The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  SÉVERIN

  Six days until Winter Conclave …

  Séverin had seven fathers, but only one brother.

  There was a time, though, when he thought he might have two.

  Wrath had dragged him to a meeting inside the Jardin du Luxembourg because now and then, Séverin’s trust lawyers needed to see he was hale before they allowed Wrath more finances. They did not listen when Séverin told them about the Phobus Helmet that conjured forth nightmares, the thorny rosebush where he and Tristan hid every afternoon, the bruises on his wrist that always faded in time for a new meeting. Soon, he learned to say nothing at all.

  On one of those meetings, he saw Hypnos, walking hand in hand with his father beneath the swaying linden trees.

  “Hypnos!” he’d called out.

  He’d flailed his hand, desperate to catch his attention. If Hypnos saw, maybe he could rescue them. Maybe he could tell Séverin what he had done so wrong to make Tante FeeFee leave him behind. Maybe he could make her love him again.

  “Stop this, boy,” Wrath had hissed.

  Séverin would have called Hypnos’s name until his throat turned raw had the other boy not caught his eye … only to look away. Séverin felt the turn of his head like a blade to his heart.

  Some months later, Tristan saved them with a plant. Tristan confided that an angel had visited him and given him poisonous aconite flowers that—when steeped into a tea—freed them from Wrath.

  Years later, the two of them would stand on the newly tilled earth that would become L’Eden Hotel. Tristan had hoarded his savings to buy a packet of rose seedlings that he promptly dropped into the ground and coaxed to live. As the slender tendrils spiked out of the earth, he’d thrown his arm around Séverin, grinned and pointed at the fast-growing roses.

  “This is the start of our dreams,” he’d said. “I promise to protect it.”

  Séverin had smiled back, knowing his line by heart: “And I protect you.”

  * * *

  SÉVERIN COULDN’T SLEEP.

  He sat in the armchair, his head turned from the unmistakable shape of Laila’s silhouette behind the layers of gauzy curtains. Eventually, he drew out Tristan’s penknife, tracing the silver vein near the blade full of Goliath’s paralyzing serum.

  Séverin reached for his greatcoat and shrugged it on. He didn’t look at Laila as he opened the door to their suite and took to the stairs. Instead, he turned Tristan’s knife over in his hand. He twirled it once, watching the spinning blade turn to molten silver. The roses Tristan had planted were long since dead, torn out of the dirt when he had ordered the hotel landscapers to raze the Seven Sins Garden. But a cutting remained in his office, waiting for new ground and a place to put down roots. He understood that. In The Divine Lyrics, he sensed richness. A future where the alchemy of those ancient words would gild his veins, cure him of human error, and its pages would become grounds rich enough to resurrect dead dreams.

  * * *

  THIS EARLY, THE SLEEPING Palace still slumbered.

  The ice blossoms once open had closed. The gargoyles curled into tight crystals, horned heads tucked beneath their wings. From the windows, the blue light streaming into the glass atrium was the color of drowning and silence. Though the floor was mostly opaque, a handful of transparent squares revealed the lake’s depths far beneath him, and as he walked, Séverin caught the pale underbelly of a hunting lamprey.

  In the eaves stood bent and broken statues of women with their hands either sliced off or tied behind their backs. With every step, the small hairs on the back of Séverin’s neck prickled. It was too cold, too bare, too still. Whoever made this place considered the Sleeping Palace holy … but it was holy in the way of saint’s bones and bundles of martyr’s teeth. An eerie rictus of a cathedral that called itself hallowed, and one needed to believe it just to bear the sight of it.

  Séverin crossed the atrium, running through what he’d seen the day before in the ice grotto … the stairs leading to the sunken platform and the three iced-over shields, the pool of water and the ice menagerie turning their heads as one to watch them. Out of all the rooms and floors of the Sleeping Palace, that was the one that felt like its cold, beating heart.

