“Thank you.”
He looks at her sharply, surprise etched across his face. “Don’t thank me. The soldiers should know better than to behave in such a barbaric manner to anyone in the castle, not just royalty. It’s a matter of discipline, one I shall take up with Master Oliver. In the meantime, Raiden’s face will serve as a warning to everyone in the barracks.” He stares down at his hands, then frowns and shoves them into his pockets. “To the infirmary, then. His Majesty will be expecting me in his study shortly, no doubt to receive a reprimand of my own.” He smirks humorlessly as they start toward the stairs.
“Tamriel, about your father—”
“Marieve.” He stops and turns to her. “If you insist on continuing this—this charade of negotiating for peace, you have every right to do so. But don’t pretend I am your friend.”
She sees the lie in his eyes and steps closer, resting a hand on his arm. “Didn’t you see his face? He knew something. Didn’t you see it in his eyes?”
“I . . . It was nothing. He has a lot on his mind right now.”
“You did see it!”
He lets out a frustrated breath. “Maybe there was something there. Do you really trust anything he says? He’s a lunatic who prefers chasing ghosts to spending time with his own son.”
“Ah-ha. Struck a nerve there, did I?”
Tamriel glowers at her. “He has an obligation to our people, and sometimes he lets his feelings for phantoms get in the way of that. What he fails to realize is when he lost a wife, I lost both my parents,” he says. “Hell, Master Oliver is more of a father to me than His Majesty has ever been.”
“But he didn’t just lose a wife, did he? He also lost Liselle.”
“Perhaps if he hadn’t spent so much time running around with that rebellious harlot, he could have attended my mother better. She might have lived.” His voice breaks on the last word and he looks away.
“Your Highness—” Mercy hesitates, then reaches up and cups Tamriel’s cheek, his skin warm under her fingers. He swallows painfully but doesn’t back way from her touch. “You can’t blame him for that.”
“Can’t I? My mother was sentenced to bed rest for months, and while my father should have been at her bedside—at her beck and call—he was off seducing another woman. How is that fair?”
“It’s not, and it’s terrible, but it’s the past. You can’t change it.”
“He can’t bear to look at me for fear of remembering my mother. The day she died, Beltharos lost its queen and its king.” He looks down, then back at her. “I don’t want the throne, but if I could, I would take it from him the day I turn eighteen. Beltharos deserves better than him.”
“You deserve better than him.”
His mouth lifts into a half-smile, then he turns and continues down the stairs. When they reach the infirmary, he nods to the guards to open the door. Mercy steps through and they close it behind her, and it doesn’t occur to her until much later the knife is still tucked into her waistband, and in those brief minutes she and the prince had been alone in the stairwell, she could have ended it all then and there.
32
Mercy’s second time entering the infirmary is much calmer than the first.
Alyss sets her to mashing the lillyborough buds Elvira had brought earlier, while she counts pills and takes inventory of the shelves. Pilar is still unconscious on her bed. Whatever sedative Alyss had used on her is a strong one; Pilar hasn’t muttered or stirred at all in over two hours, she tells Mercy.
“Damn near terrified me. Thought we’d lost ‘er, but she’s turnin out t’be stronger than I’d guessed.” The scratching of the nib of her pen pauses as she lifts onto her tiptoes to search a high shelf. Alyss closes one of her meaty hands around a jar and peers at the contents. Her scowl deepens and she scratches a note onto her paper. “She should wake up soon, though, and she’d better be ready to tell us what in the Creator’s name she was thinkin, terrifyin everyone like that.”
“Whatever it was, it worked. You should have seen them—scared out of their minds.”
“Rightly so.” She returns the jar to its shelf, then crosses the room and slaps the paper down on the desk. “When he returned, the prince had had a guard come and tell me what’s happening out there, and with this stock, we won’t have enough to tend to one tenth of the folks who are sufferin out there. I sent the helpers they gave me to every clinic and healer in the city to gather medicine and supplies, and I borrowed yer girl who came with the lillyborough buds and sent ‘er with a list to the market.”
