Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Trytain straightens, not even winded. “Find a partner and practice sparring. Do not expect your adversary to fight honorably. The fight’s not over until you or your opponent is dead. When you are out on a contract, you must do everything you can to survive.”

  “Come on, lazy,” Faye singsongs, scooping Lahrenn up by her armpits. Lahrenn makes a noise of protest, but her face breaks into a smile as she and Faye face off.

  A blow to the back of Mercy’s knee sends her crashing to the ground.

  Fingers thread through her hair and yank her head back at an awkward angle. “You should pay better attention to your surroundings,” Lylia hisses in her ear. She pulls harder until Mercy can hear the individual hairs begin to snap.

  “You should know better than to think . . . I’m so easily defeated,” Mercy growls through gritted teeth, and drives her elbow back into Lylia’s stomach. It’s enough to surprise her, not injure her, but Mercy takes the opportunity to slip out of her loosened grasp.

  She springs to her feet just as Lylia lands a blow to the side of her head, making Mercy’s ears ring and her teeth rattle. She shakes her head and lunges, but Lylia dodges her fist and jumps out of the way. She ducks as Mercy swings again, and punches Mercy in the stomach. She wheezes as she stumbles back.

  "Give up yet?" Lylia taunts.

  Mercy runs forward and wraps her arms around Lylia’s waist, tackling her to the ground. She grunts when Mercy lands on top of her and Mercy immediately scrambles up so she’s straddling Lylia’s waist, leaning forward and digging her elbow into her neck until her eyes bulge and she’s gasping. Lylia’s legs kick the air and she rakes Mercy’s face with her fingernails, leaving four thin lines of bright red blood on her cheek. Mercy growls and leans into Lylia’s neck until her full lips begin to turn blue.

  “That’s enough!” Two strong hands clamp around Mercy’s arms and lift her up. Her feet kick at the air and her skeleton jolts as she’s dropped to the ground a few feet away. Mercy scrambles to her feet, breathing hard.

  “I said,” Trytain hisses, positioning herself between them, “that’s enough.”

  Only then does Mercy realize that everyone else has stopped fighting and is now staring at her with wide eyes. Lylia is gasping and choking, leaning forward on all fours, and her ribs contract as she dry heaves into the dirt.

  "You," she rasps, "I will kill you." She struggles to her feet and pushes Lahrenn away when she extends a hand to help her up. "Get away from me."

  Faye moves to Mercy’s side and grasps her hand in hers, opening the fist Mercy hadn’t realized she was clenching. The last hints of adrenaline fade away as Lylia shoves past her and trudges into the castle. Mercy turns to Faye in horror. “What have I done?”

  “Now,” Trytain says, clapping her hands together. “Everyone back to work, the performance is over. Keep practicing.” She drops a hand on Mercy’s shoulder when she starts toward Faye and Lahrenn. “Not you,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “I think you’ve had enough for today.”

  Just then, little Threnn runs through the doorway of the castle, stopping before Mistress Trytain. “Mistress Sorin is in need of assistance. She asked for Mercy.”

  Trytain’s mouth puckers as Threnn darts back into the Keep. “Very well. Go help now, but watch yourself next time. We practice, but we don’t try to kill our own.”

  Mercy nods, backing away. When Mistress Trytain turns back to watch the girls train, she pivots and escapes to the relative safety of the castle.

  “Mistress Sorin?” Mercy raps her knuckles on the ancient wooden door of the infirmary. “You sent for me?”

  The door opens and a woman fills its frame, her pinched face relaxing when she sees Mercy. “About time. Follow me.”

  An earthy, herbal scent, mixed with the coppery tang of blood which had long ago soaked into the cracks in the floor, fills Mercy’s nose when she steps into the room. Cabinets teeming with jars and bottles of dried herbs and salves line every wall, and three beds are crammed in the center of the room. One holds the body of a young girl, curled into a ball and dwarfed by the giant lumpy mattress.

  “Her name is Arabelle,” Sorin says, shuffling through papers on the mixing table. “She only arrived this winter, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t know her.” She opens a thick leather-bound book and flips through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. “Ever seen that?” She taps a drawing of a seven-petaled flower, pink with stripes of white in the center.

