“Sorin was a Daughter then, and was working on a contract on some noble when she heard the guard bring us in. She killed him and would have killed us, too, if the Guild hadn’t recently lost an important contact in the capital. She promised no one would find out about Kier’s escape attempt if I agreed to work at Blackbriar, so I did.”
“So, now what? You’re going to work for the Guild for the rest of your life?”
“I had thought so, but Sorin convinced Illynor to grant my freedom after fifteen years. But this time, I’m not going to wait for time to run out. This time, Kier and I are going to make it all the way to Cirisor.” She nods once, her lips forming a tight line. “We’ve had ten years to plan his escape, after all. Bron, the servant I spoke to, is our messenger. He’s our only connection to each other.
“The reason I know the castle so well,” she continues, “is because I have walked each of those halls a thousand times, peering into every alcove and exploring every possible exit.” She walks to the desk and picks up Mercy’s daggers. “You’ll want to take these with you,” she says, pushing them into Mercy’s hands. “Nowhere in Sandori is safe for an elf on her own.”
Never in her life has Mercy been more grateful for a pair of shoes than she is for the ones on her feet.
Black silk with gold embroidery, two tassels on top of each slipper, the delicate filigree glittering with flecks of crystal—they’re worth more than everything Mercy has ever owned. They’re ridiculous. Beautiful, but their purpose seems better served on a pedestal in some royal’s mansion than on the feet of an Assassin with twenty aurums to her name.
They are also completely silent as Mercy stalks down the third-floor hallway of the castle.
Without Elvira as her guide, Mercy wanders through the high-ceilinged corridors with one destination in mind: Tamriel’s private chambers. She has already discovered the kitchen and larders, storerooms, and pantries, as well as the main dining hall, multiple studies, and several unused apartments which make up the outer wings of the castle. Luckily for Mercy, the architect who had designed the palace had chosen simplicity over extravagance: the core of the building is square, rooms upon rooms stacked atop one another. In the years since its construction, various kings have added extensions to its exterior wings and towers, so the outer halls of the palace are nothing short of labyrinthine. Most of the rooms are empty or filled with the bulky forms of old furniture hidden under sheets—a memory of the years when the castle bustled with foreign dignitaries, diplomats, and visiting royalty, before the stalemate over the Cirisor Islands had shattered the bonds between Feyndara and Beltharos.
The only people who pass Mercy are those who work and live in the castle. The slaves don’t so much as glance at her as they scurry about their chores, and the guards at every corner stand so still it’s difficult to distinguish them from the decorative suits of armor displayed around the castle.
At last, she stands before the door to Tamriel’s chambers. Or—more accurately—stares at it from twenty feet down the hall, huddled under the cover of the doorway she had darted into the moment she had spotted the four guards standing watch over the entrance. Thankfully, they hadn’t noticed Mercy when she had turned the corner, spotted them, and immediately ducked out of view. She considers using her daggers, then shakes her head. It would be impossible to engage four guards without alerting half the castle.
Tamriel’s bedroom is the best place for Mercy to strike after the Solari celebration, when most of the guards will be busy in the throne room watching the guests. Of course, if Mercy can’t sneak past the guards, she can still convince Tamriel to dismiss them; she needs to make him trust her.
With a smirk on her lips and one last look at the guards, Mercy slips out from the doorway and around the corner.
A strangled cry freezes Mercy in place atop the second-floor landing. She pauses with one foot on the first stair, ears straining for the source of the sound. She glances at the empty hallway behind her, waiting for the bark of a guard’s orders or the stamping of boot-clad feet on stone, but hears nothing.
She tiptoes to the nearest closed door and rests her hands on the smooth wood, listening for movement from within. After a beat of silence, she reaches for the door handle.
Something shatters against the opposite side of the door. Mercy jumps back, then grabs the doorknob and twists, opening the door slowly until the gap is wide enough to peer through with one eye.
