The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  “What will you give me to know the answer?” she asked. “I demand offerings.”

  “How about a dress sewn of moonlight?” asked Séverin. “An apple of immortal youth … or perhaps glass slippers that would never cut your skin.”

  “None of those things are real,” she’d said and laughed.

  He stared at her when she laughed, his eyes never leaving her face. “For you, I’d make anything real.”

  The memory faded, dragging her back to the cold present.

  “You’re here,” Séverin finally managed. “I tried to … I kept…”

  Séverin raised his hand, not looking at her. The diamond jewel caught the light. Laila looked to the table beside him, the one holding her Forged necklace that he used to summon her.

  “Why did you think I’d be gone?”

  “The others,” he said, raising his dusky eyes to hers. “They’ve gone missing.”

  21

  ENRIQUE

  As Enrique leaned out of the ice grotto and into the strange sun-steeped city, he wished he had a better sense of self-preservation. Part of him wanted to make Zofia and Eva return to the grotto, but the other part wanted to walk farther. His foot dangled off the precipice, and the sunlight held him in thrall. Only then did he realize the ruined courtyard had stolen something dangerous from him: his curiosity.

  In the sanctuary, nine female statues served as pillars, propping up a ceiling of wooden slats. Time had eroded their details, but Enrique still caught the suggestion of gathered silk and slender diadems around their foreheads. Painted walls behind the statues caught his eye. The scenes showed nine hooded women prostrating themselves before the nine Greek goddesses of divine inspiration, the muses. Enrique recognized them by the emblems hovering over their heads—Erato and her cithara, Thalia and her comic mask—a bit of gold leaf still clung to the image of a lyre in the hands of Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. The Forged paint allowed the images to shift, so that one moment, the objects the muses held were hale and shining. The next, they splintered apart in a cyclical pattern of made and unmade. When he looked at the women by the goddesses’s feet, his whole body recoiled. Each of the nine women in the painting held out their arms, but none of them had hands. And there, piled behind the muses’ feet: a collection of hands severed at the wrist. Like offerings.

  Sacrifice.

  Enrique flinched from the gruesome painting as bits of tales and research snapped together in his mind. His thoughts leapt to the dead girls in the ice grotto. Nine of them, all without hands. He suspected they’d served in some capacity as guardians, but now he saw the direct link to the Order’s lore of the Lost Muses, the ancient line of women tasked with protecting The Divine Lyrics. What if it had never been a myth? What if—

  A rasping sound choked off his thoughts.

  “You shall not take another.”

  A wizened old man stepped into the light. He raised his hand in the air. The nine statues lifted their feet off their stone pedestals and brought them to the ground. Dust sifted through the air, and the ground trembled as nine blank faces turned toward them slowly.

  “We’re leaving!” shouted Enrique. “Right now—”

  Zofia and Eva stumbled backward. Enrique leaned farther out of the Tezcat portal, clutching it one-handed, his other hand held out to hoist them back inside when something whizzed past him.

  He jerked back, but not before something sharp flew past his ear. His grip slipped on the rough stones of the portal wall. Just as he tried to grab hold, Eva pulled on his hand and the icy floor skidded out from underneath him. Blood rushed through his ears. At the last second, he flung out his arms, breaking his fall against the hot, sandy floor of the courtyard.

  “The portal!” shouted Eva.

  Zofia hauled him to his feet. Enrique whirled around, ready to clamber back inside the portal … but it was gone.

  “It just … it just disappeared,” said Eva, blinking back tears. “We’re trapped.”

  “More blood,” he said breathlessly. “Maybe that’s the only way to open it back up—”

  Another arrow whizzed past his face. The feathers on the fletching slashed across his cheek, and a moment later, he heard the snap of rock as the arrow stuck fast in the broken rock wall. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and a shrill hum lingered in the air.

  Zofia grabbed his hand. “Move!”

  Enrique sprinted across the ground. Up ahead, Zofia fumbled at her necklace. Enrique dove forward, shoving her out of the way. Zofia fell to the ground, rolling onto her side just as an arrowhead stabbed into the dirt.

