Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

“Ha. They only agree when it is within their best interests to do so—otherwise they hardly speak to each other. Cassius resents the new nobility. You noticed my father’s title is Seren Pierce, and not Pierce Seren?” she says. “My family name is LeClair. Titles are taken as surnames after serving for thirty years to the crown—a test of loyalty, one might say. Some of the older, stuffier lords call us the new nobility, and treat us like children because of it.”

  “I see. What are they discussing?”

  “Plans to fortify the city walls. Cassius Baccha showed up here late last night in nothing but his robe, claiming the city’s going to be attacked. He saw it in a dream, he says, but he won’t—or can’t—explain why. They’ve been discussing it for hours, and are not likely to stop anytime soon.”

  “I’m glad you all enjoyed the gallery,” floats a woman’s voice down the hall. “My husband has an eye for art, doesn’t he?”

  There’s a murmur of assent as a party of five enters the room, led by a voluptuous blonde draped in layers of peach-colored silk. Her eyes light up and she kisses Elise on the cheek, making her blush. “And my daughter has quite the hand for it, doesn’t she?”

  “Mother! We have guests!”

  “Hush, darling. Lady Nadra was just remarking how talented you are. Am I not allowed to be proud of my daughter?”

  “Your calligraphy is exquisite,” Lady Nadra says. Unlike her husband, she is willowy and tall, with sparkling green eyes and an easy smile. She claps her hands delightedly, her gemstone rings glimmering in the candlelight. “If only my two had half your talent!”

  “Thank you, Marlena,” Elise says. “Now may I, ah, present our special guest for the evening—”

  “Lady Marieve,” Seren Pierce interrupts.

  At the table, the three men have stopped their conversation and look straight at Mercy, the documents forgotten. Seren Pierce crosses his arms over his chest and continues, “Granddaughter of the queen of Feyndara, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I heard you had arrived yesterday, but I’m afraid I’ve not had the chance to formally welcome you. How do you find Beltharos?”

  “It’s lovely, as is your home, sir.”

  “And you’re here for Cirisor, surely,” he says, blinking away the compliment. “May I ask, do you truly believe the king will give it to you after all these years of fighting?”

  “I do not think it will be that simple, but any step toward peace is better than our current position, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Wisely said, my lady,” Landers Nadra agrees.

  “Oh! Where are my manners?” Marlena exclaims. “The twins—Leon and Maisie.” She gestures to the young man and woman at her side, blushing slightly. The twins are only a few years older than Mercy, and clearly take after their maternal family; Maisie has the same lithe build and chestnut hair as her mother, and Leon’s slightly slanted eyes are markedly different from his father’s hooded lids.

  “Welcome to the capital, my lady,” Maisie says. “I hope you enjoy your time here.”

  “Should you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask.” Leon’s lips spread into an easy smile. As he bows to Mercy, his gaze shifts to Elise, who looks away with a frown.

  “And Lady Murray Baccha, as well,” Elise says, gesturing to an old woman with long, shockingly white hair. “Cassius’s wife and ambassador to the crown. She recently returned from a trip to Rivosa, as I recall.”

  “Beautiful country. Quite a shame we don’t have more western influence here—I’d love another one of Princess Namira’s hazelnut tarts. Did you known they once served chocolate-covered rosebuds with edible gold pearls?” Murray’s smile widens, the wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. She moves to Cassius’s side as she speaks and lays a loving hand on his arm. She grins at Landers. “Your countrymen know how to put on a show, my friend.”

  “You should have gone during Iarra—tables and tables of delicacies across the length of the ballroom, imported from all around the world for one massive feast.”

  Murray claps a hand to her heart in delight.

  “So, Elise tells me you’ve only been here a few days,” Elise’s mother says to Mercy, turning her attention from the others as they discuss various cakes, pies, and desserts with names so unusual Mercy isn’t sure half of them exist. “Was the trip long?”

  “Not terribly, no.”

  “Nerida—” Seren Pierce smiles at his wife, the cook—Liri—standing at his side. He extends a hand to the long table. “Dinner is ready. Shall we?”

