The Cruelest Mercy

by Natalie Mae

  And I am the reason.

  Anxiousness trembles through me. I still want to do this my way, and be charming and pleasant and win the Konge over honestly, but I don’t know what I’m doing, and I could mess up again. I could say something that would make him decide he’s done with us entirely, and lose a fourth of our potential support in a snap. I can’t let Orkena suffer for my clumsiness. I can’t let my family suffer.

  Gods help me.

  I finish my drink, and a servant in a pale golden tunic collects my glass, and Kasta starts in on the Konge again, who has definitely cooled to us. I slip my hands behind my back, beneath my cape, where no one can see. Kasta reaches behind me, his tall frame shielding my side, his thumb tracing the bracelet. Already knowing what I have in mind, all too eager to help. And definitely not helping stop any assumptions that we are secretly together.

  I am a terrible person. And I am letting him touch me.

  “I’m sorry, prince,” the Konge is saying. “There are clearly still issues to work out within your walls, and I worry what that will mean if it comes to war. I’m not ready to commit yet.”

  He tips his crowned head, ready to turn away, and my fingers shake as I roll the bracelet into Kasta’s waiting hand. Kasta turns in to me, his lips at my ear. “I have to walk away for your magic to work again,” he whispers. “Two bracelets have twice the strength. Fix your mess.”

  He leaves without another word, and my magic stirs in my chest, the Konge’s amusement prickling along my arms like burrs. I leave my arms behind my back, despising everything about this.

  “We’re sorry, too,” I say, reaching for that amusement and twisting it around my fingers. “There are definitely issues we’re still working on at a personal level. But I assure you when it comes to the important things, we won’t get in each other’s way.” I force a smile, even as the Konge’s fiancé mutters something in his ear. “Are you sure I can’t convince you? You said you were interested in a lower export tax on runes, and new land?”

  A spark of desire from the king. Of my own manufacturing. I don’t even have to make myself believe I want it to work this time, because this must work or Orkena will suffer.

  The Konge turns back to me, twirling his glass of wine. “Go on.”

  “I’ll let you set all the terms yourself,” I say, feeling sick as the words sink into him, as I feel him yield. It will be our terms, of course, that will come out of his mouth. “But first, we need a promise in blood.”

  XXIV

  I secure Amian’s alliance with only the smallest of puzzled looks from the Konge’s fiancé, who I then charm with a twist of Influence until I’ve erased every last one of his reservations. I leave them with my fingers still shaking. Of course Kasta is so pleased by this that he actually beams when I join him, and tries to steer me toward the Nadessan monarchy without a pause, but I grab his arm and hold out my hand for the forsvine bracelet. He sighs and reluctantly slips it back to me, but his smile stays in place when we approach the emperor, his eyes sliding over me as they would a sword.

  I shake my head tightly—no. I won’t be doing that again. It was enough that I went back on my word like some underhanded tyrant even once. My arms will be staying in front of my body, and my words will be staying in my mouth.

  And thus I determine to stay painfully quiet for the remaining conversations. Literally, it hurts not to speak when the emperor’s daughter commends me for how well I clean up “considering where I came from,” but I bite my tongue and let Kasta handle it. I’m sure I appear demure and quiet as a result, the truth of which is going to be shocking for these people if I ever see them again, but I don’t care. There will be plenty of time to set the record straight after we have their loyalties. And Kasta is still having to win them over using what he knows, not using magic, and so we’re still doing things my way, even if that’s not how it appears.

  It’s almost enough to make me forgive myself for what I did to the Konge.

  No one tries to give me any of the tainted gifts Kasta warned me about, but after we’ve secured allegiance from Greka and Nadessa, I beg for a break. Keeping silent in stressful situations, apparently, is just as draining for me as if I’d been talking the whole time, and the single “We’re not engaged!” I shouted when the Grekan queen congratulated us was definitely not enough. My feet hurt, my head hurts, and I’m going to say something regrettable if I have to keep this up.

