The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  “Is anyone else here?”

  “No,” said Enrique.

  “Good.”

  Hypnos crossed the room in quick strides and kissed him. The kiss sent a sparkle through his body, and Enrique savored the slow melt of it. It was a welcome distraction, and he leaned into it with the greed of someone starved. Hypnos drew away first, though his thumb rested at the nape of Enrique’s neck, tracing small circles against his skin. Enrique didn’t know what possessed him that next moment. Perhaps he was still shaken from the troika fire, or disturbed by the mural on the wall … or maybe drawn in by the other boy’s hypnotic touch.

  “I don’t just want furtive kisses or meetings of convenience,” said Enrique in a rush. “The others already know about us … What if we made it more public?”

  Hypnos’s fingers stilled. “Why?”

  “Why not?” asked Enrique. And then, feeling foolish, he added, “If we find what we’re looking for, everything could return to normal. Séverin would come back to his senses. You could officially be part of the team, and we could be together too.”

  He trailed off, staring at the floor until he felt Hypnos’s hand tip up his chin.

  “That isn’t my usual arrangement, you know,” said Hypnos gently. “But I could be tempted. Let’s see how this job goes first, shall we?”

  That was fair enough, thought Enrique. Though he caught something like guilt in Hypnos’s eyes, and he couldn’t fathom why.

  “Would I have to move into L’Eden just to be part of the team?” asked Hypnos. “Because I quite like my living arrangements.”

  Enrique laughed and shook his head, just as Hypnos’s arms tightened around him. Enrique squeezed his eyes shut, imagining what it would be like not to feel this ache in his soul where some part of him always felt wanting. When he lifted his head, he caught a flash of golden hair in the doorway.

  “Zofia?”

  Hypnos released him, and Zofia stepped inside, looking somewhat stiff as she stared at them.

  “I’m here for the meeting,” she said tersely.

  Hypnos smiled as he flounced into one of the silk chaises, absentmindedly picking up one of the objects on the nearest shelves and jangling it like a toy.

  “That’s a Tibetan prayer wheel!” said Enrique, snatching it from his hands. “And very old by the looks of it.”

  “I was merely praying for respite from my impending boredom,” said Hypnos.

  “How can you possibly be bored?” asked Enrique. “Yesterday, we almost died by fire.”

  “Not true,” said Zofia.

  “Not all of us are optimists—”

  “Asphyxiation would have killed you first,” she said. “Not the flames.”

  Hypnos snorted. “Ah, ma chère, never change.”

  Zofia perched on a nearby stool, her posture like that of an aerialist.

  “Don’t say that,” said Zofia, sounding rather glum. “Change is the only constant.”

  “Well—” Hypnos started, and then stopped and stood abruptly. “Madame Desrosiers.”

  The matriarch of House Kore stood in the doorway, wrapped in her expensive furs. She was someone whose very impression felt tall. It reminded him, oddly enough, of his mother. His father teasingly called his mother Doña because she could wear a rice sack and still look noble. Even in her letters to him, she managed to sound commanding and intimidating, always ranting about how he was running around Paris for no reason when there were beautiful girls at home waiting for him, and how this behavior was exceedingly disappointing, and also was he eating enough, and do remember evening prayers, Love, Ma.

  “I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” said Enrique. “I’m—”

  “The one who posed as a botanist expert and set fire to my garden last spring?”

  Enrique gulped and sat.

  “And the ‘Baronness Sofia Ossokina’?” asked the matriarch, raising an eyebrow at Zofia.

  Zofia blew out her match, not bothering to answer to the fake name she’d used when they had stolen into the Château de la Lune last spring.

  “I am surrounded by deception,” said the matriarch.

  “And chairs,” pointed out Zofia.

  “On that note, won’t you have a seat?” asked Hypnos.

  “I think not,” said the matriarch, examining her fingernails. “I have already summoned the patriarch of House Dazbog and one of his representatives to join us in what might possibly be a fool’s errand to the supposed coordinates of the Sleeping Palace. We leave for Irkutsk in two hours. You may have solved the Tezcat spectacles, but that could’ve been sheer luck. I need to know why I should listen to an impudent girl and”—her gaze cut to Enrique—“a boy still in need of a haircut.”

