Tamriel runs his hands over his face, muttering softly to himself as he paces the hall outside one of the castle’s many offices, the voices of his father’s advisors ringing in his ears. He had spent the entire morning in meetings, half-listening as they had discussed tax changes, street repairs, and other trivialities which neither concerned nor interested him, yet—for some reason—required his attendance. They were the sort of meetings his father had always arranged for him—intended to give the illusion of him having some power in his father’s government without allowing any real influence—although Tamriel is uncertain whether the illusion is for his benefit or the citizens’. Today, however, his lack of attention had not been due to boredom, but to the screams which still reverberate in his mind.
He cannot forget.
He cannot forget the way Hero’s shoulder had crunched when the crossbow had connected, how the agonized scream which tore from her mouth sounded more animal than human. He cannot forget the defiant set of her shoulders and the hatred which had burned in her eyes as she had taunted the king, the way Ghyslain had frozen at the sound of Liselle’s name, his mouth parting in horror at Hero’s joy at seeing his torment. He cannot forget the feeling of the dagger in his hand, almost too hot to hold as waves of heat poured off the glowing blade, and he will never, ever forget how she had stared into his eyes the entire time he had cut out her tongue.
She hadn’t given him up. She hadn’t exposed his secret—their secret.
The thought brings tears to his eyes and his stomach roils. Tamriel stops in the middle of the hall and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, taking deep breaths until the feeling passes. Damn his father. Damn the nobles. If yesterday was any indication of what ruling Beltharos is like, he will gladly leave the throne to his father. He desires nothing more than to board a ship and leave the shores of his homeland far behind him.
He turns on his heel and stalks down the hall, nervous energy making him restless. With no destination in mind, he wanders toward the great hall, hoping—for once—for some courtier to have arrived or some problem arisen which demands his attention; anything to keep his mind off the scent of burning meat which seems to have seeped into his skin.
Tamriel rounds a corner and halts abruptly, blinking with surprise. Halfway down the corridor, the Feyndaran royal he had met at the court stands facing a large oil painting which hangs on the wall, peering at it through narrowed eyes. While most of the castle is open to the public, he had not expected to see her again so soon—and certainly not without a guard or handmaid to escort her—but she is alone. Her brows furrow slightly as she examines the canvas, a rendering of a small western town Tamriel had never particularly liked.
“Do you like art, Lady Marieve?” he asks as he walks over to her, and she immediately turns and pins him with her sharp gaze.
“I do. Can’t say I know much about it, though.”
“This one is priceless—an original Faramond—dated almost four hundred years ago. It’s supposed to depict the rise of the mining industry in Ospia—the artist used only shades of brown, black, and white in an attempt to highlight the industrialization of the town.” Tamriel recites the facts without inflection, the words memorized long ago at the behest of a tutor whose name he doesn’t remember.
Marieve wrinkles her nose. “It’s hideous,” she says, then flinches, as if she hadn’t intended to blurt it. Her surprise doubles when he bursts out laughing. “What?”
“Sorry,” he says. He grins, although the act feels like a betrayal of Hero. “I feel the same way; I’ve never liked Faramond’s work.”
“So was all that”—she waves a hand to the painting, then to Tamriel—“just meant to impress me?”
“Simply making conversation.”
“Mm-hm.” She raises a brow, unconvinced, and turns her attention back to the painting.
Tamriel can’t help staring at the points of her ears, peeking through her intricately-braided hair, which is such a rich shade of black it’s almost blue. He’s never met a member of the Feyndaran royal family—Queen Cerelia broke all ties between the two countries when she ascended the throne over five decades ago—and his father ensures Tamriel’s interaction with elves in general is limited to ordering around the slaves in the castle. At least, that’s how it appears to the nobles and courtiers.
Still, he cannot deny his curiosity, and who could blame him for exchanging pleasantries with a visiting royal? “What is Feyndara like, my lady? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“It’s not terribly different from here. The cities are much farther apart because of the forests, and travelling is more difficult, too,” she says. “Although our ruling family is elven, most of our population is human.”
