“Fine.” Mercy tugs the dress Calum had given her over her head, dropping the sopping fabric on the floor. After Alyss raises her brows, Mercy sighs and slips out of the gold leotard and throws it aside, too. She stands before Alyss in nothing more than her underclothes, but she makes no move to cover herself. After so many humiliations over the years, she is determined not to be bothered or ashamed by her nakedness; the Guild girls would never have bored of tormenting her if she had continued to amuse them with her shame and blushing, so she had learned to smother and hide her feelings of weakness and vulnerability, and to channel her anger into their daily training. Sometimes that was enough. Other times, her blade nicked an apprentice a little too close for comfort, or her blunted arrowhead found its way into the soft flesh standing between her and her target, and in those moments—when the apprentice’s eyes had widened in pain and fear—Mercy had felt powerful.
The memory comforts her as Alyss circles her, poking and prodding with her short fingers and unwavering gaze. All Mercy has ever known is the Guild. It’s her entire life; it has determined who—what—she has become. She will leave this infirmary unscathed, she will assassinate Tamriel to complete her contract, and she will return to the Guild as the Daughter she had always sworn she would become.
Why, then, had she not killed the prince when she had had the chance?
Perhaps his royal surname stays her hand. Mother Illynor only allows contracts to be taken out on royalty by other royalty, otherwise ruling families all over the world would be murdered at the whims of every disgruntled factory worker or farmer. Would Mercy have hesitated had she been certain Ghyslain had ordered the murder of his son, or if Calum had been Tamriel’s brother instead of his cousin?
No. Mercy will not back out of the contract, forgery or not. It’s prestigious, much more so than a newly-inducted Daughter deserves, and Mother Illynor had given it to her. She could have chosen one of over a dozen full-fledged Daughters, but she had chosen Mercy. If she backs out now, Mercy will always be the elf who gave up the opportunity to assassinate the prince. Even if she were to reveal Calum’s trickery, the other Daughters will only see her failure.
They’ll know they were right about her.
Alyss picks up Mercy’s clothes and folds them. “No sign of anythin yet, but we can’t be too certain ye won’t catch it. Stay another day, then ye can go back to yer partyin and socializin.”
She smirks. “Is that all you think I do?”
“I don’t know how ye Feyndarans do it, but ye seem to be a more violent people than these lords and ladies, sittin around all day drinkin wine.” She nods to the lines of scars crisscrossing Mercy’s arms and legs. “Older brother?”
“Cousin. We liked to train with the soldiers.”
Alyss shrugs and pushes the clothes into Mercy’s arms. “Lay these out at the end of yer bed to dry, and I’ll find somethin for ye to borrow.” Mercy does as she is instructed while Alyss steps into the storeroom, shuffling through a battered trunk on the floor. “Ye let me know the moment ye feel anythin different, alright? Even if ye think you’re only imaginin something different. Tell me right away.”
“I will.” Mercy straightens as Alyss returns and hands her a simple tunic, threadbare around the cuffs of the worn sleeves. She slips it over her head and is surprised to find it long enough to fall to the middle of her thigh; it’s certainly not Alyss’s. She ignores the question which surfaces of what fate had befallen the previous owner of this garment, and instead narrows her eyes at the thin sheen of perspiration across Alyss’s upper lip. “How do you feel, Alyss?”
She crosses her arms. “Don’t go askin anythin like that. I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” After a beat of silence, the stubborn frown slides off Alyss’s face, replaced with something much wearier. “It’s been a rough coupla days, is all. It’ll be nice when we can get back to our normal lives.”
“Just . . . take care of yourself, okay? They need you.” Mercy waves a hand to the shelves, behind which the priestesses still huddle. “You’re the best healer they have.”
Alyss’s face lights up and, for a moment, Mercy thinks she might smile.
Instead, she turns around and marches out of the infirmary.
The priestesses have been whispering for hours.
