Something crunches the dirt a few feet away, and although it is probably one of the others shifting in his sleep, Mercy stiffens, her heart instantly pounding. It’s unsettling sleeping without anything over her head. A moment, later, silence.
Something heavy drapes across her body. A blanket. Scratchy wool, but warm. She blinks up at the silhouette standing over her, stars gleaming in his hair.
“Sleep now, love,” Calum whispers, and walks away.
Mercy closes her eyes and tugs the blanket closer, falling asleep instantly in the residual heat from Calum’s body.
A foot crunching down on her fingers wakes Mercy next.
She spits an oath and scrambles for her daggers, her eyes not completely adjusted to the light of the sunrise.
They’re not there.
A man’s face, rough with stubble, appears before her. He grasps Mercy’s wrist and pulls her to her feet. She realizes belatedly that all the Strykers are awake, standing on the wrong end of Calum’s monstrous crossbow beside the dirt road. Another man, stocky and equally ragged-looking, has the butt of the crossbow pressed to his shoulder, his finger wrapped around the trigger. The horses are nowhere to be found.
“Find anything good?” he calls, aiming at each of the Strykers in turn. Aelis is among them, her face purple with rage.
Two more thieves are busy digging through the Strykers’ cart. “Plenty,” one says.
“Enough to feed us for months,” the other adds, flashing a gap-toothed grin.
“And how about your gold?” the man with the crossbow asks Hewlin. “Traveling with as many weapons as you’ve got, you’ve all gotta be a rich lot.”
Hewlin sets his jaw, and, despite the bolt about five feet from his heart, his expression is completely calm. “Are you sure you want to do this, friend?” He speaks as if the bandits are nothing more than mere nuisances to him—which, after decades of traveling with the Strykers, they probably are.
“Quite sure. Hand it over.” Crossbow Man grins, revealing two broken front teeth. If it weren’t for the sun’s aging of his skin and the yellow of his teeth, he could be in his late twenties.
“I think I’ll keep this one for myself,” the man holding Mercy says. He lifts the double-sided dagger in his other hand, admiring the way the orange and red gemstones of the handguard sparkle in the sunlight.
“Don’t you dare,” Mercy growls as he slips the strap of the sheath over his shoulder.
He jerks his chin to the Strykers, surveying the men’s faces. “And who does this belong to?” he asks, nodding to Mercy. “She a slave, or just an elven whore you picked up on the road?”
Calum’s expression is murderous.
The man laughs, catching Calum’s glare. “Oh-ho! We have a winner. And you know what? Because you were so honest, I won’t kill her. Yet. Not before I take her myself.” He pauses, cocking his head. “Would you like to watch?”
Calum and Hewlin step forward, and the man with the crossbow tightens his finger on the trigger. “Watch it,” he warns.
“You had better leave now,” Hewlin says in a cool voice, “before things get ugly.”
Crossbow Man merely grins.
Oren faints.
Crossbow Man jumps back as Oren begins convulsing in the dirt, saliva foaming at the corner of his mouth. Even the guys pawing through the cart stop to watch, their eyes wide.
While they’re distracted, Mercy elbows the man holding her in the stomach. He grunts, his grip on her wrist slackening enough for her to slip free. Although he’s taller than she, he’s scrawny, and it’s not difficult at all for Mercy to snatch her dagger back as he doubles over. She unsheathes it, and when the man lunges for her again, she plunges it deep into his stomach. Hot, sticky blood gushes over her hand, flowing even faster when she yanks out the blade.
“Pointy-eared bitch,” he groans as he staggers, then falls to his knees, his hands shaking in front of the hole in his abdomen.
“Exactly,” Mercy hisses as he crumples to the ground. She spins, her bloody dagger raised, to find the Strykers and Aelis making quick work of the bandits. Oren is still convulsing on the ground, caught in the seizure, and—knowing she can do nothing to help him—she runs past him to slash across the throat of another one of the men, freeing Amir from the scuffle. She jerks her head to Oren. “Go—help him!”
