Serpent's Tears (Snakesblood Saga Book 2)

by Beth Alvarez

  “Clever enough.” The concession came in a tone that gave it little worth. Envesi stroked her jaw with her forefinger and thumb. There was no real backlash she could receive from the child's discovery, now that she'd already distanced herself from Kifel's rule. But it did add the possibility of complications. She had counted on damaging the chances of Kifel having a viable heir when she'd elevated Lomithrandel to the rank of Master. Having a daughter in line meant any number of young men could now compete for the rank that came with marriage, and behind them, there would be the strength of countless noble houses in Ilmenhith.

  “Archmage, if I may be so bold as to ask...” The mageling girl dared to lift her eyes.

  “Ask what, child?” Envesi could humor a question or two. The girl brought her useful information.

  The girl shuffled her feet. “I think I know who the letter was about. Why is she important to the king?”

  The question wasn't what she'd expected. The Archmage lifted one white brow. “What was your name again, girl?”

  “Shymin, Archmage,” the mageling supplied.

  “Of course. Tell me, Shymin, does it bother you to know that you stand on the side opposite your friends?” Envesi leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk. “What drove you to seek me out?”

  Shymin swallowed. “We disagreed. My friends and I, I mean. I learned one had done something she shouldn't. Well, several things she shouldn't, really. Later, I learned that a Master was aware of what she'd done and had worked to hide it. What she did was wrong. Regardless of which side I'm on, it was wrong. What changed things was which side that Master was on. I don't feel I can follow a Master who can't abide by their own rules.”

  “I see,” Envesi murmured. “So you side against a leader, not a friend.”

  “Yes, Archmage.” Shymin bowed her head again and clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white.

  Envesi rested a finger against her lips and eyed the mageling, thoughtful. A useful girl, if transparent. It was a wonder she managed to maintain such secrecy in the chapter house in Ilmenhith. But there was nothing wrong with humoring her, as long as she remained useful. Envesi gathered ink and paper and reached for a quill. “The girl may be of use to Kifel because her connections give her potential influence over the throne. I don't know if he'll be rash enough to make use of those connections, but knowing her whereabouts may be perceived as important. Now, as for you.”

  The Archmage took a piece of colored sealing wax from a box on her desk. She'd made sure to keep the right colors on hand. She penned a short missive while the wax heated. The paper Relythes supplied her with was of fine quality; the ink dried quickly and did not feather. She folded the note and stamped the wax with a seal from another box. “See that this message is given to Edagan. Tell her it is from one of the chapter houses on the border that has not yet been recalled. She will recognize the colored wax. They send word that a band of rebels attempt to claim land just outside the ruins.”

  Shymin took the offered letter and stepped back. “Yes, Archmage.”

  The Archmage nodded in approval. It took little prompting to get the girl to understand. That would be worth remembering, when everything was over and it was time to raise magelings through the ranks. She waved a hand. “Off with you, then. You will report to me again when you feel me Calling for you.”

  “Yes, Archmage.” The girl bowed and hurried off. Outside, a handful of Masters would be waiting to Gate her back to Ilmenhith.

  After the mageling had gone, Envesi allowed herself a frown. Had she more Masters positioned on the other side, transporting spies with information from the capital would be easier. She'd have sent her Gate-stone back with the girl for the sake of convenience, if she'd been able to find it. It hadn't been among her things when they settled in Alwhen, though she didn't suspect any of the Masters that defected had known to take it. Chances were, some soldier found it in the tower and kept it, thinking it a pretty marble. The idea left a sour taste in her mouth.

  At least there was still the option of Gates. It was foolish of Kifel to place the mages in their old chapter house, a place any of Envesi's mages knew well enough to Gate to, but she'd expected nothing else. Keeping him distracted was a simple task. Feeding false information from various outposts would keep his head spinning until she'd determined the best way to bridge the temple's divide.

  There was always the option of tying herself completely to Relythes. It was an idea worthy of consideration, no matter how distasteful she found it. His latest wife had recently been lost in childbirth. The mages were formidable, but after Kirban's destruction, the temple lacked resources of its own. Relythes had been generous, but her work demanded more than mere generosity would provide. She needed the power a throne could provide.

  Envesi laid a fresh sheet of paper on her desk. If that was the angle she was going to play, she'd have to become much more cordial, and quickly. She dipped her quill and carefully began to pen the invitation for Relythes to join her for a formal dinner with her mage council.

  20

  By Blessing Of Brant

  Dim firelight danced over the curves and angles of the high, vaulted ceiling. Lumia's head lolled as she watched the shadows move. She tried again to feel it, hands extended toward the flame cradled in the iron brazier before her. It warmed her flesh, heat wafting in gentle waves, but she felt nothing else. Her blue eyes slid shut.

  The throne room was empty except for her, kneeling beside the only lit brazier in the great hall. More than one servant had offered to light the rest, but she rebuked each of them and sent them away. They had no idea why she was distressed and she did not intend to explain. She should have been able to light them on her own. She should have been able to feel more than the warmth of the flames.

