The nobles have stopped arguing and stare at Mercy in silent horror.
“What have you done?” Porter’s face is a mask of shock. “I said we must protect everyone!”
“They are!” Mercy shouts. “Someone had to decide what to do, so I did! They’ll only hurt people if they fight back. Look, it’s working.”
All along the line, citizens attack the soldiers, but their pebbles and fists are not at all effective against the soldiers’ armor. They shout warnings and unsheathe their swords, and several women and men shriek and back away, pushed by the soldiers’ shields.
“She’s right,” Leon says. “Look, they’re moving back.”
Having realized the soldiers aren’t backing down, the people have begun shouting at each other and scrambling backward. Above, the people in the windows continue to taunt the soldiers, but they no longer throw anything. Already, the soldiers have gained three feet of ground.
Suddenly, a speeding carriage bursts around the corner, escorted by several soldiers on horseback. One of them carries a flag depicting the royal family’s crest.
People dive out of the way as the carriage careens into the edge of the crowd, the soldiers in front acting like a wedge to drive the bodies back. When the carriage stops in the middle of the street, the soldiers on horseback continue herding people out of the way until they reach Mercy and the nobles, clearing an aisle from the gate to the rest of the street.
For a few seconds, it’s completely silent.
Then the door to the carriage flies open and out steps Ghyslain, fury and betrayal blazing in his eyes. He is resplendent in his finest clothing: a dark purple silk shirt, fitted black pants and boots, and a lightweight cloak with a ruby clasp. At his hip is a sheathed sword, and his crown sits atop his immaculately combed hair.
“You have disappointed me greatly,” he says to his citizens, then walks the length of the street, to where Mercy and the others stand. He turns to the commander, frowning. “I came as soon as I could. I prayed I would arrive before someone did anything rash, and it appears I was right on time. Has anyone been seriously injured?”
“No, Your Majesty. A few minor cuts and bruises, but little open fighting. Hardly any damage had been sustained to the gate when we arrived. It will hold, should anything like this happen again.”
“It won’t. Not while I hold the throne. Now arrest the ringleaders of this attack.”
“I—Begging your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Do I have to say it twice? Is it not obvious? I assume you can identify the leaders of this attack on our people. Have your men arrest them and transport them to the castle immediately.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. My apologies.” The commander shouts the order to his men, pointing out a handful of people. Half of the soldiers break from the line and pull citizens from the crowd. Faced with Ghyslain’s wrath, several have begun to cry. One woman faints. The guard nearest to her scoops her into his arms and follows the line of soldiers moving toward the castle, hauling the offenders alongside them.
“Porter and Tanner, accompany them,” Ghyslain says, and the two men nod and hurry after the soldiers. Mercy watches them walk away, and she notices when they pass the carriage Tamriel stands beside it, resting a hand on the neck of one of the horses. When he catches Mercy watching him, he holds her gaze, his mouth pressing into a tight line before he glances away.
Ghyslain turns to address the people around him, who watch him with wide, fearful eyes. “I’m terribly ashamed of you,” he says. “The people on the other side of this wall are no different than you. Do you truly think because they have less money than you their lives are worth less than yours? Do you think they deserve the hate they receive every day simply because they were born into a different life?” He pauses, turning in a circle to meet the eyes of the thousands of people gathered around him. “Allow me to speak plainly: every citizen of this city is under my protection for as long as I am king, and I take the matter of your safety very seriously. Anyone who compromises that safety will be swiftly and severely punished.” He raises his brows. “I expect you all to be in front of the castle gates in one hour, and you shall see how sincere I am.”
He waits one long moment, almost like he expects someone to challenge him. When no one does, he smiles, then starts toward the carriage, his cloak billowing behind him. As his father nears, Tamriel straightens and bows stiffly while the slave who had ridden with them opens the carriage door and waits for the king to enter. The carriage dips slightly with his weight as he settles onto the bench. Tamriel follows him, but a snicker in the crowd halts him midstep.
“Defender of the damned and the destitute,” someone says, just loudly enough to ensure Tamriel hears him. “The elven whore turned the king soft.”
“He’s brought his bastard prince along with him, like some sort of trophy,” another jeers.
Tamriel’s foot hovers an inch above the carriage’s step. The backs of his ears and his neck flush red, and his hand shakes with anger as he closes it around the grip of his sword. Then, sensing her watching him, Tamriel glances at Mercy and his scowl softens. He uncurls his fingers from his sword, straightens his jacket, and climbs into the carriage without a word.
36
After the royal carriage rounds the corner, the rest of the crowd disperses quickly. Mercy, Leon, and the other nobles linger by the gate for another half hour, until the street has emptied of everything save its usual traffic, carriages which—their way no longer blocked—pass without slowing, as if nothing had happened. It’s eerie how quickly the people fall back into their usual routines, promptly forgetting that they had threatened the lives of thousands of their fellow citizens less than an hour ago. Ghyslain had done well diverting their anger and fear, but Mercy knows they will not remain complacent long. Perhaps the punishment Ghyslain has planned will be enough to frighten them until Alyss and the other healers develop a treatment for Fieldings’ Plague.