  “Of course, my dear. Everyone?”

  As they take their seats around the table, Mercy watches Seren Pierce hand the map and documents to Aelyn. “Take these upstairs,” he murmurs, and she nods and hurries away.

  Seren Pierce sits at the head of the table, Nerida at his right and Elise at his left. Leon pulls out the seat beside her, but Elise shoos his hand off under the guise of brushing away dust. “Sit here, Marieve,” she says, smiling sweetly. She pats the cushion, and Mercy offers Leon an apologetic smile before accepting the chair. He dips his head in respect and takes the seat next to her.

  As Liri carries in platter after platter of food and sets them ceremoniously on the table, Elise leans over and whispers, “My parents have arranged marriage between Leon and me. While I do not dislike the man, I have no interest in conversing with him for the duration of this meal, let alone being married to him for the rest of my life.”

  “Elise,” her father warns in a low voice. Nerida pretends not to notice.

  “Nevertheless,” Elise continues, unabated, “you have my gratitude.”

  “Well, this looks just wonderful, my dear,” Marlena Nadra coos, eyeing a platter of rabbit slathered with butter and herbs. “Your cook is so talented, I’m afraid I’ve been ruined for most everything else. Tell me, where did you buy her?”

  Nerida inflates. “In Cariza a few years ago. I managed to steal her away from my cousin’s estate after she passed, with only a minor charge at the city gates for owning a Rivosi slave over a Beltharan one.”

  “Are the lords still telling themselves the tax will work? Who in their right minds would buy a slave from Beggars’ End when there’s such better stock across the border? Can you imagine bringing one into your home? You’d get fleas just looking at it.” Murray shudders, frowning at her husband. “Something needs to be done about that place.”

  “They should be carted off to the mines in the west,” he grumbles. “There’s no better place for them. Why the guards allow them to plague this city is beyond me. I say let those who can work dig the mines, and when that Creator-damned underground air rots their lungs, there’ll be plenty more to replace ‘em. That’s one thing you can always count on.”

  Murmurs of agreement dance around the table. Elise frowns at the bowl of soup in front of her, no doubt thinking of Atlas and what they’d seen earlier.

  “If it’s such a problem, why doesn’t anyone do anything about it?” Mercy asks. “Factories and warehouses always need workers, and it wouldn’t be difficult to train them to work the ships for the trading companies.”

  “Would you trust thousands of aurums’ worth of inventory to a bunch of beggars and thieves?” Landers scoffs. “We don’t offer them help because they don’t want it. The last person to try and change their fortune lost her life because of it.” It doesn’t escape Mercy that he explicitly avoids saying Liselle’s name.

  “No one has tried since? Surely people can’t be happy with how things are.”

  “No, but they’re too stubborn to accept aid, and they see any outsider as a threat.”

  “Last year, they scared off a group of church priestesses who had come to offer food and medicine to the sick. The poor girls returned hours later wearing tatters, and supposedly their nightmares were so terrible their screams kept everyone in their quarters awake for a month,” Leon adds.

  “I was friends with one of them,” Maisie whispers. “She transferred to Blackh
ills shortly after—said she couldn’t stand to live in the same city as that scum. She didn’t feel safe anymore.”

  “Marieve’s right.”

  All eyes turn Elise, who clenches her silver spoon in one hand, her knuckles white. Her lips press into a thin line and she narrows her eyes, staring at each person in turn. She glares at her father last.

  “Marieve’s right,” she repeats in a low voice. “You should be doing something about that Creator-forsaken pit, Father. You should be trying to change it. Do you know Atlas is there? Do you care?”

  Whatever emotion Seren Pierce feels at his daughter’s outburst remains hidden behind a mask of indifference, save for a muscle working in his jaw. “Now is not the time to discuss this, child.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “Perhaps you should take a walk to calm yourself. Wouldn’t you agree, Nerida?”

  Elise’s mother doesn’t respond, her face pale and embarrassed. After a moment, she makes a choked sound and nods.

  “He’s trying to help them. He’s trying to gain your approval! If what he did with Julien gets out, the soldiers will just as likely kill him as the scum will. Or does that not bother you at all?”