Tamriel’s brows shoot up. “Really? And they’re content being ruled by elves?”
“Seeing as my grandmother didn’t immediately enslave everyone who opposed her after she seized the throne from the previous rulers, yes, I’d say they’re quite happy.” She fixes him with a pointed look as a slave carrying a tray of food passes.
He frowns, knowing exactly what his father would wish him to say if he were here. “Might I ask what you think my family has done to keep the throne? Thrown thousands of people into prison camps, butchered hundreds more, enslaved everyone who fought against us?” Hero’s eyes flash in his mind and he pushes the memory—and accompanying flash of guilt—away. “My family has taken care of this country for hundreds of years. We didn’t take the throne from anyone—we were given it after Colm Myrellis’s dam protected the city from flooding. So I’d like to know, specifically, what you are insinuating.”
She blinks, taken aback by his sudden anger. He knows he should apologize, that this is no way to speak to a foreign noble, but the events of the day before have set him on edge. “You are no more innocent for allowing a crime to happen than you are committing it yourself,” she says, and something in her expression makes his heart stop beating.
She knows, he thinks. She knows what I’ve done.
Impossible as it is, somehow, she must know. As her piercing gaze searches his face, he realizes she has the most unusual eyes—brown with rings of gold around the pupil, like there’s a spark inside her fighting to be released. Unlike the pretty young courtiers’ daughters he grew up with, she does not attempt any sort of flattery when she speaks to him, does not bat her eyelashes or blush and offer meaningless praise. She speaks directly, bluntly, and her hawkish gaze seems to take possession of whatever it lands upon. It’s refreshing—and dangerous.
She frowns as she studies him. “Are you all right?”
Tamriel almost laughs. All right? How can he possibly explain how far from ‘all right’ he is—how he had tossed and turned all night, wide awake, until the pale dawn light had painted the sky and he had finally given in to exhaustion? The two hours of sleep he had found had been a short reprieve from the torment of his memories. He knows he looks like he’s been dragged through hell and back—faint shadows hanging under his eyes, his lower lip swollen from biting it, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh—and although he had tried to hide it, she had been the one to see it.
He smiles. “I’m fine.” He looks away and smooths his shirt self-consciously, then cringes. This is not the behavior of a prince. He straightens. “If you’ll pardon me, I must speak with my father about the preparations for Solari. Once the arrangements are made, you should expect an invitation to begin negotiations within the next few days.”
Marieve’s face pales at the mention of his father, but she tries to hide it with a curtsy. “Of course. Thank you, Your Highness.”
“My pleasure.” He bids her farewell and starts down the hall, then turns back after a few paces. “Feel free to take a look around the gallery on the second floor, as well. You might find a painting you hate more than Faramond’s.” He walks away, leaving her staring after him with the hint of a smile on her lips.
Tamriel’s steps leaden as he nears his father’s study. A mu
ffled sobbing sound with which he is all too familiar drifts through the doors, which stand ajar. He enters without knocking and frowns at his father, who is slumped on the floor in front of his desk. Papers and broken pieces of pottery litter the ground around the fireplace.
“How could you do that to me, Father?” Tamriel explodes. “How could you force me to harm that woman?”
“I did not force you to do anything. You know the laws.” Ghyslain stands and runs his hands down his face. Then he stands, rounds his desk, and shuffles half-heartedly through some papers. “It is high time you faced the consequences of your actions.”
“The consequences of my actions?”
Ghyslain pins him with a stern look, his eyes still red-rimmed from crying. “You and I are the only ones here, Tam. You can stop the charade. Save it for the nobility.”
Tamriel sets his jaw. “What charade?”
“Don’t play the fool with me. You should count yourself lucky Hero didn’t name you as her partner in the court, or your head would be decorating the castle wall right now. What do you think the nobles will do if they find out you have been helping those elves escape?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d never met her before yesterday.”
