Serpent's Tears (Snakesblood Saga Book 2)

by Beth Alvarez

  Kytenia glanced over her shoulder. Marreli was somewhere close. She thought she'd seen Rikka as well. “What about the others?”

  “They're fine, I've seen them. Duck!” Vahn all but threw her to the ground. He spun and raised his sword, just in time to catch the weapon of a soldier in black. He stepped over Kytenia as he pushed the enemy back, their blades shedding sparks in the half-illuminated night.

  “Vahn, behind you!” she shrieked, too slow to find her feet.

  Too slow to spin a mage-shield to deflect the spear that drove into his back.

  Flame exploded within the armor of the spearman behind him, leaving Kytenia blinking against the glare. Sizzles rose above the man's screams, silenced only as he crumbled to ash. The sight of Marreli on the other side, hands outstretched and dark braids half undone, was the last thing she expected.

  Vahn fell to his knees, wheezing as he groped for the shaft of the spear. The swordsman before him raised his blade to deal the killing blow. Marreli rounded on him and a shockwave of energy threw the man back.

  Kytenia scrambled forward on hands and knees. “Vahn!” she gasped, grabbing for his hand.

  “I'm okay!” He grimaced and moved her hands to spear's haft. “Pull it out! It just grazed my side, I'm okay.”

  Kytenia gritted her teeth and jerked it out of his armor. Vahn stifled a shout, clapping a hand over his ribs and collapsing with a laugh of relief. She didn't have time to laugh with him. Above them, Marreli's face was ashen, her brow beaded with sweat. She struggled to hold a mage-shield around the three of them, repelling oncoming soldiers with blasts of power thrust from either hand.

  The blood drained from Kytenia's face. “Stop!” she cried, scrambling to her feet. “Marreli, stop!”

  “It's okay,” Marreli said, voice soft. She turned from ashen to white, a serene smile wreathing itself on her face.

  Kytenia screamed her name, reaching out just as her friend spent the last of her energy reserves. The mage-shield fell and Kytenia's hands closed on empty air. She fell to her knees, breath freezing in her chest, eyes burning with tears.

  Glimmering motes danced all around them, riding currents of air, the last shining remnant to show that Marreli had ever been.

  25

  Vengeance

  Clicking to his horse to pick up the pace, Rune silently cursed the animal's flagging strength. He'd ridden hard, but he couldn't stop now.

  Heading straight for Ilmenhith had been a blind guess, but once he'd found traces of the army, there was no question where they'd gone. Attacking the city directly was beyond foolish, but Tren had no way of knowing what Kifel's armies were like, and it was even less likely he would know what the city's defenses were. Rune didn't think the man had ever gone far from Core. Now he never would.

  Shaking the thought of Tren’s demise out of his head, Rune nudged the horse's side with the claw on his heel. He'd changed horses several times, paying fistfuls of unminted gold for animals at stables across the country, riding with all the speed he could gather.

  With any fortune, the army Tren had sent against Relythes moved slower. If Relythes had caught wind of Tren's men marching for Alwhen, retaliation would have already begun, and the outpost the ruin-folk had only just begun to build would be a lost cause. Rune had left Davan in charge of moving everyone back to Core. He only prayed Firal would be safe there.

  Rune reined his horse to a trot as he crested a swell in the landscape and an encampment came into view, bathed in moonlight. Men he recognized sat with the supply wagons at the rear, looking as surprised as he felt. Several climbed to their feet and came to greet him.

  “The battle's already started, General,” one said, reaching for the reins of his horse.

  Rune pulled back, drawing the animal just out of reach. “Where?” He was too late to stop combat, then. The thought put a knot in his stomach.

  “They marched several miles to the west, told us to wait here. Said it would be safer if we were away from the mages.”

  Spitting a curse, Rune turned his horse westward.

  “Wait, General,” another voice called from the circle of wagons. Had it not been a crowkeeper, Rune wouldn't have paused. Impatient, he locked eyes with the man.

  “There's word from one of the captains in Core, arrived not half an hour past,” the crowkeeper said. “We didn't know you were coming until the message arrived for you.”

