The Cruelest Mercy

by Natalie Mae

  “Zahru.” Hen grabs my arm and pulls me so I can see around the tables. “There’s the bird.”

  This is the only thing that could draw me away from the promise of golden, shining cups of perfection. At the exact center of the room stands a snow pedestal topped in a silver cage, firestone gems lining the bars for heat, real sapphires embedded down its sides. Though the bird itself is admittedly disappointing. I really assumed a fortune-telling animal would look as mystical as our own legendary animals, maybe with flowing golden feathers or a rainbow plume, but the bird is . . . typical. A tiny songbird with black feathers and a white head. Nadessans form a short line before it, ushered close to the cage one at a time by a woman in a silver suit and a black mask. They ask a question, the bird flits its wings, and some of the people walk away with smiles, some with curses.

  “It’s so . . . plain,” I say.

  Hen itches her cheek beneath her mask. “Yes. The only difference between it and normal Nadessan songbirds is the marking on its head. Supposedly hundreds of them hide out near the ocean, but even the emperor hasn’t managed to find more than one.”

  “Weird. And it really can tell the future? Like our priests?”

  Hen nods. “In an extremely narrow sense. It doesn’t always answer.”

  Marcus gestures to the sculptures. “Custard?”

  I shake my head. “I want to ask my question first. I’ll come back for the food.”

  Though his eyes stay cheery, Marcus’s mouth thins, and he beckons Melia to come with him in a subtle way that, under other circumstances, I might have found suspicious. Maybe it is strange, the notion of my prioritizing other things above food. But not concerningly strange, right? Isn’t it good that I’m starting to put my country before my stomach?

  Hen and I get in line for the bird.

  Melia and Marcus glance at me from the snow sculptures, little bowls of soup in their hands.

  “Hen,” I say, tugging the suit’s uncomfortable collar. “I’m doing all right with everything, right? You’d tell me if I was taking something too far?”

  She places her hands, very patiently, on my shoulders. “You’re in the middle of an intervention.”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, wincing.

  “But you really are doing well, all things considered. Maybe just take a little more time off, when you can. Here, you’ll need this. One ticket equals one question. They’re very expensive, so I thought I should probably only get one for each of us.”

  She places a shining slip of silver paper into my hand. I decide I don’t want to know if this came from the same place as the admission cards.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We wait in line, in which I can confirm our dear Nadessan allies feel quite safe here, since none of them really glance at us or seem overly worried about whether we belong. The temptation to reach out and see what they’re feeling, to know we’re safe, grates against my nerves, but I make myself contain it. The only time I cave is when we reach the woman in the silver suit, who takes my ticket.

  “You have one minute with the bird,” she says, marking the ticket with a quill whose clear ink turns gold against the paper. “And she must be able to answer your question with yes or no. Two wing flaps is a yes, and one is a no. If she doesn’t answer, you can try another question.”

  “Thanks,” I say, bracing for her to ask my name or some other Nadessan detail that will require my magic to smooth over. But her level of interest stays mercifully even, and I approach the bird with a stone in my throat.

  Tired, the bird thinks. Rest? Food. Bored.

  She flits to the upper tier of her cage when I approach, plucking at a string of honeyed seeds. A small number eight stands out in black on her forehead. It occurs to me that even though her strange magic isn’t Orkenian, it must be similar to my own Whispering if she can understand humans.

  And now for my question. For a moment I hesitate, considering that there are far more important things I could ask her about than Kasta: if Orkena will win the war; if I will secure our allies tomorrow. If my family will stay safe in all of this. But those are terrifying questions to get the answer no to, and so I decide on my original strategy. It’s much better to have peace of mind about the immediate issue at hand, to know the gods are on my side at least in this.

  I lower my voice to a whisper only the bird can hear. “Will we stop Kasta from becoming king?”

  The bird pauses in eating. Her head tilts, perhaps knowing I don’t belong here and neither does that question. Her wings don’t move. The woman in the suit turns a timekeeping device on her wrist. I wait, and the bird keeps eating, and I sigh and acknowledge that this is probably for the best. At least I got some time away, and I can still enjoy the custard before I leave.

  I’m just thinking of a different question to ask when the bird hops over on her stick, and her wings flit. Once.

  No, she thinks. You won’t.

  XXI

  FOR a moment, I can only stare at this bird and its evil, beady black eyes.

  “Excuse me?” I snap.

  The bird hops back over to her food, but though her wings don’t move, she mocks me with every jump. No, no, no. No!

  “That is not the right answer,” I say. “Do you even have real magic? Do you just guess?”

  The woman in silver crosses her arms. “Her answers are final. Please move on.”

  “No, this bird is a fraud.” Behind the woman, Hen bounces on her toes, but I can’t stop. “I have been through the literal wringer for this. There is no way he still wins—”

  Marcus’s hand closes on my arm. “Z,” he whispers urgently. “Perhaps we could make a scene elsewhere?”