  One corner of Enrique’s heart yelled, Mother! The other corner seethed as he flattened down his hair.

  “… I lost my comb,” he muttered, self-conscious.

  “And I have lost my patience,” she said.

  “Where’s Séverin and Laila?” asked Hypnos.

  “Off ‘discussing,’” said the matriarch, snorting. “As if I don’t know what that means.”

  Zofia frowned, obviously lost as to what else discussing could have meant.

  “You have managed to earn my protection as a matriarch of the Order of Babel. But you have not earned my confidence.”

  Hypnos cleared his throat. “I also have offered protection—”

  “Yes, my dear, I noticed with the flaming troika the precise range of your protection.”

  Hypnos’s cheeks turned a shade darker.

  “What kind of intelligence have you gathered concerning the Sleeping Palace?”

  The group looked to one another and said nothing. The truth was that there were no blueprints of the Sleeping Palace. The Fallen House had managed to destroy the records, which meant that for all intents and purposes, they were going into this excursion blind. Delphine must have caught that from their expressions because her gaze narrowed.

  “I see,” she said. “And what—besides the ramblings of a dying, broken man—makes you so certain then that there are treasures in the Sleeping Palace?”

  “It…” started Hypnos, before trailing off, “… would be a terrible waste of space without … treasure?”

  Zofia said nothing.

  “No historical records of confirmation?” asked Delphine, her gaze zeroing in on Enrique. “Then what do you have?”

  Enrique pressed the dossier of papers tighter against him. All he could tell was the truth, so he did. “Ghost stories.”

  The matriarch raised her eyebrow. “Ghost stories?”

  Enrique nodded.

  “What kind of history or proof is that?” she asked.

  Enrique’s ears burned, but he heard her curiosity. It was genuine. At the sound of it, a quiet thrill wound through him.

  “Madame Delphine, depending on who you ask, sometimes ghost stories are all that is left of history,” he said. “History is full of ghosts because it’s full of myth, all of it woven together depending on who survived to do the telling.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “According to the coordinates on the spectacles, we know the Sleeping Palace is somewhere on Lake Baikal.”

  “There’s nothing in Siberia but ice,” said the matriarch dismissively. “And murders from the past; that’s probably where all ghost stories started.”

  “Lake Baikal is a sacred place, especially to the Buryats, the indigenous people who live in southeastern Russia near the Mongolian border,” said Enrique quickly. “The name itself means ‘Sacred Sea.’”

  “I’m still not hearing a ghost story,” said the matriarch.

  “Well, that’s the interesting matter,” said Enrique. “When you trace the tales surrounding this area of Lake Baikal, what you find is there are a lot of rumors in that area of restless spirits. Women, especially, whose voices are known to cry out to people in the middle of the night, echoing over the ice. There were also stories in the past of … of
murders in the area. The last of which was committed almost twenty years ago.”

  Zofia shifted uncomfortably on her stool. Hypnos shuddered.

  “And no one was ever captured,” said Hypnos, visibly disturbed.

  “Supposedly, the murders were committed without motive,” said Enrique. “But I don’t think that’s true.”

  Enrique walked to the matriarch, holding out one of the papers from his research. It showed an illustration of the Siberian landscape and a huge sepulcher carved from a single slab of black marble, and covered in intricate Forging metalwork of silver vines and looping script.

  “In the fourteenth century, a noted traveler named Ibn Battuta observed the burial of a great Mongolian khan. He was placed with his greatest treasures, along with his favorite guards and female slaves. All of them were closed up beneath it.”

  “The female slaves and guards were killed?” asked Hypnos.

  “They died there, eventually,” said Enrique.

  Hypnos paled.

  “Some cultures thought that one could not construct an important building without tithing a human life, and so they buried people in the foundations of buildings.” Enrique drew out another paper, this one showing a brick wall. “For example, the Albanian legend of Rozafa where a young woman sacrificed herself so a castle could be built.”

