“R-Raidon, Your Majesty.”
“Treasurer Evander, escort Raidon to the great hall and make sure he is paid every aurum he is owed. And—how many children do you have?”
“F-F-Four. And another on the way.”
“Give him some extra for the children. I trust this is satisfactory?” he asks.
The man looks close to tears. He places his wrinkled hat on his head and beams. “Better than I could have hoped, Your Majesty. My children will go to bed tonight with full stomachs. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Ghyslain nods to Evander, who bows and leads the man out of the room. Just before the door shuts behind them, Raidon jumps and whoops, pumping a fist in the air. Ghyslain smiles, but it only lasts a moment. “The next issue?” he asks the Master of the Guard.
The court continues in the same fashion for the next three hours; a matter is brought before Ghyslain, a noble or advisor argues, and Ghyslain passes a judgment. Mercy listens with one ear as the king settles a property dispute, dispatches guards to shut down a growing crime ring in Beggars’ End, and discusses a proposal to allow the mining of the Howling Mountains, all the while pondering how she can escape and track down the prince without anyone noticing.
“The mountains have been off-limits for nearly two hundred years, since His Majesty’s great-great-grandfather made a treaty with the Rennox,” Elvira whispers, mistaking Mercy’s boredom for confusion. “The Rennox attacked every scouting party the crown sent there, thinking the humans were trying to steal their precious eudorite. By the time the king finally convinced them to parley, fifty soldiers had been lost to the Rennox. After the peace treaty was signed, the Rennox gifted the crown with enough limestone to fortify the city, as restitution for the soldiers lost. That’s why Sandori is white stone instead of gray, like other cities.”
“No one has seen a Rennox in over a generation,” the advisor in favor of the proposal says. “They used to trade with some of the northern mining cities, but one year, they simply stopped. We’ve found no evidence of their continued existence; they might have gone into hiding or been wiped out by disease. Whatever it is, we cannot ignore a possible source of building material, not to mention whatever else is hidden in the karsts!”
“They wouldn’t have gone into hiding over nothing,” the other advisor shoots back. “We have no idea what deadly creatures lurk in those mountains, and if the threat was serious enough to scare away the Rennox, we shouldn’t wish to find out.”
“Perhaps they simply left. Perhaps they decided to stop trading with us. Whatever the reason, we would be remiss to leave those mountains sitting there, abandoned. They’re a part of our country—we should know more about them.”
The door at the back of the room bangs open. Four guards step through, with a fifth dragging a hissing, spitting woman behind him. Her hair is a mess, clenched in the fist of the guard and stuck to the angry tears streaming down her face. Several noblewomen gasp. The two warring advisors shrink into the crowd, mouths agape in surprise and disgust.
As the guard throws her at the foot of the dais, one more figure darkens the doorway. He pauses at the threshold, then strides confidently into the throne room despite the curses the woman hurls at him. The silver pommel of the sword on his belt flashes as he walks.
When his eyes meet Mercy’s, Prince Tamriel smirks.
17
His gaze rests on her for a moment, tracing a line from her eyes to the points of her ears before dropping to her chest, searching for the sash which isn’t there. He could just as well be staring at her breasts, Mercy muses, although it’s not likely he’d be impressed. There are plenty of young noblewomen here with twice her curves, and their sheer dresses leave little to the imagination. Mercy crosses her arms and scowls.
He climbs the steps of the platform and takes his place beside his father. Standing over the king’s shoulder, it’s evident that Tamriel is a carbon copy of Ghyslain—they share the same wavy black hair, olive complexion, and dark eyes, complete with the ramrod-straight military stance. He is clad in a slate gray breastplate, black cloak, pants, and leather boots. At least two women near Mercy swoon.
The woman before the throne staggers to her feet, her skirt in tatters. She does not speak, but pushes the hair out of her face and stands defiantly amid the five guards, her hands clenched into fists.
