Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Mercy shakes her head.

  Come here! Faye mouths while Nerran leans over to nuzzle her neck. Mercy huffs but obliges, and Faye giggles when Nerran’s beard tickles her skin. “Mercy! You remember Nerran, don’t you?”

  “Of course. How could I forget?” Last spring, Nerran had spent the entire night flirting with all the apprentices, including Mercy, but she doesn’t mention that now. He probably doesn’t remember it, after all the wine he had consumed. “How have your travels been?”

  Nerran shrugs, looking slightly annoyed at this interruption, but he’s too polite to say anything. Either that, or he’s afraid of offending someone in this room of highly-trained, soon-to-be Assassins. “Traveling with the Strykers keeps me busy, as always, but it’s good pay for an honest day’s work.”

  “They’re planning to sail to Feyndara after the Trial,” Faye croons. “How exciting is that?”

  “The land of forests?” Mercy asks, unable to hide her curiosity. “What is it like? Is it true that elves rule there?”

  “It is,” someone adds. Hewlin, the leader of this band of Strykers, watches Mercy with interest from his seat beside them. “Not only is it ruled by elves, but it’s rumored the royal family is planning another attack on the Cirisor Islands.”

  “A bunch of damned fools they are,” Nerran says, draining the last of his wine. “They’ve been trying to claim the Islands for years, but all they’ve succeeded in doing is getting soldiers killed on both sides. No, not killed—the soldiers vanished.”

  “Vanished?” Faye asks.

  Nerran leans forward and his voice drops to a whisper, eyes sparkling with the charisma of a natural storyteller. “Nearly two decades ago, Queen Cerelia of Feyndara requested aid in scouting the Cirisor Islands. Our king sent a company of men to join her forces and contact the fabled Cirisian elves. We don’t know if they did because every single man on that mission disappeared. Fifty men.”

  “More likely those Feyndaran dogs slaughtered them at the first disagreement,” Hewlin says.

  “No bodies?” Mercy asks.

  “Not a one.”

  “How many times are you going to tell this story, man?” Hewlin says, ruffling Nerran’s hair. “Last week it was only forty men.”

  Nerran dodges a teasing punch from Faye. “Liar!”

  He catches her wrists, grinning. “Believe me or not, the moral’s the same. Whatever riches the sovereigns think those islands hold, leave it to the heathens. Queen Cerelia is in love with a fantasy, and our own dear king is simply mad.”

  “Be glad he’s not around to hear you call him that,” Hewlin warns, “or he’d relieve you of your head.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “Oh, no? Let’s see if you say the same next time we’re in the capital.”

  Mercy leaves them to their friendly bickering, her attention drawn to the woman who has just walked into the room. She wears a high-necked, long-sleeved black blouse under a gleaming silver breastplate, her trousers tucked into the legs of her boots. A silver chain clasps a heavy cloak around her shoulders. Under the light of the torches, her green scales reflect gold, and her head is bald except for two rows of horns which start at her temples and meet in a V at the base of her neck.

  Mother Illynor turns when Mercy approaches, her black slitted pupils wide from the low light. “How are you enjoying the feast?”

  “It’s fine. Mother, the Trial—”

  At once, Illynor’s face darkens. “We have discussed this before, Mercy. At length.”

  “You are going to announce the girls who are competing tonight, are you not? The girls who will try to become Assassins? Allow me to fight. I’m ready—”

  “Mercy—”

  “I’m the best. You’ve seen me in action, you know I’m right. Ask Mistress Trytain. Today, out on the field—”

  “That’s enough.”

  “I’ve been practicing. Allow me to compete in the Trial. You know how dedicated I am to the Guild—”

  “That’s enough, Mercy!” Illynor’s face is pinched, annoyed. “I do not doubt your ability, nor do I doubt your dedication. It gives me no pleasure to deny you this, but you know our rule: you must be eighteen to compete in the Trial.”

  “Two months, Mother! You would have me wait until next year’s Trial because I was born two months too late?”

  “It is the rule.”