  Mercy squints to read the label scrawled above the image. “Lusus blossoms. No, I don’t think so.”

  “I’d be surprised if you had. They’re not indigenous here; they thrive in the warmth of the north. So, the question is how Arabelle managed to stuff her pockets and eat enough to paralyze a full-grown Qadari warrior.” She nods to a pile of crushed blooms on the bedside table, her nose wrinkling.

  “She found them here? Did one of the Daughters bring them back from a contract?”

  “I don’t know; she was unconscious when Amir brought her here.”

  Mercy moves to the side of Arabelle’s bed. Although the little apprentice is covered in a thin sheet, her fair cheeks are pink and a sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead. Mercy presses the back of her hand to the little girl’s forehead. “She’s running a dangerously high fever.”

  “A side effect of the poison, I’m afraid. It’s working its way out of her system. I’ve managed to counteract the toxin, but I don’t know how long she’ll be able to hold the medicine down. That’s why I need you to help me make more.” Sorin crosses the room and grabs a mortar and pestle, which she passes to Mercy, then digs through the cabinets and returns with a small collection of ingredients: a jar of Nightwing berries, a bundle of Claudia’s Song leaves, and something called dried Benza root. “Mash those into a paste and pray we won’t have to use it.”

  Mercy mixes the amounts Mistress Sorin instructs as Sorin bustles around the room, searching the shelves. Mistress Sorin is one of the best healers they’ve ever had. Most of her time is spent in the infirmary, but she sometimes ventures out to instruct the apprentices in the use of herbs in medicines and poisons, as well as teaching them general healing. Mercy has a natural talent for herbalism, which Mistress Sorin claims has been passed down through the elven for generations—although whether she truly believes that or had simply taken pity on young Mercy remains to be answered. Either way, she had taken Mercy under her wing and has been helping her develop her skills over the years. This is hardly the first time she has been pulled out of training to assist in the infirmary.

  The only thing Mercy hasn’t managed to improve is her bedside manner—or, more accurately, her lack of it.

  “You should be glad she’s asleep,” Sorin says, reading Mercy’s thoughts, “or she’d bolt the second she saw your face. How’d you manage this?” Her fingers lightly brush the scratches on Mercy’s cheek.

  She grimaces. “It’s nothing. Worry about the girl.”

  “I worry about all of you here. Do not act like you are worth less than anyone else.”

  Mercy fights the urge to roll her eyes. The healer seems to think every issue stems from her being the only elf in the Keep. “I am acting like poisoning is more serious than a few scratches.”

  Sorin clicks her tongue and waves for Mercy to continue mixing. With a few more pounds of the pestle, the deep red berries mash into a bright purple juice which thickens with the addition of the root and leaves. “Nightwing for pain, Claudia’s Song as a muscle relaxant, but what does the Benza root do?”

  “It counteracts the poison.”

  “Oh.”

  “Lusus blossoms are very dangerous, you understand. Very poisonous, but they take their time to kill you. It targets the blood first, so it can spread through the entire body rapidly. Within minutes, the victim will complain of a pounding headache and suffer weakening of the muscles and loss of coordination. Complete paralysis follows thereafter as the muscles and organs begin to shut down.”

/>   “You consider that slow?”

  “No, the worst part comes after. The victim will remain paralyzed as the toxin seeps into the brain tissue and nervous system—if he’s lucky, he’ll die in a few hours. Most people last a few days, sometimes a week or more.” Mistress Sorin frowns as she brushes a strand of the girl’s hair back, cupping her cheek the way a mother would her child. “The poison kills in the worst way possible. Can you imagine being a slave in your own body, unable to move your hands or feet, unable to call for help or cry or do anything but wait for the pain to be over? It’s not a death I’d wish on anyone, contract or no. Amir found her collapsed in the hall outside of the bedrooms and brought her straight here. Luckily, the poison had not taken hold of her completely. With proper rest and medicine, she will be up and moving again within the week.”