  “Stop!” screamed Eva. “We just want to leave!”

  In front of them, the old man moved out of the shadows and into the light. His eyes were milky with blindness. Deep gouges framed his sockets, and the raised scars looked purple and furious. This man had been made blind.

  “We don’t mean any harm,” said Enrique, holding out his hands. “We were just following a lead from somewhere else—”

  “Do not lie to me,” said the old man. “I’ve been waiting for you since you took my sister. You are not welcome in this sacred place. You think to use us. You think to play at God, but the worthy choose not to wield their touch.”

  Zofia inhaled sharply, her hand frozen at her necklace.

  “You speak Polish?”

  “He’s speaking Russian,” said Eva, confused.

  Enrique shook himself. To him, the man spoke his milk tongue of Tagalog, the language so familiar to him, he almost couldn’t recognize that his language was out of place here. The man froze, and the statues of the muses paused midstep. He swiveled toward Zofia’s direction, his eyes glassy.

  “Girls,” said the man, his voice breaking. “Have they taken you too?”

  He raised his head, his unseeing eyes fixed somewhere above Enrique’s head. “How many girls must you take before you realize that no matter how much blood you offer, you will never be able to see? If you cannot see, then you do not know where to use the instrument of the divine. And without that”—the old man laughed—“the will of God is safe.” The man pointed at his gouged-out eyes. “You cannot use me either. I made sure of it.”

  Then he turned to Zofia and Eva. “I will save you, children. I will not let them take you.”

  He flicked his ancient wrists. The statue to the left of Enrique lurched forward, casting a cold shadow across them. Enrique flinched back, but the statue never struck. Instead, it loomed behind them, its arms spread wide to block their way back to the Sleeping Palace. Dread iced over his veins.

  “There’s been a misunderstanding—” he tried to say.

  The old man flicked his wrist again. The eight remaining statues lifted their stone arms, and the three of them took off down the courtyard. Far ahead, cut off by the gauze of silken curtains, Enrique glimpsed the waters of a lake. He could make out the colorful tents and crowds flocking through a local bazaar.

  “Help us!” he yelled.

  No one glanced in their direction. It was as if they couldn’t see them. Enrique looked right and left, but solid brick walls flanked them. That made no sense. Where did the old man come from, then?

  “It’s a dead end,” said Enrique.

  He looked over his shoulder, then immediately regretted that choice. The muse statues moved quickly, their stone tunics slicing through the dirt. “They’re both Tezcats,” said Zofia, holding up one of her pendants. She touched a spot on the brick wall, and her hand disappeared up to her elbow. “This way!”

  Zofia barreled through the wall, Eva and Enrique following after her. Enrique braced himself, turning his face to the side, but all that met him was a rush of cool air as they fell through the portal and onto the rich, silk rugs of a carpet merchant. His chin banged onto the rug, and he winced as his teeth caught his tongue and hot, coppery warmth flooded his mouth.

  Through the silk flap of the merchant’s kiosk, Enrique glimpsed the curvature of the road he’d seen from the courtyard. The reflection of
the bottle-green lake bounced off polished mirrors in the bazaar. That road must run through the whole of the bazaar, including the courtyard. All they had to do was follow the road, and they would arrive back at the portal to the Sleeping Palace.

  Enrique turned his head. There, a merchant sat cross-legged amongst his wares, staring at them in shock. Above, delicate Turkish lanterns swayed gently, casting jewel-stained light all around them.

  “This … this is a lovely rug?” said Enrique, patting the silk beneath him.

  “Ne yapiyorsun burada?!” demanded the carpet merchant.

  The merchant leapt to his feet, a sharp stick in his hand. Enrique clambered backwards, his arms flung out to block Eva and Zofia when the walls of the shop began to tremble and shake. A lantern broke loose, shattering glass across the silk, and the smell of wax and incense stamped the air.

  “We need to—” started Eva, but a crashing sound drowned out her words as a stone hand the size of an armchair pummeled through the ceiling.