  “Elise—”

  “That would get rid of the problem, wouldn’t it? You can go on pretending you’d only had the one child, the good child—"

  “It’s looking less and less like that by the second.”

  “Darling,” her mother attempts, but they ignore her.

  “He’s trying to win your favor, Father! Can’t you see? He’s trying to make you proud!” Elise jumps up, sending her glass of wine flying. Her mother shrieks as the dark wine pools on the ivory silk tablecloth. “I should have told him a long time ago that’s not possible.”

  “That’s quite enough!” The mask cracks; Seren Pierce’s face becomes splotchy and red, his voice trembling with anger. His eyes are cruel and sharp, and, for the first time, Elise shrinks away—but only for a second.

  She straightens. “Atlas deserves better than you for a father.”

  “Elise!” Nerida stands, her chair screeching across the floor. “You will not speak to your father that way—not in private, and certainly not in front of our guests!”

  Elise glowers for a long, charged moment, her shoulders squared and arms folded in front of her. Finally, she snaps, “I need some fresh air.”

  She turns to leave the room, and as she passes Mercy, she leans down to whisper, “Forgive me.”

  After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence—punctuated by the scraping of silverware and the occasional request to pass a platter—conversation returns to the table, although the topic of Beggars’ End is steadfastly avoided. Leon and Maisie are kind enough to engage Mercy in small talk, and she fields questions about Feyndara and its people with polite—if somewhat ambiguous—answers.

  In turn, Leon and Maisie explain the traditions behind the Solari festival, of which she’d heard, but never taken part. Although a vast majority of Beltharans follow the Church of the Creator, Solari is mostly a holiday for the upper class, who can afford lavish celebrations and feasts and follow the intricate mathematics used to determine when Solari occurs next.

  “The simplest explanation is it occurs every ten years, but it’s not always exact. It relies on the location of the sun and moon, and sometimes doesn’t occur at all,” Maisie explains. “Sometimes generations pass without a Solari, and that’s when we know something terrible is about to happen. The Creator has foreseen it and sends us a sign.”

  “That’s the superstition, anyway,” Leon quips.

  “Likewise,” she continues, elbowing her brother, “when there finally is a Solari, it’s said to be a blessed year.”

  “The last one was about fifteen years ago,” Seren Pierce says, having regained his earlier composure. “It was wonderful. There was partying in the streets all day, and the celebration itself went on for over a week. I heard the Churches were overflowing.”

  “What are the rumors this year?” Marlena leans forward and props her chin on her hand, eyes twinkling. “Shall our king lead us to glory in the war for Cirisor? Will peace finally be restored? Or will Tamriel ascend the throne, do you think?”

  Murray snorts.

  “Perhaps it is something to do with your arrival, my dear.” Nerida smiles at Mercy. “You’re the first royal Feyndaran to visit Beltharos in generations. Maybe you’ll be the one to break the animosity between our countries.”

  Mercy smiles and lifts her glass of wine. “I hope so.”

  23

  “Elise? Are you up here?”

  Standing at the top of the stairs, Mercy peers down the length of the hallway. The six rooms before her don’t have doors; lightweight curtains hang over the open archways and flutter in the breeze from the open windows. At the opposite end of the hall, candlelight flickers on the plush rug of a seventh room. Mercy tiptoes forward, sounds of jovial chatter emanating from the floor below.

  “Elise?” Two hours after storming out, Elise still hadn’t returned to the dining room—nor did Mercy expect her to after the spectacle she’d made—so Mercy had offered to comfort her in private.

  If only she were intending to do that.

  When no response comes, Mercy stalks forward, listening for footsteps and the whisper of fabric. Three of the rooms she passes are bedrooms, the beds half-hidden behind intricate lace partitions; all of them empty. Another is the library, one is a gallery, and the last contains nothing more than an easel and jars of vibrant paints, arranged in meticulous fashion first by color, then shade, on the shelves lining one wall.

  Elise is nowhere to be found. Perhaps she has gone for a walk or to speak with her brother—Mercy doesn’t care. She slips into the room at the end of the hall and grins. Everything she needs is right in front of her.

