He does. He says it over and over and over again as he unlaces her leather pants and tugs them down so she’s laying there in nothing but her underclothes. When he reaches for his own, reality comes crashing back and she blurts, “Tamriel, stop.”
He freezes instantly. “Is it too fast? Do you want me to leave?”
She nods, then shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just—” Mortification fills her, and she can’t meet his eyes when she whispers, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Neither do I. We can figure it out together, whether it’s tonight or tomorrow or a month from now. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Really?” Mercy can’t help the note of surprise which slips into her voice. “You’ve never slept with anyone? The noblemen’s daughters have practically been throwing themselves at you your entire life.”
“You’re surprised? I told you I was afraid to fall in love.”
She shoots him a look. “You and I both know two people don’t need to be in love to have sex.”
“I never wanted to risk it. Fortunately for us, whenever it happens, that won’t be an issue. You already adore me.”
Mercy laughs, and Tamriel eases her back onto the monstrous pile of down pillows at the head of the bed. “Is that a yes?” he asks between kisses, his fingers trailing the waistband of her underwear. Every touch sends heat flaring under her skin.
She sucks in a breath and nods. “Yes,” she breathes. “Yes.”
35
Mercy
The next four days pass in a blur of reports and paperwork. Since Ghyslain revealed the truth of Firesse’s powers, the council has thinned considerably. Seemingly overnight, Edwin Fioni and several other prominent noblemen packed up their most prized belongings and hired carriages to carry them out west, where they’ll stay with family and watch from afar as Cirisian invaders march toward their homes. Cowards, Mercy had snarled the night Tamriel—pale and bone-weary with stress—had told her the news, but the councilmembers’ sudden flight had had an unintended benefit: in their absence, the council’s work had started to pile up, leaving Mercy an opportunity to insert herself into the heart of the city’s inner workings. Seventeen years ago, the nobles killed Liselle for doing the exact same thing. Now, they seem willing to endure the presence of an elf on their council if only because the plague and Firesse’s army are much more immediate threats than a former Assassin who has—according to the rumors—taken to warming the prince’s bed.
When Mercy had shown up for her first council meeting, Landers and the others had grumbled and tried to convince the king to dismiss her, but one glare from Ino had silenced them. They had secretly been relieved when she took up the work Fioni and the others had left behind, she knows, although they’ll never admit it. She doesn’t care that they’re merely biding their time until they can rid themselves of her. The Cirisians are marching toward the capital, and she won’t let some prejudiced old men keep her from ensuring that the city is prepared for the coming storm.
Firesse had been smart to divide her troops into groups; just as the Beltharan soldiers seem to be catching up with one, they’re called on to defend a village miles away. By the time they return, the elves are long gone. Luckily—or unluckily, given the circumstances—Firesse appears to be saving her power for the siege on Sandori. Two days ago, the king received word that Firesse, Calum, and their soldiers managed to set fire to a dozen buildings across Xilor and liberate nearly fifty elves before the city guards and Adan’s soldiers forced them to retreat. The commander had confirmed in his report that as far as he could tell, the First had not used any magic during the attack despite losing almost half of the hundred-odd soldiers she’d led. As the days drag on, it becomes apparent that if the Cirisians continue advancing as quickly as they have been thus far, they could arrive at the city gates in less than a week.
Tamriel is waiting for her outside the council chambers when they break for lunch. He’s leaning against the wall, flipping through reports, but he straightens when he sees her. “So,” he says, falling into step beside her, Nynev and her siblings trailing behind, “how is life on the king’s council? Is it as exciting as you hoped it would be?”
“Well, no one has tried to kill me, so it’s falling somewhat short of my expectations. Landers particularly enjoys finding new ways to insult me during the meetings, and it’s amusing to watch the little vein in his forehead throb when your father brushes him off completely. We’ve even started to keep count of the number of times he insults me. How many was it today, Matthias?”
“Thirteen. Seven of those were within half an hour of us arriving—a new personal best.”
Ino’s deep chuckle rumbles behind her as they begin descending the stairs to the first floor. “He lost me three aurums. My money was on eight.”
Tamriel shoots the three of them a strange look. For a moment, Mercy thinks he might chastise them for making light of something so cruel, but then he grins and says, “Four aurums on five insults within ten minutes of returning from lunch.” He points at Mercy. “I’m counting on you to keep them honest.”
“Deal.”
When they reach the bottom of the steps and start toward the main dining hall, Mercy glances sidelong at Tamriel. “Your father informed me this morning that he’ll be paying me a salary for my services. Was that your doing?”
“No. You deserve it.”
“You know the first thing I’m going to buy when I get my first paycheck?” Matthias asks no one in particular. “Some proper bedsheets.”
“Proper bedsheets?” Tamriel turns to him, incredulous. “You were living above a tailor’s shop for weeks and you’re complaining about the bedsheets?”
“They’re silk. The pillowcase is silk. I’m afraid if I roll over too quickly, I’ll slide right out onto the floor.” Mercy glances back just in time to see Cassia jab Matthias in the side with her elbow. Ino merely shakes his head and mutters, “Idiot,” while Nynev looks torn between annoyance and amusement. “No offense, Your Highness,” Matthias mutters, glowering at Cassia.