They continue their tasks in silence, and soon the pestle becomes heavy in Mercy’s hand, her movements slowing as she pounds the buds into a paste. The fire in the hearth crackles, glowing orange sparks dancing in the air when one of the logs shifts and cracks in half, and the combination of the warmth and the fact Mercy hasn’t slept since the previous morning causes her eyelids to droop, then flutter shut of their own accord. The bump on the back of her head has begun to throb. She pushes the mortar and pestle away and folds her arms on the desk, resting her cheek on the smooth wood, and falls asleep immediately.
Calum traces a finger down Mercy’s cheek. She lies atop the mattress in his bedroom, and Calum offers her a goading smile from where he kneels beside her.
“You don’t have to worry about the contract anymore, Mercy,” he says. “I’ve taken care of everything.”
Her head is foggy and his words sound muffled and distorted, as if she is listening to him from underwater. She can’t feel her lips as they part and ask, “What do you mean?”
“I’ve arranged everything.”
She struggles against her bonds and manages to lift her head an inch off the pillow, and that’s when the feeling of complete and utter wrongness fills every fiber of her being. The feeling she is not in control of her own body courses through her veins like oil.
Something is on the floor behind Calum. A pile of cushions on a red carpet, perhaps, but he shifts so his shoulder blocks her view before she can be certain.
Something
plop
plop
plops
on the floor.
“You can go back now, Mercy. I don’t need you anymore. Go back to the Guild, where you belong.”
She focuses on him again, and a strange expression comes over his face as he reaches forward to caress her again. When he lifts his hand, she sees it is coated in blood. Fat red droplets plop, plop, plop on the sheet, then her pillow, as he traces a light thumb over her eyelid. One of the droplets catches on her lashes and runs down the side of her face like a tear.
Behind him, the pile of cushions lets out a choked sob, and it’s then she realizes it’s Tamriel lying in a heap on the floor, and dear Creator he’s still alive, and the red carpet is a growing pool of his blood. It steams a little where it touches the cold stone floor.
Calum’s mouth parts, but it is not his voice which says, “You can save them all.”
Mercy’s eyes snap open to the familiar sight of the infirmary, wrenched from her dream with a gasp of horror. No more than three inches from her face is Pilar, who stares at her with her one clear eye. Her hand rests on Mercy’s cheek in the same place Calum’s had, and her palm is moist from popped blisters, not blood.
“Save them,” she rasps.
Mercy lies on one of the four beds in the center of the infirmary; Alyss must have carried her from the desk when she realized Mercy had fallen asleep, although how the four-foot-nothing woman managed to lift and carry her across the room without her waking is beyond her.
Pilar has moved to the foot of Mercy’s bed and sits with her legs tucked into her chest, her chin resting on her knees.
She lifts a finger to her lips.
“Don’t wake Alyss. She’s in the other room,” she whispers, and jerks her head to the shelves, where a short archway joins a storeroom to the infirmary. “She likes to sleep in there when a patient might die. Sometimes the sound of coughing up blood or choking on v
omit wakes her in time to save them. Other times, all she can do is call the guards to remove the body the next morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“People think she’s harsh, but she cries for them when no one’s around. She cries for all of them—she just knows when to shut it off.”
“Does the Sight show you this?”
“The Creator shows me only the good in this world. He shows me a girl falling in love for the first time, a married couple growing old together, watching their children build lives and families of their own. It is a fallacy, silk flowers given by an absent god. This is the work of Myrbellanar. He offers no comfort, no guiding hand, no light in this dark world. He offers only truth.”
“What are you talking about?” Mercy leans forward and, after a moment’s hesitation, takes Pilar’s hands in hers. Surprise flickers across the priestess’s face. “Who is Myrbellanar?”
“We once knew his real name, but it has since been lost to time. Myrbellanar is what they call him in the north. It’s elvish for ‘Fallen Father’,” she says. “In their folk stories, they speak often of the last great battle between the Creator and the last of the Old Gods. They had fallen into a civil war which ravaged the planet for millennia, until only a handful remained on each side. Desperate to end the fighting, those who opposed the Creator sought to steal his beloved, Osha. They thought if the only person for whom he cared was in their grasp, he would be willing to listen to their pleas, if only for her sake. Once Myrbellanar had been chosen to capture her, he kidnapped her and brought her to the Old Gods’ camp in the dead of night.
