by Kesia Lupo
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, a knock on the door.
‘Enter,’ Constance called.
Four servants bustled in, each carrying two copper kettles full of hot water for the bathtub in front of the fire. Irvine turned to Constance and smiled, focusing on her face. ‘It’s so good to see you again,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t think I ever would. I’m sorry you have returned to such a changed place.’
‘I’m glad to be back,’ she said, smiling too. And it was true.
‘I will talk to you in private later,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder at the servants. ‘I’m sure you’d like some time to rest now. Can we meet in the gardens after the feast? I’ll wait by our fountain.’
‘All right.’
He turned to leave.
‘Lord Irvine?’
He hesitated.
‘Thank you.’
He flashed her a smile, and then he was gone in a swirl of silk.
THREE
The Serpent
The storm rolled and rumbled, as it often did, like a sleeping creature whose troubled dreams had deepened into nightmares. Lena shivered as she followed the glowing path through the darkness, the storm cloud and the never-ending trees. The thin rain lashed around her, and flashes of sickly blue-green threw long and twisted shadows. The thunder, so close to the damp earth, sounded like an angry voice roaring in displeasure. Though warm and hardwearing, her cryptling’s habit wasn’t meant for the outside, and she was quickly soaked through and shivering. She walked on, and on, and on, following the path, far beyond the point where she felt she could not continue.
After a time, the storm cloud started to thin enough for Lena to loosen her tight grip on her habit, which had been whooshing around her in the wind. The trees started to space out too and grew stronger, their bark thicker and darker, less furred and bubbled with fungus. And soon the canopy was so thin, and the fog slunk so low around her legs, that Lena could see the stars shining through the branches overhead. Her heart leaped: she hadn’t seen stars in years. She staggered on, suddenly eager, allowing herself a few moments of hope, yet terrified the storm cloud would thicken and once more throw her into darkness.
But it wasn’t the storm cloud that frightened her in the end.
She heard something else. A rustling nearby in the fallen leaves. A low hissssss.
Immediately, Vigo’s voice spoke to her, a memory as clear and distant as the stars. And in the forest, there are snakes that can swallow a man whole.
Those stories never ended without death.
Please, not now. Not when I’m so close. She pulled out the dagger and crept on, her eyes searching the hundred darknesses pressing in between the trees. Weak lightning flickered – illuminating, for a second, a shiny shape, long and sinuous. Perhaps a large and ancient tree root glistening with rain … but no. In the blink of an eye, the shape slithered off into the forest.
Perhaps it had bigger prey tonight.
She gulped and hurried on, gripping the knife so tightly that her knuckles stung. If it attacked her, she’d bloody kill it – she had to. She wasn’t going to let anything stop her now.
A few minutes later, Lena saw the path trail off, the light disappearing as it reached a wide field.
She was so close. She allowed herself to relax a little, lowering the dagger.
There was no noise, no warning: out of nowhere, she felt a sharp, burning pain in her thigh. She cried out, stabbed blindly down with the knife. The serpent darted back, too quick for her, and drew itself up – nearly to Lena’s height – hissing, blocking her way. It was huge. Its body coiled on the path and its open mouth revealed large, white fangs. In the purplish path-light, its dark scales shone silvery blue and its eyes were flecks of glistening black stone.
With one hand she clutched her leg, which was throbbing, and with the other she held the knife out in front of her. Her pulse was thundering and she gritted her teeth against the pain and odd sense of lightness, disorientation. No. I will not die like this. Not here. Not now. Determination hardened Lena’s heart, and she was no longer afraid.
She slashed out again, but the snake was a narrow target, easily darting out of reach. She felt a sudden weakness in her leg, which buckled. She was down on one knee. The snake appeared to notice her struggle, twisting itself into a looser, lower coil and watching.
Waiting. Waiting for me to die, she realised.
She threw the dagger, which whistled through the air, and forced herself to her feet, running off to the side as fast as her injury could carry her. Her boots pounded the dead leaves at a limping sprint. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, like a heartbeat.