  Sorin stands and wipes her hands on her dress, and in the blink of an eye, her expression returns to a carefully-crafted mask of neutrality—her ‘doctor’s face,’ Mercy calls it. “Hand me the mixture and that dropper there,” Sorin instructs. Jars clink against each other as she searches a chest and straightens with a small bottle in her hand. “Ah, there it is. A little bit of milk to soothe the throat and help the medicine down. Now hold her mouth open wide.”

  Mercy does as she says and parts Arabelle’s lips while Mistress Sorin sticks the dropper into the back of Arabelle’s throat, squeezing out the contents. She catches Mercy’s doubtful expression. “The medicine looks awful and tastes worse. Trust me, this is the easiest way to make her take it.”

  They hold their breath, waiting for some response.

  Arabelle’s eyelids flutter, then she jerks upright and vomits on the floor.

  Mistress Sorin doesn’t look surprised. She hands the girl a bucket, which Arabelle clutches to her chest, blinking up at Mercy with large hazel eyes. She attempts a reassuring smile but doesn’t fail to notice when the girl shrinks away and into Sorin’s arms. Clearly, her reputation precedes her.

  “Unfortunately, Benza root also acts as an emetic in some people,” Mistress Sorin sighs. “She’s going to need another dose. You remember the quantities?”

  Mercy nods and returns to the mortar and pestle, pouring in each ingredient as Sorin had instructed.

  “Good, good,” Sorin says distractedly. When Mercy glances over, Sorin points to a jar on a nearby shelf. “Winter’s Lace can also be used as a substitute when Benza root is not readily available, but it’s not as effective at neutralizing the poison—it requires twice the quantity.”

  She stops grinding and looks up. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I have to go to Ellesmere for some supplies, and I want you to take over the infirmary while I’m gone.” Arabelle doubles over and begins retching again, and Sorin rubs her back with a hand. When the vomiting gives way to rough, dry coughs, Sorin eases the girl under the covers and presses a damp cloth to her forehead. “I want you to take care of her. I trust in your judgment and your skill in herbalism. Just . . . do your best not to scare her.”

  “But the training—”

  “Another Daughter can watch over her when you’re out with Trytain—just make sure she knows what to do if Arabelle needs another dose.”

  Mercy’s eyes flick to the blossoms. “She wasn’t supposed to find these.”

  “No,” Sorin agrees. “These flowers don’t grow here. Like you said, someone brought them.”

  “One of the Strykers, maybe? But who would they want to poison?”

  “I don’t know.” She places the damp cloth back in the bowl and moves to Mercy’s side, lowering her voice as the girl begins to snore softly. “Like you said, the blossoms could have belonged to one of the Daughters. Aelis and Tanni were in the north recently, it’s possible one of them brought some back.” She shrugs. “Whatever it is, keep an eye out for more. We don’t need anyone else getting sick.”

  “I will, Mistress Sorin.”

  “Thank you. Now, let’s give her the next dose. Be ready with the bucket.”

  4

  Hours later, Mercy stumbles up the stairs to the apprentices’ wing, the scent of Arabelle’s vomit stinging her nose. It had taken four doses before the girl had managed to stomach the cure, and Mercy’s hand aches from working the heavy mortar and pestle, then mopping up the mess. All she wants now is to collapse into bed.

  She pushes open the door to her bedroom, leaning heavily against the frame. A cool breeze sweeps in through the open shutters, a sliver of moonlight illuminating a patch of the floor.

  Hadn’t the window been closed when she left?

  Mercy stalks forward cautiously. Her boots make no sound as she crosses the room and reaches for the shutters’ latch, then—

  A hand closes over her mouth.

  “Mmph!” Mercy jerks against her attacker’s grip, but his arms tighten and he crushes her to his chest. She flails and kicks him in the shin, then bites down on his hand. He hisses in pain and pulls his hand away.

  “Creator’s sake, Mercy, it’s me!”

  “Calum!” The arms holding her hostage drop away and she immediately spins, pummeling him with her fists. “You ass. Don’t ever sneak up on me again!”

  Calum grins and takes the brunt of her punches, then reaches up and catches both of her wrists in one large hand. “Shhh. You’ll wake the others.”

