“Child’s play.”
“Mm.”
“And Marieve isn’t a princess.”
Sorin leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “Speaking of which, we might as well use the time to prep you for meeting the nobility. They’re a group of whiny, self-absorbed pricks who seem to have nothing better to do than drink wine and gossip about each other, but be wary. Do not underestimate them. They have connections and resources. Each of them has his own agenda, so don’t fall for anything anyone says to you, and be careful who you take into your confidence. A man with a sharp tongue is often more dangerous than a man with a sharp sword.”
“As I have said, I can take care of myself.”
“Evidently.” A few minutes later, Sorin points out the window. “This is Myrellis Plaza. Middle-class. Most of the people are artisans, craftsmen, shopkeepers. The schools are too full, so most children are educated at home until thirteen, when they can apprentice for a trade. The market district stretches from the Plaza to the junction of Lake Myrella and Alynthi, where the boats dock near the dam. The castle and Sapphire Quarter are to the north, and Beggars’ End is to the west—home to cripples, slaves, orphans, and—of course—beggars.”
“Where will I be staying?”
“The Guild owns a house in the Sapphire Quarter called Blackbriar—a base of operations, one might say. You’ll have an attendant who will accompany you to the castle. She knows about the Guild, but don’t involve her in anything too serious. Elvira can be . . . flighty.”
Mercy dismisses the words with a flick of her wrist, too distracted by the sights outside to listen to most of what Sorin says. Sandori dwarfs Ellesmere by a factor of ten, houses upon houses upon houses, stores and stalls jammed onto every street corner. It’s a marvel of engineering; the logistics of housing hundreds of thousands of citizens within these walls is mind-boggling. Some of the buildings date over a thousand years back, constructed when people still spoke the old tongue and the continent was divided into city-states. The main street they follow is a two-lane cobbled road, merchant carts and private carriages moving in slow procession to the heart of the city, pedestrians and peddlers weaving around and between them like fish in a stream. Men with sweat-slicked faces carry crates of product to the docks, sometimes slipping into alleyways for a reprieve from the sun’s rays.
Finally, the carriage lurches to a stop in front of Blackbriar mansion. It stands three stories tall in the middle of the Sapphire Quarter—only a ten-minute walk to the castle gates, according to Sorin. Aside from the small patch of grass between the mansion and the street, the only greenery is the plants which bloom in the planter boxes on each window, the bright flowers stark against the white limestone which makes up most of the city. The house has the luxury of glass windowpanes which have been flung open to allow the breeze to sweep through, sheer curtains flapping. Flourishes of gold and silver have been painted around the windows and door frame. Despite all its grandeur, it’s one of the most modest on the street.
An elf named Elvira greets them at the door. Her hands do not stop moving as Sorin introduces her to Mercy and the drivers, Emryn and Quinn; she fidgets with the hem of her shirt, the thin silver band on her ring finger, the strand of hair hanging from the bun at the nape of her neck. She leads them on a quick tour of the house, somehow finding a piece of furniture to straighten or arrange in every room.
“I’m sorry, it’s not as clean as I’d hoped it would be when you arrived. There’s been some trouble in Beggars’ End and . . .” she blushes and looks down at her feet. “I’d have liked it to be cleaner.”
“I can’t imagine it cleaner than this—it’s practically spotless,” Mercy says.
Elvira’s blush intensifies, and she turns abruptly on her heel. Emryn and Quinn excuse themselves from the tour the moment Elvira shows them to the guest room, each of them grumbling about not having slept in the past four days. Sorin clucks her tongue disapprovingly but permits them to leave.
“You’ll be taking your usual room?” Elvira asks Sorin.
“Yes, just for tonight.”
“Then I will prepare lunch while you two get settled. Mercy, the third floor is yours to use as you see fit. There is a bedroom, bath chamber, and fully-stocked closet, as well as a writing desk and supplies. Should you need anything else, please let me know.” She flashes a shy smile and retreats to the kitchen, leaving Mercy and Sorin alone.