It didn’t last long.
She tripped, fell flat on her face – the second time that night she’d had her mouth full of dead leaves and damp soil. She spat, turned on her back, tried to scrabble to her feet. But it was too painful – and the more she struggled, the more she felt the poison racing through her blood, draining her of strength, wrapping invisible fingers around her throat. She gasped for breath, desperate for the tiniest sliver of air. But the world was watery, choking darkness, and she felt certain she was drowning.
Out of the darkness she heard the slither of the snake’s body over the forest floor.
Her throat had constricted to nothing, her mouth gaping. She felt the cold scales sliding over the skin of her leg where her habit had ridden up, felt it coil around her pulsing thigh. She tried to struggle but found she was trapped, paralysed, her fingers twitching ineffectively. The poison had coursed through her like a dark rope, binding her to the ground. The snake’s black eyes flickered into focus, pinning her like a pair of daggers as it reached her ribcage, and its body reared up, heavy and cold as a chain. The corners of her vision began to fade again, a dull hum filling her ears. The snake’s mouth opened, revealing its wickedly sharp fangs to the dappled starlight, and Lena felt sure the last thing she’d see in this world was the way its eyes watched her coldly as she died.
She felt a flutter inside her chest. The scents surrounding her grew strangely intense and enveloped her senses – the damp dead leaves, the rotten undergrowth, the moss-padded stone. The musk of the night itself, a mushroomy softness breathing from the trees. The swirling, flickering cloud on the mountaintop – an electric, burning smell, like a summer storm.
Is this how it feels to die?
And suddenly a coldness spread from the centre of her, up through her skin, tingling in her face and fingers and the soles of her feet. Rising. The grip on her loosened, falling away.
In a moment of pure confusion, she heard hurried footsteps, which stopped at her side.
Dreaming?
Darkness claimed her.
Lena felt a splash of water on her face and woke instantly, her eyes snapping open.
The man who crouched over her was young and dark-skinned, with three silver scars running parallel across his face. She thought she should be frightened, but she was too confused. Between the yellow-red autumn trees over his head, Lena could see an indigo sky, washed with pink clouds.
It was dawn.
Despite her confusion, a part of her understood two things: she had survived, and she had escaped. Here, no cloud lingered between the trunks of the healthy trees – no flashes of sickly lightning, no grumbles of a monstrous creature in its sleep. The air was pure. Her throat, however, was dry and painful, and there was a strange, unpleasant taste in her mouth.
‘What happened?’ she croaked.
‘Here.’ The man’s voice was low as he offered her the flask in his hand. She glugged gratefully, cool water spilling down her chin. ‘You’re lucky I was nearby,’ said the man, his accent unfamiliar – clipped and formal. ‘You might have defeated the serpent, but the poison would’ve killed you within the hour.’
The serpent! Panic gripped her, and she raised herself up on to her elbows. Her mouth gaped in shock. The body of the snake lay at her feet like a discarded ribbon, crumpled and lifeless, the shine gone from
its black-gem eyes. I did that?
Lena’s gaze returned to the stranger. He was dressed entirely in grey: trews, tunic and cloak, pinned at his neck with a sickle moon brooch in silver. ‘I had to pull the beast off you,’ he said. ‘Whatever spell you cast, it worked in the nick of time.’
Spell?
Her throat was tightening in shock.
How did I …?
She gulped wildly at the water, half to rid herself of the bitter taste and half as a kind of distraction from her confusion, but coughed it up uncontrollably.
‘Steady now. Sip it slowly.’ His warm hand on her shoulder. She flinched. She never touched anyone who wasn’t Vigo, or dead – and nobody ever touched her. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said gently, drawing away his hand.
She sipped slowly. When she had recovered, she spoke in a hoarse croak. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Emris Lochlade. I’m the Third Huntsman in the temple of Faul – though I don’t suppose that means much to you. You’re from Duke’s Forest, aren’t you?’ Not waiting for her to reply, he asked, ‘What’s your name?’