  The man shrieked as the three of them darted out the entrance and into the mass of people. There, a different chaos enveloped them. In the bazaar, pyramids of cinnamon and nutmeg, golden saffron and matted heaps of hemp lined the outside of spice shops. Peddlers shook jars of star-shaped anise and dangled garlands of glossy red peppers. In the air, the sounds of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer suffused the bazaar.

  It was a moment of shining perfection—

  Until the carpet merchant ran screaming out of his shop.

  One of the muse statues tore straight through the tent. The crowd panicked, overturning piles of spices and salt as they ran.

  “This way!” said Enrique. “It’s a circle—we can run back to the Tezcat!”

  “Or we could hide,” said Eva, wincing as she gripped her leg.

  Too late, Enrique remembered the slight limp in her gait. But then the muse statue’s head swiveled to them.

  “Afraid not!” said Enrique.

  The three of them dove into the streets, nearly tripping over tea-glass stands and knots of old men smoking their water pipes. The tops of tents flashed overhead. Behind them, Enrique could hear the groaning stone steps of the muse statues. He glanced back—there were only four. Their arms stretched out, blank eyes fixed on nothing. Around them, the bazaar had descended into chaos as storefronts started to break. Footfalls rang in his ears, but he kept his eyes on the patches he could see of the road. They just had to make it to the other side, he said to himself over and over.

  A collapsed shop front loomed before them. Zofia threw one of her pendants at the pile of debris and wood, and it crackled, hissing into a wall of flames that would—hopefully—slow down the statues. The road curved once more, and Enrique’s heart nearly sagged with relief. It couldn’t be long now until they arrived back at the courtyard—

  A soft cry pulled Enrique’s attention. He turned to see Eva struggling. A fractured beam had caught her dress, yanking it to the thigh. Under normal circumstances, Enrique would’ve immediately looked away, but the sight of Eva’s leg stopped him. Thick, raised scars mottled her skin. The muscles of her thigh looked shrunken.

  “Don’t look at me,” she snarled. “Just go! Leave!”

  Zofia turned back around, her gaze going once to Eva and then beyond her to where the tops of the muse statues loomed above the wall of fire. Without hesitating, Zofia ran back to the other girl, ripping her dress from the outpost. Eva let out a ragged breath.

  “I can’t keep up,” said Eva. “I have trouble after … after a while.”

  Pain twisted her voice at the admission, and Enrique went to her, his hand outstretched.

  “Then let us help you,” he said, lowering his eyes.

  Eva hesitated for only a moment and then nodded. The heroes in Enrique’s imagination always ran off with maidens in their arms. So he rolled up his sleeves, put one arm around her legs and the other at her waist, hoisted her up—and then immediately put her down.

  “I’m weak,” he groaned. “Help. Zofia?”

  Zofia shouldered past him. “Put your arm around me.”

  Enrique took Eva’s other arm and vowed to mourn his pride later. The three of them hobbled across the curve of the road, staying close beneath the tent awnings that hadn’t been pulled down in the attack. Close behind, the sound of crashing wood caught up to them. The earth quaked, trembling with every stomp of the approaching statues.

  Enrique shoved down his panic, focusing instead on the lake as it came into full view. The damp earth fug of still water hit his nose. On the other side of the shore, he could just make out the wooden panels that hid the ancient courtyard and Tezcat entrance from the public. The three of them huddled beneath an abandoned shop tent as silence fell over the market.

  “There were nine muses,” said Zofia suddenly.

  “What a brilliant observation,” snapped Eva.

  “Only four were following us.”

  “So—”

  With a ripping sound, their tent gave way. Five of the muse statues stood there, holding the ragged tents in their arms as if they were nothing more than scraps of silk plucked off the ground. Instinctively, he moved backwards, but Eva stopped him.

  “They’re behind us…”

  Cold shadows fell over him. The nine muse statues closed in while not twenty feet away stretched out the lake and, beyond it, the way back to the Sleeping Palace.

