Merciless
Page 17
“I won’t tell a soul.” Mercy steps forward and, on a whim, takes one of Nerida’s hands in her own. She jumps, startled. “I am your guest tonight; you need not apologize to me. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Nerida lets out a choked laugh. “The entertainment was quite something, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Do—do you like art, my lady?” Nerida sweeps past her and crosses the room, pausing before a portrait of a white-haired woman in a blooming garden.
“I do. I hope you don’t mind I found my way in here. After Marlena said how much she likes your gallery, I wanted to take a look.”
She dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “My father made this painting of my grandmother a few years before she passed. We had never been close, but she loved Elise more than anything in the world. She and Elise used to sit on the floor of her art studio and paint for hours.” She glances at Mercy, chuckling. “Elise tried to teach me once, you know. She said I couldn’t paint worse if I’d been holding the brush between my toes. Compared to hers, it certainly looked that way.”
“She’s that good?”
“Decide for yourself.” Nerida gestures to the opposite wall, which is adorned with so many paintings that barely an inch of the limestone is visible between the gilded frames. The smallest ones had clearly been crafted by a child’s hand; the colors bleed together and the paper is wrinkled from too much paint. More than half are simple doodles or calligraphy scribbled over torn-off pieces of old reports. Further down the wall, the lines become sharper, surer, the colors more vivid. Many are landscapes: the view of the city unfolding from the base of the castle’s steps, the rocky shore of Lake Myrella, the sun rising over the city walls.
“Wow,” Mercy breathes. “These are amazing.”
She steps closer to one, narrowing her eyes. In it, a merchant kneels beside his wagon, its broken wheel resting on the street beside him. He’s wiping his forehead with one arm and smiling at a young boy who crouches beside him, offering him a handful of coin. A shock of brown hair hangs over the boy’s brow, obscuring all but his smile and the sharp line of his jaw. He’s upper class, finely dressed, but doesn’t appear to care; the cuffs of his pants are scuffed with dirt and he’s pushed one of his sleeves up to his elbow. A sense of familiarity nags at Mercy’s mind. She returns to Nerida’s side and a quick count reveals the boy in four other paintings.
“Who is that?”
“Who, that boy? Probably someone Elise had seen in the market—she used to spend hours wandering around that filthy place when she was a child, much to our dismay.”
“A childhood crush?”
“Ha! Maybe.” Nerida smiles, then glances out the window and startles. “Oh! Look how dark it is! I’m sorry, I’d completely lost track of time. We should head down and finish dessert. I’ll send Pierce to look for Elise, and I’m sure Leon won’t mind accompanying you back home.”
“That’s really not necessary—”
“Nonsense. What sort of host would I be to leave you to wander home in the dark in a foreign city? Come, come. I can practically hear my husband begging me to rescue him. He’s not one for dinner parties, I’m afraid.”
Nerida laughs and moves to the archway, holding the curtain back for Mercy. Just before she steps through, she glances back at the painting of the young boy and can’t shake the feeling she’s seen him before.
“Thank you, Leon. Goodnight.”
Mercy closes Blackbriar’s front door and leans against it, sighing. Mere seconds later, footsteps sound down the stairs. Elvira scuttles into the hallway, her hair tied in an unkempt braid, and pulls Mercy forward by the elbow.
“Anything?”
“Nothing yet.”
Elvira directs Mercy to the couch in the study and busies herself with pouring two steaming cups of tea from a tray on the ottoman. Mercy accepts the cup Elvira offers and sips it while Elvira swipes some nonexistent dust from the cushion, then perches on the edge, the skirt of her nightgown pooling around her ankles.
“The king sent a message earlier. He and the prince would like to speak with you tomorrow at noon for a private audience,” she says. “I will walk with you to the castle, but I will not be permitted to attend the meeting.”
“Anything I should be aware of?”