  Mercy clenches her hands into fists, anger flushing her cheeks. “You say the others are ready. Lylia and Faye have been here for ten years. Cianna has been here for five. I have been here for seventeen years. You shoved a sword in my hands the day I learned to walk.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Mercy, and lower your voice. You shame yourself.”

  Mercy opens her mouth to retort, then her gaze lands on a stranger leaning in the doorway, watching with amusement. Five Strykers have come, then, although this is someone she doesn’t recognize. She scowls and leans forward, lowering her voice. “You raised me to fight for the Guild. That is what I intend to do.”

  Before Mother Illynor has a chance to respond, Mercy brushes past her and walks out to the balcony, shooting a dirty look at the man who stares her as she passes. Mother Illynor lets out a long sigh and shakes her head as Mercy stomps away, turning her attention to overseeing the rest of the apprentices.

  Outside, Mercy leans on the railing of the balcony which overlooks the courtyard. The yard is nothing more than a wide expanse of grass, patchy in places where the dirt has been kicked up during sparring matches, and across the way, the armory stands against the wall of the battlement.

  She shivers, pulling her arms in close around her body. The springtime cold has not yet given way to summer, and the crisp wind which rustles the trees shoots straight through the thin fabric of her shirt. Mercy glances back at the grand dining hall, the flickering flames of the fireplace casting a dancing light over the gray stone walls. She would welcome the warmth, but the flush of anger has not yet left her cheeks.

  How could Mother Illynor, knowing Mercy as well as she does, deny her the chance to prove herself to the Guild, to become a true Assassin? Every Spring’s-end for as long as she can remember, the arrival of the Strykers—a traveling company of blacksmiths and armorers—has signified the start of a competition of the apprentices to determine that year’s Daughter; a week of hard training, celebrations of the Guild’s anniversary, the Trial, and the swearing of the Guild’s vow by the newest apprentice-turned-Assassin. On that day, she kneels before Mother Illynor and swears her loyalty, renounces her family’s name, and commits her life to the service of the Guild.

  This year, that apprentice will be Mercy.

  Footsteps sound behind her, too heavy to be one of the girls. The man takes a deep breath and Mercy rolls her eyes. Most people, even when trying to be silent, have noise-making habits of which they aren’t even aware. It’s what makes them such easy targets.

  “Out with it,” Mercy says, not looking back.

  “Forgive me, I could not help but overhear your conversation—”

  “You could have, but you listened anyway.” She turns and frowns. The man who had been watching her and Mother Illynor stands a few feet behind her with his hands in his pockets, smiling lazily. “What do you want?”

  “Do I have to want something? Perhaps I came out for a bit of fresh air.”

  “Everyone wants something.”

  The man walks forward and leans his elbows on the railing, staring out at the yard while leaving a careful distance between them. “I want to help you.”

  “The only help I need is not something you can give.”

  “You want to fight in the Trial.”

  She studies him. He is only a few years older than she, perhaps twenty or twenty-one. A few strands of his brown hair have fallen from the ponytail he wears at the nape of his neck, softening his otherwise severe features. His coat is fitted, and a long row of copper buttons spans its length, the collar loose and open just below his neck—a capital cit
y fashion. A gleaming dagger is sheathed at his side.

  He notices her admiring it and pulls the weapon out, laying it flat across his palm. “Would you like to try it?” When she nods, he places the grip in her hand. “Go ahead.”

  She weighs the dagger in her hand, feigning hesitation as she stares down at the blade. The man steps forward, his hand outstretched as if to help her, and Mercy leaps forward, slashing in a wide arc. He jumps back and blocks her next swing with his forearm, letting out a startled laugh. She pivots and regains her balance, stalking forward once more. She slashes and he steps back, again and again, until he is pinned between the railing and Mercy, the tip of his knife an inch from the soft skin of his neck.

  “Very good,” he says, not looking the least bit intimidated by the blade at his throat. “You have been well taught. I will help you.”

  Mercy flips the dagger and hands it to him, and he sheathes it. “There is nothing you could do or say that would make Mother Illynor change her mind. I’ve tried.”