  “Fine,” Kasta says, but there’s no bite to the word. He’s still looking at me in that appraising, dangerous way. “Take a guard with you and get some air. The Pe minister will be the hardest to convince. Her sister married into the Wyrim nobility, and I’ve heard rumors they’ve already signed over their allegiance.”

  I groan. “Great. Something to look forward to.”

  “Zahru.”

  I look up at him, beyond exhausted.

  “I’m not worried. I have you.”

  He leaves for the wine fountain, and I despise the flutter of heat those words stir in me. I don’t care if he’s happy with me. This brief peace between us will only last the day.

  “Excuse me, gudina,” comes a cheeky and very welcome voice from behind me. “I can’t help but think you’d be happier at the side of someone far more charming.”

  “Jet!” I say, whirling—and stopping just short of hugging him, remembering what Kasta said. “Gods, I’m so happy to see you. I can’t listen to any more veiled threats or how ‘stacked’ anyone’s army is. Half these people think Kasta and I are engaged, the other half think we’re related, and the Konge laughed at my tree idea!”

  Jet shakes his head. “Then he’s a very foolish man.”

  “Thanks, but he was actually right.” I sigh, though my pulse ticks up. “If you have too many trees, no one wants them as much. Why didn’t I think about that?”

  Jet blinks, and I realize he’s probably waiting for me to give him actual context for what I’m talking about, but I can only rub nervously at my bracelet. It’s bad enough to acknowledge that no matter Kasta’s methods, he’s doing much better at this than me. I even capsized his plans last-minute and he adapted without a blink, not counting when I accidentally sabotaged us with the Konge. I could not have done this without him, and I realize it’s this, moreso than what he said about Jet, that’s truly bothering me.

  “I need air,” I say. “I need to have a conversation that’s not about war, I need water, and I need at least six of those tiny chocolate cakes, because Kasta said we can’t eat while we negotiate, and I’ve watched way too many of those trays go by.”

  Jet chuckles. “I can fix all of those. Come on.”

  He twines his fingers through mine, and vengeful defiance bursts through me, that Kasta is wrong, that Jet still trusts me. I’m tempted to raise our hands to the room both to prove this and to show how very not-engaged Kasta and I are, but the wonderful and terrifying thing about being dōmmel is that everyone is already watching. Brows rise beneath crowns, and the emperor’s daughter pulls a hand to her mouth, swiveling with new interest toward Kasta. Good luck! I want to call to her. He will literally eat you alive.

  And then I’m very happy to not have to think about any of that anymore, as Jet leads me through a servants’ door and into the foyer.

  Which is unexpectedly packed. The public celebration doesn’t take place for another hour, giving us time to secure—or lose—the Pe before then, but this has clearly stopped no one from hoping the doors will open early. Hundreds of Orkena’s elite glitter in their finest on the alabaster windowsills, on the white wood couches, in jewel-toned groups between statues and ruby-leafed trees. Most of them watch the main doors, but a few spot us at the servants’ entrance, their lined eyes glistening as they rise from their seats. Getting some air might not be as simple as I thought. But just as I’m starting to worry this won’t be relaxing in the least, Jet tugs open a hidden door between two massive p
aintings of glass ships, and into another room we go.

  Or rather, into a closet, judging by the immediate darkness. But a green torch flares on, its pale light illuminating the space like Numet raising her lantern over the first glimpse of Paradise: over stone shelves packed with plates of slivered meats and fish, crystal bowls of soup, and glass-covered trays of tiny chocolate cakes—all the extra food for the banquet. Jet bows before them like a chocolate wizard, and Kasta’s comments sift through my ears, and I don’t know if it’s that or this gathering panic inside me that if I’ve lost Jet, it means I’ve lost who I thought I was, too—but I kick the door closed, hook my fingers under his armor, and pull his face to mine.

  “Mmph!” Jet grunts in surprise, but he smiles against my lips as we fall against the door and kisses me back. I wait for that fire to spark through my chest. For the comfort I’ve always felt with him to settle against me like a cloud, but he kisses me and there’s nothing, nothing but my growing anxiety that something is off, that his arms are still rigid beneath my hands, that he’s holding me a little away from him. I pull back, my head against the door, my heart thudding against my ribs.

