Page 27 of Embrace the Serpent

A grinning moon rose in the twilight sky, casting a silver haze over the forest. The horse beneath me proved it was no ordinary

steed; its hooves barely touched the ground, moving with a weightless speed that felt like we were riding on a secret path

known only to the wind. Despite the vise grip my thighs had on its sides, I had a feeling it was taking great pains to keep

us from flying off its back.

With one hand I held on to the horse’s mane, which it tolerated, while my other arm tightened around Rane’s waist. His breath

was ragged against my ear, and his dark hair, damp with sweat, brushed against my cheek. Mirandel’s arrow protruded from his

chest, trembling with his every breath.

The moments at the waterfall played in my mind: Rane saving me, his blood falling, the serpents rising, so many of them, all

coming to his aid.

I could feel his strength waning, his body growing heavier against mine. “Stay with me,” I whispered.

“I—I’m fine,” he said. His hand lifted slowly, laboriously, to the shaft of the arrow.

“Rane—”

A sharp intake of breath and a loud snap . The broken shaft of the arrow slipped through his fingers, but a good few inches still stuck out of his chest. “That hurt,” he mumbled.

“You idiot,” I said, before I could think better of it.

He laughed weakly.

The movement of the horse’s muscles quickened as it picked up speed. Trees blurred past us, shadows merging into a stream

of shapes. My blood rushed in my ears. The horse vibrated under me, the way a water current pulses, the beat quickening in

time with my heart. The forest seemed to part for us, the branches bending away as if they knew the importance of our mission.

“Hold on,” I murmured, shifting slightly to support him better. His head lolled against my shoulder, and I could feel the

warmth of his blood seeping through his tunic.

His fingers twitched against my arm, like he meant to hold on. “Don’t die,” I said, and my lips brushed his temple. His breathing

hitched, and for a moment, I feared he would slip away entirely. But then his eyes fluttered open, and he looked at me with

startling clarity.

“I shall endeavor not to.” His eyes shut, and his breathing evened out. I had to believe we were going to make it.

We rode on, the warmth of twilight fading to dusk, and the forest began to thin, the patches of sky growing larger and larger.

The horse slowed. The scent of salt and lushly blooming foliage filled my nose.

We were on a road, or what remained of one. The once-smooth gray stone lay cracked and shattered, vines growing through the

cracks and spewing bell-shaped flowers across the path.

On either side of us rose mounds of fluffy greenery.

One had a square of thick, mottled glass.

They were homes, I realized. Homes, shops, a bathhouse, a village meetinghouse.

It was like a blanket of moss and wildflowers had been draped over the village, as if the village had been tucked in and laid to rest.

At the far edge of the village, perched upon the rise like a sentinel, was an abandoned little palace. Vines crept up its

once-majestic walls, tendrils curling around broken columns and winding through the rotted wooden lattices that covered the

windows.

The horse flew, picking its way through the ruins as sure-footed as a goat.

There was no one living here. This couldn’t be the Serpent Kingdom. I glared at the back of the horse’s head, but then figured

it was foolish of me to expect it to know where Rane’s home was.

The grand entrance was a dark, gaping mouth, drawing us in.

The sound of the horse’s hooves changed as we trotted on the springy remains of the immense wooden doors. A thicket of vines

lay under the doors, decaying and crushed.

Though the palace was open to the elements, a heaviness fell upon me as we crossed the threshold. A moaning wind came to greet

us, and a chattering rose in its wake, dried leaves, shattered pottery, delicate ornaments, the debris little critters had

brought in, all of it bidding us welcome.

An echo came from the grand hall, a phantom whisper of laughter and music. A song I could almost remember—

Rane’s breath caught.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered to him. To the horse, I said, “You can put us down.”

It tossed its head: No . And then for good measure, it glanced back at me with a rude look that said: You fool.

It took the stairs by fives—I gripped Rane tighter as we tilted—and then trotted confidently down a hallway. Moonlight filtered

through the gaps in the roof, illuminating patches of vibrant green moss and wildflowers that grew like a patchy carpet over

marbled floors. White and cream marble, with accents of smoky pale blue—sea glass, maybe—and I had barely finished the thought

that green would complement it well, when we turned a corner and new accents of pale green showed through the patches of moss.

At the end of the hallway, the horse nudged open a door.

A large bed, with tatters of silk hanging from the canopy. A line of dolls sat on the dresser. The colors were faded, muted,

like a half-remembered dream.