  “I’m sure I could think of something,” he says. “My name is Calum Vanos.”

  “Mercy.”

  His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “Strange name for an assassin.”

  Mercy shrugs. Behind them, a chorus of cheers erupts from the dining hall.

  “What’s happening in there?”

  “Mother Illynor is preparing to announce the names of the girls who will be competing in the Trial.”

  “Well, we shouldn’t miss that.” Calum strides toward the door, then pauses when he realizes Mercy is not following. “Don’t you wish to hear?”

  She shakes her head. “I already know. It’s Faye, Lylia, Cianna, and Xiomar.”

  Calum’s face turns sympathetic.

  “I don’t want your pity,” Mercy growls.

  At once, his expression shifts, and he returns to her side. “Then perhaps you can answer something for me, seeing as I am new to the Strykers. Why do you call her ‘Mother?’”

  “Most of us come here as children. When we take our vows, we lose our family name and pledge our loyalty to our new family. Illynor cares for all of us—she’s our Mother, and the full assassins are her Daughters, our Sisters.”

  “And Illynor is the head of the Guild, a Qadar from Gyr’malr?”

  Mercy nods. “She’s been here from the beginning, hundreds of years ago. She and her sisters were exiled from their country, so they created the Guild here in the forest, taking odd jobs here and there until they built up the reputation the Assassins’ Guild has today.” Mercy shakes her head. “Actually, her name isn’t even Illynor. She changed it because the Qadarian version is unpronounceable.”

  After a pause, her eyes widen and she wraps a fist in Calum’s shirt, pulling him close. “I should not have told you so much. You must tell no one outside of this castle what you have heard and seen tonight.”

  He nods gravely. “I swear it.”

  They both glance over as Faye prances through the door, her face flushed from her wine. “Mercy! There you are, love.” As Mercy pushes Calum away, Faye stumbles forward and wraps an arm around Mercy’s shoulders. “Did you hear? I’m going to be in the Trial!”

  “Yes. You have known all year.”

  “We should celebrate!” She does a double-take, belatedly noticing Calum standing beside them. “You can come, too!”

  “No, he’s not coming anywhere with us,” Mercy says, pulling Faye as she sways dangerously close to the balcony railing. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed.”

  Despite Faye’s protestations, Mercy leads her through the dining hall and up to the apprentices’ wing. Faye slumps onto the bed, snoring just moments after her head hits the pillow. As Mercy tugs the blanket up and over her friend, she cannot help but wonder how Calum thinks he is going to help her enter the Trial.

  3

  Breakfast the next morning is a quiet affair—most of the girls and the Strykers are nursing various degrees of hangover—but the energy in the air is almost palpable. This morning Mother Illynor will announce how the apprentices will compete in the Trial: horseback, archery, hand-to-hand combat, tracking, hunting—all skills necessary for an assassin. Of the four apprentices, only one will become a Daughter.

  Despite still feeling jilted by Mother Illynor’s refusal to include her in the Trial, Mercy can’t wait to hear what the competition will be.

  Halfway through the meal, the door to the dining hall bangs open and all eyes lift to see Calum striding in, not looking the least bit perturbed at having fifty-odd pairs of eyes on him. He saunters across the room at a leisurely pace, nods a good morning to Mother Illynor at the head table, and sits down on the bench next to Mercy. She scowls.

  “Careful, love, or your face might get stuck that way.” He reaches for a roll and takes a bite, grinning.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I like calling you that.”

  “Okay,” Mercy says, shifting to face him. “I’ll rephrase that. Call me that again and I’ll gut you. Understood?”

  Calum nods, although a teasing glint remains in his eyes. He glances at Faye, sitting across from him. “Is she always like this?”

  “No,” Mercy says.

  “Yes,” Faye says at the same time.

  Mercy glares at her.

  “Careful. You heard what he said,” Faye grins.

  “You have training today?” Calum mumbles around a mouthful of bread.

  “Of course.”

  “Come visit me when you’re done. You know the way to the forge?” When Mercy nods, he smiles. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  “Vanos.”