Tamriel laughs. “None taken.” When her guards begin talking amongst themselves, he leans down and whispers in Mercy’s ear, “I quite like the bedsheets. Especially the way they look tangled around you.”
Mercy’s cheeks flush, and she forces her expression to remain neutral as a group of guards—Atlas and Julien among them—pass them in the hall. Julien raises a brow and shoots her a sly, knowing grin.
When they reach the dining room, Tamriel kisses her forehead and excuses himself to attend his duties. She catches his arm before he can step out of reach. “Stay. Eat with us.”
“As much as I want to, my love, I can’t. There’s too much to do.” He gently peels her hand from his sleeve. “Who is going to help the people of the End if I don’t?”
“Cassius will.” Since Niamh has begun treating the people of the End, Tamriel and Cassius have been working around the clock to ensure that the sick have enough food, blankets, and clothing to go around. In addition to helping Hero, Tamriel has been dividing his time between preparing for the attack and overseeing Niamh’s and the healers’ work on the cure. He’s running himself ragged—anyone can see it. “Take a break,” she begs.
“I’ll rest when I’m dead. Until then, there’s work to do.” He strides away before she can stop him again, his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you tonight,” he calls over his shoulder.
Late that night, Mercy is almost asleep when Tamriel eases the door open and slips into her bedroom. Instead of crawling into bed beside her and passing out—as he has done the past several days—he kneels on the floor beside her and brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. She cracks an eye open and frowns. “What time is it?”
“Almost three.”
She groans and rolls over. She’d tried to wait up for him, but after days of him arriving in the late hours of the night and leaving before she wakes up, she hadn’t known when he’d show up. She hadn’t even been sure he’d bother to walk all the
way to her room or if he would just find some long-empty room in which to shut his eyes for the few hours he can afford to not work. “Great. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to get two hours of sleep tonight.”
He chuckles and slips under the covers beside her, too exhausted to even change out of his tunic and pants. He wraps her in his arms and pulls her close to his chest. “I have a surprise to show you in the morning.”
“A surprise?” Seventeen years of being tormented by the apprentices of the Guild had not left her much of a fondness for surprises. “What sort of surprise?”
He sweeps her hair aside and nuzzles her neck, pressing a kiss to her sleep-warmed skin. “A gift. You’ll see soon enough,” he mumbles. “How was the rest of your meeting with the council?”
“Long. Excruciating, especially where Landers is involved—but he does bring up some good points in discussion when he isn’t trying to come up with clever digs to undermine me. Which reminds me, you owe Ino four aurums. Apparently, Landers spent all of lunch thinking up new insults; he managed six within the first ten minutes of our afternoon meeting. Matthias and Nynev claimed that he’d even written his favorites down on a scrap of paper so he can stroke his ego later, but they’ve become thick as thieves over the past few days, so take anything they tell you with a grain of salt.”
She waits a few long moments for Tamriel to respond. When he does not, she rolls back over only to find him fast asleep, the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains turning his dark hair a deep, shining silver. Even in sleep, his brows are furrowed, as if whatever problems he and Cassius had been pouring over had chased him into his dreams. She kisses the tip of his nose softly, and his arms tighten around her waist.
“Goodnight, my sweet prince,” she murmurs, resting her head in the little hollow where his shoulder meets his neck, and closing her eyes.
Only a few hours later, Tamriel practically drags her out of bed in his excitement. He paces before the foot of the bed as she quickly dresses and runs a comb through her sleep-knotted hair. He doesn’t even wait thirty seconds before he snatches up a fan-shaped pin from her vanity and sweeps her hair up into a messy knot. Then he grabs her wrist and drags her out of the room, startling Nynev and the others, who were already waiting outside.
“Where—?” Matthias begins, then lets out a huff of frustration when Tamriel starts down the hall at a clipped pace. “It’s not even seven in the morning!”
“Your sister will be returned to you momentarily,” he calls back. “In the meantime, swipe breakfast from the kitchens or find some noble to annoy.”
“Is the rush really necessary?” Mercy asks as Tamriel pulls her around the corner and her siblings’ incredulous expressions slip out of sight.
He grins at her over his shoulder. “Wait until you see the surprise, then you can tell me.”
She rolls her eyes but does not fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose now would be a good time to tell you that you do not have a promising career as a hairdresser ahead of you, Your Highness,” she says, trying to keep her hair from falling out of the knot as he leads her through the main part of the castle and down the labyrinthine corridors until they arrive outside the armorers’ workroom. Tamriel pauses, catches his breath, then swings the heavy redwood door open. When her eyes land on the mannequin standing in the middle of the room, Mercy’s jaw drops.