  Head hanging, she opened her eyes and looked at the bleak space around her. She'd never found the underground portion of the ruins oppressive before, never wished for the daylight she'd been driven from so many years ago. Of course, she'd never been without the ability to sense her surroundings that came with her Gift, either.

  What had he done? All magelings learned the risks of magic. A mage who used too much energy risked burning out and losing their Gift. Drawing too much energy from one source risked unmaking it. But she'd never heard of this. Even after she'd earned the right to wear the white robes and eye markings that proclaimed her Master of the House of Fire, she'd never heard of this.

  Gazing down at her hands, Lumia ran through the memories again. It had been like nothing else. The odd impression of being snared, the stress of being wound tight, the snapping sensation that made a painful heat blossom in her chest and head. That was the moment she'd stopped feeling it. The moment she'd stopped feeling him.

  Tren's presence, too, was gone from her senses. Just like every other trace of energy. She'd never thought such a thing possible, but she couldn't deny she no longer felt any of the flows around her.

  Her magic was gone.

  And what would her people say when their beautiful, immortal queen began to age? She buried her face in her hands and willed herself not to cry again. She forced herself to rise from the cold, black stone floor. To hold her head high. Her eyes were still swollen, her throat raw. Step by step she returned to her throne to perch upon it as regally as she ever had.

  It was not insurmountable, she reminded herself. Difficult, but not insurmountable. It presented a new set of challenges to overcome, nothing more. She could no longer sense Daemon and, without the ability to manipulate the flows of power, she couldn't control him that way. But there were options. The girl, for example. That bloody, blighted girl.

  “I'd say sulking doesn't suit you, but you take to it so well.” Tren's voice from behind the throne caught her off guard.

  Lumia gritted her teeth and glowered at him as he moved from one of the tapestry-covered doorways. “If I wanted you in my throne room, I would have called for you.”

  The weight of his stare made her uncomfort
able. Again she felt a pang of distress. She'd never been able to read thoughts, but the blood-bond had given her a sense of his emotions, which was just as good. She didn't like the way he studied her, his face as unreadable as stone, his eyes sharp with a predatory gleam. She gave a start when he finally spoke.

  “You aren't unaffected, I see.” He paused before her. “I shouldn't be surprised that you already know. You did it to him too, after all.”

  The reference to their lost link made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. He had no way of knowing it was gone, of course; without a Gift, he wouldn't have sensed any change. But what did he expect her to know? She bit her tongue to keep her expression still and forced her breath to stay even. “You've always struggled to hide your jealousy,” she said, choosing to focus on the one thing she was certain of, the emotion he'd never been able to quash. “You never have been able to reconcile with the fact that you simply were not as useful as him.”

  Tren's eyes narrowed, though he said nothing at first. His hands clasped behind his back as he paced around her in a slow circle. A predator indeed. One she'd riled. One she no longer had leashed.

  “What's it like?” he asked. “Feeling all those emotions that come from him? All the sensations that come from him being in another woman's arms?”

  She bristled.

  He smirked. “Struck a nerve, did I?” He paused mid-circle and stared into the shadow of the throne room. “Surely you never believed you'd be able to keep him.”

  Heat rose into her cheeks and she jerked her head to the side, refusing to let him see that he'd gotten to her. So that was what he thought she knew. She clenched her teeth so tight it made her jaw ache. Her fingers dug at the iron arms of her throne. How had it come to this? “He is still of use to me,” she snapped.

  “How?” Tren folded his arms and stared at her.

  “If he fancies the girl, let him have her. It will cement his claim to the throne and only adds a single obstacle to our path.” She added careful inflection to the last words. It had been so easy to discard Tren when Daemon came along. Now she found herself silently praying she'd be able to reel him back in. “It wasn't how I planned things, but she has her uses, as well. I've allowed her to stay for that reason. Or did you think her presence was beyond my control?” She settled more comfortably into the cushions of her throne as she regained composure.

  He avoided meeting her eyes. “Given your predisposition toward jealousy, I wondered.” It wasn't quite an admission, but the question put him on his toes.

  Lumia scrambled for a way to tie things together, careful to keep her face serene. She always had been good at thinking on her feet. “Daemon is a headstrong boy, always has been. So let him believe he has power for now. He believes he can use it to get what he wants. All we have to do is point him toward our goals—what we've made him think he wants. He thinks he has control of the army, so we let him use that to take a kingdom.”

  “And then?”

  “Simple,” she said, batting her eyes. “You take back your armies and we remove the pawns from the chessboard. One way or another, the mages will be destroyed. But for now, my general, let us talk about you.”

  Tren blinked at the title and straightened where he stood.

  A smile twisted the corners of her mouth as a new strategy began to weave itself in her mind. Not all the details had come together, but there was time for that. With Tren at the edges of her web again, all she had to do was entangle him before he realized just who the pawns were.

  There were few passages in the ruins wide enough to accommodate the supply wagons. Firal stepped into a side passage to watch one pass. The wagons had been coming and going between Core and the new outpost for days, wearing a path into the thick grass. Following the tracks through the ruins meant slow going, but she appreciated the clear trail.

