The Cruelest Mercy

by Natalie Mae

  “Now,” the Mestrah says, rolling his fingers into his temples. “I want to know the truth of what happened in the caves.”

  Jet takes the chair to my side. “Fara, I left nothing out of what I told you—”

  “Not from you,” the Mestrah says.

  He turns to Kasta, but the prince’s eyes are on my gods’ mark. When Kasta realizes I’ve noticed, his attention shifts to the empty room.

  “This is the welcome you have for me?” he says, his smile sad.

  “This is the welcome I have,” the Mestrah growls, “after I’ve offered half my treasury to the public for the return of your body, and you fail to write me, even once, to say the accounts of your death are false.”

  Kasta grunts. “Perhaps I knew it would make no difference. Perhaps I knew you wouldn’t believe me unless you saw the mark yourself.”

  As if his return as dōmmel, not as a son, is the only thing that matters.

  “We will talk of this later.” The Mestrah leans forward on the table. “Right now, every diplomat in that room is sending word to their leaders that Orkena’s court is a circus act. We must assure them everything is under control. So I’ll ask again. What happened in the caves?”

  Kasta finally looks at me, those sapphire eyes I’ve seen in so many nightmares. My fists tighten as my memory paints the caves and the altar around us.

  “I offered her to the gods,” he says, and I can’t stop a bitter laugh, because I know firsthand he wasn’t thinking of the gods at all during that moment. “But when I drew the knife out, the Shifter interfered and forced me aside. Jet’s Healer was able to spare Zahru’s life.” He searches my face, as if looking for the same lie I’m seeking. “I thought the Shifter would kill me. She dragged me into the desert and said she’d leave me to fate, as I—” He bites down on the words, but I know what he almost said. As he did to his sister. A muscle twitches in the Mestrah’s jaw, and fury stretches again in my chest. “She left me there,” Kasta finishes.

  So Maia couldn’t bring herself to kill him after all. That must have been the cry I heard at the end, when I assumed he’d died—but it was the pain of her moving him with his injuries. My heart twinges thinking of my friend, hoping she’s enjoying her new freedom.

  “But you were bleeding heavily from our fight,” Jet says. “You would have needed immediate healing to survive.”

  “You would know.” Kasta thumbs a scar on his chin. “I thought that, too: that you would be the death of me. I tore my cloak to stem the bleeding, but I still lost consciousness. When I woke . . .” He opens his hands. “I was wearing Numet’s mark, and my wounds had closed.”

  “That’s a fine fish tale,” Jet snaps. “You always did like to use the gods for—”

  “Jet,” the Mestrah says.

  “This entire situation is preposterous! Where has he been for a moon, especially if he woke up healed the next day? Why didn’t our priests foresee his return? I’ll tell you why. Because he’s been hiding out there, nursing his wounds back to health to fit this story, while also researching the exact dimensions of Numet’s mark and how to trick marking paste. The gods would never choose him—”

  “You are no longer dōmmel!” the Mestrah snaps, though regret flashes across his face as he says it. “And it is beyond you to understand the gods’ will. Do not speak to me of it again.”

  Jet goes still, hurt shining in his eyes, and he drops into his chair, seething. I touch his arm, meaning to reassure him this is temporary, but a spark of anger jolts my finger and I snatch my hand away, panicking that the emotion is my own and that he’ll feel it. But Jet doesn’t look over.

  Kasta crosses his arms, his lips tugging at the edges. Enjoying their father’s disapproval being switched.

  “Even so,” the Mestrah says, “it does not matter how Kasta returned to us. His mark is true, and he will be Mestrah. My concern is how you have the same mark.”

  All three of them turn, and the pressure I felt in the crowd tightens around me once more. But this is my chance to end this. To prove Kasta’s lying, to clap him in chains; to never think of him again.

  I touch the mark, worrying my thumb over the spiral. “I’ve had it for a moon. There was a lot of bruising after Melia healed me”—I shoot a glare at Kasta—“and when it started to fade, this spot just never did.”

  The Mestrah nods. “And the knife’s gift? Do you have its magic?”

