The Cruelest Mercy

by Natalie Mae

  “I think someone will try to kill you.”

  “Of course you do,” I growl, shoving off the railing. “It only makes sense they’d go after the weaker heir—”

  “Weaker?” He laughs. “You think, even without the world knowing about your Influence, that that’s how they see you? You are the girl who survived death. Who convinced a king to let a commoner rule equal to his son. They are terrified of you. And it’s in their best interests to kill you now, before you gain even more favor.”

  I bristle, rejecting that he could think of me as stronger. “I guess you would know. That’s what you would do, right?”

  “I didn’t have to do this,” he says, jabbing the table. “The Mestrah didn’t ask me to brief you on security. I wanted to warn you. And to figure out what we’ll do to ensure it doesn’t happen.” He flings a hand at the scrolls on the desk. “This is a map of the banquet room. Schematics of hidden weapons, assassination tools, common poisons. Last night was the first full night of sleep I’ve had in a week.”

  A thick silence fills the space, heavy enough to drown. I can’t reply. Not only because of the possibility that this is why he’s looked so run-down, but because I absolutely don’t understand him anymore. It would be so much easier for him to say nothing, to let fate play out, to let another country kill me. He wouldn’t even have to get involved. It would be his father’s negligence to blame if I died.

  “Assume the worst of me,” he says, leaning over his work. “But my priority has always been Orkena’s survival. And it’s become clear that you are instrumental to that.”

  My heart twists. These are lies. I need them to be, because I don’t know what to do with them otherwise. Logically I know there’s no other reason for him to warn me, especially if he thinks I’ve been poking around his room.

  I am trying to ruin him.

  He is trying to save me.

  “You need me right now,” I say, scrambling for a reason that makes sense. “Will you feel the same after you’ve mastered Influence, too?”

  Kasta looks down at the scrolls. “That’s not what makes you valuable.”

  “Then what does?”

  The answer shouldn’t matter. But I’m desperate to catch him in a lie, to prove he’s out to destroy me as much as I am him.

  Kasta inhales, then presses his next confession through his teeth. “You, Zahru. Your ideas. Your words. Your way with people.”

  My stomach drops. I have to lock the words out; I can’t let him get into my head again. This is just like that moment after the Choosing, when he told me a Whisperer could be powerful and went on to cut a sacrificial symbol into my wrist. This is just like in the tent, before I asked if he was still planning to kill me.

  I almost ask about Maia. But then he will know.

  It’s your Influence he needs, I think stubbornly. Nothing more. Don’t trust him. You can’t trust him.

  But I cross to the table. I look down at the scrolls, these careful drawings that took days to draft. And I move to the other side.

  Next to him.

  “This is what I would do if I were them,” Kasta says, his voice rough. “And this is how we will stop it.”

  XXII

  DUSK is settling like blood across the dunes by the time we finish.

  My mind swirls as I leave the tower. Half of it with quicksilver memories of weapons to watch out for, gifts I shouldn’t accept, and actions to take if I’m poisoned or cornered by assassins. The other half with the quiet way Kasta explained each item, his shoulder centimeters from mine, his gaze focused. The silver in his eyes when he said the safest strategy was to stay near him all evening, so we could watch out for each other.

  So he could protect me, if something went wrong.

  Nobles stream by in excited groups as I head for my room. An older couple bows to me on their way to watch the Grekan monarchy come in on their sand skiffs; a group of boys my age, dressed in tergus kilts and ivy crowns and little else touch their fingers to their heads, on their way to party with the Pe attendants. Cactus blossoms hang from the orange tapestries, breathing a sugary lemon scent over the halls, and jewel-blue butterflies flit in my path. The Mestrah spared no expense to impress our guests. With a sigh I remember Jet’s boat should have come in hours ago, and that I missed it, and that there’s no way we’ll be attempting any kind of redo of the night he left me, because I still have a speech to write.

  But I do want to see him, even if just for a minute. I head for the officers’ wing.