Hewlin, Nerran, and Aelis dispatch another one of the men, leaving Calum alone with Crossbow Man—although the crossbow is back in its owner’s hands once again.
Crossbow Man holds his hand up in surrender, scrambling backward as Calum advances. “Whoa, there, friend. How about we call it a draw, hm? We didn’t mean nothing personal by it, we just—”
A bolt cracking through his skull cuts off his words.
Calum lowers the crossbow and places the toe of his boot on the man’s forehead. With a sickening sucking noise, he pulls the bolt from the man’s head, the shaft coated in blood and gore. He looks down his nose at the corpse. “Don’t take it personally,” he sneers.
They gather around Oren, whose convulsions have slowed, but not stopped completely.
“He hasn’t been taking his medication?” Hewlin says sharply, less like a question and more as an accusation.
“Where are the blossoms?” Amir asks, tearing through Oren’s pack. “I don’t think they’re in here. Find them now—one of you!”
Mercy lets out a choked noise.
“What, Mercy?” Hewlin asks.
“The blossoms. They’re in the infirmary—at the Keep.”
Calum swears. “He must have forgotten them.” He and Mercy exchange a guilty glance before turning their attention back to Oren. They had used up the last of the Lusus blossoms for the Trial and, since they don’t grow in the south, hadn’t been able to replace them.
“He’ll just have to ride this one through,” Amir says. “It’ll be rough, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before.”
“Mercy, Aelis,” Nerran says, “why don’t you go get the blood washed off?”
“There’s a stream about a half-mile away,” Calum adds. “You’ll have to walk, though. I let the horses loose when the bandits’ attention was diverted, before you woke up. They’ll be back soon—they’re trained well.”
Mercy and Aelis nod. They each grab a change of clothes from their packs and leave the Strykers behind.
When they return half an hour later, Oren is awake, leaning against the cart and drinking water from a canteen. He gulps it, not noticing as a thin stream spills out of the corner of his mouth and wets the front of his shirt. Amir sits beside him, talking in a low voice to his friend, and Nerran pulls Aelis away as soon as she nears. Calum and Hewlin are saddling the horses, but Calum murmurs something to Hewlin and walks over to Mercy when she approaches.
“It’s our fault,” Calum says.
“No. Well, yes, but— It’s his fault for not checking his bag before we left.” Mercy crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s okay now, isn’t he?”
“I . . . suppose.” Calum doesn’t look convinced.
Mercy stares down at the corpses around them. Dark stains color their pants and a foul odor stings her nose. “Is that—”
“One of the less glamorous aspects of death—loss of bowel control.”
Mercy wrinkles her nose. “I don’t suppose they could have taught us that at the Guild.”
“Where’s the fun in that? It’s all about the element of surprise.” Calum shrugs, then turns to her. “So, your first kill. How’d it feel?”
She hesitates. Wonderful, she wants to say, but she knows how psychotic that sounds. Murder isn’t something to be taken lightly, nor enjoyed . . . but she had enjoyed it, in a strange, perverted way. Feeling her victim’s warm blood coating her hands, making her grip on the dagger wet and slippery, watching the light go out of his eyes as he had crumpled before her . . . This is what she was meant to do. She could practice all she wanted, but nothing would amount to the real thing, the comfort in knowing she is good at wh
at she was raised to do. Adrenaline had coursed through her veins then, and she felt like she had before the Trial—invincible.
She opens her mouth, searching for words not quite so ghoulish, when Hewlin waves them all over.
“Pack your bags,” he orders. “We’re leaving now.”
“Now?” Amir cries. “Oren just woke up. He needs time to recover.”
“Can you sit upright? Can you hold onto the reins?” Hewlin calls to Oren, who blinks slowly, then nods. “Then he can ride a horse,” Hewlin says, turning back to the group.
Amir crosses his arms. “He needs rest.”