“Just, um, be careful what you say around them. The king can be quite, well, touchy about certain topics, as you have seen. And the prince might act polite, but royalty or no, you’re still an elf. Growing up in the aftermath of Liselle’s and his mother’s deaths couldn’t have instilled in him a great sympathy for our kind.”
“Even though his father’s advisors committed the murder?”
“The elves were in open rebellion against the crown and nobility. Without Liselle fanning the flames, there would never have been the need to take such drastic measures.” She rolls her eyes. “That what the courtiers tell themselves, anyway.” She rises and sets her cup on the tray, then moves to the bookshelf. Her fingers skim the spines of several books before she plucks one out and hands it to Mercy. It’s no more than fifty pages in all, the cover two thick sheets of waxed parchment. Twine looped through the spine bind it together.
“It’s hardly comprehensive, but I started writing things down a few years ago. Notes. Rumors going around, city changes, information from the slaves—anything important. You should read it,” she says. “As for your meeting tomorrow, you can’t speak specifically or convincingly about Feyndaran politics, so talk about the effects of the war here. Make him want to end the war because it’s good for him, not some foreign queen who hasn’t visited this country in decades. At worse, you’ll become closer to completing your contract. At best, you could bring an end to the fighting over Cirisor.”
“Assuming the prince doesn’t immediately suspect something and have me imprisoned. It’s not his father I need to convince—Ghyslain’s the one who hired me. Besides, it’s just a ruse to get closer to the prince. I don’t actually care about the politics.”
“Regardless of whether you care, it’s possible Ghyslain will agree to negotiate with Feyndara after you return to the Guild. That is, once he ‘recovers’ from the death of his son.” Elvira starts toward the door, then pauses. “If there’s nothing more you need from me, I will take my leave, and I suggest you rest, too.”
“I will. I’m going to read some of this first. You can leave the candles burning.”
“Okay.”
She leaves the room. As Mercy flips through the pages, a flash of red ink catches her eye. “Elvira, wait. What’s this?”
“Hm?” She pokes her head into the room, toying with the end of her braid. Mercy holds up the book for her to see, and she takes a few steps forward, squinting with tired eyes. “Oh, Fieldings’ Blisters. It’s a disease found mostly among the lower class—it looks like a red rash or sunburn and sometimes creates fluid-filled blisters.”
“What causes it?”
“They used to think it was irritation from plants in the fields outside the city, where the poor work for the herbalists and florists and such—that’s why it’s named what it is—but no one’s really sure. It’s fairly common. Why do you ask?”
“I saw a body in Beggars’ End today with the same rash—”
“You went to Beggars’ End?”
“Briefly. It was interesting, to say the least. The rash looked like this.” Mercy points to the drawing, a man’s torso inflamed with stripes of bright red skin and shiny welts. “How serious is it? Is it lethal?”
“No—well, not as far as I know. It targets the skin and can leave nasty scars if the blisters pop, but that’s as bad as it gets.” Elvira bites her lip. “Not to be indecent, but cleanliness isn’t a high priority for most of the people in the End. However that person died, it was probably unrelated—but I will keep an eye out for any news.”
“Good. Thank you, Elvira.” Mercy closes the book and stands. “Now go to bed, I won’t bother you anymore—t
onight, at least.”
24
“Enough pleasantries. You want us to give you Cirisor.”
“I want an end to the fighting,” Mercy corrects.
King Ghyslain leans forward over his desk, in front of which Mercy had watched him cower less than twenty-four hours ago. The shattered remains of the porcelain vases he’d thrown had been swept up and discarded, and a cheery fire crackles in the fireplace behind them. The desktop is bare save a pitcher of wine and three gold goblets, none of which have been touched since the slave set them down ten minutes ago.
Ghyslain folds his hands together and studies her. “And what do you propose, exactly? Neither of us is willing to surrender, so you must forgive me if I do not see how this conflict can be resolved peacefully.”
