The Cruelest Mercy

by Natalie Mae

  I trusted him during the Crossing, and he came through. He’ll come through.

  Also, I have approximately twelve hundred other things to worry about at the moment, so I have to hope that’s true. I set my sights ahead, to the war room, where the Mestrah and his advisors do indeed wait inside . . . along with half the palace.

  This might be a slight exaggeration; there are probably forty people total. But this is twenty-nine more than I was expecting, and I stop outside the rune-inlaid doorway. “I’m sorry, did you say there would be eleven people?”

  Jet surveys the packed room, biting his lip. “That’s what I was told. But now is probably a good time to admit that my father’s plans can change on a whim.”

  And so they have. The brazier’s circular shadow twitches over the long table, illuminating the faces of army officials in their metal-feathered armor, priests in their white tunics, and the Mestrah’s ten advisors in their deep purple robes and golden capes, representative of the ten primary deities who serve Numet. It’s of some comfort, at least, to realize I already met most of these people thanks to yesterday’s tour. The General—Jet’s mother—leans on her cane near the front of the room, and when she sees us, she nods, reminding me of the warm way she greeted me yesterday. I’d been afraid she might blame me as much as Kasta for taking Jet’s crown. But all she did was clasp my arm, her fingers firm. Thank you for bringing my son home.

  I return her nod.

  Less comforting are the dozen messengers armed with listening scrolls who cluster at the edges of the room. My handmaiden warned me about messengers. Anything they write down, anything I do or say, will henceforth appear immediately on announcement boards all over Orkena. Anything I say. Immediately all over Orkena. The pace of their quills doubles when I walk in, and I’m thinking: This is it for me. This is the last moment anyone in the kingdom wonders if I will be a well-spoken or sophisticated queen.

  “Jet,” I whisper as we excuse our way through a trio of the Mestrah’s advisors. “Exactly how many people live in Orkena?”

  Jet gives me a look, as if this is a random question. “I think it was ten million at last census. Why?”

  I muffle a laugh and try very hard not to give the messengers a reaction they’ll feel compelled to write about. “No reason,” I wheeze.

  The soldiers make space as we approach the head of the table, where the Mestrah sits on his glass throne, looking much worse than yesterday. His scorpion-tined crown weighs heavier on his head; the circles beneath his eyes are more pronounced despite the makeup meant to brighten his face. Yet somehow he still looks apart from the nobility around him, more vivid and real; divine.

  Only one other figure cuts the same contrast against the milling elite. My blood flashes as Kasta glances our way from the Mestrah’s right, his eyes a spark of blue bordered in kohl. Numet’s mark gleams on his olive skin through an opening in his tunic, and his favored crown of Valen’s rattlesnakes twists through his hair, though I doubt the god of fate would approve.

  The nightmare sings at the edges of my vision. Maybe fear would be a more normal reaction, considering Kasta was already dangerous before he held both Influence and the Shifters’ curse in his grip. But I imagine the knife again in his hand, this time as he stands over Maia, and what stirs in my chest is not flighty or light.

  “Zahru,” the Mestrah says, his voice gruff. “Kasta. Please, sit.”

  The room goes quiet. Though I doubt I radiate the same unearthly grace as our king, the crowd’s eyes gravitate to me—the one who is new, the one who doesn’t belong. I press forward, and when I approach the chair I sat in yesterday, Jet tugs my cape.

  “I can’t sit with you today,” he whispers. “But I’ll be close by.”

  He slips into the crowd. The high-backed chair scrapes when a servant pulls it out, and I slowly sink into it, aware of the many faces turned toward me. But I literally almost died to be here. I look back, and it’s their turn to look away.

  All except for Kasta, who watches me with a quill twirling between his fingers, as if waiting to write down my faults himself.

  The Mestrah raises his arms, and all but the messengers sit.