The armor is breathtaking. Glittering silver and black rings have been interlocked to form the fitted chainmail breastplate, shimmering like an oil slick under the dancing flames from the hearth. A cowl of blue-black raven feathers sits over the mannequin’s head and bleeds into the lightweight cloak which tumbles to the floor from a silver clasp at each epaulet. The arms and legs are covered in dark plate armor, daggers in smooth leather sheaths strapped to the inside of each forearm and tucked into the tops of the leather boots sitting on the floor. It’s nothing like the suits of armor the Strykers had made for the Trial. Those had been heavy and cumbersome, intended more to give a challenge to the girls competing than to offer any real protection. This one is . . . her. Lightweight but protective; beautiful but intimidating. It stands before her in the middle of the empty armory, the material such a deep black it’s like shadow given form, a starless midnight sky woven into the fabric and chainmail.
“Tamriel, this is . . .” she breathes, unable to come up with a word which encapsulates how wonderful a gift this is, how much it means to her. “Where did you find this?”
He beams at her, and there is no small amount of pride in his voice when he says, “I designed it for you.” Then his smile fades and he rubs the back of his neck, grimacing. “I had the head armorer start working on it the day you left. I should have given you something like this from the start. I don’t want there to be any misconceptions among the nobles about your place in the court.” He reaches for her hand and squeezes once. “Or your place with me.”
When she doesn’t respond—too dumbfounded and awestruck to bother coming up with some semblance of a reply—he leads her into the armory and begins showing her the intricacies of the armor. The chainmail is so tightly interlocked and so well reinforced that it will stop all but the strongest and sharpest of arrows, he tells her. The cloak and cowl are lightweight enough to be bearable in Sandori’s intense summer heat. There are four razor-sharp, skinny little blades hidden in the seams of the cuisse—one on either side of each thigh—in case she is disarmed or in the event of a scuffle where her Guild daggers prove unwieldy.
As he walks in a slow circle around the mannequin, pointing out details here and there, Mercy simply steps back and watches him, letting his rich voice sweep over her. He designed this for her. He has made mistakes, true, but unlike his father with Liselle, he chose her over the nobles, knowing full well the consequences. When he moves to straighten the cloak, the firelight from the hearth illuminates the shadows under his eyes. Even before they had learned about Fieldings’ Plague, he had been working tirelessly to help his people. He had been helping Hero and Ketojan free slaves in secret—an offense which, had the wrong people learned of his actions, would have ended with his head spiked on the castle walls—for two years before she had met him.
He is a better son than his father deserves.
He is a better prince than this Creator-forsaken country deserves.
He is a better person than she deserves.
Tamriel steps back and catches her eye. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, holding out a hand.
“Miracles,” she says as she approaches. The moment their fingers touch, Tamriel spins her around and holds her close, her back against his chest so they’re staring at the beautiful armor together, his arms wrapped around her waist.
He rests his chin on her shoulder and murmurs, “There’s one last thing I want to show you.”
She raises a brow. “Another surprise?”
“Are you warming up to them yet?”
“I’d say I’ve discovered a newfound appreciation for them. Also, I think I need to get a lot better at gift-giving. You’re spoiling me.”
“That look on your face alone was a gift. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you rendered speechless before,” he says, chuckling.
“I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted. It doesn’t happen often.”
“I’m taking that as a challenge.” He lets go of her and points to a sigil imprinted in the leather of the sheaths on the mannequin’s hips—the crest she and her siblings had designed to represent her, to represent their family. She’d been so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of his gift that she hadn’t noticed it before.
“It’s perfect.” She reaches out and traces the elf ears, Liselle’s chain, and her daggers with a light finger. Then she turns on him. “Now I’m going to have to find you an absolutely amazing gift, you charming, thoughtful, selfless jerk.”
He laughs and wraps his arms around her again. “Just stay right here with me, and we’ll call it even.” He leans down and kisses her, his hands slipping thro
ugh her hair and freeing it from the haphazard knot into which he’d pinned it. The fan-shaped pin clatters to the ground, but Mercy forgets about it completely when he pulls back and asks, “Would you like to try it on?”
She starts to nod, then pauses. He watches with curiosity as she wordlessly extricates herself from his grasp, strides over to the armory door, and pulls it shut. The bolt of the lock slides shut with a soft click. When she turns back to him, she purrs, “I want to try it on, then I want you to help me take it off—take it all off.”
36
Calum
The blackouts are growing longer. Every day, the darkness ebbs and eddies, leaving him with only glimpses of the Cirisians’ march between long periods of unconsciousness:
Elves packing up their tents, preparing to leave the valley where they’d made camp after Rockinver; Mud splattering underfoot as they trudge through a sudden downpour; The Strykers huddled around a campfire, soaked and shivering, a blanket of stars twinkling above the treetops; A company of Beltharan soldiers trembling in their suits of armor as Drake and the Cirisians barrel toward them, swords and spears and daggers raised; Blood spraying across his face.
Then—Xilor.
Drake leads a dozen elves—Cirisians and liberated slaves alike—through the winding streets, each carrying a torch in one hand and a barrel of pitch or a cask of ale with the other. When a drunk patron stumbles out of a tavern and spots them, Kenna pins him to the wall and shoves a rag down his throat to muffle his screams before plunging her dagger through his gut.
The next thing Calum knows, they’re standing outside a large warehouse, watching flames consume the walls and pour through the windows the elves had shattered. The building groans. Something inside lets out a loud crack! and a heartbeat later, the roof collapses, sending glowing embers flying into the night sky.
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