The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  “I’m sorry,” said Laila, truly meaning it. “But no.”

  Eva looked stricken for only a moment, before she glowered and crossed the room to Laila. Hypnos hurriedly scuttled elsewhere.

  “Is this because I didn’t know who you were?” asked Eva, annoyed.

  Laila felt weary.

  “I don’t particularly care whether you know me or not, Eva. It doesn’t change that we follow certain protocols, which you are not familiar with, and so we must decline your well-intentioned offer to provide services.”

  Eva smirked, tugging at a silver pendant around her neck. “Are you jealous, is that it? I don’t blame you.” Eva leaned close, lowering her voice. “What artistry do you have to offer other than your body?”

  Laila schooled her features blank. She understood how the world cultivated malice between girls, teaching them to bare their teeth when they might have bared their souls. Her own friendships at the Palais des Rêves had started out with cruelty—one girl adding a dye to her face cream and another cutting the heels from her shoes in the hopes that she’d snap her ankle on the stage. C’est la vie. It was Paris. It was show business. And they were scared of losing their livelihood. But the difference was that at least the cabaret girls had treated her as a formidable opponent on the same battlefield.

  When Eva deigned to speak to her, it was as if she didn’t see her at all.

  “I see nothing that inspires jealousy,” said Laila.

  And she meant it. Eva was beautiful, but bodies were just bodies. Easily broken, and unfortunately, not so easily made. Laila had never had control over her physical features, and she never felt it right to hold another’s against them.

  But at her words, Eva’s face turned bloodless.

  “You say that because you think you have a protector in Mr. Montagnet-Alarie,” she said. “But don’t think it will stay that way. Even I noticed he didn’t bother defending your honor.”

  With that, she stalked off.

  Laila sank her nails into her palm. Eva was right, but wrong. If Séverin had wanted to show that she was something he could speak for or speak over, then he would have. But Laila had watched him consider speaking before choosing to step back. She wished she’d never seen that.

  For in that second, her mind had conjured up fairy tales and curses, myths of girls instructed not to behold their lover at midnight lest they glimpse their true form. What Séverin had done then and how he’d flung out his arms during the troika fire were all cruel glimpses of the boy he had truly been. The boy who had rescued Zofia and given her a world of comfort, taken a chance on Enrique and given him a platform to speak, seen Laila for her soul and not just the flesh that encased it. She hated that glimpse because it reminded her that he was like a cursed prince, trapped in the worst version of himself. And nothing she possessed—not her kiss freely given, nor her heart shyly offered—could break the thrall that held him because he had done it to himself.

  When she turned to Séverin now, he was staring hungrily at the Sleeping Palace. He swept his dark hair away from his forehead. The barest smile touched his face. Before, he would have reached into his coat pocket for his tin of cloves. He once said they helped him think and remember, but he’d stopped reaching for them after Tristan had died. Laila wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though not eating them would help him forget.

  Laila returned to the others, and they watched as Séverin turned around the main atrium. Observation was his domain. She could hate him all she wanted, but she couldn’t deny that when it came to treasure, Séverin had a knack for understanding its context. Its story, in a way.

  “We’ve been calling it a ‘palace,’” he said slowly. “But it’s not. It’s like a cathedral…”

  Séverin made a note in one of his papers.

  “What’s the holiest part of a cathedral?” he asked, more to himself than to the others.

  Laila neither felt particularly qualified for nor interested in answering the question.

  “The thing with the wine,” said Hypnos.

  “How should I know?” shrugged Zofia.

  “The altar,” said Enrique, shaking his head.

  Séverin nodded, his chin turned so the winter light glowed across his face.

  “Someone wants to play God.”

  Laila’s mouth twisted into a hollow smile. Sometimes she wondered whether Séverin thought to do the same.

  Ahead, four hallways branched out from the main atrium. Rather than risk being separated, they traveled as one unit, documenting things as they went. In the western hall was a library where nine female statues served as pillars. At least, it should have been a library … but all the shelves were empty of books.