  With as few beasts of burden as the ruin-folk owned, most of the high-wheeled wagons were pulled by men. More than a few had stopped to ask if she wished to ride, but the flatbeds were loaded down with tools, building materials, and other supplies, so she politely declined and waved them away. They needed no additional burden, and walking did her good. The weather had been fair and everyone seemed to enjoy the time outdoors. With the sun on her face, Firal understood why. She had missed her long walks in the ruins, though revisiting them now stirred the ache of homesickness in her chest. She tried to pay it no mind.

  From talk in the marketplace, the new village south of the ruins was coming along nicely, though Firal hadn't yet made her way out to see it. She hadn’t planned to visit so soon, but Minna had suggested she visit the construction site while the men worked, just in case there were more injuries. There had been a few. Cuts from mishandled saws or the occasional broken thumb from a misaimed hammer were not concerning, but it slowed things down when the men had to return to the underground for healing.

  Beyond the edge of the ruins, the trail stretched on another mile or two before the pale wood of new buildings came into view beneath the forest canopy. People dotted the landscape, exploring their new territory or scouting for provisions among the trees, their clothing a bright ivory against the lush green.

  The land they had claimed was unlike anything Firal had seen. The eastern half of the island was higher in altitude, if slightly, and grasslands spread from the northern cliffs to the rolling plain where Alwhen stood. The western half was manicured, its forests pushed back to allow tidy fields for agriculture. But this—the narrow strip of land that ran past the temple and on to the southern coast—was untamed. Copious trees and ferns sprang forth from fertile ground, though the path she followed cut a wide swath through them. It had been a roadway, though rarely used, needed only for Relythes to patrol the border.

  The ruin-folk had chosen a large clearing in the forest to establish their first outpost. Eventually, they would move farther south and build on the coast. Such was first step in Daemon's plan to unify the island, but as she walked the trail that seemed to split the east from the west, his cause seemed more far-fetched than ever.

  Yet he had leverage in the east, she reminded herself. With knowledge of his true identity, it became easier to understand why Relythes had parted with this strip of jungle, and Firal cursed herself for having missed it before. Ran—Daemon—pushed against his father's rule, and Relythes thought he was propelling the rebellion. A subtle way to jab at Kifel without bringing retaliation down on his own borders. It was petty, and Firal suspected that was exactly why Daemon had known it would work.

  Firal fidgeted with the strap of the satchel slung over her shoulder. She tried not to think of Daemon more than she had to. Beyond that first deep conversation, their communication since his injury had been stiff and formal, but not because she didn't wish to speak to him. He pushed her away, just as he had before, keeping her at arm's distance instead of addressing whatever he thought kept them apart. After he had recovered enough to walk with assistance, he'd gone somewhere else to recover, and she hadn't seen him since. Minna insisted he would warm up after his wounds healed—both physical and emotional. Firal hoped she was right. No matter how his deception had hurt, she did not wish him ill. And though her feelings for him had grown confusing and conflicted, they had not gone away. She suspected life would be easier if they had.

  Hammers rang in the air and cheerful voices echoed from the village site ahead. Firal picked up her pace, refreshed by the sound. She'd packed a few useful things, her bag filled with gauze and bandages, along with a few bottles of painkilling tinctures and antiseptic salves. And the herbal volume, of course. If it ended up being a slow afternoon, she could always work on her notes.

  Working men paused to offer greetings and respectful nods as she reached the edge of the would-be city. She smiled in return, surveying their work as she searched for a place to settle. The village was little more than a main street now, with buildings of all shapes and sizes being erected on either side. A stone-walled well stood toward the end of the street; it had likely bee
n the first thing they'd built. A handful of buckets sat beside it, as well as a few cut logs to offer a resting place. Firal made her way toward it.

  Tree stumps ringed the south side of the clearing. A narrow avenue wound between the trees beyond the well, clogged with tall grasses and small saplings. She imagined the rest of the road had looked much the same before construction began.

  Dust coated the logs beside the well, but Firal sat anyway and eased her satchel to the ground. She recognized a few nearby faces from the market, though more were unfamiliar men she assumed were part of the army. More familiar women and children roamed the edges of the clearing, but the main street was clear, giving the ruin-folk room to work. They'd established an efficient method. A handful of men rolled logs from the wagons, while others moved them to a sawdusty space where a group of workers cut them to usable lumber. Her eyes lingered on the men working the axes and she frowned. Her healing might be necessary sooner than she thought.

  “You should be resting.” Firal raised her voice as she approached. “That's too much for you to be doing with that injury.”

  Daemon spared her a glance on the downswing of his axe. He let it rest where it buried itself in the log. “I took care of that,” he replied, a little breathless, but not strained.

  She crossed her arms. “You took care of what?”

  “The injury. I'm fine, thank you, Miss Healer.” He planted a clawed foot against the log and worked the axe free.

  Firal pursed her lips and caught hold of his jaw, grumbling about his mask beneath her breath. She touched his energies with her own and jerked in surprise when they pushed back with unexpected force. “That's impossible. It should have taken weeks for you to regain that kind of strength.”

  He batted her hands away and lifted his axe. “Turns out I'm a fast healer.”