Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “Of course.” Tamriel takes her hand in his, and she feels like a cat toying with its prey when he offers her a concerned look and leads her down the steps of the dais. She catches Elvira’s gaze and winks.

  Hardly anyone notices as they weave through the throngs of people caught up in celebration. The music continues to play, and slaves slip through the crowd carrying their platters, moving like phantoms, invisible until they pass right in front of Mercy. Tamriel leads her out the door and through the mostly-empty great hall.

  Two hallways later, Mercy can still hear the waning notes of music from the throne room as the band finishes its song. For a moment, it’s Tamriel and her; the only sounds are their breaths and their muffled footsteps against the red and gold rug, then the melody lifts once more into a dizzying flourish of masterfully played notes.

  Tamriel escorts her to a room slightly larger than her bedroom at Blackbriar, furnished with two expensive-looking velvet couches and a low wooden table between them, bookshelves and paintings lining the walls. Without a word, Tamriel guides her to the couch, then crosses to the window, setting his hands on the stone sill as he stares outside and lets out a long, deep sigh. As he watches the sun dip behind the Howling Mountains, Mercy silently stands and walks to the open double doors, closing them until only an inch-wide gap remains so Tamriel won’t hear the click of the latch.

  She turns to him with a predatory smile and pulls the dagger out of her sleeve.

  27

  She tightens her fingers around the grip of her dagger, already crossing the room as she locks in on the exposed vein in his neck. Tamriel is clearly absorbed in his thoughts, and Mercy lifts the knife as she lessens the gap between them by four feet, three feet, two, and—

  A vice clamps around her waist.

  She doubles over, stifling a cry as her face contorts in pain. She squeezes her eyes shut and hugs her arms around her stomach, the dagger falling out of her grasp. It hits the carpet with a soft whump, and Mercy immediately stoops to retrieve it, only to be halted by another wave of nausea-inducing pain. She jumps back and the vice disappears as quickly as it had come.

  No, a stranger’s voice whispers.

  Mercy’s eyes fly open and scan the ground for the knife, but it is nowhere in sight; she must have accidentally kicked it under the couch in her distraction. Her blood pounds in her ears and she blinks away watering eyes, focusing on Tamriel’s wavering form until her vision stops dancing. She straightens, taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

  Tamriel suddenly turns toward the couch, then starts when he realizes Mercy stands directly behind him. He shoots her a puzzled glance before he sighs, letting his head fall forward into his hands. “Go home to Feyndara, Marieve. I can’t give you what you want—no one can. Every day you spend in the capital, you’re less likely to make it home alive.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic—”

  “I’m not,” he snaps, lifting his head. “I’m being honest. Call me rude, pessimistic, cynical—how many elves did you see in there today? A couple dozen? They’re all slaves. Do you think the nobles see you any differently?”

  “I’m not a slave. I’m Marieve Aasa of Feyndara, and Creator help any man who dares to treat me differently because of the shape of my ears.”

  Tamriel almost smiles. “You attended court the other day—you saw how we treat people who aid elves. Do you really think your family name is going to protect you if the nobles turn on you?”

  “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not leaving.” Anger, white-hot and feral, burns inside Mercy—not at him, but at her failure to kill him. How good it feels to let it out. It distracts her from her fear of the strange, disembodied voice which had spoken to her moments ago. “You don’t care about elves. None of you do. Why should my safety mean anything to you?”

  He ignores her razor-sharp glare and stalks forward until they’re face-to-face, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not stupid. You know my father will never give you Cirisor. So what do you really want from us?”

  Mercy stares at him. Bluntly. Tamriel’s brows rise.

  “I can assure you any sort of alliance is out of the question,” he says, crossing his arms. He shoulders past her and starts toward the doors.

  “They’re pressuring you to choose a queen,” Mercy blurts, and he stops. “You’ll be able to ascend the throne on your eighteenth birthday. Jovi and Henna are third and fourth in line for the throne. There’s also my cousin Alistair, if you’d like, although I don’t know how pleased the nobility would be if you chose him. They don’t strike me as a particularly progressive people.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised this was Her Majesty’s real reason for sending you.” Tamriel laughs, but the sound holds no humor. “My father has an iron grip on the throne and will not give it up for anything, least of all his son.”