  “They might be hidden,” said Enrique longingly, his fingers twitching to explore the room. But he dutifully followed the rest of them.

  The southern hall broke off into the kitchens and a small infirmary. At the entrance to the eastern hall, goose bumps prickled along Laila’s arm. In the distance, she thought she heard … growls? No, snoring. A pair of arched double doors etched with designs of wolves and snakes opened up into a dimly lit room where huge, jagged bumps covered the marble floor. Zofia broke off a phosphorous pendant, and the light revealed that she wasn’t staring at bumps at all, but a menagerie of dozens of ice Forged animals. Lions with delicate ice whiskers, peacocks with a train of frosted feathers, wolves whose glassy fur bristled and gently rose and fell as if they lived and breathed.

  Laila instantly recoiled, but none of the creatures moved. She studied them a moment longer, her fear giving way to awe.

  “They’re asleep,” she said.

  The animals slept with their paws bent, hooves tucked, and wings folded upon a creamy marble floor. Only one animal—an ice rhino—bothered to open its eyes at the sound of the doors. Its gaze flicked toward them, but it did not move.

  “I hate everything about this,” said Hypnos.

  “Me too,” said Enrique. “Shut the door before they wake up.”

  “The treasure wouldn’t be in here anyway,” said Séverin, frowning once more at the animals before shutting the door.

  At each hallway, Séverin stopped to check the rooms for triggers that would activate any guard mechanisms. With the Fallen House, anything was possible. But none of the doors betrayed them, and none of the floors reacted. The spherical detection devices yielded nothing either. It was as if the Sleeping Palace were truly asleep. At every point, Zofia raised her phosphorous pendants, searching for signs of a Tezcat door in plain sight, but nothing revealed itself. As they walked down the final hall, the northern passage, Enrique pulled his coat tighter, glancing at the carvings where the wall met the ceiling.

  “All the iconography shows women,” he said.

  Laila hadn’t noticed that before, but he was right. All of the women in the frosted images covering the walls reminded Laila of priestesses. The detail of the ice didn’t seem to have faded over the years, and there was a curious sharpness to their eyes.

  “None of their hands are showing,” said Enrique.

  Small shivers crept down Laila’s spine, and she quickly averted her eyes. Their posture was too familiar. How many times as a child had she shoved her hands behind her back so her father wouldn’t be reminded of what she could do, or, as he later said, what she was.

  So far, the northern hall was the longest. It grew colder the farther they ventured. At the front, Séverin looked over his shoulder and caught her eye. Laila discreetly made her way to him.

  “Usual procedure,” called out Séverin.

  “Here, Hypnos, hold the detection device—” said Enrique, as the rest of them busied themselves.

  Now it was just her and Séverin.

  Séverin didn’t look at her. “Anything?”

  Laila took off her gloves. She reached for the icy carved door in front of them, letting her hands skim over the strange indentations at the threshold.

  “I can’t read it,” she said. “It’s all Forged.”
/>   “No trapping devices detected,” called Enrique from the back. “Let’s enter. Why’s it so narrow?”

  “It’s like a corridor to a room of meditation,” mused Séverin. “Designed to make someone feel as if the path they walk, they walk alone.”

  “Well, rather than standing here, let’s get on with it and go inside,” said Hypnos, crossing his arms.

  “Can’t,” said Séverin.

  “There’s no handle,” said Zofia, her blue eyes quickly scanning the door.

  Séverin tried pushing it, but it made no difference. The door wouldn’t budge. Séverin dropped his gaze to the floor indents. “This place was designed like a cathedral. It doesn’t want brute force. It wants something else … something that’s honoring whatever is sacred inside here.”

  Laila watched his face come alive with the puzzle of the room.

  “Light,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Zofia passed forward one of the pendants from her necklace. Séverin snapped the phosphorescent chip. The sudden glow carved out the shadows of his face, throwing them into sharp relief.

  “Move back,” he said.

  The four of them crowded into the small space of the hallway. Séverin dropped to his knees, flashing the light across the strange ripples and indentations covering the door.