  He was on the verge of rounding the corner to the northern hall, when he heard footsteps chiming behind him. He frowned. The others couldn’t possibly be awake already. But when he turned, he didn’t see any members of his crew. Delphine approached him, carrying a mug of coffee in one hand. In the other, a plate with a piece of toast, the edges cut and sliced in diagonals. It was heavily slathered in butter, and she’d used raspberry-cherry jam. His favorite combination as a child.

  “I guessed you would be up early,” she said. “This is the time where only ghosts rouse us from sleep.”

  She glided forward, offering the food. Séverin didn’t move. What game was she playing? First, there was the tea, then she’d requested access to him during his convalescing, and now she was bringing him toast?

  “Then why are you awake?” he asked coldly.

  “I have ghosts myself,” she said. “Ghosts of decisions made. Ghosts of loves lost … of family departed.”

  She hesitated at the last part, and memories of Tristan knifed into his thoughts. She had no right to conjure him.

  “He was a good boy,” she said. “Kind, and, perhaps a little too fragile—”

  “Stop,” said Séverin. Tristan wasn’t hers. She didn’t get to talk about him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Delphine stiffened under his gaze.

  “It’s a little late to try your hand at motherhood, Madame.”

  Pain flashed in her eyes. He hoped it hurt. After he’d built L’Eden, he’d researched what became of his favorite Tante FeeFee. He knew her husband had died, and that she’d named her nephew—a boy who had wanted to go into the priesthood—her heir, once it became clear that she could have no children of her own. He felt no pity. She’d had her chance to take care of a child, and she’d forsaken him. Meanwhile, he’d spent days waiting for her at windows; hours praying to be someone else, someone she would want to keep.

  “Séverin—” she tried, but he raised his hand.

  He swiped the toast off the plate and grabbed the coffee.

  “Thank you for your generosity,” he said, turning on his heel.

  “You should know they’re growing curious,” she called out after him.

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  Delphine continued. “The Order,” she said. “The Winter Conclave is in six days, and they want to know why House Kore, House Nyx, and House Dazbog have yet to arrive. They want to know if we’ve found something worthy of their notice. I am oath bound to inform them of my whereabouts should I not arrive on time to the Winter Conclave. I cannot keep them away from here forever.”

  Séverin clenched his jaw. The last thing he wanted was this place crawling with members of the Order … contaminating his hunting grounds.

  “Then allow me to make haste, Madame.”

  * * *

  HE UNDERSTOOD THE ICE grotto now.

  Alone, he’d flooded most of the room with light from Forged floating lanterns. About fifteen feet away from the entrance appeared the stairs leading to the sunken platform. At the right stood the menagerie of ice animals. On the left, the wall of ice. Against the northern wall, three iced-over shields that looked roughly waist-high gleamed beneath a row of unsettling statues. The ice would need to be removed to figure out if there was any writing on the shields, but for now, Séverin turned his attention to the pool on the left of the statues. There, the waters of Lake Baikal silently churned. The pool was the size of a small dining table, its edges jagged and glittering dully.

  He’d tested the other aspects as well. Yesterday when he’d taken a step onto the staircase, something had shot out of the walls. Now, he could make out the sign of three bullet-shaped protrusions situated at the angles of the room … right where an intruder might cross. He had an inkli
ng of how he might have triggered the alarms, but it was worth testing just to be sure.

  Séverin took one of the floating lanterns, removing the Forged device that allowed it to hover so that it dropped to the floor. He kicked it, and it rolled to the staircase. The moment it crossed the boundary, the protrusions on the wall swiveled, facing the lantern. At the other end, where the ice menagerie stood, a creature—this time a crystalline moose—swung its head, loping into the room. Séverin didn’t move. Instead, he watched the lantern. From the wall, an ice bullet identical to the one that had caught him yesterday on his nose and mouth shot out, splintering the lantern and gutting the light.

  Instantly, the moose stopped moving, It lowered its head for a beat, its hooves poised to paw the ground and charge. A few seconds later, it lifted its head, turned, and trotted back into the menagerie.

  Séverin smiled.

  He’d just confirmed what triggered the security system: heat.

  Which meant he needed someone who could counteract it. Someone good with ice.