  “Council,” the Mestrah says. “I have gathered you today not only to consult with our new dōmmel Zahru, with whom most of you are now acquainted, but also to announce a promising new development in our research of the Wyri metal. You, and the people of Orkena, are no doubt growing anxious over our silence in regards to Wyrim. And while it’s true that we’ve yet to link the attack to their queen, I would assure you this does not mean we’re sitting idle.”

  He beckons to an advisor on the other side of Kasta, a woman with curling silver hair and light brown skin. She moves to the front with a long roll of parchment and unfurls it with the help of Jet’s mother. It’s a picture, painted by a skilled hand, of a male lion overlooking a lake. But unlike most lions, this one has thin white stripes lining its back, as if it were half tiger.

  “Odelig?” whispers one of the messengers.

  The Mestrah nods. “Our research continues on the magic-neutralizing metal Wyrim has developed, which we are now calling forsvine. And Odelig, the Immortal Lion, may be the key.” He gestures to the painting. “Since we know charms must be adjusted from their human versions to be effective on animals, my advisors and I are exploring the possibility that animal magic may not be affected by forsvine. The problem we’ve run into is testing. As we know, only a handful of animals possessing magic are ever alive at once, and right now we’re only aware of three of them: Naif, the Waterweaving whale who lives near the Wyri islands; Odelig; and Ashra, the Firespinning horse that bandits stole from my stables last moon.”

  I’m very glad the Mestrah isn’t looking at me when he says this. There is no universe in which I would have been able to keep a straight face, or not admitted in front of a room of messengers that actually the thieves were Sakira and her team, which incidentally included me. Not that I was told ahead of time what we were doing or felt in any way that it was a good idea.

  “As my soldiers have yet to locate Ashra, and hunting the whale would stir a great deal of political distress, we have decided to pursue Odelig as our test subject. We’ll continue working on spells that might overpower forsvine entirely, but until then, we’re hoping his bones may provide critical protection to our soldiers.”

  A hollow opens in my ribs as I realize his intention. Odelig is certainly infamous, especially among non-Orkenians, who avoid the eastern edge of the forest between Pe and Orkena for this very reason. Arrows and swords can’t hurt him, but while magic can, he’s been able to outsmart every hunter who has come for him so far. If our soldiers wore his bones as charms, and forsvine couldn’t neutralize his magic, it would mean blades and crossbows couldn’t hurt our soldiers, either. Making them essentially immortal against the Wyri.

  But that’s the very crux of the problem. In order to use an animal’s magic, that animal has to be killed. In Odelig’s case, he’s large enough that a small army’s worth of charms could be carved from his bones. I know there are many human lives at stake. I know it shouldn’t even be comparable. But since being named the Crossing’s sacrifice, I have stronger feelings about one life being traded for the benefit of many, especially when the Mestrah isn’t even sure Odelig’s magic will work.

  “Zahru,” the Mestrah says. I clench my seat, panicking that he’s read my mind—until I remember he can no longer do that. “Your experience as a Whisperer is especially suited to speak on this. What would you advise of this theory?”

  The quill stills in Kasta’s hand. Anyone who wasn’t already looking at me certainly is now, but as shocked as I am that the Mestrah just considered my Whispering useful in this situation, a stone turns in my stomach, because I can already feel it.

  This is the moment I make myself infamous across every informational board in Orkena.

  “I think it’s
awful,” I blurt. Quills scratch in glee, and all I can really do at this point is keep talking. “I mean, even if we do find that his magic works against forsvine, the solution is temporary. There’s physically not enough of him to outfit everyone. By the time you make as many charms as you can, you might have found another solution, and you would have killed a legendary animal in vain.”

  Kasta grunts. “Orkena’s animals are made to serve just as we are. Odelig is especially dangerous, and so he’s been left alone. Now the gods are calling him to a purpose. Surely you don’t believe the life of a lion outweighs the lives of our people.”