  “Found the opening,” he said.

  He held his hand perpendicular to the ice and slid it down where it disappeared as if into a slot. But still the door wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s like a keyhole,” said Enrique. “But why would someone put it where it’s only eye level to a child?”

  That thought disturbed Laila. No part of the palace made sense, from the menagerie full of ice animals to the empty corridors. Even now, she shuddered thinking of the ice rhino’s slow gaze tracking them across the room. It hadn’t moved. Yet.

  “Eye level to a child … or to a supplicant,” said Séverin.

  Still crouched, he slid his knees into the dents of the floor. He dropped the phosphorous pendant on the ground, and the blue light silhouetted him. In the past, when they had gone on hunts for acquisitions, Laila had always been taken by how differently Séverin saw the world. He had a sense of wonder unlike anyone she’d ever met. It made her remember the first evening she realized she wanted to kiss him. At the time, he had commissioned a garden installation based on cobwebs of all things. She’d thought it was a disgusting idea until he’d reached out, tilted her chin back, and asked softly: “Do you see the wonder now?” That was all it took for the night sky to transform above them. One turn of her head, and the world seemed crisscrossed with the starry thread of soon-to-be constellations.

  Séverin still had an uncanny sense for performance. But now, he had the look of someone too eager to be sacrificed, and Laila had to stop herself from the strange impulse to run to him and pull him to his feet.

  “It’s like an altar,” Séverin said, so softly that Laila couldn’t tell if he meant for them to hear. “And I kneel in worship.”

  Then, he pressed his palms together as if in prayer, pushing them into the depressions of the door. A silver light ran down the vines, as if it was stirring awake after a long slumber. The door’s ice and metal hinges groaned as it swung back, revealing a room lit within by a silvery glow.

  Beside her, Enrique crossed himself, and Hypnos drew in a sharp breath. Séverin rose to his feet, but he didn’t enter.

  “Why isn’t he going in?” muttered Hypnos.

  “Fear of dismemberment,” said Zofia. “If I were designing thief-catching mechanisms, I would have a device rigged to attack the first three people who entered.”

  Hypnos stepped behind Zofia. “Ladies first.”

  Enrique threw the spherical detection device to Séverin who caught it one-handed.

  “What do you see?” asked Enrique.

  Usually, Séverin would have been narrating the whole scene—from the number of walls to the shape of the ceiling. But whatever he saw here was worth hoarding the whole sight to himself. Laila held her breath.

  “Stars,” said Séverin simply.

  Laila and Enrique looked at each other, confused. What about the treasure? The book?

  “No detection devices,” said Séverin. “It’s clear.”

  They filed in one by one—Hypnos clinging to Zofia’s coat—into a room Laila could only describe as an ice grotto. Séverin was right about the stars. Above them stretched a rendering of the night sky, but it wasn’t real, even though it looked fathomless. It was like an image suspended of a former night, and at the center hung a pendulous moon that changed before their eyes, growing slimmer with every passing second as if it were counting down to something.

  The ice grotto resembled a sunken courtyard. Farther into the room, shallow steps descended to an empty floor bearing a single, jagged pool revealing Lake Baikal’s sapphire water. Splayed against the far wall loomed three, huge shield-like structures. If there was writing or symbols on them, the cobwebs of ice concealed it from view. Above those three shields appeared more carvings of women. They seemed to lean out of recessed niches within the ice wall, their arms outstretched and their hands … missing. When the light flashed over them briefly, they looked terribly lifelike.

  The pale light of the stars above them only gradually revealed the room’s contents, but one thing was for sure …

  There was no treasure here.

  Laila’s heart sank, but she refused to be discouraged. Treasure liked to hide. She knew that well enough after two years of working with Séverin. As they moved to inspect the eastern wall, Enrique jumped back with a squeal. Laila whirled around, her pulse racing as she beheld what made Enrique nearly scream. When the light hit the eastern ice wall, the wall turned translucent and revealed the entire menagerie of animals they’d glimpsed moments ago.

