Serpent's Tears (Snakesblood Saga Book 2)

by Beth Alvarez

  She bristled. “So I'm just another pawn? A tool to be used?”

  A soft flicker of light stirred in his eyes. “You're also good company.”

  “Don't change the subject,” she snapped.

  The light faded. “Everyone likes to pretend there are two kinds of people—the ones who play the game, and the ones who get played. But we're all pawns.”

  The lack of denial hurt. She turned away. “And you think you can use me freely.”

  “No. I think I can trust you for help.” Daemon drew up his knees and rested his elbows against them. His feet looked odd in their oversized boots. Then again, perhaps it was just odd to see him with footwear at all. “But I also thought you understood why I would want you to accompany me. I apologize. It seems I was mistaken.”

  Despite the sincerity in his voice, the words prickled. If she'd stopped to think about it, she might have realized why he wanted her to accompany him. Instead, she'd allowed herself to be distracted. And by what? Whatever his relationship with Lumia was, it was none of her concern. At least, not on a personal level. Professionally—that was another matter. “And who am I here to represent, then? Lumia? Or you?”

  His violet eyes darkened behind his mask. “What makes you ask?”

  She lowered her eyes and downed as much of the cold and near-flavorless meal as she could. She'd save that apple for later. “I spoke with one of your men. Colonel Achos.”

  Daemon snorted. “Tren's no man of mine. And as far as I know, he's no colonel.”

  “Regardless of his rank, he sounded as if he's concerned about your ambitions,” Firal said slowly. “I must admit, I didn't realize you had such aggressive plans.”

  “Aggressive isn't the term I would use,” Daemon said. “I don't work the way Lumia does. I see no reason we can't work things out through diplomacy, but we'll hear what Relythes has to say tonight. Come. I've already asked the stablehands to ready the horses.” He stood and gathered their belongings from the floor.

  Firal glanced around their room again. There was no washbasin. She sucked the butter and crumbs from her fingers instead. “Very well. But we'd best charge that Gate-stone before the trip back home. I don't think my backside can handle a return trip on horseback.”

  He grunted in response.

  Their horses were saddled and waiting when they reached the stables. Daemon fastened their packs behind the saddles and checked the straps twice before he helped Firal onto her mount. The trip held little conversation, though they took turns channeling energy into the Gate-stone after Daemon showed her how. She was amused to see him teaching her for a change, but she'd sensed a shift in his demeanor. He'd grown cold and formal, clearly braced for political chicanery. Despite the moment of comfort they'd shared when she helped with his mask, she held humor at bay and accepted his instruction without comment.

  Daemon predicted a fully-charged Gate-stone would open at least a half dozen portals before it had to be replenished. Opening them, he claimed, was what drained its power. The stone could hold a Gate open indefinitely—which Firal supposed was why they were used in the creation of anchored, permanent Gates. She knew woefully little of the artifacts and for a moment, she grieved the loss of the information the temple once held at her fingertips. Yet the feeling was short lived. Even had she been allowed back into the temple, the library no longer existed. What knowledge she gleaned of Gate-stones would have to come from Daemon—and her own experiences.

  Recharging the stone proved a challenge. Firal's healing affinity meant she could only draw power from herself or Daemon, and life was a delicate element. Daemon fared better, though now that she thought of it, she didn't know what he drew from. They had never discussed his affinity and it had yet to matter in their lessons, which had revolved around skills all mages were required to learn. Curiosity prickled at her, and Firal watched every time Daemon took the stone.

  As they rode through villages and farms, the humming life energy of nearby people gave her more to tap into, but Daemon seemed to draw from everything at once. She tried to open her senses, to feel for the flows of magic that would reveal his source of power.

  The air rippled with the energy he funneled into the stone, flows streaming from the wind, the earth underfoot, even the sun. She couldn't help but marvel, despite the uneasy chill his display of power gave her. A mage with no affinity was unheard of. Even the Archmage was bound, limited by the energies she could control. If Daemon really was able to draw on everything around him, his strength would be unmatched. The memory of tying her energies to his in order to open a Gate together stirred in her mind, and her skin rose in gooseflesh.