  My blood boils. I am very, very tempted to make a comment about how his last sacrifice turned out, but we’re in a room of messengers, so I control myself. “We don’t even know if we can find him,” I growl. “It could take moons, and by then—”

  “It could be the turning point of a war.” The quill spins again in Kasta’s fingers. “The threat of a solution alone might be enough to end things. This is no time for Whisperers’ sentiments, dōmmel.”

  There’s a mocking edge to the word, and around the table sound murmurs of agreement. He’s already turning them against me, making me seem foolish and naive.

  Gods, I could strangle him.

  The Mestrah raises his hand for silence. “You are wise to consider the cost, Zahru,” he says, and surprise flashes through me again at his support. “But we cannot operate under the assumption that the Metalsmiths will be able to counter forsvine in time. As Kasta said, the gods have given us this possibility, and we would be negligent to ignore it.” He leans forward, resting tiredly on the table. “But you needn’t worry about it taking too long to find him. Magical animals are drawn to royalty, which is why I’ve decided that, as your first task together, you and Kasta will hunt Odelig and bring him here.”

  “What?” I say. Approving chatter rises around the room, and I shoot a panicked look at Jet. This is the first test. And it’s definitely not something Jet or anyone else can help me with. The Mestrah is sending me back into the desert, with the person who clearly has no issue with sacrificing me to succeed, on a trip that will take days—all time I could be studying or putting together what we need to stop Kasta—with the intention of bringing death to an animal. Death, when I have dedicated my entire life to saving and healing.

  Kasta drops the quill. “Will you need him alive?”

  “No,” the Mestrah says. “Do what you need to subdue him, but I’ll expect that when you return, both of you agreed on it.”

  “Mestrah,” I say desperately. “With all respect, couldn’t Kasta go alone? That’s a long time to go without my studies, and I don’t know how to track—”

  “Your studies can continue on the journey. Kasta will teach you to track.”

  “But—” I scramble for anything else. I know this might make me appear weak, but I have no choice. I can’t go on this trip. I can’t help Kasta kill this lion. “What about the bombing? Those mercenaries are still out there, and the Wyri—”

  “Will see they have not shaken us in the least.” The Mestrah’s voice, though gruff, strengthens in volume. “We will not cower in the capital, waiting for their next move. You will soon be Mestrah, and you are what they should fear. If they’re foolish enough to intercept you, we will remind them of it.”

  The nobles clap and voice their approval, and I can only look around the table, irritation clawing up my spine. It’s always about a show of power in the capital: who is faster, stronger, more reckless. Another thing I plan to change once I’m Mestrah. And Rie, the one time I thought I could count on Kasta to argue with his father, to insist I don’t go and mess up the hunt with my Whisperers’ sentiments, and he raised no objections at all. He catches my eye as he sits back, his gaze as calculating as ever.

  And a new thought slivers through the back of my mind.

  Because I can think of a very good reason a Shifter wouldn’t oppose being out with me in a forest, where people often get separated, and lost, and torn inexplicably apart by wild animals.

  The Mestrah rises. “The expedition sets off tomorrow. You are dismissed.”

  IX

  IT’S a testament to my current state of mind that I feel like I’m too busy to even worry whether Kasta might assassinate me on this trip. I don’t have time to think about assassination. I have ten more classes to take today, a new lion problem, and I still need to ask Marcus about the whole controlling necklace situation, which reminds me I still haven’t asked him and Melia to be my advisors.

  I’m going to keep a dagger on me, and assume that Kasta may attack at any moment, and that’s seriously the most thought I can give to that.

  Jet and I have just reached my room when a woman in green approaches with a smile and a scroll.

  I jerk to a stop. “If you tell me there’s something else I need to do right now, I’m going to start screaming.”

  The woman pales. “I beg your forgiveness, gudina. I am only here to pack your things for the hunt tomorrow? I can come back . . .”

  “Oh.” I wince. “I’m so sorry, yes. That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  She bows, touching her fingertips to her forehead, and the guards open my doors to admit her. Jet turns to me, his thumbs through two of the quarter moons that make up his silver belt. “You need a break.”