Emris. Emris. Lena’s mind raced – and she remembered: the man the masked lady said she would encounter. She’d told her to say … but Lena’s thoughts and memories scrambled. Focus. She swigged at the water, scrunching up her face. ‘I’m Lena. I …’ She couldn’t remember … The inside of her mouth was itching. ‘What is this taste?’
‘Venomsbane, we call it – a herbal mixture known to cleanse the blood of most natural poisons.’ He grinned, his three silvery scars twisting. ‘Unfortunately, it tastes like poison itself – but the sensation will pass soon enough. Now, Lena, do you think you can stand up?’
She raised herself a little, her head spinning. She was facing into the forest, the green shadows between the trees darkening into the distance. The fog slunk around the roots further in like a cat prowling for prey.
Emris offered her a hand. She gazed at it, bewildered, and stood up on her own.
‘What’s a mage doing in Duke’s Forest?’ he asked. ‘Or, I suppose, out of it. I thought there were no mages in Duke’s Forest. And besides, isn’t there a quarantine?’
‘I’m not a mage,’ Lena said instinctively. She was suddenly conscious of the birthmark on her face. She started to pull up her cowl.
‘Stop that.’ He touched her wrist lightly, a tightness in his voice close to anger. She nearly flinched again at his touch, but stopped herself. It was nice, in fact, the slight warmth of his fingers against her skin.
‘But I’m Marked,’ Lena said, confused. ‘I’m a cryptling. You’re not supposed to touch me or see my face.’
‘Marked?’ He shook his head, lowering his hand from her wrist. The way he said the word, it was empty, devoid of its usual weight. ‘So? What does that mean?’
Lena stared at his scars and felt like she’d stepped into another world entirely – and, she realised, that’s exactly what had happened. She remembered the masked lady’s words: There are those in the world that do not come from Duke’s Forest, nor believe in its superstitions. Of course she had known the world beyond the city was different … but Emris had no idea what she meant by ‘Marked’. The weight of the realisation hit her in the stomach like a fist. ‘In Duke’s Forest,’ she explained a little breathlessly, ‘those who are Marked as babies or children are dedicated to the service of the Ancestors. They become cryptlings. Marked could mean something like this …’ She raised her hand to her birthmark. ‘Or maybe deafness. Or blindness. Or it could be the loss of a limb.’ Like Vigo. She hurried on, unable to bear the thought of him, the sharp pain in her heart. ‘Or some of the cryptlings are Marked on the inside. They think differently to other people.’
Emris shook his head, distaste painted on his expression. ‘It is not for me to judge … but, Lena, you are not in Duke’s Forest any more. You can lower your hood.’
Hesitantly, she dropped her cowl. He was right: she wasn’t in Duke’s Forest any more. The cool forest air felt nice against her skin.
‘How did you get out?’ Emris asked, his voice softer. ‘What of the quarantine? And the forest … even I couldn’t get through the storm cloud. Every navigation spell I know goes haywire.’
‘My … my master told me a way out of the city, under the wall,’ she said. ‘And then I met someone going the opposite way. A mage.’ She remembered the intense purple glow of the bulb on the lady’s cane. ‘She told me to follow her footsteps out, so that’s what I did.’
‘A lady wearing a mask?’ Emris said, his expression hardening. ‘She helped you?’
Lena nodded, suddenly remembering her instructions. ‘And she has a message for you. She said … she said I should tell you that you are mistaken and that she is innocent.’
Emris frowned, running his fingers gently over his cropped, fuzzy hair – and then shook his head. ‘I have more questions, and I’m sure you do too. But we shall have plenty of time on our journey.’
Lena blinked. ‘What journey?’
‘It’s my duty as a huntsman to bring untrained mages like you to the City of Kings to start your training.’ He watched her carefully.
‘What?’ She stiffened, stepped away from him, instantly mistrustful. ‘But I’m not a mage! I told you! I’m not going anywhere with you – I don’t even know you!’