“Okay, from the top,” Sorin says half an hour later, pacing in front of Mercy, who is seated on the corner of her bed. “And this time, don’t hesitate. Family tree.”
“My grandparents are Queen Cerelia and Prince-Consort Dion. They have three children: the heiress Nymh, General Cadriel—my father—and Lord Justus. Cadriel sent me to live with my uncle Justus and cousin Alistair at Castle Rising when I was four so he could focus on strengthening the military after the Aasa family came to power. My mother was a soldier named Ayven. She died protecting Nymh from an attack by the former royal family. I don’t remember her.”
“And your childhood?”
“Spent almost exclusively in Castle Rising, schooled alongside Alistair by private tutors. Justus is a guardian of the Cirisor Islands and uses his personal army to defend the islands from Beltharan attacks. My father visits when he has the time, but he is often occupied with business in Rhys, the capital.”
“Good. You know the history well enough already, and Elvira can help you with anything else you need. The king is holding public court tomorrow, where you will have your first glimpse of the prince. Elvira will accompany you to the castle.”
Mercy narrows her eyes. “Why does she know so much about the Guild? Can we trust her?”
“Why couldn’t we?”
“The Guild is taking the risk of one elven woman not cracking the moment one of those soldiers starts to pry. If they discover my identity, they’ll question everyone I meet here. She doesn’t exactly seem fit for interrogation.”
“She won’t talk.”
“Don’t you always tell us not to trust anyone? That if we place our trust in the wrong person, we’ll next find ourselves on the chopping block?”
“Did you consider perhaps she is the one taking the risk?” Mistress Sorin’s jaw sets, her temper flaring. “The danger she faces is no less than yours. She is aware of the possible consequences and works with us regardless. As for her reason for working with us, that is her story to tell or withhold,” she says. “You would be wise to remember the Guild’s reach is much larger than you think. We have people in every city and sector. Kismoro is one of several strongholds and you are one Assassin. A thousand came before you and a thousand will come long after you’re dead. Do not think because you cheated the Trial you know better than those who have been doing this far longer than you.”
Mercy scowls and moves to the writing desk, where her daggers rest in their sheaths. She slides the shining, slightly curved blades from the leather and twists the pommels together, forming the double-bladed staff. Ignoring Sorin’s weary expression, she lunges forward and slashes, grinning wickedly when the blades cleave the air with a shrill whistle. She pivots and stabs behind her, then arcs the weapon over her head and around, muscles rippling as she moves. Her feet fall into the rhythm naturally, practiced in this lethal dance. “Tell Elvira I’ll take lunch in my room today. I haven’t trained enough recently.”
Sorin runs a hand through her hair, her anger sapped. “Neither of us has had enough rest the past few days, cooped up as we were for so long. I’ll have Elvira bring up your lunch and I’ll leave you to your own devices for the rest of the day.” Mercy grunts in response as Sorin moves to the door. Just before she steps through, Sorin glances back. “I should not have lost my temper, but, Creator’s gaze upon me, the next time you dare to order me around, I will bind your wrists and leave you walking back to the Keep tied to the back of my carriage. Understand?”
Mercy flips the double-sided dagger to her left hand and swings it low, then, in one swif
t motion, twists the handles apart and plunges them into her imaginary opponent’s heart. When she turns back, she is alone.
16
The next morning, Mercy’s muscles scream as she clambers out of bed. After Sorin had left, Mercy had continued her practice until she stumbled into bed a little past two in the afternoon, falling asleep the moment her head had hit the pillow. Elvira had come and gone, leaving a platter of rice and fish outside the bedroom door when her knocks had gone unanswered. Halfway through the night, Mercy had awoken and, ravenous, groped half-blindly for the food, nearly pitching down the sharp stone steps in the hall when her foot caught the corner of the food tray. She had eaten in the dark of her room, a sliver of moonlight shining through her window, and chuckled at the mental image of Sorin and the others finding her lying at the foot of the stairs in the morning, head cracked open after a midnight tumble. It would be her luck, Faye would’ve said, to have come so far only to be defeated by a few blocks of chiseled limestone.