  “They aren’t the ones I’d be worried about if I were you.” Mercy shoves him and sinks onto the edge of her bed, her exhaustion gone. “What do you want?” she snaps as she begins unlacing her boots.

  “What happened to your face?”

  She scowls. “Nothing of any concern to you.”

  He extends a hand to trace the lines of the scratches, then pauses when she scowls. He shoves his hands into his pockets instead. “You didn’t come to the forge today.”

  Mercy looks away, cringing. After everything that had happened today, she had completely forgotten to visit him in the smithy. “I was busy. I’m here now.” One of her boots thumps to the floor.

  He rolls his eyes. “We can’t go now. Hewlin locks up the smithy at night—says he doesn’t want anyone to steal the weapon.”

  “Is that what you wanted to show me?”

  “That, and something else. Illynor has something special planned for this Trial, something no one is supposed to know about until the night before the competition.”

  She narrows her eyes. “But you’re going to tell me. Why?”

  “Because I think you’re going to win.”

  “I will win. I just need to figure out how to convince Mother Illynor to allow me to compete.”

  “That . . . may not be necessary,” he says. Mercy waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

  Her other boot thumps to the ground. “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I told you, I think you can win.”

  “No.” Mercy shakes her head. “You stated an opinion. Why are you, Calum Vanos, interested in helping some random apprentice? What’s in it for you?”

  “Yesterday you said everybody wants something, right?” Calum asks, and Mercy nods. “Well, this is going to help me get what I want.”

  Again, Mercy waits for an explanation, and—again—he provides none.

  “Come to the smithy tomorrow while everyone is eating dinner. Find a reason to come down. I’ll wait for you there.” He grins, then pivots on his heel and walks out of the room. “Goodnight, Mercy,” he calls as he crosses the threshold.

  The next day, Mercy creeps down the stairs to the smithy. The armorers’ workroom is deep below the castle, and the heat from the forge steadily intensifies the further Mercy descends, as do the scents of leather and sweat. She passes many doors which she assumes are the Strykers’ bedrooms, then the hallway ends with an iron door. She knocks. The handle clanks as it twists and the door swings open. Calum stands before her, his sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. A blast of heat slaps Mercy across the face.

  Calum grimaces. “I know—building a forge underground
wasn’t the architect’s best idea. Sorry about the heat.” He moves aside and Mercy follows him into the room, surveying the expensive tools and scrap metal lying around. There’s a stand of weapons against the wall, and the blades’ beauty leaves her speechless.

  “Here,” Mercy says belatedly, remembering the plate of food in her hands, heaped high with colorful fruit, wild game, and bread. She shoves it at him and he grins. “Dinner. I told the kitchen staff you were working, and I’d bring it down to you.”

  “Diabolical. Put it there, I want to show you something first.” He waves Mercy over to a workstation, where a notebook lies open. “This is the weapon we’re crafting.”

  The drawing depicts a double-sided staff with a sharp, wicked blade on each end. The grip is wide enough to be used with two hands or one, and the notes scrawled below say the staff will twist apart in the middle to create twin daggers. “Wow,” Mercy breathes. “Calum, this is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  It will be mine.

  “Hewlin designed it—you saw how excited he was. Come here, that’s not the only thing I wanted to show you.” He walks to the opposite wall, this one hidden behind a stained curtain. “Mother Illynor’s trick,” he announces as he pulls the curtain down.

  Mercy gasps. Four identical suits of armor hang on the wall, differing only in color; they gleam black, gold, silver, and bronze. The shining metal is smooth, simply designed, elegant. A wicked grin spreads on Mercy’s face. “Close-range combat . . . wearing armor.”

  “Exactly. And look”—he holds up a gleaming helmet—“at the visor. It’s attached by a hinge, but as long as it doesn’t get knocked off, it’ll hide your face.”

  Dangerous hope blooms in Mercy’s chest for the first time since she had spoken to Mother Illynor, and her smile widens. “No one will know it’s me until after I win.”

  “Exactly.” He moves closer to the armor, fingering the strap of a breastplate. “They were made for humans, so they’ll be a little big, but I can pad the inside so it’ll fit better. You’ll be more protected, too.”