  “An alliance through marriage would end the fighting. Feyndara and Beltharos would be forced to find a way to end the war.” Mercy steps closer, then places a hand on his chest, feeling his strong heartbeat under her fingers. Each pulse is one too many, a cruel reminder of her failure to kill him. “No more boys would have to die needlessly. You’d be a hero.”

  Tamriel sidesteps her and opens the doors, and when he turns back, his expression and posture are formal. Rigid. “No. Consider this matter closed. For good.”

  Mercy nods, her lips spreading into a wide grin. “As you desire, dear prince,” she purrs.

  She saunters past him and into the hall, and he follows at a distance, closing the doors behind them. When they return to the great hall, an ear-splitting scream shatters the hum of celebration drifting from the throne room. Shrieks follow and the music cuts off abruptly.

  Tamriel doesn’t waste a second. He grabs Mercy’s hand and pulls her behind him as they run toward the throne room. Their shoes slap on the floor as they pass under the archway and burst into the chaos of the throne room.

  “Stay back!” Master Oliver yells, arms out as he herds people away from the dais, but the effort is unnecessary; people trip over themselves and one another as they retreat. Several plates lie shattered on the floor, dropped in the panic. Tamriel elbows people out of his way, Mercy following in his wake.

  At the front of the room, a woman wearing robes of the Church of the Creator stands, outlined in the fading light of the setting sun. The hood has fallen off her head and her hair hangs freely around her shoulders. She stumbles forward, arms outstretched, and a group of noblewomen recoil, clinging to each other and shrieking in fear. Oliver guides them away and turns to the woman, speaking to her in a low voice she doesn’t seem to hear. He turns his head and spots Tamriel approaching.

  “Don’t go near her, Your Highness!” he calls, genuine fear in his eyes. “She’s sick!”

  Everyone’s eyes turn to Tamriel and Mercy as they break the line of the crowd, standing alone in the half-circle of open space before the dais. The woman shivers as she looks down at them, and she whimpers.

  The entire left side of the woman’s face is red and covered in fluid-filled blisters. The skin around the rash peels where it meets healthy skin, and thick scabs pockmark her cheek and temple, continuing down her neck and disappearing under her robe. One of her eyes is cloudy—blind, bloodshot, and swollen to the point of bulging out.

  “Help them,” she rasps. “Help them, please.”

  “Stay here,” Tamriel whispers. He steps forward, but before he makes it more than two feet, Master Oliver catches him by the arm, an act which causes the prince’s face to flush with anger. “Unhand me.”

  “Absolutely not, Your Highness. Step away while we await the healers.”

  “Help them, please,” the priestess begs.

  “Tamriel!” Ghyslain barks, and the prince stops struggling. The king stands on the far side of the dais, leaning against the wall a safe distance from the priestess. His crown is askew. He watches his son with pain in his eyes. “There is nothing to be done.”

  “It’s coming for you
!” the priestess cries, and begins to sob into her hands.

  Pity washes over Mercy. As fatal as this woman’s sickness must be, everyone watching is allowing her to suffer. Even in the Guild, the Daughters are taught to kill as quickly and painlessly as possible.

  Mercy darts past Tamriel and Oliver as they glare at each other, neither willing to back down. Oliver shouts and lunges for her, but she’s smaller and faster, and his fingers close around nothing but air. Mercy runs to the woman, who lets out a choked sound halfway between a sob and a laugh, then sways and collapses in Mercy’s arms. She lowers the priestess to the floor, the weight of everyone’s gaze on her—Ghyslain’s most intensely.

  The woman hiccups as she cries and buries her fingers in Mercy’s dress, pulling her close. Waves of feverish heat roll off her body. “Help them, friend.”

  “What is happening to you? Help who?”

  “In the end, he will come to you. Soon.”

  Soft footsteps approach, and Tamriel sinks to his knees opposite Mercy. He hesitates, then brushes the hair off the woman’s face with a tender hand, careful not to touch her skin. Everyone in the room sucks in their breath. Ghyslain shouts a warning, which his son ignores. “What is your name, Sister?”