  She'd assumed it was the power of the Gate that had burned through her, so white-hot she thought she'd be seared away. But what if it had been him?

  Firal was now certain it was best to give him knowledge and control. He outstripped her in raw power, but she won in matters of skill. Beneath her guidance, there was no chance of his power sources coming unmade.

  When at last they reached the eastern capital, a ruddy tint colored the sky. They stopped some distance from the palace—a great, squat building that lacked all grace. Daemon left his horse with Firal on the main street and disappeared between two buildings. When he returned, he had changed into the finery he'd brought in his bags. He made an imposing figure in the silver-embroidered blue coat he pulled on, though Firal frowned at the choice of color.

  Though the Underlings had no color or standard, Lumia favored red and black. It was an odd coincidence Firal's ballgown sported those colors. Yet Daemon chose to represent Lumia's people while wearing the colors of the Eldani king. The thought put an odd tingle in the back of her head and she shook it loose as he pushed her bag into her arms with orders to change.

  Firal blinked at her belongings twice before he directed her toward the stable he'd used. Unwilling to prolong their travel, she crept into an empty stall and tried not to sneeze. Grateful as she was to shed her dusty travel wear, she couldn't help but feel odd putting on her best finery in a stable. She supposed she ought to be grateful she had somewhere to change at all. Straw clung to the hem of her skirt and her discarded clothing. Unsure what else to do, she turned her worn clothing inside out and stuffed it into her bag before she rejoined Daemon in the street. He gave her little more than a cursory glance, nodding his approval as he helped her back onto her mount. Together, they continued to the palace in the same sullen silence that had dominated the day.

  The full skirts of her ballgown did a better job of covering her legs than her work dress, and Firal allowed herself to relax. She raked her fingers through her hair to put it into some semblance of order while they rode, and by the time they reached the front of the palace, she had herself mostly presentable.

  The portcullis was raised, allowing anyone in and out of the courtyard. Clearly, Relythes wasn't a king who worried about enemies infiltrating his castle.

  “Different sort of world, out here,” Daemon murmured, as if in answer to her thoughts.

  Peasant men and women in the courtyard paid them little mind as they rode through and the front doors of the palace came into sight. The doors stood open to the pleasant day, guards lounging against the walls beside them. One or two of the men tensed at their approach. They stood straighter and their hands went to their sword hilts, though the rest of the guards watched in disinterest.

  Daemon dismounted his horse in front of them. “I trust King Relythes is still in his receiving hall?” The words rolled off his tongue with a note of boredom.

  “Aye, that he is,” the nearer guard replied, eyeing Daemon dubiously. “You are... of the Underlings? His Majesty is expecting you.” He took the reins of both horses. Another man appeared at Firal's side, offering a hand to help her down. She gladly accepted.

  “Good. See that our animals are brushed and fed. We expect them to be well refreshed when we return.” Daemon carried the lordly attitude to perfection, down to the careless way he flicked a square copper coin to one o
f the men. He slipped past the rest of the guards and into the castle without so much as another word, adjusting his collar on the way. Firal brushed a wisp of straw from her skirts and followed.

  Compared to the soaring palace of Ilmenhith, Firal found Alwhen's palace clumsy and cramped. Worse, the air inside was thick with the sour smell of wine and ale, and clogged with the smutty haze of torch and tobacco smoke. Though the sting in her lungs put tears in her eyes, she only let out a single cough.

  A narrow fire pit ran the length of the hall. Long tables framed it, all but overflowing with people attending the daily feast. Commoners and nobles alike sat rubbing elbows and not seeming to notice the difference in their rank. If not for the crown upon his head, Firal might not have noticed Relythes at the center of the table at the far end. The throne on the dais behind him stood empty.