  A massive desk dominates Seren Pierce’s study, and the city map sits open on its face, the dark lines of ink faded where the well-worn creases divide the map into quarters. A candle burns in a short, plain candelabrum on the corner of the desk, melted wax dribbling slowly down its length; Aelyn must have left it burning when she had brought everything up. Mercy picks it up and holds it over the map, careful not to drip wax on the parchment.

  The city sprawls across the yellowed paper, careful lines marking the divisions between the city walls, Sapphire Quarter, market district, and Beggars’ End. Scraggly squiggles mark the rocky shore of Lake Myrella behind the castle, and the lake stretches to the top of the paper.

  And there, marked with thick red lines along the city’s walls, are the escape points.

  Cassius Baccha had drawn them after waking from his nightmare; the lines are crooked and uneven, drawn by a shaky hand, and there is a ring of red in the corner from his pot of ink. Tick marks dot the southern edges of the walls and the gate where Mercy and Sorin had entered, probably noting old stones which need to be replaced. Mercy traces the line of the wall with a light fingertip, and when she reaches the eastern edge, her breath catches.

  The entirety of Beggars’ End is blood red.

  Not only the walls, but every house, street, well, and abandoned warehouse is red. Her eyes automatically find the building where she’d met Atlas, unsure whether it’s a trick of the light that the building seems darker than the rest.

  A stack of papers sits on the corner of the desk. Mercy picks them up and shuffles through them quickly, ignoring pages filled with drawings and measurements and other things of little import—financial reports, shipping orders, lists of building materials, a calendar—until the last page. Cassius had drawn a plant.

  The bulb is the size of a fist, covered in thick, upward-pointing scales. Four wide green leaves sprout below the bud, and beside the picture, he has written the word Niamh.

  “What—”

  Footsteps tap up the stairs. Biting off the rest of her sentence, Mercy shuffles the papers into a pile and pushes them into the corner of the desk, hoping Seren Pierce hadn’t paid too close attent
ion to the order. Hot wax dribbles onto her sleeve when she returns the candelabrum to its place, and she sucks in a breath as it burns the skin underneath.

  “Elise? Marieve?”

  The footsteps move closer, higher on the stairs. Her heart pounding, Mercy peers through the curtains in the doorway and, seeing no one, runs into the nearest room—the gallery. Inside, no candles burn, but there is enough moonlight streaming through the window to illuminate the portraits and framed canvases covering every wall. A backless sofa sits in the center of the room. Mercy perches on the corner and fans her skirt around her ankles just before Nerida passes in the hall. She spots Mercy out of the corner of her eye and stops midstep, arranging her face into a beaming smile. She parts the curtains with one hand and leans against the frame of the stone archway, peering inside.

  “She’s not here, is she?”

  “No.”

  “I had hoped she would stick around—for your sake—but Elise doesn’t have a stomach for confrontation. Never has. Don’t worry about her—I bet she’s simply out on a walk, collecting her thoughts.” Nerida crosses her arms over her chest, glancing at the floor before meeting Mercy’s eyes. Her cheeks flush. “My lady, I shudder to imagine what you must think of us after our boorish behavior tonight.”

  “No, I understand,” Mercy says, rising from the sofa. “There’s no need—”

  “Please—” Nerida blurts. “Allow me to apologize on behalf of my family and me. Tensions have . . . run high for us this year, and it’s been especially hard on Elise. I don’t suppose she’s told you about her brother?” When Mercy nods, Nerida’s lips press into a tight line. “My husband and son had a falling out last winter and, um, have hardly spoken since. Pierce’s method of coping—flawed as it is—is to throw all his time and energy into his work. Sometimes I feel like our son no longer exists to him.”

  “I . . . don’t suppose this has something to do with Julien?”

  Nerida stiffens. “Elise told you?”

  “Nothing more than the name.”

  “What they were doing was unnatural. I had tried to convince him to break it off but . . .” She trails off and shakes her head. “One of his commanders found them together. It was humiliating. It’s a miracle Atlas wasn’t thrown out of the guard altogether.”