After recovering from the shock of the skin shredding, Pilar, Owl, and Gwynn had settled into a circle on the far side of the shelves, sitting cross-legged on the floor so closely their knees touch. Pilar’s eyes are closed, her face turned partially away, creating a shadow across the scarred half of her face which hides it from Owl’s view.
The little girl sits ramrod straight, flinching whenever her sleeve or the back of her tunic brushes her raw skin. Now that she’s clean, Mercy realizes Owl is even younger than she had first guessed—she can’t be older than seven. Her lips move quickly as she mouths words Mercy cannot hear. When she creeps closer, she realizes the three priestesses are speaking at the same time, the same words in a language she cannot comprehend; it’s all hissing s’s and soft vowels, nothing like the common language of Beltharos and Feyndara or the guttural tongue spoken in Gyr’malr.
Mercy steps forward, and when she is less than an arm’s length away from their circle, the priestesses stop chanting and stare at her. Gwynn’s eyes are glassy, but Pilar’s functioning eye focuses on Mercy’s face and narrows in hostility. It’s not the intensity of her glare which causes Mercy to take a step back, but the unexpectedness. When she retreats to the opposite wall, Pilar closes her eyes, rolls back her shoulders, and the priestesses resume their whispering.
“What are you saying?” Mercy asks, if only to stop the eerie way Owl keeps peering at her out of the corner of her eye. “What language is that?”
“It’s a holy passage,” Owl says. “A prayer to ward off a malevolent spirit. It wishes to do you harm.”
“Do me harm?”
Gwynn nods. “The Creator showed the spirit to Pilar while she slept. Something’s been hiding in this castle, stalking the halls. It somehow . . . awoke when you arrived. It’s looking for you.”
She looks at Pilar. “Is this the same thing that sent you to me? The one who sent you the visions?”
The priestess shakes her head. “I cannot tell. It feels like it has been corrupted somehow, twisted from its true nature,” she says. “We’re not going to survive much longer, Mercy, and we must protect you. Owl felt its presence this morning. Even Alyss felt it—that’s why she left so suddenly. She cannot explain it, but something feels really, really wrong.”
As she listens, the blood drains from Mercy’s face. When she speaks, her voice comes out a hoarse whisper. “What did you just call me?”
Pilar’s expression shifts to confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Owl shrieks and Gwynn pulls her out of the way as Mercy steps into the center of the circle and—before she realizes what she is doing—closes her hand around Pilar’s throat, dragging her to her feet and pinning her against the wall. Pilar lets out a scream which ends in a mangled cough as Mercy tightens her grip. The priestess’s fingers scratch at Mercy’s as she struggles for breath.
Mercy leans forward, her face inches from Pilar’s. “How do you know who I am?”
Pilar’s eyes bug in terror, her hands prying at Mercy’s grip on her throat. Her mouth opens and closes, but no sound escapes.
“Did Calum send you here to scare me? Is this another one of his clever tricks?”
“Stop, please!” Owl cries. “Let her go! She’s protecting you!”
Her words strike Mercy like a blow and she releases Pilar, who sinks to her knees, clutching her throat. Mercy staggers back and claps her hands over her mouth in horror, her eyes wide. Her legs begin to tremble uncontrollably and she reaches to the wall to support herself. “Oh, no,” she whispers. Owl stands in front of Gwynn with the elder priestess’s arms wrapped protectively around her, staring up at Mercy with terrified eyes.
A stone sinks in Mercy’s stomach. “You don’t know, do you? You don’t know who I am.”
Pilar shakes her head. “The Sight,” she rasps. “Just your name.”
Mercy opens her mouth, then closes it. “I have to go,” she finally says.
She turns on shaky legs and pulls the door to the infirmary open so hard it cracks against the wall. Owl lets out a squeak and sinks further into Gwynn’s embrace, and Mercy feels their stares on her back as she runs out the door.
34
The soldiers guarding the infirmary let out surprised cries at her sudden appearance, but Mercy doesn’t slow. Belatedly, one sputters, “Y-You can’t be out here!”