“There must be a way. Both of our countries are pouring money into a war with no end in sight—money which would be better spent on our citizens,” Mercy says. She leans forward and props her elbows on the arms of her chair, mimicking Ghyslain. “My uncle Justus was an ambassador to the people of Cirisor. He arranged the transport of supplies to the elves and soldiers. My people know the land better than yours. There’s no need for you to lose more soldiers on needless expeditions—in fact, I know you lost a squadron of soldiers you sent out last spring. A compromise between our countries could save countless more.”
After a few seconds of silence, Ghyslain sits back, considering. “I understand your objections, but I have yet to hear a viable solution. So, again, have you a plan?”
Mercy stares at him, waiting for him to fill the silence. Either Ghyslain knows her identity and is keeping up appearances for Tamriel’s sake, or he truly thinks he’s negotiating with Marieve. She hopes it’s the former.
“If not, we’ll have to cut this meeting short. I’m afraid I have other matters to attend.” Ghyslain doesn’t look her way as he stands and gestures to the door.
Prince Tamriel leans against the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest. He does not wear a cloak or armor today, instead dressed in a simple—yet finely crafted—tunic and pants. He stares at Mercy with interest, not having said a single word to her or his father since she’d walked in.
“Let the islands become an independent country,” Mercy says, desperate for a reason to prolong her time with the prince.
“W-What?” Tamriel sputters. His arms drop to his sides and he gapes at Mercy as if she had suggested he run naked through the streets. “You think that’s an option? You think we would consider giving it up after so much fighting?”
Mercy frowns at him. “If you want to stop losing valuable men and equipment, yes.”
“The archipelago belonged to Beltharos. Your country declared war when your grandmother’s troops attacked Beltharan scouts.”
“Our men were on a standard supply run when they were attacked by soldiers bearing your family’s crest.” Mercy had not known this until she had scoured three books about the Cirisian wars in Blackbriar last night. Each had had a different history of the beginning of the third saga of the continuing wars, and it seemed to her nothing more than name-calling and scape-goating, an endless cycle of blame being thrown from the Myrellis family to the Aasa family.
Ghyslain shoots his son a stern look, then turns to Mercy, settling back into his chair. “You must know we cannot allow this. If Feyndara is victorious, you may do what you wish with the territory, but I will not withdraw my forces until your grandmother does the same. I have no guarantee the queen won’t seize the territory the second my men leave.”
“She is our guarantee, I believe,” Tamriel interjects, nodding to Mercy. “Would Queen Cerelia have sent her unaccompanied to an enemy city if she weren’t serious about her offer? Anything could happen to her here; we could hold her hostage until Her Majesty agrees to surrender.”
“Careful, Your Highness.” Mercy warns, her expression darkening. “I do not take kindly to threats.”
“Simply making a point.” Tamriel smiles, but it disappears in the blink of an eye. “Perhaps you should consider, Father.”
“If not this, I’m certain Her Majesty would seriously consider any compromise you extend,” Mercy adds, looking between Tamriel and the king. “All we want is peace.”
Ghyslain stands again, and this time, Mercy does, too. “I cannot promise anything will come of this, but I will bring the offer to my council.” He moves from behind the desk to the door and opens it for her. “Tamriel will walk you back to the grand hall and see you out.”
Tamriel pushes away from the windowsill and slips past her into the hallway. “Shall we?” he says, already moving toward the stairs.
Mercy hesitates. She watches him walk away, then looks questioningly to Ghyslain. His eyes remain on his son as he slowly nods once, but Mercy isn’t certain whether the nod is acknowledgement of her identity or a dismissal.
She returns the nod and steps through the door, and the king closes it behind her without a word.
25
“Take a walk with me in the gardens,” Marieve says a few minutes later.
Tamriel pauses halfway down the staircase and glances back to see her hurrying after him. She stops on the same step and looks at him expectantly, a small smile gracing her lips. “I wish I could, but I am very busy,” he responds, then continues down the stairs.