  Despite the searing heat of the fire within the crowded room, Relythes wore a long-sleeved vermillion coat, its collar and cuffs trimmed with tawny fur. He wasn't at all like Kifel in appearance or mannerism, though Firal wasn't sure why she expected him to be. Wine sloshed from his goblet as he slapped someone on the back and roared with laughter.

  “Relythes,” Daemon said in greeting, his tone less cordial, less formal than it should have been.

  The king eyed him over the rim of his goblet, mirth fading from his face. “Never spoken to a ruler before, have you, boy?” His words were gruff, but not quite angry. He glanced between the two of them before his gaze settled on Daemon's mask. “Who are you supposed to be, the new court jester? I've enough entertainment already.”

  “I'd have to agree. Your palace proves quite the spectacle. I am Daemon, general to Lumia, queen of the ruin-folk. The Underlings, as you call us. This is my court mage.” He gestured to Firal. She dipped in a curtsy, unsure whether or not she was expected to address him. Relythes spoke before she had a chance.

  “I don't care who she is, boy, and I don't care who you are. I don't like the tone your lady used in writing to me, and as a result, I don't much like you.” The human king's eyes narrowed. He sipped from his goblet without looking away or even so much as blinking. “What makes you think I'd parcel off some bit of my land to a band of troublemakers? Your lady, Queen Lumia as she calls herself,” he snorted as if it were some sort of joke, “clearly intends to found her own nation right there on my border. You don't plan to pay taxes, you don't plan to respect my authority, you won't even show your face in my court! Why should I sell you any of my land?”

  “Are you really so concerned about having a small group of weary people at the edge of your territory?” Daemon kept his tone cool, though Firal caught the way his shoulders stiffened. “The land we're most interested in is that which borders the Kirban Ruins and runs south to the coast. Your people are too superstitious to set foot anywhere near the ruins, even to graze livestock. Wouldn't it be wiser to sell it and profit? To use us as a buffer between you and Kifelethelas? I know Lumia stated what she is willing to pay.”

  Relythes stared at him for a long moment. He put down his drink. “If it's the ruins you're so interested in, why bring this bid to me instead of the Eldani king?”

  Daemon hesitated.

  “Brant’s bark, boy, take off that bloody mask!” the king snapped. “I refuse to deal with a man whose features I can't even see.”

  “Then we shall speak in private,” Daemon said. “Send away your visitors. My mage will wait outside.”

  Firal's brows shot up. She hadn't traveled all that distance alongside him just to be sent away. But Daemon gave her a sidewise glance, and the shadowed look in his normally vivid eyes made her bite her tongue.

  “Fine,” Relythes said. “They will wait in the courtyard. This had better be worth my while.” He raised his hands and clapped twice to make it an official command.

  People rose from the tables and bowed, one at a time. The crowd swelled like a rising tide before the tangle of people separated and those gathered made their way to the door. Only Firal lingered.

  “Go,” Daemon ordered.

  She bit her lip and bowed, too. “I will be waiting in the courtyard, my lord,” she said, careful to layer her tone with respect. Her feet felt like lead and a strange sensation prickled between her shoulder blades, but she crept toward the door. The last of the revelers disappeared as she glanced back and caught one last glimpse of Daemon from behind. He reached for his mask and she tore her eyes away.

  “You?” Relythes breathed, almost in disbelief. “Well now, that does change things.”

  Firal forced herself to go on without looking again, leaving the two men to their business.

  Most of the county hall's inhabitants now stood in the courtyard, uncertain of what to do with themselves. Several were clearly drunk, unable to remain on their feet. Firal gave them a wide berth as she searched for somewhere to sit. It didn't take long to locate a stone bench beneath a well-pruned tree, and she settled on it with a sigh. The sound of her name, spoken as a question behind her, made her jump.

  “It is you! Brant's mercy, child, what are you doing in a place like this? It’s been weeks, I would have thought you'd be settled safely in Ilmenhith by now!”

  Firal's heart leaped at the warmth in the familiar voice and she spun to face her mentor. “Master Nondar!” The sight of the elderly mage leaning on his cane made tears brim in her eyes. Unable to restrain herself, she darted forward and flung her arms around the Master's shoulders. “I thought I'd never see you again!”