  My breath catches. Do I have it? The knife’s magic, the ability to Influence people’s minds, is the most powerful there is. That doesn’t seem like something I could have and just not know about, but I think back on these last weeks, trying to remember if there was ever a time I felt I got my way too easily. Certainly no one has had trouble telling me no in regards to certain care for their pets. Hen and her mora have been just as stubborn as ever, but then, I haven’t really been around people so much as animals—

  Until today.

  Until today.

  I drop my hand, remembering the surge of nerves from Jet before he asked if I’d be his advisor; the woman in yellow’s prickling desperation. Jet’s anger just a moment ago . . . that I mistook for my own. Little sparks of feeling that I’m only noticing now, because in the stable, they would have blended in with the animals’. It doesn’t seem like that could be Influence, but it must be something.

  “I think something’s interfering with my Whisperer abilities,” I say. “Almost like . . . like I’m starting to feel humans’ emotions, not just animals’.”

  The Mestrah’s brow rises, and Kasta uncrosses his arms.

  “Come here, Zahru,” the Mestrah says.

  I rise, slowly, not sure this is a good thing, but my desire to stop Kasta is greater than my worry for what the Mestrah will ask. Up close, the king is both beautiful and intimidating, his black hair long and wavy and strung along his cheeks with glass eyeballs that turn as one to watch me. His own eyes are stern and otherworldly, the deep blue of a desert storm.

  He lifts his hands to either side of my face. “Growing sensitive to emotions is a fledgling indicator of a mental magic. If you have the knife’s power, I will not be able to Read your mind, just as you will not be able to Influence mine. Mental magics do not work on persons of similar talent. Shall I put this to the test?”

  The question alone is a test. To see if I will back down, if I will confess to faking my mark before he scrapes the truth out of my memory himself.

  I breathe out and focus on his shoulders. “You may.”

  His fingertips touch my temples, fever-hot. I brace myself, not sure what it will feel like if I don’t have the magic, overwhelmed by the possibility that I do. Of course it’s at this point that I remember Jet’s story about the Mestrah making a prisoner’s eyes bleed by searching his memories, which is seriously the worst timing of any thought I’ve had in my life.

  A moment passes. Two. The Mestrah’s eyes open wide. “I cannot. You have the gift. You’ll need training to hone your true ability, but it’s there.”

  Stunned silence follows. I should be cheering at this confirmation, this definite proof that Kasta is lying, but it only hits me that much harder, what it means that my mark is real. That the gods trust me with this, too. It’s humbling and terrifying, and I’m definitely not sure it’s a wise decision on their part, and that’s the most I can think about it right now, because otherwise I’m going to pass out.

  It’s Jet who speaks first, his voice quiet and strange. “Then you see, she’s the one the gods marked. Kasta’s must be false.”

  “It’s not false,” Kasta snaps, though he sounds shaken. “A High Priest confirmed it. It’s the same as Zahru’s.”

  “And the power?” the Mestrah asks. The pressure in the room shifts to Kasta. “Do you have it, too?”

  Kasta hesitates, and even with my fingers still shaking, I’m able to summon a flame of triumph. This is it. We’v
e finally cornered him, and now the Mestrah will be able to Read not only what Kasta did to me, but also where he left Sakira and what he’s been doing this whole moon—when Kasta rises.

  “I do,” he says.

  I share an exasperated glance with Jet. It’s just been acknowledged that I have a god’s power, and Kasta is still undeterred. Is there anything he hasn’t prepared for? Except—I twist my fingers into my jole. Except he’s grown up with a Reader for a father. Rie. Of course he knows how to get around this, too.

  But I’m praying this is when he messes up.

  The Mestrah raises his fingers to Kasta’s temples, and I hold my breath.

  Seconds pass like hours. I have been standing there a thousand years when the Mestrah’s hands slowly drop to his sides.

  “I cannot,” he says. “Both of you possess it.”

  “No,” I growl. “He’s thought of this already. He knew exactly how you’d test him!”

  The Mestrah sinks into his glass chair. “This is not something you can fake.”

  “But they can’t both be real,” Jet says. “There is one Mestrah. Fara, you have to know something’s wrong.”

