Page 17 of Sonnets and Serpents (Casters and Crowns #2)

I’m not offering my best work today,” Silas said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

The distraction felt doubly ungrateful, since Kerem’s generosity was the only reason Silas had been able to stay on campus at all. The only reason he had a chance at a professorship.

The princess had returned to her cushion in the corner, and he resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder at her.

Even without looking, he could feel her there, a prickling awareness like what he felt for snakes, except this didn’t come from magic, only from annoyance.

How did she manage to distract him so easily?

By contrast, Kerem worked with relaxed shoulders and his signature calm, reading through a stack of student essays and marking notes as he went.

Rather than filling his office with comfortable chairs, he kept only a few stools at his desk, and he never sat for long. Motion prompted ideas, he taught.

Silas sat on his own stool, wishing it was a chair with a back because that would have been one barrier, however slight, between him and Eliza.

“You’re agitated,” Kerem said. “No Affiliate can do their best work with emotions churning.” He glanced up, gesturing with his pen at Silas’s bracelet. “That’s new. Something to do with this?”

Embarrassment heated Silas’s ears. “Stone Cast. It was an . . . ambush.”

“Looking for a way to break it?”

He found he’d rather discuss anything else. “What happened to Iyal Havva? The yaslari was still on his office door today, and I’ve never seen a shrine like that in Pravusat.”

Kerem’s lips pressed to a grim line. He underlined a paragraph in the current essay, jotting unsupported beneath it.

After adding another line of direction, the professor finally said, “An experiment gone wrong, most likely. He was on a research leave from teaching, and his body was found, missing bones. About a week after you left.”

Silas frowned. “I’ve heard of Stone Casters breaking their bones”—Yvette had broken her arm while overexerting herself on the Great Eastern Wall—“but never them vanishing. Still, I would have expected him to survive, however painfully.”

Kerem held his gaze for a moment, then clarified, “Missing all his bones.”

Suddenly the shrine made sense. Silas swallowed, his own research into magic stealing seeming tame by comparison.

What kind of experiment had the professor been attempting?

“No one knows what could cause such a thing,” Kerem said. “It’s never been seen before.”

Setting the essays aside, he rose from his desk and opened a chest on a shelf, removing a roll of tanned snakeskin.

Tension lined his shoulders now, and Silas regretted raising the subject.

The closeness of relationships might have varied, but the warlockry professors were a tight-knit group, and it must have been disturbing for Kerem to lose a friend in such a gruesome manner.

Silas rededicated himself, and they worked in silence, crafting Artifacts.

But by the time he moved from snake bones to snakeskin, his head started pounding, magic slipping from his grasp.

It felt pathetic not to be able to finish a batch of Artifacts he’d done a dozen times before.

Was the bracelet interfering with his own magic?

Or was having the princess around really that much of an agitation?

“Silas,” she whispered, as if summoned by his thoughts.

He almost slipped off his stool, banging his knee on the desk. Then he turned on Eliza with a glare.

“I’m not happy either,” she told him curtly, planting her hands on her hips. “I feel like a child saying this, but I’m in need of a washroom, and somehow, I doubt there’s one within twenty feet.”

Annoyance though it was, he could hardly blame her for being human.

She peered over his shoulder at the desk, then shuddered. “What do you do with . . . all this?”

“Artifacts,” he said flatly.

She frowned. “I thought Casters made those.”

“Casters have their type, and we have ours.”

For Casters, creating an Artifact meant anchoring a Cast to a related object to increase the magic’s strength.

They served no one but the Caster. For Affiliates, creating an Artifact meant imbuing an object with magical properties relating to their animal link.

They could be used by anyone, although they could only be created from a piece of the Affiliate’s animal link, like snakeskin.

“As for what we do with them,” he added, “we sell them at market to fund research. I infused these python bones with a snakelike flexibility and strength. Orchardists near the coast drive the bones into their trees during hurricane season.”

Baris would be eager to trade Silas’s work for his best papayas.

“These”—Silas gestured to the squares of snakeskin sewn to leather backings—“are sun protection. By drawing heat to themselves, they keep people cool and prevent sun sickness.”

“You protect people?” Eliza stared at him as if she couldn’t comprehend the idea.

Silas scowled. “I misspoke. These are both deadly weapons. Used for ending any student who misses a deadline.” He stood, grabbing his bag with too much force. “There are washrooms on the main floor.”

