had lived, they’d even put on a Christmas performance, with Séverin controlling the stage and watching as the audience’s faces glowed with wonder.

  Séverin dug his nails into his palm, willing those recollections to dust. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to see Hypnos as a grinning child, breathless from song. He didn’t want to see the matriarch as she had once been to him … Tante FeeFee … whose love, for a moment, had felt unconditional.

  At the landing of the stairs, the hallway opened into a wide room. The ceiling was Forged stained glass and appeared like a drop of blood unfurling infinitely into a crystal bowl of water. Private booths of carmine lay behind ivory screens. Red poppy petals carpeted the floor, and the room smelled of musk and smoldering incense.

  Masked servers dressed in black moved discreetly through the room, balancing onyx trays holding small, pewter cups while patrons wearing gruesome rabbit masks reached languidly for the cups. It was only when Séverin saw that each of the patrons had a metal claw attached to their pinky finger that he realized what this place was.

  “A blood Forging den?” he asked.

  “We must have our pleasures one way or the other,” said the matriarch.

  Séverin had never entered a blood Forging den before … but he knew of their reputations. Such a place kept a handful of resident artists who could not only manipulate the presence of iron within one’s blood, but also heighten aspects of mind and mood. A drop of blood in the hands of a talented artist could bring dizzying pleasure, erase inhibitions with a single sip, and—it was rumored—even allow someone to wear another’s face for an evening, which lasted far longer than the effects of mirror powder.

  “Perhaps you imagine that I was behind the attack in the alley,” said the matriarch as she slid into a booth.

  Thanks to Laila, he didn’t, actually, but that didn’t explain how she knew where they would be. Vasiliev’s last words rang in his head: She’ll find you.

  Was it her?

  When neither Hypnos nor he said anything, the matriarch continued.

  “As you know, the Houses of the Order of Babel are readying themselves for the Winter Conclave in two weeks at a palace in Volgograd,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s the usual itinerary of posturing and partying before the annual Midnight Auction.”

  “Then you’re in Russia early.”

  “I had business here,” she said, rapping the table with her knuckles.

  Hypnos’s jaw opened. “Do you own this blood Forging den?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “My Sphinx was alerted to the use of one of the Order’s inroads when you crossed into Moscow. I grew curious about who else from the Order would be here, and we followed you to the alley in time to save your lives … and also with enough time to find this.”

  She slid something onto the table.

  “My men went after someone seen running away from your alley fire, and though they couldn’t catch the culprit, they were able to pick this off their clothing.”

  She removed her hand, revealing a golden honeybee.

  “The Fallen House,” breathed Hypnos, panic edging into his voice. “We haven’t found any traces of their activity since the catacombs attack.”

  “Well, they’re active now,” said the matriarch. “I haven’t forgotten your last report with the stark mad ravings of Roux-Joubert. He said the Fallen House could not access its own treasures because they could not find the Sleeping Palace. It would seem as though they think you have something worth finding … something that might change their situation…”

  The matriarch examined her fingernails. “I thought the Tezcat spectacles and the lens were mere rumor before I found them on your person. When were you going to tell the Order that you had a lead on the Sleeping Palace? To my knowledge, you’re working for us.”

  Séverin pointed to Hypnos.

  “As a member of the Order, the patriarch of House Nyx was present the whole—”

  “The patriarch of House Nyx is a puppy within the Order,” said the matriarch dismissively.

  “I resent that,” said Hypnos, muttering, “I am, at least, full-grown.”

  “You should know the rules better, Hypnos,” scolded the matriarch. “Any Order activity in Russia must be supervised by two Heads of Houses in addition to representatives from House Dazbog, otherwise you face immediate expulsion from the country. But who knows with the new patriarch? I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard he’s as reclusive as his father. And he could be five times crueler. Then again, the Order would always help you should you prove that you can find the Sleeping Palace.” She raised her eyebrow. “You need us.”

  Séverin tilted his head, catching a slip in her words.

  “Prove?” he repeated. And then he smiled. “You already tried to put the Tezcat spectacles and lens together, didn’t you? I wondered why you chose to travel in a separate carriage. I imagine your efforts did not work. And now you try this ploy of benevolence to make sure we don’t leave the Order in the dust, scrambling about for their wits.”

  For a moment, the matriarch looked stunned. Séverin studied her face. She was so much older now. Gray touched her once-blond hair, and hard brackets framed her mouth. In all these years, she hadn’t lost that alertness in her blue eyes. It was hard to meet them without thinking about the last time they’d met … when he had rejected the inheritance she’d first stolen from him, and relief had filled her whole being. Séverin dropped his gaze, his pulse thudding painfully. How much must she hate him to feel relief that he would never know what should’ve belonged to him?

  “No,” she said finally. “It did not work.”

  “So to amend your statement, it is you who needs us.”

  Her eyes hardened. “You are still vulnerable, Monsieur. If you can determine the coordinates, I will grant you the protection of my House, and make the necessary arrangements with House Dazbog. In return, I want you to find something specifically for me.”

  Séverin tensed, a part of him knowing what she would say even before she uttered it.

  “The Divine
Lyrics,” she said.

  “That book was lost,” said Hypnos, a touch too quickly.

  “Perhaps,” said Delphine. “But if it was not, and if it is there hidden in the Fallen House’s treasure hoard, I want it handed over to me directly.”

  Séverin only smiled. So that was why she wanted it. The Order was still furious with the Houses of France for jeopardizing their secrets. For Hypnos, revealing the location of the Sleeping Palace was enough to win back trust, but the matriarch clearly hungered for the elite status she once held … and only a coup like The Divine Lyrics would restore it.

  Séverin flexed his hand. This arrangement could work quite nicely. More ease of access, more security for the others. And then he could let the matriarch watch as he stole the book right out from underneath her.

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

  The matriarch nodded, then signaled to the server who set down a crystal goblet of mint tea and a small crimson vial that looked like blood.

  “Wild evening plans?” asked Hypnos, eyeing the vial.

  “I don’t partake in blood Forging activities,” said the matriarch, tossing back the vial. “And I don’t trust it.”

  “Then what was that?”

  “My own blood, mixed with a connection that repels Forging,” she said. “A mithradatic measure, if you will.”

  “Afraid someone might lure you into a night of debauchery?” asked Hypnos.

  The matriarch dabbed at her mouth. “Why not? Skill and experience are always in demand. And I have quite enough of both.”

  Hypnos spluttered, and before the conversation could take a dismal turn, the server brought out wine and, for Séverin, mazagran served in a tall glass. He stared at it. The scent of coffee syrup and ice jolted him to his childhood where Kahina used to drink this every morning in a pale, green glass. When he was little, he remembered Tante—the matriarch—teasing him that if he drank the concoction, he wouldn’t get tall. His throat tightened.