  * * *

  HOURS LATER, he was no longer alone. Laila stood wrapped in an extravagant coat just outside the entrance of the ice grotto. Hypnos, Zofia, and Enrique fanned out around her, as if she were their center. In the middle of the ice grotto stood Ruslan and Eva. Ruslan wore a hideous fur hat and kept stroking it as if it were a pet.

  “Is it necessary that I am a trial rat in your inventions, cousin?” he asked Eva.

  She nodded. “It is also entirely unnecessary for you to speak.”

  Ruslan scowled. They all watched as he took one step toward the sunken platform … then another … until his boot crossed the boundary. Everyone held still. Séverin looked at the ice menagerie, but the animals neither moved nor blinked. Ruslan turned slowly on the spot. Eva triumphantly tossed her red hair over her shoulder:

  “See? I told you, you needed me.”

  Séverin nodded, not looking at her, but at the boots on Ruslan’s feet, Forged to conceal a person’s body temperature and allow them to walk down the staircase and access the sunken platform without triggering the creatures. He was dimly aware of the way her gaze fixed on him. She’d saved him, and he’d thanked her. If she mistook resuscitation for romance, it was hardly his problem, so long as she didn’t get in his way.

  “Well done, Eva!” said Ruslan. “And well done, me, for not dying.”

  Eva rolled her eyes, but she looked pleased with herself. Ruslan walked back up the stairs. When he reached them, he took off his boots and handed them to Séverin. His eyes shone with unnerving sincerity.

  “I am so deeply eager to see what you will find,” he said, clapping his hands excitedly. “I can still sense it, you know, that pulsing thrumming deliciousness of the universe waiting for her secrets to be unearthed.”

  “What, exactly, do you expect us to find?”

  “I expect knowledge. That’s all,” said Ruslan, stroking the sling of his injured arm. “That is all I ever want. It is in knowledge, after all, that we find the tools to make history.”

  “A rather ambitious goal to make history,” said Séverin.

  Ruslan beamed. “Isn’t it? I’m delighted. I never had the head—or perhaps the hair—for ambition, and I find that I like it.” He smiled and patted Séverin on the head. “Goodbye, then.”

  Annoyed, Séverin smoothed his hair. When he turned around, the others had been fitted with their new boots. Zofia had first designed a pair of shoes for traction on ice and an ability to shift from shoe to ski at a moment’s notice. But Eva had now Forged it to conceal temperature, which turned them glossy and iridescent, like an oil slick on a frozen pond.

  “No thanks from you, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie?” asked Eva, sidling up beside him.

  “You have my thanks already,” he said, distracted.

  “So taciturn!” Eva laughed. “Is that how he thanks you, Laila?”

  “Not at all,” said Laila, her fingers grazing the diamond necklace at her throat.

  Eva’s gaze narrowed, and her smile sharpened. Her hand went to her own throat and to a slender silver pendant hanging from a chain. She tugged it sharply. “Diamonds for services rendered. You must be exceptional—”

  Out the corner of his eye, Séverin saw Enrique’s head snap up in fury, while Laila’s fingers stilled on her necklace.

  “Leave,” said Séverin sharply.

  Eva startled, her sentence left unfinished.

  “Your help is much appreciated, but for this next part, I need to be with my team. Patriarch Hypnos will serve as Order witness. It’s nearly noon, and we have no time to waste.”

  Eva’s eyes flashed.

  “Of course, Monsieur,” she said tightly, before stalking down the hall.

  Enrique coughed awkwardly, nudging Hypnos beside him. Laila stared at the floor, her arms crossed. Only Zofia serenely continued to lace her boots.

  “You know, I really do adore this sheen,” said Hypnos, pivoting on one heel. “Très chic. I wonder, though, what other garments might work as ice? Ice robe? Ice crown? Nothing too cold, though. One’s tongue tends to stick to these things.”

  Zofia frowned. “Why is your tongue relevant to this discussion?”

  “You mean: ‘When is my tongue not relevant?’”

  “That is not what I mean,” said Zofia.

  Laila straightened her coat, then looked down the hall. “Shall we?”