  Except he’s not in. Because he’s at yet another meeting with the Mestrah and other key officers to discuss their roles and the process for the banquet tomorrow, and no one knows when it will be over.

  And this is when I start to get especially irritated. I have spent way too long going over all the different ways people could kill me, I have adamantly not had enough sleep, and also, I have not had dinner.

  I storm to my room and shove open the doors.

  “I have had it!” I shout, my voice carrying in satisfying echoes. “When I’m Mestrah, we are working half days, we are serving cake at all meetings that talk about assassination, we’re going to fight wars via dance competition, and so help me, if someone springs one more meeting on me or someone I want to see—”

  “Brr?” says Jade, leaping off the end of my bed. Zar? Need love?

  I frown as she trots over, her spotted tail twitching. Without even thinking, without remembering that I live alone now in this giant room, I just started off as I would have on any day back in Atera, bursting into the stable, Fara always there to listen, and Hen half the time, too. My heart pinches as the silence wraps around me. I could go find them, of course, if I felt like I had the time.

  “Sorry for ranting at you,” I whisper, heaving Jade up. She’s rapidly passing large housecat status. Soon I won’t be able to hold her.

  I smile. “You just said my name, didn’t you?”

  Zar, she thinks, nuzzling my head. Love.

  I sigh and carry her to the windows, sliding one of the thick curtains aside. Fireflies wink outside like wishes, and distant couples wander through the trees beyond the Mestrah’s gated garden, many in foreign attire. The Pe with their mountain furs and high boots; the Amians in scant pastels, their limbs and necks covered more in jewelry than fabric. No crowns, meaning these are just the honored company that attends each monarch. Tomorrow, I’ll meet their rulers.

  And all of Orkena’s future will be decided.

  “Please, gods, guide my words,” I mutter, squeezing Jade. No matter what strange game Kasta’s playing, figuring it out will have to wait. If I can’t prove to Orkena’s allies that we’re fine, his ascending the throne will be the least of my problems.

  “One day,” I promise Jade. “One day of peace with him, then I’m getting to the bottom of this.”

  * * *

  As it happens, I do get to see Jet that night, but of course when he walks in, I’ve just torn up my seventh attempt at any kind of respectable welcome speech and screamed at the ceiling. It’s not my best look. Jet enters very cautiously, his blue traveling tunic wrinkled, the black liner smudged around his eyes.

  I stand up guiltily from the couch, hopeful that even though the door was slightly ajar when I yelled, maybe he didn’t hear it.

  He hesitates on the threshold. “I can come back.”

  I half laugh, half sob, and rub my hands down my face. “No, please come in. I’m just working on this speech . . . I need a break.” I cross to a bronze tray that holds remnants of my dinner: an empty soup bowl, fish bones, chocolate flakes from the pudding I definitely ate first, and a little kettle of hibiscus tea. I pour some of the red liquid in a crystal cup and turn. “Tea?”

  Jet’s gaze shifts from the heavy curtains covering the windows to the empty tray. To the crumpled balls of paper littering the floor, one of which Jade chases beneath t
he lion-pawed couch.

  “No,” he says slowly. “Thank you.”

  The uneasy way he says that sends a cold droplet down my spine. My Influence flexes. I could check. I could bring what he’s feeling to me in a blink and know if he’s upset or just tired.

  But reaching for something he’s not sharing in words feels very different from waiting for a burst of strong emotion. Those I can’t control. This I can.

  I turn back to the tray and top off the cup. “How was Sakira?”

  Jet’s sandals scuff the floor; he reaches down to stroke Jade, who drops a parchment ball at his feet. “Stubborn as ever. And very unhappy with you. But I assured her her secret would go no further, and she extended her threat of making life here terrible for both of us if it does, so. At least you won’t have to suffer alone if one of us spills.”

  My heart sinks. “You can’t tell your father she’s alive? Or Alette’s parents?”