The roof had stubbornly hung on in this corner of the palace, protecting this room from the vines and the salt air.

The horse shifted under me, and I held on as it lowered itself to a kneeling position before the bed. Grimney thumped down

first. I slid off, catching Rane as he toppled sideways, and lowered him slowly onto the bed. His arm fell with a thump and

a cloud of dust billowed up. I sneezed. Oh. The mutedness of the colors—it was because a thick layer of dust covered everything.

The coverlets were moth-eaten and molding, and I rolled them aside, cajoling Rane to shift over to the relatively cleaner

sheets. Rane put up little fight and collapsed obligingly.

“I’m perfectly all right,” Rane slurred.

I snorted. Behind me came several thumps, like a little stone golem was walking away. “Grims!” I called, but he kept going, and the horse followed him.

Rane’s eyelids fluttered and squeezed shut.

“Okay,” I said, “I can do this.”

I grabbed the dagger from his belt and cut off his jacket, and then his shirt. The wound in his side, where the first arrow

had gotten him, was leaking a thin stream of blood, but it was already closing up.

The half an arrow sticking out of his chest was the bigger problem. Faintly, around the wound, Rane’s skin had become pale

and silvery. My fingers hovered. It didn’t look like the arrow was causing it.

I needed supplies.

Kitchens and useful places were usually on the first floor, and that was where I headed. There were untouched candles covered

in dust and flint beside them, and with light, my task became easier. The kitchens were bare, and the pantry was covered in

the sludge of what may have once been food. At last, I found a windowless room lined with wooden shelves, where the twiggy

fossils of plants hung from the ceiling, and a large countertop was covered with labeled clay pots and a series of mortars

and pestles. Perhaps the lords of this place had once had an apothecarist.

The pastes and plants were too old to be of use, but in one of the drawers I found sheets of bandages. I also grabbed a small

round pot, and a flint and some of the dried herbs to use as kindling.

In the courtyard, there was a waterspout and a small pump beside it, carved to look like horses with fish tails.

The handle groaned and wouldn’t give, not until I gave it a good kick.

Something shifted, and when I put my whole weight on it, it gave.

It screeched and sludge poured out, dark and murky.

I worked the pump until clear water poured onto the flagstones, and only then did I fill the pot.

The water smelled mildly briny, but there was no trace of rot.

Back in Rane’s room, I built a fire in the fireplace, and hung the pot over it.

As the water heated, I unwrapped the peri tablecloth and had it set itself. It was our only source of food, even if I did

have to scoop out each tiny morsel that materialized, until I’d gathered enough for four ordinary-sized mouthfuls.

Small bubbles rose in the water. When it came to a roiling boil, I took the pot off the fire.

A thump came at the door. Grimney held handful of herbs.

“What are these?”

“Prrdys,” he said. They’ll help stop the blood.

“How do you know that?”

“Frrdyn zzrd lyd.”

“You’re not older than me,” I said. “I made you seven years ago.”

He looked at me pityingly. “Qrrzy.” The stones that made him up were thousands of years old, he said.

The plants emitted a bitter scent. It did smell rather like the medicines that city apothecaries dispensed in glass bottles.

“Fine,” I said.

Grimney took the plants and—by using one hand as a mortar and the other a pestle—he ground them into a paste.

Rane’s breathing was shallow. With one hand on his chest to hold him down, I yanked out the arrow.

Rane moaned.

The arrow came out easily, but the blood—my mouth filled with bile and I tried not to gag. Luckily, it hadn’t gone in too deep. Perhaps because the tip was dented—maybe it hadn’t picked up enough speed to pierce deeper.

I quickly washed the wound, packed it in Grimney’s plants, and wrapped it in clean bandages. I did the same with the wound

in his side.

“Rane?” I whispered.

His lips parted. The tension was gone from his body; he’d slipped into deep sleep. I cleaned up, and then sat by his side.

His dark eyelashes cast long shadows that nearly brushed his cheekbones. They trembled as he dreamed. He breathed in, sharp,

and relaxed, his muscles loosening one by one, his palms splaying, his shoulders falling into the mattress.

I blinked. His eyelashes were silver. And then, from the roots of his hair came a shimmering as his dark locks turned pale

and grew until they brushed the tops of his ribs. His cheekbones sharpened, his lips grew a touch thinner, and most startlingly,

iridescent scales spread over his skin, creeping up his neck and ears, though his face remained smooth.