  “I do not need a break. I can handle this.” I push into my room after the woman. “Kasta doesn’t need a break. He’s probably got everything planned for the trip already.”

  “He’s also used to this kind of pressure, and he doesn’t have classes.”

  “I said I’m fine!” I do not say this at all like a person who is fine, and I slowly relax my fists. “I can get used to this, too. Could you get Marcus and Melia for me? I only have an hour now until my first tutor arrives.”

  “Yes,” Jet says, with the agreeability of someone who does not want to be lit on fire for saying otherwise. “Do you want me to get Hen, too?”

  I suppose it would make sense to get the entire team together. I start to agree—and rethink it. Hen is amazing at many things, but she’s also impulsive, and definitely doesn’t consult with me on most of what she does. The thought of her taking Kasta’s case into her own hands, and his catching her, sends a jolt of panic through me. “Maybe . . . not this time,” I say.

  Jet raises a brow. “All right. I’ll be right back.”

  He spins on his heel, and I have time to feel guilty for snapping at him before I turn and collapse face-first on the couch. This is fine, I can do this, I’ll figure out what to do about the lion, Marcus will make the necklace. These are the optimistic thoughts running through my head when Jade bounces over, a torn, glittering tassel in her mouth, and deposits the frazzled golden threads by my face. Play!

  I sigh and sit up. “What did you tear this from?”

  Her spotted tail twitches, and she looks at the bed. Where every single one of the dozen expensive, jewel-toned pillows is shredded in a still-drifting cloud of feathers.

  “Oh.”

  And of course this is the moment the woman in green emerges from the closet with a stack of pressed joles in her arms.

  “Would these please you for the journey, gudina?” she asks, as two feathers land atop the bundle.

  “Um . . .” It’s really very distracting to speak to someone who seems immune to the absurdity of this. I hide the tassel behind my back, and Jade charges off again into her pillow graveyard. “Are any of those cactus spire?”

  The woman shakes her head. “I would not waste such finery on a hunt. Though I assure you, these more basic gowns will still set you apart.”

  Or maybe this woman is just used to absurdity, considering she’s been asked to pack these when part of our journey will be spent scraping through tree branches. “I just don’t want anything to attack me. And I feel compelled to clarify here that I’m talking about the
dresses, not wild animals.”

  She wrinkles her nose. Like I’m the one being odd. “Of course, gudina. These are just your public dresses, anyway, for riding past the towns. I have your finest tunics packed for the hunt.”

  “Wait, there’s more?” She’s holding at least eight outfits. “How long is the Mestrah planning for us to be gone?”

  “Well, it will take six days at the least.” She beckons for me to follow her back into the closet. “Two for travel there, at least two for the hunt, and two more to return.”

  I think about this, acknowledging eight dresses probably isn’t too many—until we walk through the curtain, and I take in the packed redwood traveling chest. Which brims with garments and crowns. I can’t decide if it’s more ridiculous that she’s packed this many things, or that the closet doesn’t look any emptier.

  “Oh, no,” I say. “This is way too much. Is someone going to carry that into the wilderness?”

  The woman places her bundle atop the open chest. “No, gudina. I’ll pack a satchel for your hunting clothes. This will stay on the boat, giving you plenty of options.”

  I gape at her. “Because this is not enough clothes already?”

  “Ah.” Her smile flickers. “I know it seems like a lot from what you’re used to. But this is a blessing! You, dōmmel, are a blessing. Let us spoil you.”

  But my stomach twists as I watch her shift through the fine gowns, her touch soft and reverent. Like someone used to admiring such finery, while knowing she’ll never wear it herself. Her own dress is plain and green, a rough linen in comparison to the rarities in the chest. She’s so used to hearing what she just said to me—that I have these nice things, that I deserve them, because I am a blessing—that she no longer recognizes how this implies that she is not.