  One by one, Laila, Enrique, and Zofia walked down the narrow aisle and into the ice grotto. Séverin was on the verge of following when he felt a touch at his arm. Hypnos.

  The other boy stared at him with concern, his mouth pulled down.

  “Are you well? After yesterday?” he asked. “I meant to ask, and I waited with the others but then … then I fell asleep.”

  Séverin frowned. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  He started moving away when Hypnos lowered his voice. “Have I done something wrong?”

  Séverin turned to look at him. “Have you?”

  “No?”

  But there was a flicker of hesitation behind his eyes. As if he knew something.

  “Is it so impossible for me to express some concern about you?” demanded Hypnos. His blue eyes flashed, nostrils flaring just slightly. “Did you forget that we were practically raised together for some time? Because I haven’t. For God’s sake, Séverin, we were practically brothers—”

  Séverin squeezed his eyes shut. That terrible memory in the Jardin du Luxembourg bit into his thoughts, and for a moment he was a small boy once more, calling out to Hypnos, with his hand outstretched. He remembered the moment when Hypnos saw him—their eyes meeting across the park—before the other boy turned.

  “We were never brothers,” said Séverin.

  Hypnos’s throat moved. He looked at the ground. “Well, you were the closest I had to one.”

  For a moment, Séverin could say nothing. He didn’t want to remember how he and Hypnos had played next to each other, or how he had once cried as a child when Hypnos had to go back to his own home.

  “Perhaps you felt I’d forgotten you after your parents died, but I never did, Séverin. I swear it,” said Hypnos, his voice breaking. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Something in Hypnos’s voice almost convinced him … but that thought held terror. He could not be trusted with another brother. He could barely survive Tristan dying in his arms. What if that happened to Hypnos next? All because he had let him get too close? The thought pinched sharply behind his ribs.

  Séverin turned from him. “I only had one brother, Hypnos. I’m not looking for a replacement.”

  With that, he walked down the hall.

  * * *

  “TAKE A LOOK AT this!” called Enrique.

  Enrique held up a lantern. Finally, the sunken platform was truly illuminated. Séverin staggered back in disgust as the light caught hold of the female statues. From their recessed niches in the wall, they leaned out, extending their arms severed at the wrist. They looked gr
otesque. Their jaws had been ruined—or clawed—and designed to look unhinged.

  “They’re downright eerie to look at, don’t you think?” asked Enrique, shuddering. “Almost lifelike. And, wait, I believe those markings on their mouth are symbols…”

  Enrique held up his Mnemo bug, recording the statues and talking rapidly, but Séverin was no longer paying attention. He was watching Laila’s face as she moved toward the statues, utterly transfixed. She’d slipped off one of her fur-lined gloves, stretching up on her toes as her bare hand reached toward the statues.

  Above them, the giant moon changed shape with each passing minute, gradually growing full. He glanced at his watch and realized it would show a “full moon” right at noon. Séverin glanced over the room. He was missing something. If this place was supposed to be a sanctum, then why keep an eye on the time? What was the point?

  His watch struck noon.

  From the still pool of water came the sound of distant churning, like a submerged roll of thunder. The ground quivered. Hardly a moment ago, that great oval of water had lain smooth and flat as a mirror.

  It wasn’t smooth and flat anymore. It rippled, small waves sloshing out the side.

  Something was coming.

  “Move! Get back!” shouted Séverin.

  Out the corner of his eye, he saw Laila’s hand splayed against the statues, her eyes wide and shocked. He lurched forward, grabbing her and pulling her backward just as a creature made of metal shot out of the water. A biblical word rose to his mind: leviathan. A sea monster. It surged out of the oval, sinuous, snake-like, with a sharp snout like that of an eel shooting from the waves as steam plumed from the steel-fretted gills at its throat. When it cracked open its mechanical jaws, Séverin saw a hellscape of iron eel teeth. Its bulbous, glass eyes roved wildly as it dove back down—

  Toward them.

  Séverin ran to the door, yanking open the entrance and bracing himself for an attack that never came. The leviathan dove up, then curled down, its giant head resting on the ice and its jaws propped open.