  “Pilar.”

  “Pilar, who is going to come?”

  Her swollen lids flutter open, and her eyes flick back and forth as they struggle to focus on something. When her cracked lips part, her voice is deeper, rougher—a man’s voice. “In that golden village I watched the Creator rise and craft the sun, the moon, the mountains, and the valleys from the flesh of the family he had butchered. Now he will watch as I destroy his dearest creations, and he will weep as I build my dominion over the bones of his precious pets.” Pilar rolls onto her side and draws her knees into her stomach. When she speaks again, her voice has returned to normal. “Stop him. Go north.”

  Mercy and Tamriel exchange glances, their earlier argument forgotten. “Pilar,” Tamriel says quietly, “do you have the Sight?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Who spoke to you? Can you describe him?”

  She shakes her head and looks at Mercy. “Find the cure in the north. Cure Fieldings’ Plague.” She coughs, a dry, rattling sound in her lungs.

  Four elves carrying a stretcher run up to the priestess’s side, careful to touch her only with gloved hands. They lift her onto the stretcher, but Pilar objects before they can carry her away. She reaches out and searches the air until Mercy steps forward and grasps Pilar’s warm hand in hers. Her palm is hot and bumpy with blisters, moist where the blisters have popped. She smiles, making the bright red skin on her face pull tight.

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  A pause. “You’re welcome.”

  The elves, handkerchiefs tied over their mouths and noses, heft the stretcher and start down the length of the room. The nobles recoil as if burned, a few hissing with disgust. Tamriel stands and offers a hand to Mercy, which she accepts, and he squeezes it once before letting go. The crowd watches with wide eyes, a week of city-wide celebration felled by one woman. After a moment of searching, Mercy spots Emrie and Elise near the table of food. Leon—looking uncomfortable—is standing next to Narah, and Elvira is watching from the back. The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

  “Get everyone out of here now,” Ghyslain says to Master Oliver. “Make sure every single person is off the property and safe. Answer no questions and instruct the slaves to do the same. We’ll meet in the council chamber when you’re finished.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Master Oliver pivots on his heel and, arms stretched wide, begins pushing people from the room, shouting commands to the guards who stand in the doorway, alerted to the commotion by the noise. They jump into action immediately, and soon the throne room fills with confused and angry objections as nobles are escorted outside.

  Seren Pierce and Landers Nadra sidestep Master Oliver, who lets them pass without a second glance. “Your Majesty, allow me to help,” Pierce says. “My daughter and I will accompany the soldiers and ensure everyone is delivered home safely.”

  “Very well. Landers, you and Leon head to the council room and prepare a strategy. I want a plan to contain this as much as possible. We’ve enough to worry about as it is, we don’t want to incite a city-wide panic, especially during a Solari year.”

  Tamriel turns to Mercy. “Lady Marieve, go home. Your handmaid, where is she?” He cranes his neck and spots Elvira across the room. “Go with her. I’ll send a messenger when we know what’s happening.” He grips her arm and starts leading her away, but she jerks out of his grip.

  “Tamriel, wait. How serious is this? What did she mean, Fieldings’ Plague?”

  “I—I don’t know. I’ll tell you as soon as I do.” He rubs a hand across his forehead. “She was looking for you, I think. You might be important to . . . whoever she was channeling.”

  “What is the Sight?”

  “It’s a gift held by the more powerful priestesses in the Church. They believe the Creator sends them visions to help others.”

  “Come, my lady.” Elvira has pushed her way to the front of the room and now takes Mercy’s elbow, tugging toward the great hall. “We must return to Blackbriar.”

  “But—” she objects, but Tamriel has already turned away.

  Elvira leads her from the quickly-emptying throne room, but when they reach the great hall, instead of heading outside with everyone else, Elvira points to a closed set of double doors father down the wall. “Through those doors and down the hall. There’s a staircase leading down to the infirmary. Go there and learn what you can about the priestess. I’ll head to a nearby clinic and bring what supplies I can.”

  “And the guards?”