“That’s certainly how it appeared, but I know you better than that, my son. Hero didn’t name you as her partner because she thinks you’ll find a way to help the elves without her. You can’t help them escape to freedom if you’re dead.”
Tamriel glances away, saying nothing.
Ghyslain opens a drawer and pulls out a piece of parchment, examining the neat boxes drawn across its face. “I had Master Oliver bring me the guard schedules of the past month. It’s subtle, but the gaps are there, just wide enough for you to slip out of the castle late at night, and back in before everyone else wakes. In fact, I had him bring me all the recent guard schedules. Looks like you’ve been doing this for almost two years, Tam.” He sighs, letting the paper slip through his grasp. He rubs the back of his neck with a hand. “Who else knows?”
“. . . Just Master Oliver,” Tamriel finally whispers. “No one else, I swear.”
His father doesn’t yell. He doesn’t shout or glower or call the guards to take Tamriel away. He merely looks down at his desk, his shoulders slumping. “You can’t do this, Tamriel. I know how much you ache for them—hell, you know how much I ache for them—but you cannot do this.” Ghyslain’s voice is soft—so soft and so, so sad. “You’re trying to change things. So was she. So was Li—Liselle.” His voice catches on the name. “I wish I could help you, Tam, I really do, but we’re two people. We’re two people against an entire nation.”
Tamriel sinks into one of the high-backed leather chairs. He has always known his father is sympathetic to the elves—it’s one of the reasons why he and Liselle had gotten along so well—and it had never been a secret between them that Tamriel shares the same stance. Even so, they had never spoken of it until now.
“Hero will be returned to Beggars’ End in a matter of days. Do not seek her out.” As he speaks, something in the king seems to break. He rounds the desk and crouches on the floor before Tamriel. “Oh, my son,” he sighs. “I wish you had never had to hurt that woman. I’ve prayed every day that you would come to your senses on your own, but you’re too stubborn for your own good, just like your mother.”
Tamriel stiffens. They never talk about his mother. Never. “It wasn’t her you were hallucinating today, was it?” Over the years, he had become accustomed to his father’s delusions: broken pottery and furniture often accompanied Liselle’s appearance, while sudden racking, heaving sobs had accompanied his mother’s. For most of his childhood, his sullen, brooding father’s outbursts had terrified him, but it eventually became routine.
Ghyslain’s jaw works. “I do not hallucinate.”
“Sure, you don’t. And stop calling me ‘Tam’—you know I hate that.”
His father doesn’t listen. His mind goes somewhere distant and he stares at nothing until Tamriel sighs.
“You must speak to Lady Marieve soon. It is in our countries’ best interests to begin negotiations as soon as possible,” he says.
“You’re right. I shall have something sent to her immediately.” Ghyslain stands and leaves the room without another glance at Tamriel, his son—as always—forgotten the moment he leaves his father’s sight.
Tamriel sighs again and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes against the beginning of a headache. He sits there for so long he drifts into a light and uneasy sleep, before the surprised gasp of a maid wakes him.
“So sorry, Your Highness!” she says, scrambling to close the door behind her. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“It’s no problem.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck with a hand. When he sees the broom and pan in her hand, he reaches for it. “Allow me.”
“Oh, no, Your Highness, it’s alright—” she backpedals, eyeing the mess of soot-covered porcelain in and around the fireplace. The king’s tantrums have never been a secret among the castle staff, his messes always carefully—and quietly—disposed of within an hour.
“Please,” he murmurs. He smiles. “I’ll clean it.”
She hesitantly hands him the broom and pan, fearing some joke or test. When he says nothing more than a soft ‘Thank you,’ she nods and darts from the room.
He places the pan on the floor and holds it steady with one foot while sweeping up the pieces of the broken vases. The fire has dimmed to embers, and he cleans as many of the shards out of the ashes as possible, not caring that the soot turns his fingers black.