Hewlin’s face turns gentle. “You know I would give him an entire week to rest if not for them.” He nods to the four bodies littering the ground. “Workers will be arriving to the farms shortly, and there’s no place to hide the bodies around here.” To emphasize his point, he sweeps a hand to the rolling plains around them. “It’s fields and grass. Let those who find them think the truth—that they were killed trying to rob someone—but there’s no need to attach the Stryker name to this incident.”
Mercy wonders briefly how many ‘incidents’ Hewlin has been a part of to know the procedure so well.
Amir sets his jaw, but thaws when Nerran places a hand on his shoulder. “Fine,” he spits. “I’ll get him ready to ride.”
“Good man,” Hewlin nods.
Ten minutes later, they’re on the road again, Amir and Nerran riding on either side of Oren, watching him closely. Hewlin leads, Aelis beside him. Mercy and Calum take up the rear.
After the bodies fade into the distance behind them, Calum says, “So . . . we should talk.”
“About?”
He fidgets with his horse’s reins, letting out a long breath. “Sending you to the capital is a death sentence.”
“It’s dangerous for an elf, I know, but I won the Trial. I think I can handle a human city.”
“No, you don’t understand what has happened these past two decades. I grew up in it, I saw firsthand what they do to innocent elves, and you’re far from innocent.” He shakes his head. “The tension between humans and elves has never been higher—not since Liselle’s death. If they catch you . . .”
“You saw what happened at the Guild. I’m a better fighter than any of them.”
“Lylia nearly had you in a puddle in the yard. What if the elves rebel again? You couldn’t fight off one girl—how well would you fare against a mob?”
Mercy sighs. “Fine. Tell me about Liselle.”
“You know Elisora and Ghyslain were married, and the king met Liselle while she was serving Elisora at their betrothal celebration. He claimed to love Elisora, but most believe his heart belonged solely to Liselle. She was only nineteen and had the king at her beck and call. When the queen was bedridden with pregnancy complications a couple years later, Liselle began appearing in public at the king’s side. When there was a slave uprising in the slums, it was Liselle who addressed and appeased the rioters. She promised new laws abolishing slavery and giving the elves the rights they deserve.”
“And the nobles had her murdered for it. I’ve heard this before.”
Calum rolls his eyes. “Let me finish. Ever since her death, there have been calls by elves and humans alike for a revolt against the crown. The people claim the king is unfit to rule because he gave so much power to an elf, and the elves want him removed from the throne because of the injustice of allowing their mistreatment. Liselle wanted to change everything,” he says, grimacing, “and he would have done it for her.”
Mercy leans back in her saddle and narrows her eyes. “Why do you care so much? Why do you bother to help me? I’m a stranger you met a few days ago.”
He laughs, baffled. “A stranger? You’re so much more to me than that, love.”
Before she can ask what he means, he spurs his horse forward and returns to Hewlin’s side.
They ride all day without stopping, until Mercy’s legs ache from the saddle and the reins dig into her hands, and by dusk, they arrive in Ellesmere.
14
As Mercy, Aelis, and the Strykers near the outskirts of Ellesmere, the wide-open fields and tall barns give way to crowded clusters of cottages, while groups of people on the streets pause in their chores to gaze at the passing strangers. It appears to Mercy that they are simply families and friends spending the last traces of sunlight outside before supper until she notices a pattern:
For every group of people gathered on the streets, four or five figures stand quietly to the side, watching friends greet each other and mill about in amiable chatter. When a young man who is standing to the side shifts into the light of a lantern, the orange glow illuminates the points of his ears and the white sash across his chest.
Mercy pokes Nerran and points. “What is that?”
“We’ve arrived right at the end of the spring harvest. People come from all over Beltharos to buy the freshest produce they can find before it’s all shipped to Sandori. Lots of families use it as an excuse for a feast.”
“Not the villagers. Them—the elves, wearing those sashes.”
“Well, uh, by law, all slaves are required to wear sashes so officials can identify them in a crowd or at a distance. You see that patch of yellow just over their hearts? It’s an emblem—two upside down V’s—elves’ ears.”