  He throws the ball for Jade, who tears after it. “No, though I gave them a good guilt trip for it. Sakira will come around, I think. It was very strange to see her like that . . . like she just didn’t care anymore. That week in the desert really rattled her.”

  What Kasta did to her rattled her, I remind myself. I hold to the words like a lifeline.

  “Anyway,” Jet says, “she was still happy to see me, and very happy to see the gold I brought. Thank you again for trusting me with that. Especially during such a stressful time.”

  I slide my thumb along my cup, grateful he can’t read my emotions as clearly as I can read his. I can’t help but wonder how much he might have helped if he’d been able to search Kasta’s rooms with me. He could have sent Sakira money anonymously; he could have gone to see her only after we’d found something on Kasta. He could have secured her support and brought her back.

  He told me he’d be here when I needed him.

  “Of course,” I say, smiling.

  “Now then.” He rubs his hands. “You said something about a speech? Anything I can help with?”

  I sip my tea and gesture to the crumpled balls. “Well, I’m in charge of greeting the rulers tomorrow at the banquet, so I thought I’d start by giving my and Kasta’s names, welcoming everyone, and then fainting before I spark international outrage.”

  He scoffs, as if that was a joke, and unfolds one of the speeches. “All right, let’s take this step by step, then. What do you keep getting caught up on?”

  “I don’t know!” I say, dropping my cup on the tray. “Everything. I have no idea what I’m doing. My tutors keep telling me I have to be firm, that I can’t show any uncertainty, that I have to pretend we’re in the position of power and say we expect our allies’ help . . .” I rub my forehead. “That’s just not who I am. I can’t stand up there and threaten people. Or lie and say I’m the strongest ruler Orkena has ever had. I don’t know if I am. I mean, I’m not. And Kasta’s worried about losing them because we don’t have an answer to forsvine, and he wants me to just use Influence and be done with it . . . because I could now. I changed an ex-commander’s mind today. I could.”

  Jet’s hands go still on the speech he’s holding. “And what do you want to do?”

  My stomach flips. The confession waits on my tongue, sour as bile, my Influence stirring through my blood. It would be so easy to use it. To not care at all what I say in my speech and be as ruthless as everyone’s expecting, and then use my magic to fix it. Remember when I threatened you? That was just for show! You know we’d never really hurt you. Here, swear yourself to us in blood.

  I close my eyes. “I don’t know.” Those letters I wrote to Jet these past nights, the ones I won’t ever show him, swirl through my memory. “What would you do?”

  The second I ask, I fear I’ve made a mistake. His hand tightens on the speech. A flash of something like anger slices over my skin—his, strong enough to reach me. And I start to wonder if he left because he needed to get away from this . . . from me.

  But his grip relaxes. The emotion vanishes quick enough that I wonder if I misread it, and when he picks up another crumpled ball, his voice is smooth.

  “I would follow my gut,” he says. “And if something didn’t feel right, I wouldn’t do it.”

  “I know, but . . . you know what comes out of my mouth when I’m stressed. If I’m honest with them, if I don’t use Influence . . . I could lose them.”

  Jet shrugs. “I suppose that’s always a risk. But I think you’ve forgotten that you’ve spoken to three almost-rulers before. At length. And you didn’t need Influence to reach them.”

  He gives me a look, and I smile weakly, wishing I could take comfort in his kind reminder. “You do remember one of them is now my archnemesis.”

  “Yes, which I imagine he’ll very soon come to regret, if he doesn’t already. But this party won’t be as intense as the race, and I have no doubt whatsoever that you’ll win tomorrow’s rulers over. You have a good heart, Zahru. You’ll know exactly what to say.”

  I’m not sure he’d believe that so thoroughly if he knew that I considered fabricating pelts earlier this week, or that I nearly used my magic on him just moments ago. But I cling to the words anyway. To the reminder that I have done this before, by finding the similarities between myself and strangers, and from there, building trust. Building a feeling of safety. A starting point that would be much easier to branch out from if I didn’t just remember that Kasta said the world was terrified of me.