Kerem didn’t ask for details, only handed him another list, this one a collection of reference books he wanted from the library.

Eliza tried her best to be patient, truly. She repeated to herself a silent mantra of patience abiding, patience abiding. Sometimes she recited the entire sonnet.

Still, the hours were no longer filled with minutes. Each minute had become an hour itself.

After the washroom, Silas collected a stack of books from the library, and on their way back to Kerem’s office, Eliza realized her first impression of his physical build had been wrong.

She’d thought he might haul people around like sacks of potatoes; now she realized his broad shoulders and tall frame were only ever put to use hauling around books.

Had she carried the tower he currently hefted, she wouldn’t have been able to see over it, and she would have been puffing after a flight of stairs.

Silas shifted his hold on the books once, but his breathing wasn’t labored.

If anything, he seemed more energized returning up the stairs with a pile of books than he had been coming down empty-handed.

It wasn’t only being a snake that made him strange. It was everything about him.

While Silas delivered the books to his professor’s desk, Eliza eyed the cushion in the corner. It sat like the open maw of a monster, beckoning her to be swallowed. If she was idle any longer, she would lose her mind.

“How can I help?” she asked in Pravish—or at least tried to. It might have been something more like how helpful I am.

But if she’d gotten it wrong, Silas would have corrected her. Instead, he squinted, as if trying to detect a snare beneath a pile of harmless leaves.

“There’s nothing for you to do,” he said.

But Kerem shrugged. “I won’t turn down an extra pair of hands.”

Smugly, Eliza gave him a shallow bow of thanks, and Silas muttered something under his breath.

Just no snake bones, she thought. She didn’t know how to say that in Pravish, so the best she could do was offer it as a silent prayer.

The professor put away the bones and other disgusting materials, which was a relief. Then, rolling back his sleeves, he asked, “Have you ever milked a snake?”

Eliza didn’t like the sound of that at all. The look on Silas’s face said he clearly expected her to run, and the thought of being a coward in his eyes irked her. She wasn’t a coward. Apta, maybe, but she would rather be known for foolish actions than for retreat.

She licked her lips, managing to string a few words. “Snakes . . . have . . . milk?”

Kerem flicked his hand. “No, no, snakelets fend for themselves from birth. ‘Milking’ is a term used for venom extraction.”

She cast a side glance toward the enclosure holding Ether, where the white snake moved restlessly along the rocks. Silas had sworn the creature didn’t possess venom.

Following her gaze, Kerem shook his head. “Not her. I need a venom collection from Silas.”

Eliza froze. Meanwhile, Kerem stepped past her to the shelves, gathering supplies. Silas remained by the desk, avoiding her gaze, focused on combing his unruly hair back. After she stared long enough, though, his dark eyes finally met hers, narrowing in distaste. Or possibly challenge.

“You get milked?” she blurted in Loegrian.

She was certain he blushed. Though his darker skin concealed it better than hers, he looked rosy along the ears, and the way his posture stiffened certainly spoke to embarrassment. She bit her lip, finding the response cute even if the subject was the strangest she’d ever broached.

“You can leave,” he said, more threat than invitation.

Eliza should have. She should have hidden right outside the door, out of reach of any snake fangs, especially the venomous set belonging to the shapeshifter in front of her. But, honestly, with his blushing ears, he didn’t seem as much of a threat.

Besides that, his voice from earlier haunted her. She’s terrified of snakes.

This country seemed determined to continue throwing them at her, perhaps because it thought she would abandon her purpose and flee. Perhaps because it thought she was just blown by whims.

Let it watch, then. Eliza could conquer terror and anything else.

Mimicking Kerem, she unbuttoned her silk cuffs and rolled back her shirt sleeves. She planted her hands on her hips and said, “I’m not afraid of you.”

The brave image was ruined by Kerem startling her from behind as he said, “Hold this vial.”

The container’s opening had been covered by a thinly woven sheet of linen tied securely at the neck. Eliza breathed calmly to keep her fingers steady around the glass.

“To prevent spills,” said Kerem, indicating the linen, “and avoid venom on skin.”

Eliza frowned. Surely it wouldn’t hurt him if he was also a snake. She struggled to put that to words. “Snake can’t . . . pain you. Right?”