  He stroked her hair with a gnarled hand. “And if all was right in the world, you wouldn't have.”

  Firal held tight to his white robes, but leaned back to look him in the eye. “What are you doing in Alwhen? Shouldn't you be home, helping rebuild the temple?”

  Nondar's face darkened. “Much has happened since you were sent away, child. Far too much. The Archmage has abandoned the temple for ruined. All of the mages stationed in Kirban are now in Alwhen.”

  “What?” She swiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Why? Why here? Surely one of the chapter houses in Ilmenhith—”

  “The temple no longer has any association with Ilmenhith,” Nondar interrupted, his frosty eyes narrowing until they all but vanished among wrinkles. The grim set of his mouth said far more than words. “The Archmage has seceded from King Kifelethelas's rule. She had us abandon Kirban Temple and she acts now as adviser to Relythes.”

  “And what of the Masters?” Firal asked, wiping her eyes again. “Do they agree with this?”

  He shook his head. “I cannot speak for the other Masters, or for any of the mages. I cannot begin to speculate how they feel about this action.”

  “How do you feel?”

  He eyed her. “Glad you are safe, my child. That is all I can say.”

  “But there are mages all across the island! Surely the Archmage hasn't called them all? Without the mages, Kifel's armies will—” She stopped short and the color drained from her face. Kings don't live forever, Daemon said in the bath. Was this what he meant? A collapse of the western kingdom? Her stomach sank. Had he known?

  “I know, child,” Nondar murmured. “I am as concerned as you. But I cannot do much on my own. I have taken what measures I can. But you mustn't speak of this matter, should you encounter other mages.”

  “Who's on your side?” she asked quietly. “Is anyone?”

  “It would be safer if we not discuss this.” He cast a wary glance to the people who lingered in the courtyard. “All will come together in time, rest assured of that.”

  “Firal.”

  The sound of her name made her jump again. She turned toward Daemon half in surprise, half in disappointment, then gave Nondar an apologetic glance. “I have to go.”

  The old Master looked between the two of them, his brow furrowed and his face clouded with something that wasn't quite worry. “Who is this?” he asked, though the tone of the question implied he already knew.

  “Business here is done.” Daemon's eyes weighed
on the wizened mage with none of their normal expressiveness.

  Firal smoothed her skirts as she faced Daemon. “Did he agree?”

  “We will discuss that on the way home,” he replied.

  Nondar frowned, the lines of his face deep with concern. “So this is the path you've chosen.”

  Firal's cheeks reddened, though she wasn't certain whether Nondar had spoken to her or to Daemon. Unable to bring herself to look at the Master mage again, she clenched her hands to fists and moved to her place at Daemon's side. He rested a clawed hand against her back and guided her toward the gates, where their horses waited.

  As they retreated, she felt the weight of Nondar's stare like a burden on her shoulders.

  14

  Celebrations

  “That is enough!” Nondar roared. The thunder of his voice brought the room to silence and the other Masters stared at him in a mix of surprise and shame. He shook his head and eased back into his chair. Mages, all of them, with hundreds of years behind them. Yet they still managed to squabble and fuss like children.

  For the dozenth time, he checked the ward he'd erected around their meeting room. It stood secure, shielding them from spying eyes and listening ears, keeping even their heated shouting silenced beyond the room's four walls.

  Unsurprisingly, Anaide was the one to break the silence. “Would you assume the position yourself, then?” she asked, tone as venomous as the look on her face.

  “I would have us refrain from wasting our breath discussing the matter now.” Nondar rested his arms on the edge of the table. “We haven't even parted from the temple yet, and you already seek to fragment us more.”

  “Then how would you see us led?” A younger Master, a woman Nondar didn't know, mimicked Anaide's tone.

  “By council,” Nondar said. “None of us should lead absolutely. We would do best without an Archmage. Each Master's word should hold equal weight.”