  Kasta jerks his head at me. “What’s wrong is even considering that her mark could mean she’s meant to rule. She’s not royal. The power of the Mestrahs would die at her rise.”

  I laugh in disbelief. “And power is everything, isn’t it?” How quickly he’s forgotten when he had no power at all—and an idea hits me. “You know, that’s what we should check. Test his Deathbringer magic again. Or will you claim the gods conveniently got rid of that, too?”

  “Enough,” the Mestrah says, his brows rising as he looks between Kasta and me. But Kasta remains infuriatingly calm in light of my accusation. Try it, his eyes challenge me. Insist on a test, and see how I will humiliate you. I could scream.

  The Mestrah, who clearly believes my accusation no more than a petty insult, continues on. “I agree it’s strange for two to be marked. But I’m also inclined to believe the meaning is closer to what Kasta theorizes, that he is meant to rule, and Zahru is meant for a position of honor, perhaps as a priest.”

  “Mestrah.” I know I shouldn’t disagree with a god, but this is getting ridiculous. “It’s strange because it’s a trick. This is exactly how Kasta made me the sacrifice in the Crossing. Your priests believed him then, and it was a mistake—”

  “Zahru.” An icy edge slips into the Mestrah’s voice. “My priests have already decided on that matter, and found your claim to be baseless. I have already acknowledged your purpose in this, as one meant to live and not to die. Now I declare Kasta’s mark and his power to be true. Do you dare argue otherwise?”

  I shrink back into my seat. Of course I don’t dare argue otherwise. Not until I find further evidence, anyway.

  The Mestrah grunts in finality. “At any rate, I am not asking you three what this means. For that, I will rely on the gods.”

  His gaze shifts to the door, where the Speaker leans against the arching frame, the curve of a smile on their face. They’re dressed today in a shimmering tunic that shifts from red to purple in the flickering light, and a silken, square hat that sits atop their bald scalp. Thick, curling lines of gold paint their eyes. They incline their head at the Mestrah’s notice, though I note they don’t move their fingertips to their forehead as is custom.

  “Mestrah,” they say, violet eyes glittering in amusement. “I can’t say, in my two thousand years, that I’ve ever seen a coronation quite like that before.”

  “Sit,” the Mestrah says. “And explain this to me.”

  He opens his hands to Kasta and me, and the Speaker obeys, taking the seat beside Kasta. Their knowing eyes rove over Kasta’s guarded face, then settle on me with refreshing warmth. After the volatile crowd and this tense conversation, the Speaker’s calmness is as welcome as a silky bath.

  “I don’t want to say ‘I told you so,’” they say in their pleasing tenor. “But I told you so.”

  Heat rises to my face remembering our last meeting, when they insisted I had power beyond what I was born with. Even now I know they don’t mean my new magic.

  “I’m not entirely sure what happened, Mestrah,” they continue. “No sacrifice in the history of the Crossing has ever survived. But I do know much about the cost of magic. And I would surmise, by what I’ve heard of our young people’s journeys, that the marks exist because two sacrifices were made in that cave. One of blood”—they nod to Kasta—“and one of self. The critical detail being that Zahru was not just a passive vessel in the ceremony, but offered her life willingly.”

  A stone hits the bottom of my stomach. No. No. The Speaker was supposed to say there could only be one true mark. That Kasta is lying. They were supposed to say marking two was impossible, and I look to Jet for any hint that something’s off, that there’s still a loophole, but only his fear prickles through me when our eyes meet.

  He has no argument for this.

  And realization breaks over me like ice.

  The paste flashing gold on Kasta’s chest. His miraculous healing. The Mestrah stepping back in disbelief, confirming Kasta has the knife’s power. They aren’t tricks, and I have no way to stop him. Kasta has confidently met every challenge because his gods’ mark is real.

  The gods chose him for this.

  They chose him.

  “And what do the gods mean by it?” the Mestrah asks.

  “I think it’s quite clear,” the Speaker says. “These marks are only ever given to Mestrahs. Thus conveying the gods’ desire that they are both meant to rule.”