His expression grew serious. ‘Lena, I know you don’t know me yet, and you’re probably very confused. If you weren’t from Duke’s Forest, there are documents and certificates and all manner of things I could show you to convince you of who I am and what my duties are. But none of it will mean anything to you. I just have to ask you to trust me.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Think of it as a kind of repayment for saving your life.’
‘But I’m not a mage!’ she protested a second time, clenching her fists: it felt as if her body was rebelling, attempting to defend itself against the very idea.
Emris spoke with infuriating insistence and calmness. ‘You are a mage.’ He pointed to the snake’s still corpse. ‘And there’s your evidence. You may not understand it yet, but I assure you I am right. Now, I have one question for you – it may seem odd, but I need an answer. When did you first experience something unexplainable, something that happened to you, or around you, that you felt you could not control?’
Lena blinked. She looked at Emris’s grave face and resisted the urge to protest again. Instead, she thought back to the first time it had happened, the time the dead man had fixed her with his eye. ‘About a year ago,’ she replied quietly, panic rising in her chest, tightening against her lungs.
‘And it’s been getting worse? More powerful? Less controllable?’
She remembered the last time, a few weeks past: the cold, bony hand of the Duchess closing around her wrist, painfully tight. She had barely been touching the body, brushing her fingers against its lips. Lena nodded, unable to speak.
He looked at the snake. ‘And I suppose you didn’t particularly mean to kill that serpent either.’
Lena shook her head.
‘Then if we don’t get you to the temples soon, you and everyone around you could be in terrible danger.’ He stepped closer. ‘Lena, you might not be ready to know it yet, but magic is a part of you. And whether you like it or not, you need to learn about it and accept it, so that you can control it.’
She felt herself nodding. Could it really be true? Her heart said ‘no’, but he sounded so certain. She gazed down at her hands wonderingly, as if she’d find the answers written on her palms.
Emris started walking through the thinning trees, towards the pale, growing sunlight. When Lena hesitated, he turned back. ‘Come on. Or don’t you want to understand what’s happening to you? You won’t find any answers here.’
Nervously, she touched the butterfly in her pocket, stroking the delicate filigree of its wings, allowing the feel of it to soothe her slightly as she turned towards the forest border and the new world beyond. And with one last look at the huge sinuous beast she had k
illed, she followed.
A large carriage drawn by two brown horses was waiting at the edge of the forest, sturdy-wheeled, windowless and painted grey. Stencilled on its side was the white silhouette of an archer aiming at a thin sickle moon hovering over his head. The whole carriage was battered and weather-beaten, the paint chipped and silvered.
Beyond the carriage, a field of cropped corn lay bare below a sky filled with pink and orange wisps of clouds. Lena stopped, her breath catching in her throat, feeling the odd sensation of wind in her hair. How long since she had seen a sky like this? As a child, she had been permitted to play in the gardens with the other cryptlings, but only at night. Whenever she’d been out during the day, her heavy cowl had framed her view in thick, ugly wool. Her hands twitched towards her cowl instinctively but she stopped herself: it felt good, the dawn sunlight on her face, the air combing her hair loose from its ragged tail, cold and crisp in her lungs.
Why shouldn’t I have this? she thought, breathing deep. She was not a cryptling any more. She didn’t have to hide. She felt a kind of happiness fill her like air, quickly followed by a heady fear of the unknown. If she wasn’t a cryptling, what was she? A mage, as Emris claimed? She shivered at the thought.
A driver in grey uniform sat up at the front of the carriage, swigging from a hip flask. He was a middle-aged man, stout and fat, legs wrapped in a brown woollen blanket. His eyes fell on Lena’s birthmark before he met her eyes, and she lowered her gaze. Emris called to him, climbing the three steps to the seat up front. They exchanged low words, and after a few moments the driver eyed Lena again, but with greater suspicion.
‘You’d better get used to being looked at like that,’ said Emris under his breath, climbing back down and offering Lena his hand to help her inside. ‘Rogues are feared throughout Valorian.’