  “What does that have to do with the ghost stories?”

  Enrique swallowed hard. The horror of what he was about to say filmed over his thoughts.

  “If you’re burying your treasure, you’d need built-in guardians. Guardians who couldn’t leave.”

  There was silence in the room.

  “The Fallen House has been known to emulate more ancient practices. I believe that perhaps those missing girls in the area were connected to their effort to conceal treasure. The last murder was twenty years ago, which coincides with the last known documentation of The Divine Lyrics before the artifact was lost.”

  Zofia looked sick now. The matriarch said nothing, but her mouth was drawn. A curious expression passed over her face, as if some terrible idea had only just now made sense to her.

  “That,” said Enrique, “is why I believe the Sleeping Palace holds the treasure we’re looking for.”

  Delphine did not look at Enrique when he finished. Instead, she turned to face the empty doorway and called out, “Well? Are you convinced or not?”

  Someone stepped into the room … a stunning redheaded girl that looked about his age. There was something familiar about her, but the thought vanished when another person moved to stand beside the girl: Ruslan.

  “As one expected, excellent hair hides an excellent mind!” said Ruslan, clapping. Then, to the matriarch: “Yes, I find myself thoroughly convinced. I was most intrigued by your letter. Admittedly, it’s hard to turn down any invitation to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation.” He smiled at Delphine. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Matriarch.”

  “And a pleasure to meet you,” said Delphine, extending her hand. “I met your father only the one time, but I am glad to make your acquaintance in person.”

  She gestured to Ruslan and the red-haired girl. “Zofia, Hypnos, and Enrique … may I present to you Eva Yefremovna, a blood Forging artist of impeccable skill and cousin to Ruslan Goryunov, patriarch of House Dazbog.”

  14

  ZOFIA

  Dear Zofia,

  I am feeling much better. Now, the only ache left is in my heart because you are no longer here. You work so hard, little sister. I confess it frightens me. Our uncle told me all the funds you allotted to my care, and I feel such shame. You’re not yet twenty. You need someone to look after you, Zosia. When I am better, I shall do so.

  Hela

  * * *

  ZOFIA STUDIED THE LETTER. True to his word, Séverin had made sure she would hear from Hela. Normally, it would have been impossible to receive mail so quickly, but the Order’s portal inroads throughout Russia were numerous, and Poland was not so far. Zofia kept returning to one sentence: You need someone to look after you. It bristled in her thoughts. Perhaps at one point, she had needed her parents to guide her through Glowno, to explain the gaps of meaning between what people did and what people said. And yes, she had needed Hela to guide her after their death. But Paris had changed her. She had the structure of her work, the routine of her laboratory, and everything worked until Tristan had died and Hela had gotten sick. And then, once more, her whole world turned dark and unfamiliar, and sometimes when she was forced to navigate it alone, panic did fill her … but that did not mean she needed such monitoring. Did she?

  “Zofia?”

  Zofia looked up from the letter. Laila stood before her, bundled up in a fluffy white coat. A diamond necklace that Zofia did not recognize circled her throat.

  “Are you well?” asked Laila, eyeing the letter.

  Zofia folded it and shoved it into her pocket. She did not want her friend to see what Hela had written and grow worried for her. Laila was the one fighting to live. Zofia would not add to her burden.

  “Are you cold?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so.” Laila made a tsk sound and pulled off her scarf. “You should’ve told me. Better now?”

  Zofia nodded, savoring the scarf’s warmth before looking again to the portal entrance at the far end of the deserted train depot. The train depot had been shut down two years ago after riots. There were seven shattered windows which let in broken light. The tiles were uniformly square, but cracked. There were ten benches, but only four could bear the weight of a person. The silence of the place was broken only by the occasional scritching of rats in the walls, and pigeons—exactly fourteen—roosting in the balustrades.