  “With so many civilians on the grounds, most will have been called away to clear the premises. There might be one or two guarding the infirmary, so tell them you were sent to assist the healer. Even without a sash, they won’t question you.”

  “Okay.” Mercy nods. “Go, quickly. You have the daggers?”

  Elvira nods.

  “Good. Keep them with you. Once word of this spreads, that medicine will be worth more than your life. Make sure you don’t lose it.” Heart pounding, Mercy opens the doors and walks calmly through them, aware of Elvira’s eyes on her back. When the doors click quietly shut, she breaks into a sprint.

  28

  Sure enough, two guards stand watch over the infirmary, and neither bats an eye when Mercy announces she’d been sent by the prince to help. In fact, neither really looks at her at all. One with sallow, pock-marked cheeks and a too-large uniform holds the door open for her, and closes it behind her without a word. It strikes her as absurdly funny how, despite the nobles’ distrust for one another, the elves are given free reign of the castle—the humans only see the pointed ears and not the mind which lies between them. It’s probably never occurred to them that the elves are anything but completely loyal to their captors; arrogant assumptions like those create the gaps in security which allow Mother Illynor’s Assassins’ Guild to thrive. Perhaps all this posturing isn’t necessary to get close to the prince. Perhaps all Mercy needs is a white sash and a breakfast tray, and she’ll be escorted into Tamriel’s bedroom by one of the hundreds of soldiers sworn to protect him.

  The castle’s infirmary is so different from the Guild’s, it takes Mercy a moment to gather her bearings as she hovers just past the threshold. The infirmary at the Keep is dark and well-used, jars and bottles of the medicines Sorin makes with forest materials lined on crooked shelves with handwritten labels, the commercially-available tonics and tinctures sent by her contacts in the nearby towns mostly full on the desk, rationed to last as long as possible. There are stains on the bed linens from blood which hadn’t completely washed out, and always a pot of sewing needle boiling in water over the fire, waiting for the next wound to stitch. Mercy has spent hundreds of hours in the dank little room, both as Sorin’s apprentice and as a patient. When she was younger, th
e tutors had thought infirmary work was a fitting punishment for whatever mischief Mercy found herself in, until her natural talent for the craft blossomed. After that, Sorin had loaned Mercy her books and taken her out on special herb-gathering expeditions, and it became apparent she expects Mercy to take over the infirmary when Sorin becomes too old.

  That is, if Mercy lives that long.

  Myrellis Castle’s infirmary is sparkling clean, with jars of medicine the size of the buckets the apprentices use to haul water from the Alynthi River to the Keep. Each jar has an artfully calligraphed label and a colorful concoction inside, sparkling by the light of the hearth’s fire. A long set of shelves stands in front of Mercy, and she can glimpse the rest of the room through gaps between the jars’ lids. Something thuds against the opposite side of the shelves and sends a fine cloud of dust raining from above, the bottles and jars clinking against each other as the wood shudders.

  “Whoever ye are, don’t just stand there! Get yer ass over here!” a voice thick with a Rivosi accent calls.

  Mercy hurries around the shelves to see a short, stocky woman pinning a gagged Pilar to the mattress of one of the four beds. She looks Mercy up and down with a sour expression, ignoring Pilar’s bucking beneath her gloved hands, which are clasped like talons around Pilar’s arms. The priestess’s eyes are wide, darting back and forth, and her feet kick at the air. One of her shoes lies on the floor in front of the shelves.

  “Sent me one o’ you, did they?” the woman says. “Probably picked the first knife-ear they saw skitterin around the halls. Hold her down so I can do my work.” Mercy starts forward, and the woman grimaces. “Not wi’ yer bare hands. Grab the gloves.” She jerks her chin to the nearest table, and Mercy quickly slips the gloves on. There’s no point in arguing.

  “Grab here an’ here, and be ready for ‘er to put up a fight. They’re stronger than they look when they’re crazed like this.” The second the healer lifts her hands, Pilar bolts upright, and Mercy scrambles to push her back onto the pillow. Even through robes and gloves, Mercy can feel Pilar’s skin burning with fever. Mercy shoves her back, gripping her shoulders tightly, and straddles her legs so she cannot kick.