King Ghyslain turns to the desk behind him and closes his fingers around the neck of a vase. With a roar, he hurls it into the fireplace, the logs crackling and snapping as a shower of sparks dances in the air, white chips of porcelain blackening in the glowing embers. He reaches behind him and staggers as he tosses another one. The momentum throws him off-balance and he falls to his knees with a choked moan.
“Go away.”
His splayed fingers flex against the stone and he lifts his head, staring into the fire. Strands of black hair have fallen from his ponytail and hang in front of his face, and his eyes glitter with the reflection of the flames.
“You have no hold over me. You have no right to torment me like this. Leave now!” His eyes move to the space above the fire, tracking an imaginary creature as it stalks forward. He scrambles away until his back hits the desk. “You know I had to punish her. If I do anything to help the slaves, the nobles will take my throne and my head, and Tam will be next. I refuse to lose anyone else I love, Liselle!”
The name sends a chill down Mercy’s spine. The king believes his long-dead lover is somehow here with him, somehow speaking to him?
Inside the room, Ghyslain tugs at his hair, and when he lifts his head, the firelight illuminates the silent tears running down his cheeks. “The throne is mine. There is too much at stake. The Zendais boy has been stirring up sympathy for his family, and with Tamriel’s eighteenth birthday coming up, I must have as much support from the nobles as possible. My son must never take the throne. I’ll not have him in danger.”
Ghyslain’s voice drops to a whisper on the last word, and he leans forward until his forehead rests on the floor. His right hand curls into a fist, then he shudders and goes still.
He stays in that position so long Mercy wonders if he might have fallen asleep. She considers leaving, casting a glance at the strangely empty hallway. Tamriel’s bedroom had had four guards stationed around it, yet the king shouts and shatters porcelain, and no one bats an eye? If Mercy had come to kill him, her contract would have been completed hours ago.
“Creator’s grace,” he finally gasps. When he sits up, he is visibly shaking, sobbing as he stares at the shards littering the floor and fireplace. His eyes lift to the corner of the room, and a sad smile spreads across his face. “Why did they have to take you from me, Liselle?” Ghyslain extends a hand as if to caress Liselle’s face, but stops short, fingers trembling in the open air. His hand falls to his side as a new wave of tears rises.
Mercy eases the door shut and returns to the stairs. She refuses to pity him. The man in that room is not the king—he is the mangled, grieving shell of the ruler he should have been.
She will not pity him.
Yet as she walks down the stairs to the great hall, she cannot keep the image of his face, shiny with tears and so like his son’s, out of her mind.
19
Tamriel runs his hands over his face, muttering softly to himself as he paces the hall outside one of the castle’s many offices, the voices of his father’s advisors ringing in his ears. He had spent the entire morning in meetings, half-listening as they had discussed tax changes, street repairs, and other trivialities which neither concerned nor interested him, yet—for some reason—required his attendance. They were the sort of meetings his father had always arranged for him—intended to give the illusion of him having some power in his father’s government without allowing any real influence—although Tamriel is uncertain whether the illusion is for his benefit or the citizens’. Today, however, his lack of attention had not be
en due to boredom, but to the screams which still reverberate in his mind.
He cannot forget.
He cannot forget the way Hero’s shoulder had crunched when the crossbow had connected, how the agonized scream which tore from her mouth sounded more animal than human. He cannot forget the defiant set of her shoulders and the hatred which had burned in her eyes as she had taunted the king, the way Ghyslain had frozen at the sound of Liselle’s name, his mouth parting in horror at Hero’s joy at seeing his torment. He cannot forget the feeling of the dagger in his hand, almost too hot to hold as waves of heat poured off the glowing blade, and he will never, ever forget how she had stared into his eyes the entire time he had cut out her tongue.
She hadn’t given him up. She hadn’t exposed his secret—their secret.