Their footfalls pound behind her as she climbs the stairs to the main floor and sprints down the halls, dodging surprised nobles and courtiers. A slave shouts and jumps out of her way as she rounds the corner, dropping a tray of tea and pastries on the floor. Several teacups shatter, and the slave mutters in frustration as the shards crunch under the soldiers’ boots moments later.
Mercy bursts into the great hall, releasing a sigh of relief when she sees the familiar silhouette standing in the open doors of the castle, outlined by the bright blue sky beyond. “Tamriel—” She steps forward, a hand outstretched, then freezes when she realizes who stands beside him.
Calum.
He stands with his arms crossed as he listens to Tamriel. At her outburst, they stop mid-conversation and stare at her, and in the several seconds during which they take in her labored breathing and disheveled appearance, the guards catch up and each clamps his hands around her upper arms.
“Apologies, Your Highness. She—”
“Marieve, what’s wrong?” Tamriel doesn’t hesitate before he crosses the room and stops in front of her, his expression caught between fear and worry. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I—” she stops and shakes her head. What can she tell him? Anything she could possibly say would result in her either being thrown into the dungeon or an asylum. A spirit searching for her? An Old God bent on revenge? She doesn’t know how much of what Pilar told her is true and how much was brought on by fever and her corrupted Sight. “I needed some fresh air, is all. I don’t like being cooped up,” she says lamely.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“If only. No, it’s nothing.”
“Might there be something I could help with, my lady?” Calum asks, and Mercy’s forced smile turns bitter.
“Do I know you?”
“My cousin,” Tamriel explains, “although Calum’s lived in the castle almost all his life. My father took him in after an unfortunate incident claimed his father’s life.”
“That’s terrible,” Mercy says, and frowns. “But you must have developed a really special bond after spending so much time together.” In the corner of her eye, she sees one of the soldiers shift his weight from one foot to the other, and the panic rises inside her once more. She doesn’t want to return to the infirmary, doesn’t want to face the horror of what she had just tried to do. Keep them talking. “It’s good you’re here to support His Highness.”
Calum smiles. “I’m nothing if not loyal to my family.”
“Your Highness, it’s not safe for her to be out here—”
“Let me speak to him! Let me speak to him, please!” A wail rises from the throne room, followed by muffled sobbing.
Tamriel and Calum dart into the throne room. Mercy’s guards stare at each other for a moment, torn between returning her to the infirmary and their duty to protect the prince.
They choose the prince, gripping Mercy’s arms tightly and dragging her behind them.
The first thing Mercy sees when they enter is Elise sobbing on the floor. There are streaks in her makeup and she uses a crumpled fistful of her skirt to wipe away her tears. Seren Pierce stands beside her. The only comfort he offers her is a hand on her shoulder as he stares blankly at the floor, his face haggard and haunted.
When Elise lifts her head and spots Tamriel, she lets out another hiccupping sob and reaches out to him. “Your Highness, he’s locked inside! They’ve locked my brother—You’ve locked my brother inside Beggars’ End!”
“Elise,” Tamriel says in a low, sorrowful voice. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.” He sinks to his knees beside Elise. He pries the wrinkled fabric out of her fist, then clasps her trembling hands in his. “I know how much your brother means to you, but your anger is misdirected. I did not order him to remain in Beggars’ End.”
“Wh-Who, then? Who ordered him to stay?”
“No one.”
Elise’s eyes widen. She shakes her head quickly, her curls bouncing. “No. That’s not right. He would never choose to stay in that—that pit! You ordered him to stay—you or your father!”
“Elise, you know your brother. If he has the chance to help people who need him, he’s going to choose that over his safety, hands down. You know that, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but— It wasn’t his decision to make! We need him here; his family needs him!”
“Your Highness, please—” Seren Pierce begins. “Imagine how your father would feel if you had stayed behind.”
A sudden and inappropriate smirk crosses Tamriel’s face, as if he knows his father wouldn’t be a tenth as concerned about him as Atlas’s family is now. He hides it before anyone but Mercy notices, frowning instead. “In a couple days, when we’ve begun to get a handle on the situation, I can arrange for you to send him a letter. I doubt it will sway his decision, but you may try.”