“Hm.” Surveying the next crowd they pass, Mercy counts three slaves—all female, all elven. When she turns, her face blank, Nerran gapes at her. “What?”
“You don’t care?”
“Not particularly, no.” She cocks her head when he frowns. “Would you rather I did?”
“You’re not going to go all ‘plight of my people’ on me?”
“They’re not my people. Just because our ears are the same shape doesn’t mean I feel any kinship toward them. You have two legs. So does that bird over there. Do you feel kinship to him?”
“That’s not remotely the same.”
“Isn’t it? You are suggesting because we share similar features, I should feel some sense of community with these strangers. I pity them, as I would any creature whose freedom has been stripped, but I feel no closer to them than you to a Qadar.” She pauses. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“Honestly? A bit.”
She shrugs and studies the slaves. The women wear their hair behind their shoulders, in braids or tight buns, and the men’s hair has been shorn short, close to the scalp. Their ears are on full display to any passerby.
In the lead, Hewlin stops his horse and gestures for the rest to do the same, then dismounts. The city’s stablemaster greets them cheerfully, apologizing for the little room left for their horses as he takes the reins. “On account of all the visitors,” he says as he leads the horses away.
Calum leans close to Mercy and whispers, “Welcome to the rest of the world.”
Ellesmere is huge.
There are so many buildings, short and squat and built haphazardly beside one another, as if the layout of the town had been decided by the roll of a die. The sun is a sliver of fire in the west, and people bustle through the streets on their way home from work. A man in a deep blue coat strides from shop to shop, lighting the lanterns which hang over each doorway. Merchants pack up their wares, their tables overflowing with lush green herbs and ripe fruits in every color and shape imaginable. Most of them, Mercy couldn’t name if she tried; there are spiky purple berries the size of her fist and earthy, dark red somethings as long as her arm. Herbs perfume the air with their spicy aromas almost well enough to hide the scent of the horse dung trampled into the cracks between the street’s paving stones.
Ellesmere is the largest town in the agricultural sector, the trading hub of the south. It’s one of the most important cities in Beltharos due to its position at the juncture of the Alynthi and Baltana rivers, and since Alynthi runs all the way into the Forest of Flames, it is the ideal location for Sorin’s partners, who often ship crates of supplies down the river.
They meet Sorin b
eside a carriage in front of an old inn, and her jaw drops when she sees Mercy. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you—”
“—won the Trial,” Nerran finishes for her. “Yeah. Didn’t see that coming.”
Calum winks at Mercy.
They stand in the center of the market, a wide, cozy-looking building sprawling before them. It’s only two floors tall but dominates most of the block, and like most of the town, the walls are made from blocks carved from a light stone, with dark wood trim around the roof and wooden shutters. A sign hanging over the doorway declares ‘Pearl’s End Inn & Tavern.’
Sorin frowns. “To be honest, I’m amazed to see you alive after pulling a stunt like that.”
Mercy grins. “To be honest, I’m a little amazed to still be alive.”
“Look here,” Aelis says, dragging Mercy toward the inn’s entrance. She points up to the sign hanging over their heads. “Do you see that mark in the corner?”
Mercy searches, then she does. About a quarter of the way down, there’s a faint shadow, light enough to be mistaken as the natural texture of the wood if she hadn’t been looking for it. Something is off, though. Its shape is too perfect, like a teardrop. “The mark of the Guild.”
“Anyone who works with Illynor is going to have that mark on his sign. Go inside, flash the owner this coin”—Aelis presses a circle of metal into Mercy’s hand—“and he’ll get you anything you need. Be discrete.”
The coin is real gold, chipped around the edges from age, and bears no image or mark except a single teardrop in the center. It fits in her palm with surprising weight. She pockets the coin. “You won’t need it?”
She shakes her head. “There are plenty more at the Keep. I’ll spend the night here and head back tomorrow, and I’ll take Blackfoot with me.”
“Thank you.”
“We should go now,” Sorin interjects. “We’re losing daylight, and the sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll arrive at the capital.”
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