The thought brings tears to his eyes and his stomach roils. Tamriel stops in the middle of the hall and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, taking deep breaths until the feeling passes. Damn his father. Damn the nobles. If yesterday was any indication of what ruling Beltharos is like, he will gladly leave the throne to his father. He desires nothing more than to board a ship and leave the shores of his homeland far behind him.
He turns on his heel and stalks down the hall, nervous energy making him restless. With no destination in mind, he wanders toward the great hall, hoping—for once—for some courtier to have arrived or some problem arisen which demands his attention; anything to keep his mind off the scent of burning meat which seems to have seeped into his skin.
Tamriel rounds a corner and halts abruptly, blinking with surprise. Halfway down the corridor, the Feyndaran royal he had met at the court stands facing a large oil painting hanging on the wall, peering at it through narrowed eyes. While most of the castle is open to the public, he had not expected to see her again so soon—and certainly not without a guard or handmaid to escort her—but she is alone. Her brows furrow slightly as she examines the canvas, a rendering of a small western town Tamriel has never particularly liked.
“Do you like art, Lady Marieve?” he asks as he approaches, and she immediately turns and pins him with her sharp gaze.
“I do. Can’t say I know much about it, though.”
“This one is priceless—an original Faramond—dated almost four hundred years ago. It’s supposed to depict the rise of the mining industry in Ospia—the artist used only shades of brown, black, and white in an attempt to highlight the industrialization of the town.” Tamriel recites the facts without inflection, the words memorized long ago at the behest of a tutor whose name he doesn’t remember.
Marieve wrinkles her nose. “It’s hideous,” she says, then flinches, as if she hadn’t intended to blurt it. Her surprise doubles when he bursts out laughing. “What?”
“Sorry,” he responds, unable to hold back a grin. “I feel the same way; I’ve never liked Faramond’s work.”
“So was all that”—she waves a hand to the painting, then to Tamriel—“just meant to impress me?”
“Simply making conversation.”
“Mm-hm.” She raises a brow, unconvinced, and turns her attention back to the painting.
Tamriel can’t help staring at the points of her ears, peeking through her intricately-braided hair, which is such a rich shade of black it’s almost blue. He’s never met a member of the Feyndaran royal family—Queen Cerelia broke all ties between the two countries when she ascended the throne over five decades ago—and his father ensures Tamriel’s interaction with elves in general is limited to ordering around the slaves in the castle. At least, that’s how it appears to the nobles and courtiers.
Still, he cannot deny his curiosity, and who could blame him for exchanging pleasantries with a visiting royal? “What is Feyndara like, my lady? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“It’s not terribly different from here. The cities are much farther apart because of the forests, and travelling is more difficult, too,” she says. “Although our ruling family is elven, most of our population is human.”
Tamriel’s brows shoot up. “Really? And they’re content being ruled by elves?”
“Seeing as my grandmother didn’t immediately enslave everyone who opposed her after she seized the throne from the previous rulers, yes, I’d say they’re quite happy.” She fixes him with a pointed look as a slave carrying a tray of food passes.
He frowns, knowing exactly what his father would wish him to say if he were here. “Might I ask what you think my family has done to keep the throne? Thrown thousands of people into prison camps, butchered hundreds more, enslaved everyone who fought against us?” Hero’s eyes flash in his mind and he pushes the memory—and accompanying flash of guilt—away. “My family has taken care of this country for hundreds of years. We didn’t take the throne from anyone—we were given it after Colm Myrellis’s dam protected the city from flooding. So I’d like to know, specifically, what you are insinuating.”
She blinks, taken aback by his sudden anger. He knows he should apologize, that this is no way to speak to a foreign noble, but the events of the day before have set him on edge. “You are no more innocent for allowing a crime to happen than you are committing it yourself,” she says, and something in her expression makes his heart stop beating.
She knows, he thinks. She knows what I’ve done.