  Resisting the urge to move his horse onward, Rune lingered. “What does it say?”

  “The new village on the border, sir. It's been burned. Siege by an army. They struck just as you ordered the outpost evacuated. Some say they carried blue banners, some say red. Some made it safely back to Core, but...” The crowkeeper trailed off.

  “Some?”

  The crowkeeper hesitated.

  Rune's hands tightened on the reins. “Where is Firal? The mage, where is she?”

  “General, I...”

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  The man swallowed. “Captain Davan sends... regrets. The bodies were burned, sir. By all accounts, the healer mage did not return to Core.”

  Rune found no words. The cool night breeze blew through him, leaving him chilled to the bone.

  The village had burned nearly two full days past, if Davan sent word right away. And Rune was on the other side of the island, moving farther away by the moment.

  At last, he drew a breath. “Are they certain?” His voice cracked.

  “I mean all respect, General,” the crowkeeper said softly. “I don't think the captain would say it unless it was true.”

  Whether the banners were silver-rimmed blue or rich vermillion didn't matter. If Firal hadn't made it back to Core... Rune closed his eyes but couldn't banish the thought of her in the burning village, too determined, too bullheaded to leave anyone with injuries behind while she still stood.

  “Do you wish me to send a reply, General?” the man asked.

  Rune flexed his left hand, too aware of the ring he hadn't yet grown used to wearing, of the tight pulling of the scar Lumia had given him. If not for Lumia's death, he'd have been in the village with Firal. Where he could protect her. Where he should have been.

  He looked to the east, toward the village he'd left behind, face solemn. Flames filled his head; flames and her face. “No,” he said, spurring his horse into motion once more.

  The gentle swells and slopes of the plains south of Ilmenhith fell away beneath his mount's hooves.

  The sounds of battle loomed closer. Mage-lights hung in the night sky ahead, the iron scent of blood sharp in the air. Lathered from the last miles of the journey, the horse faltered as it crested the final hill. Rune slid from the saddle and left the animal behind as he strode into the valley where combat raged.

  His face was stone as he flowed past the warring men. His slitted eyes burned crimson, the sword he didn't remember drawing weightless in his hand, the muscles in his arm and shoulder wound tight with anger so strong it made him shake.

  Mages stilled to look at him. Soldiers moved from his path as he found his target in the crowd. He unfastened his cloak and let it fall behind him as he walked with a singular intent. Raising his blade, he advanced as his opponent turned. He brought his sword down with all the strength of his fury.

  Kifel's pauldron shattered where the sword struck and the king collapsed beneath the weight of the blow.

  “You did this!” Rune spat, drawing his sword back for another strike. “The only one who knew the way into the underground was you. She's gone because of you!”

  The king barely made it to his knees to deflect the second swing. “Get hold of yourself!” He climbed to his feet as Rune recovered. “Look at what you're doing. You've started a war! Do you have any idea how many will die because of this?”

  “I started it?” Rune's clawed fingers splayed against his chest. “I did nothing! I had everything planned. For the first time, I was happy. You've taken everything from me!” He adjusted his grip on his sword and t
ook a fighting stance.

  All around them, combat ceased. The magnitude of the challenge etched itself on the king's face. Accepting the challenge meant an end to the battle, though his opponent had nothing to wager. If Rune was struck down, an end to the battle was all Kifel could receive. But for the king, both life and the right to the throne lay on the line.

  “Think carefully before you do this,” Kifel urged. “Please, Ran.”

  Grief and fury spurred him on. Rune swept in to meet his opponent in a clash of steel. Kifel deflected each strike almost without effort, the two of them spinning in a dance of blades they'd practiced countless times before. Master and student no more, they collided as equals for the first time, no longer practicing, no longer playing.

  Kifel forced Rune back with a flurry of strikes, each glancing blow threatening to upset his balance. Rune reevaluated his position and shifted accordingly. His sword's edge, already riddled with chips where it had met with his father's unusual blade, put him at a disadvantage. Kifel was a king; a king's magic-enhanced blade never broke. He moved slowly, considering, drawing a line in the earth with the tip of his sword as he circled. Then he leaped forward and his blade flashed upward in a rapid slash.