A guard steps forward. “We caught her sneaking runaway slaves out of Beggars’ End, Your Majesty. She had arranged for boats to carry them to Saskia, where they would then sail to freedom in the Cirisor Islands.” Another guard dumps the contents of a canvas bag on the floor, spilling exotic coins and scraps of parchment. “We estimate she has led over thirty slaves to freedom thus far. The elves call her Hero. She refuses to give her real name.”
Prince Tamriel crosses his arms as King Ghyslain leans forward, studying the woman. He narrows his eyes. “You are aware it is a capital offense to aid or orchestrate the escape of a runaway slave, I am sure,” he says. “Do you deny this allegation?”
She says nothing, lifting her chin to glare at the king. The throne room, which had previously been abuzz with whispers, is quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
“Have you anything to say in your defense?” Ghyslain asks.
“Nothing which will not fall on deaf ears,” Hero retorts.
“You should speak to your king with more respect,” Tamriel says sharply.
“A king who profits off the work of those he has enslaved is no king of mine.”
“That’s enough,” Ghyslain snaps. He turns to the guard who had spoken first. “You found her in Beggars’ End?”
“Just outside, Your Majesty. With the aid of an unknown accomplice, she had created a tunnel through the wall which had allowed passage in and out of the city. My men are filling it as we speak. The six elves she had been helping were captured and punished accordingly.”
“And who is this mystery accomplice?” Ghyslain asks Hero.
She says nothing, glaring from the king to the prince and back.
He sighs. “Fine. If you insist on keeping your silence, allow me to make it a little easier for you. I won’t have your toxic views spreading to the rest of the city.” He looks at the guards. “Take her to the dungeons and cut out her tongue. Throw her back in Beggars’ End when you are done.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The guards grasp Hero by the arms, intending to lead her out, but she remains immobile, glaring at the king. They prod her forward, harsher and harsher each time. “Move,” one growls through his teeth. Whispers flicker across the court, and Prince Tamriel studies her with curiosity.
“Fool woman. What is she doing?” Elvira murmurs.
The butt of a crossbow cracks against the back of her knee. She crumples to all fours, pain contorting her face. “I said,” the guard hisses, “move.” He raises the crossbow to swing again, and someone in the crowd cries out as it begins its descent. Before it strikes her, Hero lifts her head and spits at Ghyslain’s feet.
“Is this what Liselle would have wanted?” Hero says, silencing the courtroom with the name. Several nobles look more insulted than if she’d uttered a curse. Pain and anger flicker across Ghyslain’s face.
“Bitch,” the guard spits, swinging the crossbow. It strikes her shoulder and a sickening crunch echoes across the room, coupled with Hero’s cry of agony.
“Get her out of my sight,” Ghyslain orders.
The guards haul her out of the room, her shouts and curses fading down the corridor. Tamriel glances away when the door swings shut behind them, while Ghyslain smooths the folds of his shirt and takes a breath before speaking.
“That will be all for today. Master Oliver, I’d like a word.”
Without another glance at the court or his son, he stands and stalks out of the room, the Master of the Guard close at his heels. When the hem of his cloak disappears into the next room, a weight lifts from everyone in the room—Prince Tamriel included. He rolls his shoulders back and descend
s the platform, and is immediately pulled into conversation with a nobleman and his pretty daughter, while two guards linger over his shoulder.
Mercy turns to Elvira. “Introduce me to the prince.”
Elvira takes her hand and begins wading through the crowd, closer and closer to the throne. Some of the nobles leave to wander the grounds, but most remain in the throne room, flitting between groups and schmoozing those of higher rank. Mercy catches snippets of conversation as they pass and smirks at the ridiculousness of their discussions.
“—spilt it all down her lap and ruined a perfectly good dress—”
“—threw an extravagant party last week. He even had pastries decorated with real gold from Rivosa. Can you imagine the cost?”
“—after his father’s death, trying to get revenge, they said—”
“—fit to wear the crown? Even eighteen years later, he bolts at the mere mention of her.”