  Calum swallows and looks up as Hewlin’s hand drops onto his shoulder. Instantly, his face shifts into respectful admiration of the older man, and some of the teasing in his eyes fades. “You came up with something?” Calum asks, and Hewlin nods. Behind him, the rest of the Strykers have begun filing out of the room.

  “We should go down there now, while the idea’s fresh. Sorry to take you away from your friends, but this is time sensitive.”

  Hewlin walks away and Calum stands to follow him. Mercy catches his sleeve. “What is time sensitive?”

  He bends down and whispers into her ear, “Later, you’ll see. I promise. Right now, I must go help.” He straightens, and his voice returns to normal as he swipes another roll. “Don’t forget to visit me later, love.”

  Mercy turns to smack his arm, but he’s already darted out of her reach, chuckling. “He’s an idiot,” she says. Faye merely quirks a brow.

  A few minutes later, Mother Illynor’s chair screeches against the floor and she stands, surveying the gathered Daughters and apprentices as they halt their conversations and turn their attention to her.

  “Faye, Lylia, Cianna, Xiomar. The four of you have completed your training, and by the end of this week, one of you will become a Daughter.” Her eyes flicker on each girl in turn. “The Guild demands a price: your loyalty, your strength, your blood, and your life. Will you relinquish these and more in service to the Guild?”

  “We will,” they say in unison.

  “And you, dear Daughters,” she says, focusing on the other table. “Your time to compete has come and gone, and over the years, you have gained and lost Sisters and friends. I have found these girls to be ready and worthy of swearing the Guild’s vow. Upon the completion of the Trial, will you accept the victor and welcome her into our family?”

  “We will,” they all say.

  “The Trial is the final test each apprentice must pass before swearing her oath to our community. It will test not only your physical strength, but your mental and emotional strength, as well. This year’s Trial is close-range combat.”

  Mercy grins. Combat-related Trials are one of the favorites in the castle. The only rule is a competitor can come as close to killing her opponent as possible without stopping her opponent’s heart. While her opponent may concede defeat, it almost never happens; it’s not nearly as entertaining.


  “In accordance with tradition, the victor, upon swearing her oaths, shall receive a weapon crafted by the master blacksmiths of the Strykers, some of the finest weapon-makers and armorers in the world.”

  Faye turns to Mercy, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard their blades cut through a man’s armor like he’s wearing nothing at all.”

  “It’s true,” Threnn, an apprentice of only eleven years, interjects. “I’ve seen it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  Threnn opens her mouth, then closes it, pouting. “I’ve seen it,” she repeats, and Faye laughs.

  “Never you mind,” she says. “It’s a fine prize. I wonder what it will look like? A sword or dagger? Or a crossbow, maybe?”

  “Does it matter? You’re a master at all of them,” Mercy says, although the unceasing hunger in her stomach begins to gnaw at her. She must find a way into the Trial; she needs this weapon.

  She was born for it.

  Two months.

  When Faye turns her attention to the girl sitting beside her, Mercy stares up at Mother Illynor, who has taken her seat and resumed eating her breakfast. Sensing Mercy’s gaze, she glances up. Mercy tenses, waiting for her eyes to find her. They do.

  Then they pass over her as if she is made of nothing more than air.

  Mercy glares at the uneaten food on her plate, her appetite gone. After seventeen years of dedicated training, only two months separate her from her place in the Guild.

  She refuses to wait for next year.

  As the Daughters drift off to complete their chores and the servants clear the table of the breakfast scraps, Mistress Trytain gathers the apprentices for training. “Out to the yard,” she says, shooing them through hall and into the courtyard. “Good, now line up there, against the wall. Look here and pay attention.”

  She gestures to Lahrenn, who steps forward, already lifting her fists to block. Trytain lunges forward and feigns a punch to the girl’s right, but dips to the side when the apprentice moves to block, striking her unguarded side. When Lahrenn grunts and jumps forward, Trytain hooks her foot around Lahrenn’s ankle and pulls, sending the apprentice falling onto her back, wheezing.