Impossible as it is, somehow, she must know. As her piercing gaze searches his face, he realizes she has the most unusual eyes—brown with rings of gold around the pupil, like there’s a spark inside her fighting to be released. Unlike the pretty young courtiers’ daughters he grew up with, she does not attempt any sort of flattery when she speaks to him, does not bat her eyelashes or blush and offer meaningless praise. She speaks directly, bluntly, and her hawkish gaze seems to take possession of whatever it lands upon. It’s refreshing—and dangerous.
She frowns as she studies him. “Are you all right?”
Tamriel almost laughs. All right? How can he possibly explain how far from ‘all right’ he is—how he had tossed and turned all night, wide awake, until the pale dawn light had painted the sky and he had finally given in to exhaustion? The two hours of sleep he had found had been a short reprieve from the torment of his memories. He knows he looks like he’s been dragged through hell and back—faint shadows hanging under his eyes, his lower lip swollen from biting it, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh—and although he had tried to hide it, she had been the one to see it.
“I’m fine.” He looks away and smooths his shirt self-consciously, then cringes. This is not the behavior of a prince. He straightens. “If you’ll pardon me, I must speak with my father about the preparations for Solari. Once the arrangements are made, you should expect an invitation to begin negotiations within the next few days.”
Marieve’s face pales at the mention of his father, but she tries to hide it with a curtsy. “Of course. Thank you, Your Highness.”
“My pleasure.” He bids her farewell and starts down the hall, then turns back after a few paces. “Feel free to take a look around the gallery on the second floor, as well. You might find a painting you hate more than Faramond’s.” He walks away, leaving her staring after him with the hint of a smile on her lips.
Tamriel’s steps leaden as he nears his father’s study. A muffled sobbing sound he is all too familiar with drifts through the doors, which stand ajar. He enters without knocking and frowns at his father, who is sitting on the floor in front of his desk. Papers and broken pieces of pottery litter the ground around the fireplace.
“How could you do that to me, Father?” Tamriel explodes. “How could you force me to harm that woman?”
“I did not force you to do anything. You know the laws.” Ghyslain stands and wipes his face with his hands, then rounds his desk and shuffles half-heartedly through some papers. “It is high time you faced the consequences of your actions.”
“The consequences of my actions?”
Ghyslain pins him with a stern look, his eyes still red-rimmed from crying
. “You and I are the only ones here, Tam. You can stop the charade. Save it for the nobility.”
Tamriel sets his jaw. “What charade?”
“Don’t play the fool with me. You should count yourself lucky Hero didn’t name you as her partner in the court, or your head would be decorating the castle wall right now. What do you think the nobles will do if they find out you have been helping those elves escape?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d never met her before yesterday.”
“That’s certainly how it appeared, but I know you better than that, my son. Hero didn’t name you as her partner because she thinks you’ll find a way to help the elves without her. You can’t help them escape to freedom if you’re dead.”
Tamriel glances away, saying nothing.
Ghyslain opens a drawer and pulls out a piece of parchment, examining the neat boxes drawn across its face. “I had Master Oliver bring me the guard schedules of the past month. It’s subtle, but the gaps are there, just wide enough for you to slip out of the castle late at night, and back in before everyone else wakes. In fact, I had him bring me all the recent guard schedules. Looks like you’ve been doing this for almost two years, Tam.” He sighs, letting the paper slip through his grasp. He rubs the back of his neck with a hand. “Who else knows?”
“. . . Just Master Oliver,” Tamriel finally whispers. “No one else, I swear.”
His father doesn’t yell. He doesn’t shout or glower or call the guards to take Tamriel away. He merely looks down at his desk, his shoulders slumping. “You can’t do this, Tamriel. I know how much you ache for them—hell, you know how much I ache for them—but you cannot do this.” Ghyslain’s voice is soft—so soft and so, so sad. “You’re trying to change things. So was she. So was Li—Liselle.” His voice catches on the name. “I wish I could help you, Tam, I really do, but we’re two people. We’re two people against an entire nation.”
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