“The Creator, blinded by love and rage, stormed into the camp and slew the Gods one by one until bodies littered the ground and the blood flowed ankle deep. Locked in her cage, Osha screamed and pleaded for him to stop, but by the time he heard her, it was too late. All were dead—except one. Myrbellanar, his heart heavy with grief for his fallen brothers and sisters, released Osha from her prison and knelt before the Creator, begging his forgiveness,” she continues. “But the Creator’s heart was black and full of fury. He condemned Myrbellanar for his crimes and disfigured him—carved his ears into points so any who saw him would know of his treachery. He slaughtered him and shattered his soul into millions of tiny pieces, and each one he imprisoned in one of the elves he sculpted to serve his most treasured creations—humans.”
“That’s not a story from the Book of the Creator.” Mercy frowns. “They—you—preach the Creator was a benevolent God and created each race as equals.”
Pilar shakes her head. “The Cirisian elves believe a piece of Myrbellanar’s soul is freed every time an elf is slaughtered by a human, and when enough of his soul is restored, he will return to exact justice on those who have wronged his people.”
“And . . . you think it’s coming true?”
“One of the priestesses in my Church is a Cirisian elf. She came here when the fighting between Beltharos and Feyndara destroyed the island her tribe called home.” Pilar pulls her hands from Mercy’s and wraps them tightly around her knees. “She doesn’t speak much about her life there, but she often quotes that story. It may be nothing more than legend, but I can’t help thinking it sounds more like a prophecy.”
“And what about the High Priestess? What does she think of this?”
“She’s dead. The Plague targeted her first, then me.” Pilar bites her lip to keep it from trembling. “I don’t know what is causing this, but someone sent me to find you. I keep seeing this . . . this thing in my head—”
Mercy leans forward. “What do you mean, someone sent you?”
“There’s just . . . someone. I can’t describe it. I can feel her nearby—or . . . or it’s like she’s a part of me. She wanted me to find you. I can’t describe it. The other one—the mean one—he’s blocking her. He won’t let her speak to me, but sometimes she sends me images.” Her brows furrow, thinking hard. “I see the same thing over and over. It’s a flower, I think, or some sort of bud.”
Mercy’s eyes widen. “I think I know which one you’re seeing.” She stands and crosses to the desk, searching for a scrap of paper. All she finds is Alyss’s inventory list, which she flips over as she uncaps the fountain pen with her teeth, and she sketches the scaly flower bud Cassius had drawn on the city map. When she finishes, she holds up the paper for Pilar to see. “Does it look like this? Scaly, with four leaves?”
She peers at the paper, then jerks back with surprise. “That’s it! You know this?” She claps a hand over her mouth and glances guiltily at the curtains behind which Alyss sleeps. After no movements sound in the room, nor any halt in Alyss’s low snores, Pilar drops her hands into her lap. “Where did you see this?”
“I found it on some papers in Seren Pierce’s study. Does the word ‘Niamh’ mean anything to you? It had been written beside the drawing.”
“No. Maybe it’s the name of the flower.”
Mercy frowns. “Maybe. I’ve never heard of it.” She glances at the books stacked on Alyss’s desk. “But I’ll have plenty of time to research while I’m here. The king banished me to the infirmary for the next two days. They think you’ve infected me.”
“I didn’t. I never would have come if it were a possibility. You’re immune. You have to believe me—that thing told me so.” Pilar leans forward and a strand of her dark hair falls over the side of her face, obscuring the part mottled with blisters and raw skin.
“I believe you, Pilar.” Mercy sits down on the bed and rests a hand on Pilar’s knee, and the priestess inflates with the contact, unfurling from the ball she had tucked herself into at the foot of the bed. Might as well comfort her now, Mercy thinks. Alyss knows she doesn’t have much time left. From the expression on Pilar’s face, she knows it, too.
