As he speaks, Mercy begins to tremble. Her desire to be a Daughter has started her heart beating fast, until she can feel it throbbing in the back of her skull. One phony contract stands between her and the life she’s been training seventeen years to attain, and here is the chance to outshine the apprentices who had picked on her and pinched her ears as she had grown up. She remembers the terror she had felt when Tanni and Sienna had walked her to what should have been her execution, the way the rope had cut her wrists as she knelt before Mother Illynor in the clearing. She remembers Lylia’s hand on her shoulder as they stood atop the wall in the middle of the night, and Lylia’s voice as she threatened to shove Mercy off the ledge. She remembers Faye’s screams as she threw a plate at her head.
“Yes,” she says. “I’ll do it.”
31
Calum dismisses the guards who had accompanied him before he allows Mercy to leave. While he’s outside, she slips into the dress he’d given her and finds her shoes tucked under the bed. She can’t resist searching the nightstand and desk for her knives, even though she knows they won’t be in there; Calum isn’t that stupid. When he returns, he finds Mercy elbow-deep in the wardrobe, silks and velvets tossed over her shoulder.
He leans against the closed door and crosses his arms over his chest, smirking. “Looking for something, love?”
She shoots him a dirty look. “Don’t call me that.”
He smiles. “If I heard correctly, His Highness is on his way to the council room at this very moment. You’d better hurry.”
“I can’t do anything now, Calum. They’d kill me on sight.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I understand that.” He crosses the room and lifts the clothes from her shoulder, reaching over her head to place them on the highest shelf of the wardrobe. She turns around and glares at him. “But something is going on with this mysterious disease, and I’d like to hear what they plan to do about it. I may be the king’s nephew, but His Majesty is too paranoid to allow me a seat on the small council. He thinks the power would go to my head. Imagine that.” He plucks the bandage off Mercy’s head, and she rubs the sore spot at the back of her skull, where a large, tender bump protrudes. He frowns. “Don’t worry about that. Your hair covers it. Now go.”
He places a hand on her lower back and pushes her to the door. Just before she reaches for the doorknob, he catches her arm and places one of the knives in her hand. “Hide this well,” he says, then shoves her out of the room.
Three feet.
Tamriel is close enough to touch, standing in the doorway of the small council room with his arms crossed over his chest. His clothes—the same ones he’d worn since the celebration—are rumpled and a dagger gleams on his hip. A heavy black cloak hangs from his shoulders; he hadn’t bothered to take it off when he returned to the castle.
His face is stark white.
“Three hundred,” he breathes, and the room goes silent.
“What did you say?” Landers asks, blood draining from his face.
“Three hundred infected, at least. We found two dozen hiding in the Church in the market district, and I have soldiers guarding it now to make sure no one enters or exits,” he says. “At minimum, there are two hundred infected in Beggars’ End; the soldiers arrived to seal the gates before we could make a complete count.”
“They looked like Pilar?” Mercy says. “I was there two days ago, and I didn’t see—” She bites off the rest of the sentence, remembering the body she and Elise had seen in Beggars’ End. Her gaze drifts to Seren Pierce, who has slumped into one of the chairs at the long table, eyes glassy as he stares at nothing. Everyone else is oblivious, gaping at her.
“You went into Beggars’ End?”
“Voluntarily?”
“Oh, no,” Mercy says, ignoring their horrified expressions. “Atlas.”
Almost imperceptibly, Seren Pierce nods. He suddenly looks decades older than his forty-odd years, wrinkles creasing his skin. “Atlas.”
Mercy turns to Tamriel. “Did all the soldiers stationed in Beggars’ End make it out before the gates were sealed?”
He thinks for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “I’m not certain; so much was happening.” He glances at Seren Pierce, sympathy on his face. “It is entirely possible not everyone made it out in time, but we will do everything we can to help those inside.”
Seren Pierce drops his head in his hands.
“Okay—Okay, so we set up a hospital for them in the fields outside of the city,” Leon pipes up. “That can hold the people in the Church and as many from the End as we can fit. The rest will have to stay in Beggars’ End until we have more room for them, when the patients recover or, uh, or . . .” he trails off and clears his throat. “When there are empty cots for them.”
“There’s too much of a chance of them infecting other citizens in the transport. We must quarantine the End.” Ghyslain, who has heretofore sat silent and grim-faced, stands. He takes a deep breath and rests his hands on the back of his chair, but not before Mercy notices how severely they tremble. Of all the people in the room, Ghyslain is the most devastated. When he glances up, the emotion in his eyes causes Mercy’s breath to catch in her throat:
Agony.
Despair.
Acceptance.
Acceptance?
His gaze fixes on Mercy’s.
“Seize her,” he says to the guards flanking either side of the door. They spring into motion, but before they can grab her, he yells, “Don’t touch her skin!”
“Don’t you dare—” Mercy steps back, a hand automatically reaching for the knife she’d tucked into the sash waistband of her dress, the stops. Best not to let them know she’s armed.