This piques Mercy’s interest. She glances at the five older men they’d passed as they chuckle, round bellies jiggling under their fine clothes and gold necklaces. She wants to stop Elvira and eavesdrop on their conversation, discover more about the tension building between Ghyslain and his people. Despite their seemingly respectful silence as he had held court, some of the king’s rulings had met snorts of derision among the courtiers, clever quips too quiet to be picked up by the guards. Instead, Elvira’s grip on her hand tightens as she pulls her forward.
Is what the old man said true? Does Ghyslain bear so much grief over Liselle’s death that he cannot bear the thought of her? It’s absurd; Mercy cannot imagine belonging so completely to someone else. Love is nothing but a weakness.
Elvira drops Mercy’s hand suddenly, startling her out of her thoughts. The elf plants herself between two noblewomen competing for the prince’s attention and stares at him expectantly, hands clasped in front of her. As flighty as she had seemed yesterday, she appears wholly in her element amidst the nobility.
After a moment, Tamriel notices his silent observer and turns to Elvira with a puzzled expression, taking in the white sash across her chest. Clearly, he is accustomed to elves scampering out of his way when he passes, not staring unabashedly while in the company of some of the richest people in the city.
“Yes?” Tamriel asks, quirking a brow.
Elvira smiles, then steps aside. “May I present to Your Highness the Lady Marieve Aasa of Castle Rising of Feyndara.”
Surprise flits across Tamriel’s face as Mercy drops into a curtsy. “Feyndara? Truly? Forgive me if I appear shocked—we don’t often have visitors from your side of the Abraxas Sea,” he says. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Marieve.”
“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness.” When she straightens, she eyes the thick metal of his breastplate, the leather-wrapped grip of the sword hanging at his side, and wishes once more for her daggers.
The blonde at the prince’s side smiles. “You’ve come to attend the prince’s eighteenth birthday celebration, then?”
“I would be remiss not to attend the festivities, I should think.” Although she speaks to the girl, Mercy’s eyes never leave the prince, mentally cataloging every chink in his armor. His breastplate is thick and finely made, but the rest of his body is exposed, swathed in fine fabric which would split like tissue when faced with her daggers. His sword could cleave her in two with a single swing, and he’s sure to have had plenty of practice with it. Should it come to a face-to-face fight with him, she will have to rely on speed rather than strength to beat him, particularly because he stands almost a head and a half taller than she. Her gaze locks onto his neck, the thin skin protecting his jugular vein peering out above the collar of his shirt.
All it takes is one slice.
“However, I have more important matters to discuss with the king,” she continues, “such as the conflict in the Cirisor Islands. I’d like to propose a truce. There have been three hundred years of fighting over the territory—there is no need for more.”
The brunette on Tamriel’s left nods. “Both sides have lost many men for an unworthy cause. The Cirisor Islands belonged first to Beltharos—they should have stayed that way.”
“I’m hopeful an agreement can be reached which suits both countries,” Tamriel says. “Pardon my manners, Lady Marieve. This is Serenna Elise”—he nods to the blonde—“and Serenna Emrie, daughters of two of my father’s advisors.”
Elise smiles conspiratorially. “You may have seen my father earlier. He was the one who stormed out with smoke pouring from his ears.”
“Seren Pierce is a loyal—if stubborn—man,” Emrie says, brown curls bouncing as she nods. “As for your visit here, I’m afraid it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The state of the capital is volatile—lots of stress between the lower and upper classes. The rich become richer and the poor become poorer each day.”
“And the slaves remain destitute, as they always have,” Mercy interjects, channeling the Feyndarans’ almost holy belief in equality. Emrie trips over her tongue apologizing, while Tamriel watches with an amused expression.
“The work done by the slaves keeps the factories and shops running smoothly,” Elise says. “Their effort is invaluable.”
“And it allows you to profit off their earnings and look the other way while they starve and work themselves to death.”