“I don’t know how it’s connected, but Myrbellanar and this plague are linked, or something. Somehow. I can’t explain it, but I knew I had to tell you.” Her eyes fill with tears. “It’s too late now! It’s been growing and spreading, and I’ve done nothing! I thought, given time, the Creator might show me a way to help.” She turns her face away and swipes angrily at her tears. “He’s shown me nothing. Meanwhile, th-this villain has been hiding in my head, showing me the most awful visions, and I am powerless to stop it!”
Pilar’s voice rises to a tortured wail, and the sounds drifting from Alyss’s room break off mid-snore. After a thump and a muttered obscenity, Alyss shoves the curtains aside and glares at the two of them. She is dressed in nothing more than a long tunic, her hair wild around her head, and she rubs her shin with a hand.
“Creator’s mighty misery, why are ye listenin to a single thing that comes outta this woman’s mouth?” She crosses the room and clamps her thick fingers around Pilar’s arm. “Ye shoulda called me the minute she woke ye. Come now, time for rest.” Short and stocky as she is, her strength is still more than enough to overpower Pilar. She drags her off the bed and across the room, pushing her into the farthest bed from Mercy. “By the Creator, you’re burnin up, woman!” She moves to her desk and grabs a syringe filled with Ienna oil.
“Alyss, don’t you dare!” Mercy jumps up, but the bump on her head throbs at the sudden movement and the world sways beneath her feet. As she regains her balance, Alyss jabs the needle into Pilar’s arm and presses the plunger. Pilar’s movements slow almost immediately, and it takes nothing more than a gentle prod from Alyss for her to stretch out on top of the bed, not even bothering to slip under the blankets.
“You can’t keep drugging her into submission,” Mercy says. She crosses her arms and pretends Alyss’s form doesn’t waver in her vision as the Rivosi woman turns and shuffles through some bottles on the desk. Glass clinks as she searches for what she wants, and after a moment, Alyss turns back to Mercy, the syringe in her hand refilled with the shimmering oil.
“It’s for ‘er own good. She’s only hastenin ‘er own demise, workin ‘erself up like that.” As she speaks, Alyss takes slow steps forward, and it takes Mercy far too
long to realize on whom she plans to use the syringe. Mercy steps back, her hands flying up to ward her off.
“Alyss, don’t you dare—” The jab of the needle in her arm cuts off her words, and her first thought is Second time today I’m being knocked unconscious, with a smirk at her own expense.
Her second thought is Wow, Alyss really is strong, as her limbs grow heavy and her head falls forward. She slumps against Alyss, who guides her into bed the same way she had Pilar. As soon as her head hits the pillow, Mercy’s chin knocks against her chest and the inside of her eyelids feels coated in sand; it hurts to keep them open. As she tucks her knees in close to her chest, a wave of anger at Alyss washes over her, anger and hatred for having put her in this vulnerable position.
Alyss sighs as she wipes her hands against the front of her tunic. “Ye like to act tough, I know, but ye need to rest, whether you’ll admit it or not.”
Mercy murmurs something rude under her breath, but it is lost in the shuffle of the blankets as Alyss tucks them around her shoulders. She tucks Mercy’s hair behind one of her ears, and, as she slips under the heavy blanket of unconsciousness, Mercy isn’t sure whether she feels or imagines the feverish heat emanating from the healer’s palm.
By the next morning, Alyss has dismissed her elven helpers and all four beds in the infirmary have filled. Two more priestesses had been brought in on stretchers while Mercy and Pilar had slept, carried in by guards who had shared some information about the state of affairs outside the castle. Despite the short notice, Landers and Leon had succeeded in setting up the hospital in the fields, and Ghyslain had ordered a company of guards to search the Church of the Creator and transport all the infected out of the city. Tamriel had accompanied them—despite his father’s protests—and had had the two worst cases sent to the castle to be examined and treated by Alyss, who he deemed the best healer in Sandori, she had recounted to Mercy with obvious pride. After sharing this, Alyss had refused to answer any more of Mercy’s questions before performing a proper examination of the two priestesses, which was turning out to be much more extensive than Mercy had expected.
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