Tamriel cries out in surprise and reaches for her, but one of the guards elbows him out of the way before clasping a hand on Mercy’s arm, careful to catch her sleeve. Tamriel’s face contorts in anger and he marches forward, but Landers snags his cloak and pulls him back. The prince shouts objections as the two guards pin Mercy’s arms behind her back. She bristles.
“Father!” he yells.
Ghyslain ignores him, and the torture the king feels is written across his face. His shoulders slump and he raps his knuckles against the table; for a brief second, it is the only sound in the room. He looks defeated.
Tamriel’s expression shifts from anger to alarm. “Father?”
“Quarantine her in the infirmary. If it is true that the sickness in Beggars’ End manifests in two days, we shall soon see whether the priestess’s touch has infected Lady Marieve. I pray it has not, but I cannot have her free to roam the city and take the chance she may spread the disease,” he responds, then turns to the guards. “Take her down.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Are you not going to have them take me?” Tamriel asks. “Pilar touched me, too.”
“Fieldings’ Blisters is transferred through touch. She did not touch your skin. Your place is here. Guards, escort her out. Now.”
One of the guards pushes her toward the door and chuckles when Mercy trips over her feet. His hand is clamped tightly enough around her arm to inflict a bruise, and she shoots him a glare as the other guard steadies her. “Watch your step, elf.”
“Hold your tongue, Raiden,” Tamriel snaps. “She is a guest.”
“Tamriel!” Ghyslain says. “Calm yourself or leave.”
Tamriel’s jaw works. He shrugs off Landers’s hand from his shoulder and straightens his cloak. Without hesitation, he pivots on his heel and strides past Mercy and the guards, not slowing as he says, “I will escort you to the infirmary, Lady Marieve. Raiden, you lay another hand on her, and I’ll break your nose.”
Raiden’s hand drops from her arm. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He continues down the hall, Mercy and the guards trailing after him. When Mercy glances back, the king’s gaze is focused on the retreating form of his son. Everyone else mills around the table in awkward silence.
Tamriel leads them around the
corner and down the stairs to the great hall, the heels of his boots tapping on the stone floor. Every slave they encounter lowers his head and skitters out of their way.
It probably has something to do with the murderous expression on the prince’s face.
Before they reach the stairs down to the infirmary, Tamriel stops and turns so quickly Mercy and the guards nearly plow into him. He pulls his arm back and punches Raiden in the face, his fist connecting with a loud crunch. The other guard shouts and pulls Mercy back as Raiden groans and stumbles backward, his hands flying to his face. Within seconds, his fingers are coated in blood.
“What the hell! I didn’t touch her!” he cries.
When Tamriel pins him with a glare, he stiffens. “I trust you will remember to treat our guests with more respect next time.”
“O-Of course.”
“If you ever speak to, touch, or even look at Lady Marieve without her express permission, I will have your head. Do you understand me?”
“I-I do, Your Highness.”
“Then get out of my sight.”
Raiden hesitates, and his gaze turns to Mercy, searching for pity. She narrows her eyes and offers none. Raiden nods, bows to the prince, then tucks his tail and runs, muttering an apology to Mercy as he passes. Tamriel sighs and says to the other guard, “Go after him. Patch up his nose, then tell him he’s on duty guarding Beggars’ End for the rest of the day, effective immediately. I don’t want to see him within these walls.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The guard bows and runs after Raiden, leaving Mercy and Tamriel alone.
The prince flexes his hand and frowns at the purple bruises blossoming across his knuckles. “I forgot how much it hurts to punch someone. It’s not as easy as they always make it sound, is it?”
“Thank you.”
He looks at her sharply, surprise etched across his face. “Don’t thank me. The soldiers should know better than to behave in such a barbaric manner to anyone in the castle, not just royalty. It’s a matter of discipline, one I shall take up with Master Oliver. In the meantime, Raiden’s face will serve as a warning to everyone in the barracks.” He stares down at his hands, then frowns and shoves them into his pockets. “To the infirmary, then. His Majesty will be expecting me in his study shortly, no doubt to receive a reprimand of my own.” He smirks humorlessly as they start toward the stairs.
“Tamriel, about your father—”
“Marieve.” He stops and turns to her. “If you insist on continuing this—this charade of negotiating for peace, you have every right to do so. But don’t pretend I am your friend.”
She sees the lie in his eyes and steps closer, resting a hand on his arm. “Didn’t you see his face? He knew something. Didn’t you see it in his eyes?”
“I . . . It was nothing. He has a lot on his mind right now.”
“You did see it!”
He lets out a frustrated breath. “Maybe there was something there. Do you really trust anything he says? He’s a lunatic who prefers chasing ghosts to spending time with his own son.”
“Ah-ha. Struck a nerve there, did I?”
Tamriel glowers at her. “He has an obligation to our people, and sometimes he lets his feelings for phantoms get in the way of that. What he fails to realize is when he lost a wife, I lost both my parents,” he says. “Hell, Master Oliver is more of a father to me than His Majesty has ever been.”
“But he didn’t just lose a wife, did he? He also lost Liselle.”
“Perhaps if he hadn’t spent so much time running around with that rebellious harlot, he could have attended my mother better. She might have lived.” His voice breaks on the last word and he looks away.