After dozing intermittently for the next few hours, Mercy throws back the covers and, despite the rainbow of extravagant silks and chiffons hanging in her closet, dresses in her tunic and pants. She doesn’t have the energy to try to decipher capital city fashions. She sheaths one of the daggers and tucks it into the leg of her boot, relishing the weight of it against her calf. The other she tucks into her waistband. When she wanders down to the first-floor study just after dawn, she is surprised to see Elvira dressed and lounging beside an open window, reading a book.
“Good morning,” she says, closing her book. “You must be starving. I will prepare breakfast. I’m afraid it will be just the two of us for now—everyone else is still asleep.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” Instead of turning to the kitchen, Mercy steps forward, peering at the cover of Elvira’s book. “What were you reading?”
Elvira places her hand on top of the book, covering the title. A blush colors the tips of her ears. “Nothing of import.”
Mercy raises a brow. “Oh?”
“If the guards find out I have it, they'll confiscate it.”
“Well, now I must hear about it.”
“It’s Escape to Serenity Isle, by an elf named Morris Belden,” she says hesitantly. “It’s about a group of elven slaves who murder their master and escape to an island, where they create their own community and work to free other elves from the hold of the humans. Later, Faylen, one of the original slaves, is so consumed by guilt over his master’s death he discloses the location of the island to the crown’s soldiers, thinking it will ease his troubled mind.”
“Not a happy ending, I assume?”
She shakes her head.
“Then why read it?”
Elvira stands and returns the book to the shelf, her lavender chiffon skirt swishing gracefully around her legs as she moves. “Most people think he wrote it to demonstrate the futility of rebellion from the humans, to prove elves will always depend on their masters for strength. I think Belden was trying to show how precious freedom is, even if it’s temporary.”
She turns on her heel and moves to the kitchen, Mercy trailing behind. “It’s just a story,” she continues, pulling plates and cups from the various cupboards, “but I think it’s banned because the guards are afraid of what will happen if we decide to fight back. The humans pretend not to see how strong we truly are; it frightens them.”
“You could leave.”
“I can’t.” She stops halfway through opening a jar of jam and looks up, meeting Mercy’s eyes. “My husband is a slave in the castle, and I won’t leave without him.”
“What happened?”
“That . . . is a story for another time.” Her face slips behind an emotionless mask as footsteps tap down the stairs. A minute later, she says, “Mistress Sorin, good morning. I trust you slept well?”
Sorin nods, her eyes on Mercy. “Very well, thank you. I only have time for a quick meal before I return to the Guild—Creator only knows what those girls have been up to while I’ve been gone.”
“Of course. I will prepare something for you to take on the road, as well.”
“Thank you. Not to be a bother, but would you mind waking Emryn and Quinn and making sure they are presentable for breakfast? Mercy will finish that.”
“Of course.” Elvira hurries out of the room.
Mercy takes Elvira’s place and slathers slices of bread with wanderberry jam, while Sorin set plates on the table. Neither of them speaks for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Mercy finally murmurs.
“Thank you.” Sorin leans close, her voice soft as she says, “But if you ever presume to order me about again, I’ll have you scrubbing the Keep’s chamber pots until your fingers bleed. Got it?”
“Understood. Now, hand me that summerfruit beside you”
Mistress Sorin raises a brow.
“Joking. Please?”
Sorin tosses the bright yellow fruit to her. “That’s better.”
“This isn’t going to work,” Elvira says an hour later, her lips pursed and brows furrowed. She crosses her arms as she stares into Mercy’s open closet. Behind her, Mercy stands in nothing but her underclothes, scowling.
“You’ve had others from Kismoro here,” she points out. “How did you hide their scars?”
“Creative draping.” Elvira grabs a dress and holds it up to Mercy contemplatively. She tosses it onto the pile on Mercy’s bed. “But none of the others had so many.”
Mercy crosses her arms, imitating Elvira’s earlier stance. An uneven crosshatch of pale puckered skin trails across her forearms and over her shoulders, stray scars peeking out below her collarbone and above her hip.