  “Sorry,” I say, searching his eyes, because wearing the forsvine, I have no other way to read him. “Is this all right? I didn’t actually mean to attack you—”

  “No, no, it’s . . . fine.” But he pulls away. “It’s just, maybe you could take that off?” He nods at my bracelet. “It keeps pulsing this cold, terrible feeling through me, and it’s extremely distracting.”

  “Oh!” I exhale in relief, chiding myself for letting anything Kasta said get to me. Of course it’s this. I roll the bracelet from my wrist, laughing. “Thank the gods. Yeah, this thing is terrible. Every time I put it back on it does that.”

  He pauses in straightening his tunic. “‘Put it back on’? Have you been taking it off?”

  I freeze in sliding the bracelet onto the shelf. Oh gods. I wasn’t sure when I was going to confess to Jet how we won over the Konge, but this was certainly not it.

  “Um.” I smile and reach behind me for the doorknob. “You know, this was very sweet to bring me in here, but we still need to convince the Pe, and I probably should get back out there—”

  Jet reaches over me and slams the door. “Have you been using Influence? After you promised them you wouldn’t?”

  Now his closeness is suffocating. Even with the bracelet in my hand, I swear I feel his anger on my skin, white-hot curls of disappointment. Anger at me. My heart kicks in; lies tempt my tongue. Of course not, I could say. The bracelet came loose; I only took it off to switch wrists.

  If I throw the bracelet away, I could make him believe it.

  I press back on the temptation with a wince. “It was only once. I didn’t want to, but we were going to lose the Konge—”

  “Zahru!” He shoves off the door. “I can’t believe this. After everything you told me yesterday about wanting to do things differently, and then one of the first things you do is go back on your word? What if the Konge finds out what you did? You’ll definitely lose Amian then, and you could lose these other alliances once he tells them, and certainly no one will trust you after that—”

  “He’s not going to find out! My magic was made for this.” I hate echoing Kasta’s line, and I press on quickly. “And I only used it long enough to convince him to sign. He saw me wearing the bracelet the rest of the time, so even if they figure out later that I have Influence, he won’t think anything of it.”

  He gapes at me. “Which is even worse! You lied to them, and now you’ve figured out how to have plausible deniability in case this comes up in the future? Do you know who you sound like?”

  It feels like a slap. “Don’t you dare compare me to him.”

  “Well, it needs to be said. You’re crossing whatever lines necessary to get what you want—”

  Something shifts in the shadows behind him. I have time to register a gray mask and the gleam of metal knuckles before I grip Jet’s shoulders.

  “Get down!” I yell.

  SLAM. We drop just as a fist punches the door, and metal sings as Jet frees his sword, slicing at the person’s ankles. They jump lithely out of the way. I’m still trying to figure out how they even got in here when they grab a tray of cakes and fling it at us. Jet jerks his arm up, and cake splatters as the metal slings up and hits the door.

  “I can’t use my magic,” he gasps. I fling my bracelet away, but I can’t reach for Influence either. Our attacker must be wearing forsvine. I whirl and yank the door handle, spilling us into the foyer—

  Into complete pandemonium. Mercenaries in gray tunics swarm the elite, some armed with throwing knives, some with double blades. Four Wraiths stand out among them in white and red, wielding swords and crossbows, protecting long streams of nobles as they flee. One of the regular guards forms a molten ball between his hands, but a mercenary steps closer and the magic fizzles out. A Wraith sprints over just in time to block a sword thrust to the guard’s chest.

  The person who attacked us jumps on Jet’s back.

  Jet stumbles, choking as their arm tightens around his throat, and I grab a bust of Aquila—with a muttered apology—and smash it over the person’s head. Jet flips them, slamming them against the stone floor, and they go still.

  Four more mercenaries surround us. I reach for my magic—and only a sickening cold answers.

  They are all wearing forsvine.