“Your Highness—” Mercy hesitates, then reaches up and cups Tamriel’s cheek, his skin warm under her fingers. He swallows painfully but doesn’t back way from her touch. “You can’t blame him for that.”
“Can’t I? My mother was sentenced to bed rest for months, and while my father should have been at her bedside—at her beck and call—he was off seducing another woman. How is that fair?”
“It’s not, and it’s terrible, but it’s the past. You can’t change it.”
“He can’t bear to look at me for fear of remembering my mother. The day she died, Beltharos lost its queen and its king.” He looks down, then back at her. “I don’t want the throne, but if I could, I would take it from him the day I turn eighteen. Beltharos deserves better than him.”
“You deserve better than him.”
His mouth lifts into a half-smile, then he turns and continues down the stairs. When they reach the infirmary, he nods to the guards to open the door. Mercy steps through and they close it behind her, and it doesn’t occur to her until much later that the knife is still tucked into her waistband, and in those brief minutes she and the prince had been alone in the stairwell, she could have ended it all then and there.
32
Mercy’s second time entering the infirmary is much calmer than the first.
Alyss sets her to mashing the lillyborough buds Elvira had brought earlier, while she counts pills and takes inventory of the shelves. Pilar is still unconscious on her bed. Whatever sedative Alyss had used on her is a strong one; Pilar hasn’t muttered or stirred at all in over two hours, she tells Mercy.
“Damn near terrified me. Thought we’d lost ‘er, but she’s turnin out t’be stronger than I’d guessed.” The scratching of the nib of her pen pauses as she lifts onto her tiptoes to search a high shelf. Alyss closes one of her meaty hands around a jar and peers at the contents. Her scowl deepens and she scratches a note onto her paper. “She should wake up soon, though, and she’d better be ready to tell us what in the Creator’s name she was thinkin, terrifyin everyone like that.”
“Whatever it was, it worked. You should have seen them—scared out of their minds.”
“Rightly so.” She returns the jar to its shelf, then crosses the room and slaps the paper down on the desk. “When he returned, the prince had had a guard come and tell me what’s happening out there, and with this stock, we won’t have enough to tend to one tenth of the folks who are sufferin out there. I sent the helpers they gave me to every clinic and healer in the city to gather medicine and supplies, and I borrowed yer girl who came with the lillyborough buds and sent ‘er to the market.”
They continue their tasks in silence, and soon the pestle becomes heavy in Mercy’s hand, her movements slowing as she pounds the buds into a paste. The fire in the hearth crackles, glowing orange sparks dancing in the air when one of the logs shifts and cracks in half, and the combination of the warmth and the fact Mercy hasn’t slept since the previous morning causes her eyelids to droop, then flutter shut of their own accord. The bump on the back of her head has begun to throb. She pushes the mortar and pestle away and folds her arms on the desk, resting her cheek on the smooth wood, and falls asleep immediately.
Calum traces a finger down Mercy’s cheek. She lies atop the mattress in his bedroom, and Calum offers her a goading smile from where he kneels beside her.
“You don’t have to worry about the contract anymore, Mercy,” he says. “I’ve taken care of everything.”
Her head is foggy and his words sound muffled and distorted, as if she is listening to him from underwater. She can’t feel her lips as they part and ask, “What do you mean?”
“I’ve arranged everything.”
She struggles against her bonds and manages to lift her head an inch off the pillow, and that’s when the feeling of complete and utter wrongness fills every fiber of her being. The feeling she is not in control of her own body courses through her veins like oil.
Something is on the floor behind Calum. A pile of cushions on a red carpet, perhaps, but he shifts so his shoulder blocks her view before she can be certain.
Something
plop
plop
plops
on the floor.
“You can go back now, Mercy. I don’t need you anymore. Go back to the
Guild, where you belong.”
She focuses on him again, and a strange expression comes over his face as he reaches forward to caress her again. When he lifts his hand, she sees it is coated in blood. Fat red droplets plop, plop, plop on the sheet, then her pillow, as he traces a light thumb over her eyelid. One of the droplets catches on her lashes and runs down the side of her face like a tear.
Behind him, the pile of cushions lets out a choked sob, and it’s then she realizes it’s Tamriel lying in a heap on the floor, and dear Creator he’s still alive, and the red carpet is a growing pool of his blood. It steams a little where it touches the cold stone floor.
Calum’s mouth parts, but it is not his voice which says, “You can save them all.”
Mercy’s eyes snap open to the familiar sight of the infirmary, wrenched from her dream with a gasp of horror. No more than three inches from her face is Pilar, who stares at her with her one clear eye. Her hand rests on Mercy’s cheek in the same place Calum’s had, and her palm is moist from popped blisters, not blood.
“Save them,” she rasps.
Mercy lies on one of the four beds in the center of the infirmary; Alyss must have carried her from the desk when she realized Mercy had fallen asleep, although how the four-foot-nothing woman managed to lift and carry her across the room without her waking is beyond her.
Pilar has moved to the foot of Mercy’s bed and sits with her legs tucked into her chest, her chin resting on her knees.
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