“Too busy to show me around your home? Not even for half an hour? Fifteen minutes?” She snags his sleeve and he pauses, then she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. He tries not to appear shocked by her audacity as she stares at him with her piercing, unusual eyes.
Tamriel sighs despite the grin tugging at his lips. “Very well. Fifteen minutes.”
He leads her through the great hall and the massive front doors of the castle. When they step outside, Marieve lets go of his arm and strides to the railing at the top of the stairs, staring out at the lush greenery and the city beyond the walls.
“I’ve heard hosting the Solari festival is no small ordeal,” she says.
“No, but the castle has the staff for it, and the council plans almost everything. All my father and I do is show up.”
“You saw the last one, didn’t you? What was it like?”
Tamriel moves to her side, squinting as he peers out at the garden, resplendent under the midday sun. As they watch, slaves walk the narrow gravel paths between the hedges, tossing handfuls of silver and gold tinsel over the leaves and branches. They shimmer and sparkle as they dance in the breeze, and a small elven boy runs through the maze and chases pieces of tinsel that have flown free, his peals of laughter echoing off the castle’s stone walls.
“I do not remember much of it, to be honest. I was almost three when the last one occurred. In fact, all I remember from that day were the clothes. I hated them.”
Marieve’s mouth parts in disbelief. “The clothes?”
“My servants learned that day not to dress a toddler in the finest velvets in Sandori. They had wrangled me into this thick black coat—a coat in summer!—with these tiny silver buttons all the way from my navel to my chin. For appearance’s sake, they’d said.” He offers her a sly smirk. “How do you think I appeared to my father when Master Oliver dumped me in front of all the nobility, crying and soaking wet after I’d decided to take a swim in the lake to cool off?”
“You didn’t!”
“You should have seen my father’s expression at watching his young son being led through the throne room by the scruff of his neck, wet boots squelching with every step. He stopped midsentence and his face turned bright red, and he had a servant take me away immediately.”
He gestures to the stairs and they descend, following the springy, soft grass around the side of the castle, passing guards and gardeners and slaves carrying pails of water. “My father is hopeful for tomorrow’s celebration. He says it signals a change for all of us—the dawning of a new era of greatness for our country.”
“You don’t seem to share his excitement.”
“No.” He looks away and l
ets out a long breath. “I know what the nobles say about my father behind his back. I know what they say about me, too, although my critics tend to be slightly more forgiving. The nobles, the commoners, the advisors—they only support me because they think I’ll turn out to be less crazy than my father. They’re just biding their time until they can usurp me and place some nobleman’s son on the throne, some intolerable yes-man who’ll trip over himself to grant their every wish.”
Marieve laughs. “How very optimistic of you. You can’t honestly think they’d do that.”
“Can’t I? It’s the curse of being royal. Tax the rich to feed the poor and they’ll brand you a thief. Conscript men to strengthen the army and they’ll curse you for their sons’ deaths. Go to war for them and they’ll complain about spending too much money.”
When they round the last tower and arrive at the rear of the castle, Marieve stops, her eyes widening in awe. The wide expanse of Lake Myrella stretches out before them, its gray-blue water spanning for miles in every direction, white-capped waves sparkling under the sun. Boulders as wide as a man and twice as tall rise from its depths, and the seascape is dotted with more than Tamriel can count.
Marieve drops Tamriel’s arm and walks toward the water’s edge, pausing to slip off her flats when the grass gives way to the pebbled shore. She tosses them aside and continues in her bare feet, nearly slipping twice on the slick stones. When a wave rolls over the ground and splashes over her toes and the tops of her feet, she laughs.
Tamriel watches her from the grass. Her awe makes him smile, and he reminds himself not everyone lives with such a beautiful sight in their backyards. She lifts the hem of her dress as the tide rolls in and splashes around her ankles, her face open and unguarded.