  I almost pull away, but I have the attention of the entire gallery now, though from the pitying expression of the woman in silver and the amused titters of the crowd, this reaction is quite common. I unclench my fists and let Marcus steer me out of the snowy hall, into the sun, where he tucks a cup of custard into my hands and tells me to breathe. Hen and Melia follow, glancing over their shoulders, and the Nadessans go back to browsing the shops and sipping their glass dolphin drinks like the world didn’t just tilt on its side.

  A new kind of pressure builds in my chest, thick and choking. The bird can’t be right. I can’t be killing myself to do all this studying, to spy on Kasta, to have gone through everything I went through, to be told that nothing I’m doing will matter in the end.

  “It said no,” I growl when the four of us are alone at the railing. “I asked if we would stop Kasta from becoming king, and it said no!”

  Melia rubs my back in soft circles. “Easy. I know this seems bad, but Fortune birds can be very tricky. They often find loopholes in questions. It doesn’t mean Kasta will definitely become king . . . right, Marcus?” Though she’s looking at him as if she, too, hopes this is the case.

  He shifts uncomfortably. “Er—”

  “How direct were you?” Hen asks, somehow having already obtained a plate of shrimp. “Did you ask it about Orkena specifically?”

  I stare at the custard in my hands. “No. But what else would he be king of?”

  Hen shrugs. “Maybe you marry him off in the future. Send him to terrorize some other country.”

  The thought of me doing this is so strange, I’m not even sure how to answer her. “Marry him off? Like I own him? So he can rule another country that could wage war on us?”

  “Well, probably not,” Melia concedes. “But it may not mean right now, either. Maybe you have no heirs, and in forty years he takes the throne.”

  I almost drop the custard. “I’m not going to have kids?”

  Marcus gives Melia a look. “Or maybe we don’t stop him, because technically that’s what the High Priests do when they deliver his sentence as a Shifter. There’s no use panicking about it when we still have time to act. It would have been nice to get a yes, but
it doesn’t mean much to get a no.” He thumbs a pearl button on the cuff of his suit. “I’m so sorry. This was meant to be fun, but I think we’ve stressed you out more.”

  I sigh. “I think that’s just what my life is now.”

  Melia drops her hand from my back. “Not always. For now, yes, but not always. We’ll keep brainstorming, all right? Just focus on your debut, and we’ll come to you in two days’ time with new ideas on how to stop him. Can you let us do that for you?”

  I wish they weren’t wearing masks so I could fully see the way they’re looking at me. But the concern in their eyes is enough, and if I’m honest, when Hen is the one running interventions, it’s time to take a break.

  “All right,” I say. “Yes, that sounds good. But I think I’ve probably done enough damage here. I’m going to go.”

  They nod and go back inside to ask that infuriating bird their questions, and I take the long way back to Hen’s room to change, rolling the custard cup between my palms.

  Kasta as king. It’s as terrifying to think of not stopping him as it is to think of him elsewhere, working against me.

  I leave the untouched dessert on a serving tray by the kitchens.

  Gods, I hope that bird is wrong.

  * * *

  By the time I’m heading to my meeting with Kasta, I’ve pushed the bird out of my mind. There are just too many unknowns to worry about it, as my team pointed out, and I can’t let it affect my focus. The sacrificial mark was also supposed to mean something unavoidable, even if Kasta was the one who made it. But here I am, still alive.

  I tighten the loops of bronze feathers that belt my jole and step onto the western wall of the palace.

  Because the Mestrah is using the war room for other business, Kasta and I are to meet in Cybil’s tower, which also happens to be the farthest structure from where the delegates enter the palace. Which, as vocal as the Mestrah knows I can be, is likely no coincidence. Ahead of me, the tributary tower to the goddess of war cuts the sky like a knife, Cybil herself rising from the alabaster foundation in a tunic of real satin. Polished, russet-brown stone matches the tone of her flawless skin, and real silver forms her armor, overlapping in jeweled pleats. Her arm drips gold-banded strips of leather where she raises her hand for Klog, her loyal falcon. The bird’s enormous granite tail fans where he alights on her wrist, casting shadows over the narrow windows hidden in Cybil’s sides.

  I arrive within the goddess’s head, back by the stairs.

  The room domes high above me, and across the way, Cybil’s enormous, oval eyes form windows to a swath of blue sky and orange sand. Gleaming redwood bookshelves curl around the space, overflowing with scrolls and bronze decorations: a standing compass, a sculpture of Numet’s sun, and a statue of Klog himself, his talons gripping one of Valen’s rattlesnakes. The goddess of war and the god of fate have a complicated history. Sometimes they’re depicted as lovers, but more often they’re at each other’s throats.

  Kasta looks up from where he leans over an enormous black table, eclipsed by the light of the windows.

  My blood jerks. I can do this; we’re just talking strategy, and this is actually something he can help me with. It’s only an hour. Then I can escape his suffocating presence and watch Jet’s boat come in, and clear my head before tomorrow.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  I shrug off my nerves and wander toward a row of jewel-toned tomes. “It’s my first time here. No one warned me this tower was on the other side of the continent.”

  “You could have done your research and left earlier.”

  “Or I could have happily realized it would shorten the length of our meeting and not cared.”

  I look pointedly over, but he only grunts and rolls out a map on the table. “I forgot. You’re very important now that you’ve learned to control people’s minds.”