  But I trace the mark on my chest, my fingers soft. Because that’s what started this very conflict. Fear of the unknown, of Mestrahs using magic to conquer, to control. So much that even though these other rulers don’t know I have Influence, they still worry I have something that can hurt them. Which, yes, they’re correct about, but if I could somehow assure them we’re on equal ground, that I would never use that power against them . . .

  I think of the forsvine sample, and the radius of its reach.

  And I look up. “I know what I’m going to do.”

  * * *

  I am possibly more excited about my idea not because it’s the right thing to do or because I’m sure it’ll impress our allies, but because I know how much it will irk Kasta. And the thrill of proving his methods wrong yet again is just too much not to savor.

  I stand very still the next morning as the Royal Materialist and her assistants fuss to dress me for the banquet. They wind under one another like dancers, tying the shimmering ends of a golden jole at my hip and shoulders, looping strips of gossamer fabric around my fingers and wrapping it in spirals up my bare arms. Two girls lower an interlocking sculpture of bronze feathers onto my shoulders, where talons at the back hold the corners of a wine-red cape. Another girl lines my eyes in curling kohl, enhancing each mark with dots of vivid red. Numet’s spiraling sun gleams through a decorative split at the front of my bodice.

  The Royal Materialist places a crown of gold-dipped feathers onto my head, pinning it into the waves of my hair.

  And for the first time since this started, I look into the mirrors and see a queen.

  My father cries when I emerge from the dressing room. Mora and Hen clap approvingly, admiring the tiny white lilies dotting my hair, but it’s Fara who pulls me into his arms, his grip tight.

  “You look just like your mother,” he whispers.

  When he steps back, it’s me wiping my eyes.

  Kasta is already in the throne room when I arrive, a deep red cape dripping down his back, and when he turns, my heart jerks. His blue eyes are oceans between twisting lines of kohl, his deep olive skin glistening with oil. A gleaming bronze mantle rests atop a pure white tunic, but instead of feathers, two rattlesnake heads are poised to strike on his shoulders. Their long bodies twine across his chest, circling Numet’s dark symbol. More of the snakes crown his hair.

  Valen’s serpents. Cybil’s feathers. I would be amused by the Royal Materialist�
��s choices if I wasn’t so flustered by the insinuation of how we make up after our fights.

  “Zahru,” the Mestrah says, his voice hoarse. Even with a dozen trielle spells glowing on his skin, he looks much worse than I’ve seen him. Sweat glistens on his bare chest, and only a plain, albeit luxurious, tergus wraps his waist—a normal sight for the court, but certainly not an outfit for receiving company.

  “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “Yes, Mestrah,” I say, bowing.

  “Good. I will not be going with you.”

  I look up.

  “They are here for you,” the Mestrah says. “That is why you both wear Mestrahs’ mantles. Get each of the four rulers to commit in blood that they will assist us—the contracts require a drop of it, and you will remind them that if their loyalty wavers, we will know, and they will be considered sided with Wyrim. Work together. I do not expect—” He winces, bringing his fist to his heart, and swallows. “I do not expect to hear at the end of this that you got in one another’s way.”

  A terrible cough rakes him, and the boy servant rushes closer, but the king can’t stop long enough to grab the chalice he offers. The guards shift. The Mestrah coughs over and over, his back heaving, and a Healer runs in from the side, placing her hands quickly on his shoulders. Nothing happens at first. The king heaves, and the boy servant quickly exchanges the tray for a bucket sitting beside the throne. I cringe at the sound of the king being sick.

  Finally it stops, the Mestrah trembles beneath the Healer’s hands, and for a moment, a tense silence thickens the air. I glance at Kasta, but whether he’s distressed to see his father this way, I can’t tell from the stone of his face.

  The Mestrah sits up, waving the Healer and the servant away. After a lifetime of being the greatest power in the world, I imagine he loathes this. Appearing dependent. Out of control. Blood glistens at the corners of his mouth.

  When he speaks, his voice is little more than a whisper.