  After the attack from the Fallen House, the patriarch of House Dazbog demanded they make separate trips through the portal roads of Russia. They had left Moscow nearly an hour ago and had been waiting for the past hour for House Kore, House Nyx, and House Dazbog to bring the rest of the supplies that could be salvaged from the troika fire and whatever else was needed for the expedition—tools, seal-skin gloves, Forging lights, and incendiary strips.

  “They didn’t forget us, did they?” asked Enrique, pacing. “It’s not like they could continue the expedition without us, although if they have the Tezcat spectacles—”

  “They don’t,” said Séverin.

  Enrique frowned. “But I saw Ruslan take the box?”

  “The patriarch of House Dazbog took a box.”

  Enrique was quiet for a moment. “What do you all think of him?”

  Laila sighed. “I think he’s sweet. Maybe a bit lonely.”

  “And a bit mad,” said Séverin.

  “A bit eccentric, perhaps,” said Laila, frowning. “Zofia, what do you think?”

  “He’s soft,” said Zofia.

  And she meant it. After introductions, Ruslan had exclaimed over her blond hair, then patted the top of her head like a dog or a child—which one might consider rude—but then he offered his own head, so perhaps this was his normal interaction. Not wanting to be rude, Zofia patted it.

  It was soft.

  “I think the secret is not to use too much wax,” Ruslan had said to her. “If one must look like an egg, then one must aspire to be an erudite egg.”

  From his pocket, Séverin drew out the Tezcat spectacles, the longitude and latitude coordinates of the Sleeping Palace still gleaming on the glass lenses.

  From the opposite end of the train depot came the sound of screeching metal. Zofia winced and covered her ears, turning to the door where people streamed out from the portal. There was the matriarch of House Kore and her Sphinx guard and attendants; Hypnos with his House Nyx attendants and Sphinx; and the patriarch of House Dazbog and his cousin, the blood Forging artist named Eva.

  Ruslan gestured to the boxes and equipment they’d carried with them. Zofia recognized her portable laboratory, the Forged suitcase charred. The troika explosion had rent a small hole in its side, and saltpeter dribbled out
of the crack. Zofia’s skin prickled. She needed saltpeter for any demolition required inside the Sleeping Palace. If she didn’t have enough, that meant—

  “This is the last stop before Lake Baikal,” said Ruslan. “If there are any other supplies you require, you have to go into Irkutsk, I’m afraid.”

  When the House Dazbog couriers brought over her luggage, a pang struck through Zofia. Her storage of saltpeter had definitely been affected. The only question was how much and whether she needed to go into the city. As she started opening the case, a shadow fell over her. Eva walked toward them, and Zofia noticed a slight limp to the other girl’s gait.

  “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I have to say that I’m a great admirer of you all,” said Eva.

  Zofia heard her, but it was not a question and did not need an answer. The lock on her luggage had been mangled, requiring a lock and pick from her necklace of pendants. She crouched on the ground, fiddling to open it.

  “I’ve heard of Miss Boguska, of course, a fantastic engineer,” said Eva.

  Zofia grunted. She had not heard of Eva Yefremovna.

  “And, of course, Mr. Mercado-Lopez. Ruslan is quite an avid fan of your articles—”

  Enrique let out a laugh, which sounded strangely high-pitched. Zofia frowned and looked at him. He was grinning at Eva. So was Hypnos.

  “And I know all about you, Mr. Montagnet-Alarie,” said Eva.

  Zofia detected a slight change in Eva’s pitch. It was lower. When she spoke, she fiddled with a silver pendant at her neck, yanking it back and forth.

  “The handsome treasure hunter with the opulent hotel,” said Eva, smiling. “What a dream. Perhaps you might have need of my services one day. As a blood Forging artist, I’m versed in pain. Or pleasure. Or both, depending on your taste.”

  Beside Zofia, Laila cleared her throat. Zofia had finally managed to open the luggage. She gazed up triumphantly, but no one was looking at her or the luggage. Everyone’s gaze went back and forth between Laila and Eva.

  “How rude of me!” said Eva. “I’m Eva Yefremovna, the blood Forging artist of House Dazbog. Are you the cook? Secretary?”