  Kifel spun aside and turned the momentum into a stab that only just grazed Rune's side as the two came together, face to face with only inches between. Grimacing, Rune shoved him away. He adjusted his grip on his sword and again took a moment to consider his attack.

  He stalked the king like a hunting beast, the centers of his eyes narrowed to paper-thin slits. From the way Kifel looked at him, and not for the first time, he felt more animal than man. But he didn't let the king's unsettled stare lull him, and when Kifel moved, he expected it. Rune twisted away from the jab of Kifel's sword but missed the intent. The strike of the king's gauntlet against the side of his head sent him to the ground.

  He all but howled, clutching at the side of his face. The bruise at his temple from the blow Tren dealt him days before was still visible; striking it was a dirty trick. It took a moment to find his feet again, a moment Kifel used to strip away the hanging pieces of broken armor that hindered his shoulder and settle into a ready stance again.

  His head throbbing, Rune flexed his clawed toes against the ground to gauge the traction. He waited until Kifel met his eyes before he moved again.

  Dashing forward, Rune feinted one direction before striking in another, shaving sparks from the king's armor more than once. He gritted his teeth and threw himself to a gamble. He moved, granting an opening.

  The king took it.

  Rune lashed forward with a hard sideways strike aimed directly for Kifel's sword. Rune's blade shattered; Kifel's sword spun from his grasp. The king's gaze followed his weapon, and Rune's hand surged forward to catch him by the throat.

  Kifel choked and clutched at Rune's wrist as the grasp on his throat threatened to lift him from his feet. “Will you take my crown, then?” he asked, breath ragged.

  “I never wanted your crown,” Rune growled, luminescent eyes flickering in the feeble light of pre-dawn. “All I ever wanted was your recognition.”

  Kifel's face crumpled, sorrow shading his eyes. “You've always had it. From the moment you first came to me. You've always been my son, Ran.” He struggled to breathe. “You'll never know how proud I've been to call you that. But this has to end. No more bloodshed... it has to end.”

  Searing pain blossomed in Rune's side as the king's dagger pierced his leather armor and sank deep into the flesh underneath. He roared in agony, his hand clenching as his knees gave way. Too late he remembered where his hand lay and, as the talons on his fingers tore through artery and flesh, the cry that escaped him was of regret as much as pain.

  Kifel touched his fingers to his throat, confusion and then understanding dawning on his face. Side by side, they fell to the ground, and the voices of soldiers and mages alike echoed in screams around them.

  Rune struggled to turn over. He gasped, reaching for Kifel, reaching for the energy flows all around him as his father's name refused to form on his lips. Desperate, he tried to catch the flows he'd always sensed Firal using when she worked her healing magic. He brushed them, and they slipped just beyond his grasp.

  Someone grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over. He stifled a shout, his claws digging at the wound in his side. Vahn stood above him, Kytenia at his back.

  “Help him!” Rune pleaded, reaching for the mageling girl. Kytenia shook her head. She didn't look at him, tears rolling down her face.

  “We can't,” Vahn said, face somber. “It's too late. I'm sorry. It's already too late.”

  Someone pulled Vahn away. Eldani soldiers Rune didn't recognize crowded above him and pulled him up. He bit down on his tongue and strained against the urge to scream. Voices around him were arguing, people shouting, shoving.

  “You can't make him travel like this!” Vahn yelled as he tried to force his way back to Rune's side. A knight in battered silver armor pushed him away.

  “He's a murderer,” the knight snapped. “He'll hang in Ilmenhith for what he's done!”

  Murderer. The single word echoed in Rune's head, panic gripping his heart. “Wait! I didn't mean—I wasn't—” A backhanded blow across his face silenced him, all but knocked him from his feet.

  “He will hang,” the knight repeated as the sack thrust over Rune's head blotted out the first rays of the morning sun.