  “I don’t suppose your magic can somehow overpower this?” Jet asks, his back bumping mine. The flames that usually coat his sword have vanished.

  “No,” I say, drawing my hidden dagger from my jole. If this happened, Kasta said, I’m to run for the Wraiths. Or for him. Engaging an enemy who could potentially turn my dagger back on me is a last resort, despite all the ways Kasta showed me how to use it.

  The mercenaries jeer, drawing daggers to match mine. Even without Kasta’s warnings, I would know what they’re for.

  I flex my grip on my knife. “Jet. This is not a kidnapping attempt.”

  The closest man dives. Jet spins, his sword slicing over me as I duck, and the man shrieks as the blade cuts into his chest. Blood slings across the floor. Someone grabs my ankle and pulls me off my feet, and Jet cries out as two more mercenaries leap, forcing him to defend himself. I kick the man who has me and drive the dagger into his shoulder—he curses and jumps back, but not before clamping something sharp around my ankle. Pain explodes up my leg. My muscles stiffen, and the man drags me around a corner, out of view of the hall, pulls the dagger from his arm and drives it toward my heart—

  I gasp and roll away, my muscles screaming, and the dagger jams into an etching in the floor. The man grunts and heaves at it. I try to sit up, try to reach for whatever’s on my ankle, but my muscles twitch, they won’t listen, and the man abandons the stuck knife and jumps on me knee-first, knocking the air from my chest. His hands close around my throat.

  Jet! I try to yell, but it comes out as a gurgle. My leg throbs. My memory cycles wildly through everything Kasta showed me for what it could be, settling on a paralyzing shackle, for which I need Kasta—and his antidotes.

  I suddenly can’t move.

  I definitely can’t breathe.

  My body screams for air, but I can’t even twitch. My blood goes heavy; my hands drop from the man’s wrists. I’m not sure I could breathe even without him on me.

  My vision darkens.

  Just as the world turns cold, a sword plunges through the man’s chest. His blood spills forward like flies, black and strange, blurry in my vision. Jet kicks him off of me and I choke, aching for air, but my muscles won’t respond. Jet shakes my shoulders, but I can only look at him, gurgling and weak.

  I think he tells me to breathe.

  I can’t. My head lolls, and I want to say ankle, but my jaw won’t move. Jet sets me down, puts his mouth over mine, and tri
es to push air into my lungs. I cough, the air moving through my veins like sugar, but as soon as he pulls away, I’m choking again.

  “Poison,” someone says, the word warbling in the air. “Move.”

  Kasta’s face replaces Jet’s, furious and focused. My delirious heart jerks in relief. His hands slide down my arms; he feels my neck, and finally notices my feet. The anklet rips off. The pain there ebbs, but my body grows even heavier.

  Star hazel, he says, though his lips don’t move. Or maybe they do. I can’t tell anymore. The arches blur overhead, and something pinches my neck, but the sensation feels distant, separate.

  Then the feeling rushes back in like a punch.

  I gasp and twist, grabbing my throat, and Kasta presses his lips over mine, forcing air into me. My body drinks it like a flood. He pushes another breath in, and the stinging in my chest ebbs. Another, and my magic returns in a cold, numbing rush; euphoric after all the pain.

  His lips linger, too long, on a fourth breath. My vision sharpens as I breathe on my own, with him centimeters away, his eyes burning, as ever, with my reflection. I fight against the gratefulness flickering through my chest. The comfort of having him close. The harrowing whisper in the back of my mind that saving me is much more than political strategy; that something has shifted between us again, as stealthily as a slow-rising tide.

  His gaze drops to my lips, and for a moment I panic that he’ll kiss me and it will not feel like nothing. Then a flash of tangled relief skims my skin—Jet’s, I imagine, who must be close by—and Kasta grits his teeth and shoves away.

  Jet replaces him in an instant. He helps me sit, his hand warm on my back, and I could cry in relief that the emotion pulsing through his fingers is only concern and nothing more. No eerie anger, no suffocating disappointment.

  “We need to get you out of here immediately,” he says. “We’ll find Melia—”