“They weren’t too friendly with the only elven apprentice, huh?”
Mercy narrows her eyes, but Elvira pretends not to notice as she holds up another featherlight dress. “They cut me because I wasn’t fast enough,” Mercy says, “not because I am an elf.”
“Either way, your scars don’t befit a royal.” Again, the dress is discarded—thankfully. The fashion in Sandori is ridiculous; because of the heat and constant sun, they have figured out how to layer yards upon yards of fabric without covering more than a few inches of skin.
“If you can’t dress me like a Sandorian, can you dress me like a Feyndaran?”
Elvira’s eyes widen a fraction, and she is already moving to the stairs when she begins to speak. “I don’t know much about the fashion beyond the Abraxas Sea, but I suppose I could. Give me a minute, I’m sure I can find something.”
She returns moments later, a triumphant smile on her face. “This will work.” She helps Mercy into a pair of wide-legged silk palazzo pants, tying the wide sash into a bow at the small of Mercy’s back. A black military-style jacket follows, embroidered in a floral pattern with golden thread, the shoulders topped with gold chain epaulets. Gold flats complete the ensemble.
Elvira steps back and appraises her work, nodding slowly. “This is perfect. The pants and shoes are markedly Sandorian, but I was afraid if I layered you too much, the heat would get to you. The jacket is Feyndaran, for sure. They’re all about utility and strength over there. Someone must have left it when she came back from a contract. Now turn and let me fix your hair.”
She swiftly runs her fingers through Mercy’s curls and twists them into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, allowing a few strands to fall forward on either side of Mercy’s face. She pins it in place with a fan-shaped comb, then turns Mercy around and smiles. “You’re ready for the court.”
Myrellis Castle makes Kismoro Keep look like an anthill.
A wall surrounds the castle and its grounds, and the latticed portcullis gate and stone archway are three times Mercy’s height. When she blinks, the image of Liselle’s limp body strung across the cold metal plays on the backs of her eyelids, the young woman’s head lolling forward, her hair stringy and matted with dried blood. As she passes under the massive arch, an unfamiliar sense of foreboding chills Mercy�
�s blood. Liselle was King Ghyslain’s mistress—the most powerful elf in all Beltharos—and he couldn’t protect her from his court.
Imagine what they will do if they find out who Mercy really is.
Mercy’s hands clench into fists.
She wishes she had brought her daggers; without them, she feels naked in this unfamiliar place. She had hidden them under the mattress of her bed at Blackbriar after Elvira had advised against bringing them. The flighty elf now leads her through the castle gardens. After helping Mercy dress, she had changed from her lightweight housedress to a loosely draped linen gown, cinched at the waist by a thick belt, and her hair is piled atop her head in a braided bun. The severe white sash marking her as a slave is stark in comparison to the soft, feminine folds of her dress. Mercy spies many more men and women in similar garb in and around the castle grounds.
Between the wall and the castle span hundreds of yards of lush garden, carefully pruned hedges, and vibrant flowers blooming in perfectly parallel rows, with gravel walkways winding lazily throughout. While it’s no match for the wild verdure of the Forest of Flames or the untamed long-grass prairies surrounding Ellesmere, the honeyed scent of blossoms and the clean breeze sweeping across the lake create an air of peacefulness and repose. A gravel carriageway passes through the gate and up to the front of the castle, winding past a fountain which could double for a swimming pool. A flight of gleaming stairs rises to meet the ornately crafted doors of the palace, cherry red wood wrought with iron. The castle is a perfectly symmetrical mess of arched ceilings, soaring towers, and rambling corridors. The gilded roofs of the towers shimmer in the sunlight with flecks of obsidian and onyx.
As they climb the steps, surrounded by various members of the royal court, Mercy tries not to gawk as Elvira leads them through the open doors and into the main hall, guards flanking each wall at regular intervals. She admires the gleaming swords hanging at their sides, crafted by a blacksmith as gifted—nearly as gifted—as the Strykers.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 17