  “We have to swim,” said Enrique, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “Go now! I’ll distract them.”

  “We can’t leave you—” said Zofia.

  But Eva didn’t hesitate. She fixed Enrique with a hard stare.

  “On the other side, then.”

  “Enrique—” said Zofia, her voice straining.

  He let himself look at her, let himself drink in the candle-brightness of her hair, the blue of her eyes. And then he shrugged off Eva’s arm from around his shoulder and darted in the opposite direction toward the merchant tents. Look at me, look at me, he willed. His breath scraped through his lungs, and he could hear nothing save for his own thunderous pulse.

  “Over here!” he shouted. “Look! Look!”

  Finally, he turned. But he couldn’t make himself open his eyes until he heard it: the creaking groan of rock hinges. His eyes flew open to the sight of all nine muses circling him. Through the gaps between the statues, he watched Eva and Zofia wade into the lake.

  But his relief was short-lived. Seconds later, one of the muses slammed her hand into the ground, throwing off his balance and sending him sprawling. Dust flew into his eyes, clearing only a second before he saw a stone fist heading toward him—

  He gathered his energy, rolling out of the way just as another fist pummeled the earth. From behind the statues, the old man called out, “Can’t you see that we are not meant to be gods? That it only brings ruin?”

  Enrique dodged another blow, flinging himself behind a statue.

  “No mortal can hide from the gods,” laughed the old man.

  When another blow came, Enrique crouched and then leapt—catching hold of the statue around its clenched fingers while his stomach muscles burned in protest. The statue tried to fling him off, but he held tight. At this height, he watched Eva and Zofia clamber onto the opposite banks and then, finally, disappear through the wooden slats …

  The statue shook its wrist again, and Enrique dropped to the floor, crashing onto his side. Pain burned through his arm. This was it. Through the pain, pride flickered dimly inside him. He’d saved them.

  He’d done something heroic after all.

  “This is the end for you,” said the old man.

  Enrique raised his head. He knew it was useless to defend himself, but he couldn’t help it.

  “I’m no thief,” he rasped.

  The muse statues held still. Their stone bodies flanked him on all sides. Even if he could somehow get to the lake, he didn’t know that he could find the strength to swim.

  “Please,” he heard himself say.


  He was going to die. He knew it. Even the shadows cast by the statues were unnaturally cold and … icy? A thin layer of ice crept onto the ground in front of him, wrapping around his pant leg like an insistent vine. He raised his gaze and then, through the slim gap between two of the muse statues, he spied a delicate crystalline bridge knitting itself across the lake, layer by layer building until it could hold weight.

  “I will not give you a merciful death,” gloated the old man. “Just as you did not give one to her.”

  Enrique pushed himself to a stand.

  Get to the lake, he told himself. Just get to the lake.

  He held himself just so, little by little stepping toward the gap between the muses. In one smooth motion, the muses raised their arms. Enrique angled his body, timing himself, gathering one last burst of energy—

  And then he dove forward.

  He shoved himself through the gap between their bodies. The statues tried to turn, but he’d drawn them so close together that they tangled on themselves.

  “Kill him!” screamed the old man.

  Enrique sprinted for the lake, his legs pumping. The ice bridge was still ten feet out. He half ran, half swam toward it, even as the water chilled him and too-slick seaweeds brushed against his skin. The earth quivered beneath him, but he didn’t stop. He threw himself onto the bridge as cold shocked through his body. Slowly, then quickly gaining speed, the bridge shifted. It yanked him toward the shore, contracting on itself. Enrique sank against the ice, letting the bridge pull him on and on while the old man’s screams chased him into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  “WHAT THE HELL was he thinking?”

  Enrique blinked a couple times … his room swimming into view.

  “Don’t yell at him,” scolded Laila.

  Enrique groaned. He knew he was still sore, but now a pleasant hum settled through his blood. Eva’s work, perhaps. When he turned his head, he saw Zofia and Ruslan on the left side of his bed, while Laila and Séverin stood near the foot.