  My fingers stop centimeters from a book. “If you’re referring to what I said to you earlier . . . I didn’t mean it like that. I was frustrated, that’s all.” Which sounds very like an apology. My nails dig into my palms. “I’m only doing what I must to please your father so he doesn’t make me your advisor. I won’t be controlling people outside those lessons.”

  His smile is slow. “We’ll see. At the rate you’re taking to power, I don’t see that happening.”

  My gut twists. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re fitting in here like you’ve always belonged.” He anchors the corners of the map with stones, his face shadowed. “If you could change my father’s mind to make me the advisor, would you?”

  I don’t like this line of questioning, or that this has somehow turned into an interrogation when I’m supposed to be finding something on him. Especially when, without even thinking, the answer caught in my throat is yes.

  I move toward the statue of Klog, relaxing my grip. “We’re off-topic. We’re supposed to be discussing our debut.”

  A knife of a smile. “Of course.” He slides a pair of scrolls over from the side of the table. “The first order of business is the welcome speech. You’ll deliver that.”

  I scoff. “And here I was under the impression we were supposed to decide things together. But, yes, definitely, let’s have the girl who’s never given a speech in her entire life deliver her first one in front of four countries. Nothing could go wrong with that.”

  He gives me a look. “You’re the greater mystery. If I give the speech, you’ll remain in the lesser position. They’ll think you’re a consort, not a Mestrah.”

  I sigh, trailing my finger over a crystal orb. “This is another of the Mestrah’s orders, then.”

  “No,” Kasta says. “It just makes sense.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly, I don’t even know how to reply. He wants me to be seen in a position of equal power?

  “After that,” he continues, “we’ll converse with each ruler separately and secure their loyalty. I’ll do the talking then. They’ll want to know specifics about trade advantages and the state of our defenses.”

  “I know about our trade agreements, too,” I say, turning. “Shouldn’t I help? Since you’re so interested in showing that we’re equals?”

  “Sure. If you feel they’re going cold on us, or if they ask about forsvine, you’ll use your Influence to smooth things over and end the conversation.”

  My blood jumps. “I’m sorry, did I just imagine us talking, literally a minute ago, about how I’m never using that outside of our lessons?”

  “You don’t think you can?”

  “I do, but—” I bite down on the words, on how quickly that answer came to me. And then I close my eyes, bitter realization pulling my smile. This is why he was helping me earlier. I should have known. “That isn’t the point. We’re trying to earn these rulers’ trust. If they think I’m manipulating them . . .”

  “I told you, no one knows we have Influence. And that’s a good thing, because otherwise no one would agree to meet with us at all. You saw your volunteer. He was so certain it was his own idea to give his name, he actually defended you to the Healers.” His lip twitches. “No one will ever know you’ve used it. It’s what your power was made for.”

  For us—for me—to turn other people to our desires. I suddenly feel childish that I thought this party was anything else.

  I lean back against the shelf. “It doesn’t matter. That’s not how I want to start things off with these rulers.”

  “Zahru.” He unrolls the last scroll slowly, his fingers tense. “I yielded to your desires with Odelig—because you felt it was that important to appeal to me—and I feel it’s just as critical to ask the same of you now. I can’t use Influence like you can. So please, if you trust me in nothing else, will you at least trust me in this?”

  Trust me. Please. The words burn across the faded mark on my wrist, the scar on my chest. Kasta with the kni
fe; Kasta above Odelig’s sleeping form. Kasta telling me, during the Crossing, that he would do everything in his power to see Orkena thrive.

  “I don’t know,” I hedge. His words are pulling at me again, like the moon at the tide. “I still barely understand what I’m doing.”

  “Fair enough. Just promise me that if it’s the difference between securing an ally or losing them, you’ll at least try.”

  This seems oddly reasonable, and I take a moment to consider whether this could be used for some nefarious agenda before I nod.

  “All right,” I say, pulling an anxious hand up my arm. “Is that all, then? I should probably get started on my speech.”

  “There’s one more thing. Not something my father wanted us to go over, but a concern all the same.”

  “Oh. In that case, goodbye!” I say brightly, and head for the stairs.

  “Zahru—”

  “I’m sure you don’t need me to figure it out. Just don’t kill anyone tomorrow, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I think there’s going to be another attack,” he says, and I stop with my hand on the stairs’ marble railing. “Wyrim would be foolish not to strike again during the banquet. My father’s being arrogant, hosting such a public event. We have no way yet to detect forsvine if someone sneaks it in, especially at the rate it’s advancing.”

  I flex my hand on the rail. “I’m sure your father has considered the risks, especially after what happened to our hunting boat. You’re being paranoid.” As usual.

  I don’t think I imagine the glint in his eye. “Would it be without reason?”

  There’s a threat layered in his tone, and beetles crawl on my skin as I wonder if he knows I’ve been in his room. “You see a lot of things that aren’t there,” I say, my scar prickling.

  “Maybe. But I know the best way for Wyrim to demonstrate their power in this war would be to kill a crown heir before we’ve even ascended.”

  I hesitate. “You think someone will try to kill us?”