“Oh, Your Highness! Thank you!” Elise jumps to her feet and throws her arms around Tamriel’s neck. She chokes out a relieved laugh.
Tamriel stands stiffly while she embraces him, his arms straight at his sides. After a pause, he pats her back awkwardly until Elise blushes and steps back.
“H-How inappropriate of me. I-I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness.”
“Of course.” Tamriel nods, looking relieved. “Go home now and rest.”
“Y-Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.” She bows and runs from the room, shooting a sheepish look at Mercy and Calum as she passes. In the quiet following her exit, Seren Pierce steps forward and rests a hand on Tamriel’s shoulder.
“Thank you for understanding, Your Highness. The situation with her brother has been hard on all of us,” he says, “but has hit her worst of all.”
“Take care of your family, Seren. Make sure Elise returns home safely, then find Landers for your assignment. We need every pair of hands we have.”
“Of course.” Seren Pierce follows his daughter out of the room, calling her name as his footsteps fade into the hall.
One of the guards sets a heavy hand on Mercy’s shoulder and pulls her back, away from where she and Calum had been watching from the doorway. “Show’s over, m’lady.”
When Mercy looks up at him, all she sees are Pilar’s terrified eyes bugging out, her lips moving soundlessly as they had turned a faint blue. Then she remembers the three priestesses waiting for her downstairs, chanting in their strange language, and her blood turns to ice water as white-hot shame burns in her stomach.
“Please, Tamriel, don’t let them send me down there again!” she begs, clutching the front of his shirt. “I’m not sick, see?” She gestures to her bare legs, peeking out from under Alyss’s tunic, then at each of her arms, wiggling her fingers in the air. “Nothing. Please, don’t let them take me back.”
“Lady Marieve, you’re hysterical—” Calum begins before she fixes him with a glare.
“Tamriel— Your Highness, please!”
“He’s right, Marieve,” Tamriel says. “You need to calm down. Take deep breaths.”
“You’re not listening to me—”
“Marieve.” Tamriel cups the back of her head with one hand, staring into her eyes intensely enough to stop her midsentence. “I wish I could help you. I do,” he whispers, his breath warm on her face. “By the order of the king, you’ll be released tomorrow, as soon as Alyss confirms y
ou have no sign of the disease.” He steps back and rubs his temples, closing his eyes. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Faint shadows hang under his eyes, Mercy realizes, and she wonders how much rest he’s had since Solari. It’s been almost a day and a half since Ghyslain had ordered her quarantined, and Tamriel looks like he’s been awake for every one of those thirty-six hours, but is trying hard not to show it. He’s put on a clean shirt but missed one of the buttons. A stray strand of hair sticks out below his ear; he’s been running his hands through it as he thinks.
Mercy’s frown softens. “Fine. But please, you must stay safe, as well.” She allows the guards to pull her away, but before they walk out of earshot, Calum calls in a mockingly cheerful voice, “It was lovely to meet you, my lady!”
She doesn’t respond.
The priestesses are in the midst of their prayers when the guards drag Mercy into the infirmary, except this time, their mouths move in silence. Alyss has returned and is working at the desk, but when Mercy peers over her shoulder to see what she is working on, Alyss grunts and moves to block her view.
“Stay in here,” the guard says. “At this rate, you’ll have infected half the city within the week.”
“I haven’t infected anyone.”
A glass shatters.
Alyss curses as she fumbles for a pan to collect the pieces of the jar she’d dropped, picking the dried leaves out of the shards of broken glass.
“Let me help,” the guard says, and starts to kneel beside her.
“No! No, it’s alright. I’m too clumsy for my own good sometimes. It’s done already, see?” Alyss wipes her hands on her tunic, then winces and pulls a shard from her finger. She drops it in the pan, where it shines with her blood. “Nothin I haven’t done a hundred times over the years.”
The guard watches her warily, then turns to Mercy. “Someone will be here to escort you home in the morning, once you have been cleared to leave,” he says, and she nods.
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