  “Interesting,” said Zofia. “A Tezcat wall connecting the menagerie that requires no key but light. That’s clever.”

  “That’s horrific,” said Enrique. “Look at them … they’re awake.”

  Laila turned slowly toward the creatures. Where they’d once slumbered, now they were awake. Each of their heads had turned to face them.

  “I hereby volunteer to guard the door,” said Hypnos. “From the hall. Actually, the end of the hall.”

  Séverin ignored him. “Let’s keep documenting. I want to see what’s down those stairs.”

  “How?” asked Enrique. “It’s far too dark. We should come back with more light. I want lanterns trained just on that eastern wall.”

  Then, Laila heard the unmistakable rrrip of a lit match. In seconds, Zofia had created a makeshift torch.

  “Much better—” said Enrique, but his words were cut off by a sharp scream from Hypnos.

  “Séverin, wait!”

  Too late, Laila realized Séverin had broken off from the group, venturing toward the stairs at the far end of the grotto that led to the north wall. He didn’t wait. With his lantern aloft, Séverin took the first step—

  Everything changed.

  Time held still. As if in slow motion, Laila saw Séverin take a deep breath, his breath pluming in the air, the silver fog of it suspended for one perfect moment of silence … and then sound rushed in. From the eastern corner of the wall, the ice rhino crashed through the glass barrier. Shattered ice rained down, scattering across the floor. The rhino charged, a deep sound bellowing from its lungs. Out the corner of her eye, Laila watched as the other animals slowly came to life. A jaguar’s crystal fur rippled. It swung its head and pawed the ground.

  The staircase had triggered life.

  “Get back!” she called.

  Séverin turned his head, but a small ball of ice launched at him from opposite the wall, splattering on his face and covering his mouth and nose in a cobweb of ice. He stumbled back, falling onto the stairs. Laila moved to run toward him, but the rhino blocked her way.

  “Someone get him!” she called.

  Zofia tossed her torch to Enrique and quickly threw
an explosive net across the rhino.

  “Ignite,” she willed.

  Behind them, Hypnos dashed out into the hall, shouting for help.

  The Forged net caught flame, and the rhino shrieked, exploding into a thousand shards of ice. Zofia and Laila ran to Séverin. They each grabbed one arm, hoisting him off the staircase. The moment he crossed the boundary, the ice animals once more fell still and silent. Laila pulled at the ice covering his mouth, but it was too slippery.

  Laila grasped again, and again, but the ice only burned her hand and stuck fast to his skin. Her breath turned jagged inside her. She risked a glance at Séverin and wished she hadn’t. His pupils were blown wide, the veins of his throat bulging as he threw off her hands and started to claw at his face. He was dying right before her eyes.

  Zofia reached for a match, but Séverin clutched her wrist.

  “You’ll burn him!” cried Laila.

  “Disfigurement and death are not comparable options,” said Zofia fiercely.

  Then, out the corner of Laila’s eyes, she caught a whip of red as a figure rushed toward them. Eva dropped to the floor beside them, breathless. Séverin’s head listed to one side. A blue sheen crept over his skin, and his eyelids started fluttering shut. A sob caught in Laila’s throat.

  “I can save him,” said Eva, shoving Laila out of the way. “I’ve seen this kind of attack before.”

  Eva grabbed Séverin’s face, then pressed her mouth over his. Her red hair fell over them both, and Séverin clung to her, his hands grabbing at her back. Immediately, the ice melted from Séverin’s mouth. He gasped for breath as Eva pulled away, his face still cradled in her hands. The sight sent a strange twist of acid through her stomach. She watched as Séverin blinked rapidly. Ice rimmed his eyelashes. His gaze pinned Eva as if he were a cursed prince and she alone had freed him.

  PART III

  From the archival records of the Order of Babel author unknown

  1878, Amsterdam

  Blood-Forging is a particularly vulgar art, fit only for the meanest of brothels. That it is not banned in every country is, I believe, an utter travesty.