  V

  “BOTH?” I choke out, as Kasta shoves up from his seat. Jet drops his face into his hands, a jolting confirmation that he believes this, and the advisor’s band pinches my arm. I’m meant to rule. I’m meant to be Mestrah, and now I’ll certainly get my chance to make a difference for those like me, except it won’t be at Jet’s side, it will be at Kasta’s, whose mark is true, who is destined to rule despite everything he did, and who’s already proven he’ll trade anything again, including me, for power in an instant—

  An even worse thought strikes me.

  “Both,” I manage. “As in marriage?”

  “But she’s a peasant,” the Mestrah says, raising a hand for my silence, and for Kasta to sit. “She knows nothing of politics or war. Her position would be ceremonial at best, and disastrous if she had to make decisions in Kasta’s absence. Surely the gods mean something else by it. A priest’s position. Or an advisor’s.”

  The Speaker folds their hands. “Since the world began, the gods have never made a mark they did not intend. They trust her. And so must you. But I did not say she would be his consort.” The Speaker glances at me, a look of reassurance. “Marriage is not what the marks intend, unless both parties wish it. The marks intend two Mestrahs. Two perfectly equal rulers. Anything they wish to put into law, both will need to agree on.”

  I look in panicked relief at Jet, though his smile is brief and pained. This still doesn’t solve the problem of having to rule beside my worst enemy, but at least this gets rid of the awkward expectation for heirs.

  Kasta grits his teeth. “But there have never been two Mestrahs. It will be impossible to get anything done.”

  “Anything terrible, yes,” I mutter.

  Kasta shoots a glare at me before turning to his father. “Valeed, you are the final say on anything the gods ask. It doesn’t matter if ruling is what they intend. If I am to protect this country, I cannot be tied to this. Make her an advisor.”

  “Kasta.” The Mestrah’s tone sharpens, though I feel his aggravation is more for the entire situation than his son’s words. “It is a Mestrah’s duty to explore the reasons the gods have asked for this, not to blindly reject it. If I challenge their decision to mark her, then I must challenge the mark on you as well.”

  Jet, who I’
d started to worry had frozen into silence, drops a heavy hand on the table. “And should you not?” He shakes his head. “Why are we even questioning Zahru’s eligibility when he was the one who abandoned his own sister to starve to death in the desert? Or maybe you’ve forgotten Sakira’s First, Alette, never came home either, or that Kasta tried to kill me, and nearly did kill Zahru—”

  The Mestrah raises a hand in warning. “Jet—”

  “You can’t possibly mean to allow this—this murderer to rule! If that was how he acted without power, how do you think he’ll act with it?” Kasta opens his mouth, but Jet cuts him off. “When I came home from the Crossing, you commended me for standing up for what I believed in. You said this was a new age for Orkena, one built on mercy and not ambition. You said it was how you knew I was ready.”

  His voice cracks, and I want to reach for him, but this part feels like my fault, and I stay still. It was Marcus, Melia, and me who assured Jet that his caution, his gentleness, was exactly what made him fit to lead, when he would have preferred not to stay in Orkena at all. I gave him this dream. I gave him this heartbreak.

  Regret weakens the Mestrah’s frown. “I know. And I am sorry, my son. But as you’re learning, sometimes even I am wrong. The gods see beyond single moments in time. If they found Kasta’s methods unforgivable, and yours preferred, you would already be Mestrah. But they stopped your ceremony today. They’ve made clear their plans for you are elsewhere.”

  “So it means nothing.” Jet’s eyes glisten. “What I did.”

  The Mestrah doesn’t answer, and my heart twists at his implied agreement. This is so backward. In the stories the selfless prince is always rewarded, and the selfish one locked away. I shift in my seat, the unfairness of it burning through my chest.

  “It didn’t mean nothing to me,” I whisper angrily.

  Jet glances my way. But he doesn’t smile.

  The Speaker straighens a bird skull ring on their finger. “If I may, Mestrah. It seems Prince Jet has a point: there is cause for doubt on both sides, and the situation is certainly unusual. Why not verify with the gods that this is their will? Perhaps Zahru could take the harvest season to adjust to the court, and in the meantime, you could judge Prince Kasta’s methods in contrast to your expectations. If all goes well, you can feel confident in crowning both.”