  From the time she'd first taken the mantle of nursemaid and cradled him in her arms, Medreal knew this day would come. Her magic was different from that the temple mages bore. Theirs could prolong their lives for centuries, but hers did something different. Outliving everyone around her was painful, but inevitable. She'd known this day would come, but had not expected it yet.

  Breathing deeply, she willed herself not to let the tears well up again as she turned back to the table of arguing mages that occupied the council hall. They hadn't ceased their argument since the pigeon arrived with the message. Medreal took small comfort in that the army had taken pigeons with them instead of corvids; the message had been enough without being delivered by a black-winged, cawing harbinger of gloom.

  “No council will be able to stand up against contestants for the throne, regardless of who is a member of it!” Anaide slammed her palms on the table as if to punctuate the sentence. “The Eldani are used to following a monarchy. They cannot adapt so quickly. Even if they could, how long can we refute claimants touting the idea their blood is somehow connected to the royal family?”

  Medreal held her tongue with her teeth until she returned to the table. “If I may, Masters, I served as adviser and confidant to the king throughout his entire life and rule.” She laced her fingers together and studied the faces of the councilors. “I realize I have no formal position on this council, but I do ask why none of the councilors consider the blood heir present in the palace.”

  Edagan gave her a look to chill bones. “What are you on about?”

  “A most curious thing happened while the rest of you were planning retaliation against the Archmage and preparing for this battle,” Nondar said. It was the first time Medreal had heard him speak. He looked almost amused. “The king was made aware of his daughter, as the Masters desired. Did I neglect to mention his excursion to collect her? I would have thought you'd seen her in the chapter house the day before yesterday.”

  Anaide blanched. “The girl is here?”

  “You asked how we were to free her,” Nondar said. “I believe the king saw to that nicely.”

  Medreal gave a wan smile. “She is quite comfortable in her quarters, though I fear she is in mourning. She was already in tears, I assume over the battle, when I took her word of her father's death.”

  Edagan leaned back in her chair, stroking her chin. “So, then. We have a queen.”

  “The Archmage will likely argue we already had one.” Nondar replied. “Without previous public knowledge of Firal's existence, it will be difficult to contest whatever clai
m the Archmage may make. Kifel was the last of his line. Many would sooner see the Archmage lead us than an unknown relative. We will have to see to Firal's coronation immediately. A queen seated is harder to dethrone.”

  “And will she be easy to guide?” Anaide looked between Nondar and Medreal, her words far too blunt to be insinuation.

  “I doubt you will be able to control her.” Nondar apparently saw no need to mince words, even if the other mages cringed. “It will take time for her to learn and she will rely on us at first. But she will grow into the role. And she will accept guidance from those she trusts once she has settled into it.”

  With a sniff, Anaide slapped the table's edge. “Good! Best to fetch her immediately. The situation will not wait.”

  Medreal bristled. “Have you no heart? She just learned of her father the other day, and today she hears he's been slain!”

  “Yes, and she will be responsible for sentencing the treasonous wretch who has slain him,” Edagan said with a wave of her hand. “Hurry along. Tell the girl we wish to speak to her. Better to have the crown on her head this morning so we can have the murderer's head tonight.”

  Medreal opened her mouth to protest but found herself silenced by a sharp glance from Nondar. She had no love for the three mages who had nestled themselves in Kifel's council so soon after their arrival in Ilmenhith, but at least he seemed somewhat concerned for Firal's wellbeing. Regardless of whether or not she had been there for the girl's childhood, Medreal had always served as chief attendant to the royal family. She did not plan to change roles now. “Very well,” she agreed, though her reluctance was clear in her tone.

  She did not wait to be dismissed before she left the council hall to wind her way through the palace. Servants bowed and smiled at her as she passed. The staff carried on about their work without any idea of what had transpired in the hours before dawn. It made little difference to them who ruled, she supposed, as long as they were paid. But Kifel had been loved by his people for his simple way of speaking and his modest way of life. He'd been lenient in taxes and generous in trade, fostering good relations with the mainland countries that used the island as a waypoint in their travels. With any luck, Firal would share her father's keen mind for business and economy.