20
“Leaving already?”
Someone calls to Mercy from across the garden, and the whisper of running steps on grass nears until Serenna Elise halts a few paces from her, her cheeks flushed. “If my father had seen me run like that, he’d have died of mortification. It’s not ladylike.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“Would you like to take a walk around the city? It’s a lovely day. Come, this way.”
Without waiting for a response, Elise leads her through the gate and down the main road. Its cobbled stones have, after hundreds of years of traffic, worn down so far the surface has become shiny, smooth as ice. The road slopes gently, providing a view of the entire expanse of the city as it spreads out before them. Large, extravagant mansions with bright flowers sprouting from the window boxes mark the Sapphire Quarter in the east. Tall, sloping houses compete for space in the market district, where the buzz of hundreds of voices is audible from the castle. A break in the rooftops offers a glimpse into Myrellis Plaza; vendors and merchants sit on colorful blankets or lean against tables filled with miscellaneous bits and baubles.
“How long has your father worked for the king?” Mercy asks.
“Twenty, twenty-five years now, I think. My family didn’t always hold the serenship. My grandfather worked in the treasury and my grandmother attended Queen Guinevere, His Majesty’s mother. My father was named a seren when I was young, which made me a serenna by default.” Elise’s lips spread into a nostalgic smile, her eyes sparkling. “I loved it. We were suddenly invited to a dozen parties a month, each one seemingly grander than the next. I felt like a princess.”
“That must have been nice.”
“For a time, it was, but we must all grow up eventually. Parties became less about entertainment and more about schmoozing those of higher rank, and banquets gave way to duties. Times changed, and people changed, too. Look here.” She snags Mercy’s arm, pointing to a dilapidated mansion halfway down the block, its windows cracked and boarded up. “His Majesty gave Elisora that house shortly after they were betrothed. Her family had a mansion further east, but the king wanted her to be able to visit the castle whenever she wished.”
“Visit the castle? Or visit him?”
“Ha. I suppose that was the main reason, yes. You’ve heard the story of how they met in the king’s court? How their betrothal had been ar
ranged by their fathers?”
Mercy nods.
“A nice story, I’ll admit, but a lie. Ghyslain and Elisora had known each other since childhood. He was smitten with her—always had been. They were best friends. Supposedly, he begged his father to allow the match, despite the Zendais family not holding a noble title. It was highly scandalous for the king not to have married a daughter of one of the old families.”
“I thought he only cared for Liselle?”
Elise waves Mercy along, casting one last glance at the house. “People can say what they like, but I believe he loved each of them. It’s rumored after the Queen died, her stuff was moved out of the castle and thrown in that house to collect dust, and no one’s touched it since. Ghyslain couldn’t bear to see it.”
Mercy remembers the empty space where the portrait of the king and queen had hung outside the throne room, Elisora’s name scratched off the placard so many times it was illegible. “What about Tamriel? Didn’t the king keep anything of hers for him?”
“No, nothing. After her death”—she pauses, and Mercy can almost hear the words and Liselle’s—“the king refused to set foot in their chambers until it was cleared out. Every night, he wandered the halls, forcing himself to stay awake until he passed out from exhaustion. He seemed to think if he didn’t face it, her death hadn’t happened.”
“He seems competent enough now, though. Tamriel will certainly be a capable leader once he ascends the throne,” she says carefully. Mercy can’t keep the memories of burnt meat and broken porcelain out of her mind, and she shudders.
“His Highness has been taught well by his tutors, and the nobility respect him. Whatever agreement is made between Feyndara and Beltharos, he will honor until his last breath,” she assures Mercy. Her doe-eyes and round, feminine face shroud her in an air of naiveté, but it’s obvious she does not underestimate the power of politics. “Tamriel may be a little serious at times, but I have no doubt that when the time comes, he will be the king Beltharos needs.”
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