Elise opens her mouth to object, but Tamriel cuts her off. “I must warn you to be careful what you say in the palace, my lady. Insulting the country in which you are currently a guest could not possibly help peace negotiations.”
“My apologies.” Mercy hangs her head, feigning embarrassment. Three feet separate her from Prince Tamriel. His heart pumps a steady rhythm mere inches below the steel of his breastplate. A well-aimed blade could stop its beat in a fraction of a second.
The tight line of the prince’s mouth relaxes. “Sandori must appear very different from your home in Rhys, does it not?”
“Castle Rising, actually, but yes, it is strange. I don’t know how hundreds of thousands of people fit comfortably inside those walls.” An unexpected note of honesty slips into her voice; growing up in the decrepit castle in the Forest, Mercy had never been able to imagine a city bustling with so many people. Thinking of the houses crammed on top of each other along the city walls and throughout the market district makes Mercy’s breath catch with claustrophobia. She longs for the miles of wilderness of the Forest of Flames, and the longing only strengthens her desire to complete her contract.
Three feet.
“What is your home like?” Emrie asks.
“Feyndara is covered in forests, so there aren’t many stone cities like this. The houses are more spread out, like some of your smaller villages. Rhys—being the capital—is the exception, of course—”
“The king wishes to speak with you, Your Highness.”
They glance over to see Master Oliver wading through the crowd, thick brows furrowed above small black eyes. Barrel-chested and broad, he dwarfs Tamriel when he stops at the prince’s side, a hand on his sword.
“Is it important?”
“He would speak with you now, Your Highness.”
He sighs. “Very well.” He bids farewell to Emrie and Elise, who seem to inflate with the attention, then he turns to Mercy. “I hope we meet again soon, Lady Marieve. In the meantime, I will speak to my father about giving you a private audience so we may begin negotiating.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
As the Master of the Guard leads him away, the clusters of nobles do not shift out of their way, nor do they pause in their conversations, yet it seems every person’s eyes follow his movements through the room. When he disappears through a door, Emrie and Elise exhale.
“You two are serennas?” Mercy asks, and they both start at the sound of her voice. “I’m not familiar with that title.”
“To the crown, it’s more an obligation than an honor. Our fathers are lesser advisors, which means we’re nothing but glorified servants,” E
lise jokes. “Most of our days consist of taking notes, delivering letters, duties of the sort.”
“It’s terribly boring, but we know everything about the inner circle—all the gossip, all the rivalries.” Emrie’s voice drops to a whisper and she beckons Mercy closer. “We know secrets which would send half of these men running home to their wives, and the other half hiding from them for fear of a lashing.”
While she speaks, Mercy’s eyes flick to the door through which the prince had left. Now could be her chance. Most of the guards will be surrounding Ghyslain’s chambers, where he and Tamriel must be meeting, but if Mercy can venture close enough to follow the prince to his chambers . . . Well, his soldiers can’t possibly guard him every second.
Sensing her thoughts, Elvira catches Mercy’s eye and raises a brow in question. Mercy nods once, and Elvira turns on her heel, weaving between groups of nobles. She stops beside the doorway and says something to a slave. He nods, she thanks him, then slips into the corridor.
“What is your opinion of the prince?” Mercy asks. “Have you known him long?”
“All our lives.”
“In truth, we’ve only ever spoken to him at public gatherings or courts,” Elise adds. “He always excuses himself early. I don’t know what he does with his time.”
“Tutors?” Mercy suggests.
“I suppose. He’s very smart, always has been. I’ve heard his mother was the same way. He’s honest, too. The king can be a little . . . unpredictable at times, but if Prince Tamriel says he’s going to convince the king to negotiate with you, he will find a way.” Emrie’s head bobs as she speaks, a smile dimpling her cheeks. Clearly these girls will say anything favorable about their prince to a foreign royal, probably hoping the prince will learn of their glowing praise.
“So, you never see the prince while you’re working around the castle?”
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