“Commander Willis, remain here with your men. Send a few soldiers to check on the guards at the other gates, as well,” Leon says.
“Yes, my lord,” Willis says. He nods to Mercy, Leon, Cassius, and Edwin in turn, then returns to his men, half of whom lean against the wall separating the two districts, wiping sweat from their brows.
“Lady Marieve,” Leon says, “His Highness will expect to see you at the castle, I presume. Would you be so kind as to walk with me?”
“Of course,” Mercy says, and when he offers her his arm, she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. For a block and a half, neither of them says much, each consumed by their own thoughts.
Mercy sighs and stares up at the clear blue sky, letting Leon guide her. “How can you stand living in this city? So many people, everyone always wanting something different. It’s exhausting.”
“It is, but I grew up here. I guess I’m used to it.”
“There aren’t as many people where I come from. At Castle Rising, I mean. Everything’s spread out. How can you stand it?” she repeats.
He’s quiet for a long time. “The first time I met Elise,” he finally says, “I was eight years old. By the Creator, I loved her the moment I laid eyes on her.” Mercy doesn’t look at him, but she can hear the smile in his voice. “She’s a year younger than I and she was this short, skinny thing, but I’d have sworn she was royalty, the way she carried herself. There was always this—this mischievous spark in her eyes, like she knew something no one else did, and she had a way of speaking that made me want to stop and listen.
“Most of all, she loved being right. They day I met her, my father had dragged my sister and me to what had felt like a dozen useless meetings, and we were bored out of our wits. While our father was occupied, we snuck out of the study and downstairs to the gardens, where Maisie bet me her dinner I wouldn’t jump into the half-frozen lake. Naturally, I had to prove her wrong—”
“—naturally—”
“—and I nearly froze to death. Meanwhile, Elise had been watching from t
he upstairs window and took it upon herself to discipline us ‘heathens,’” he says, grinning. “Half the castle heard her scolding, and you can bet our father beat us into shape that night. I think she only did it to impress her father and the other nobles, though, because the next time our father trusted us enough to bring us to the castle, she had managed to convince the prince, his cousin, and some of the other advisors’ children to jump into the lake as well. We stood atop the tallest rock and amused ourselves for hours, jumping and splashing and playfighting.” He smiles at the memory, but it quickly fades. “Later that night, I begged my father to arrange our betrothal, and he did.”
“Doesn’t that make you happy? Do you not love her anymore?”
“I do. By the Creator, I can hardly stand it when I’m with her, but I think she loves someone else.”
“Who?”
“Forget it, it’s foolish.”
“More foolish than jumping into a frozen lake?”
“I think she’s in love with the prince,” he blurts, then blushes. “It’s ridiculous. She’s not of high enough rank to marry him. But . . . I mean, all her spare time is spent in the castle, even when she’s not working. When we were younger, she and the prince and his cousin . . . they were practically inseparable.
“I’m paranoid, right? She agreed to our betrothal. She likes to tease me and torture me, sometimes, but she knows how I feel about her. Plus, my family are Nadra. It’s more than a step up from Serenna.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “But I don’t want her to choose me because she’s settling. I don’t want to be a consolation prize.”
“If that’s how she sees you, you’re the one settling. You don’t deserve someone who doesn’t love you back.” Just call me Matchmaker, Mercy thinks with a wry twist of her lips.
“I know she cares for me,” he says, “I’m just afraid she still sees me as that stupid eight-year-old from so long ago.” He clears his throat. “But that’s enough of my whining. I appreciate you listening, Marieve. It’s good advice, it’s just . . . I don’t know if I’m ready to accept it yet. But, ah, speaking of the castle—” He trails off as they round the corner and the walls surrounding the castle come into view. A significantly smaller crowd stands in front of the gate, where a large wooden stake sticks out of the ground in the center of the intersection.
Ghyslain stands beside the gate upon which Liselle’s body had once been strung, and he is clearly making an effort not to look at it. Even so, he glances at it out of the corner of his eye every few seconds, his face slightly green. Mercy and Leon join the crowd, and they watch as Ghyslain nods to Tamriel, who leads the soldiers and the six offenders forward. When they near the stake, the soldiers force the people onto their knees, and one of them protests into the gag which has been tied around his head. Their hands are bound, tied with rough pieces of rope, and they are all shirtless. The woman kneeling in the middle attempts to cover herself with her arms.
Master Oliver steps forward, a whip coiled in his hand.
“You are guilty of threatening the peace and inciting a riot,” Ghyslain says, “with the intent to murder civilians. Have you anything to say in your defense?”
None of the offenders make a sound. They glare at Ghyslain, working the frayed fabric of the gags between their teeth.
“Very well. I hereby sentence you to twenty lashes each.”
Master Oliver pulls the first offender up and drags him to the stake, then secures the rope around his wrists on a hook which sticks out from the top of the stake, stretching the man’s arms high above his head. Before he steps away, Master Oliver unties the gag and slips it into his pocket. At first, this confuses Mercy, but as he backs up, cocks his arm, and sends the whip cracking forward, she understands: he wants the crowd to hear their screams. The whip snaps against the man’s back and he cries out, a thin red line immediately spreading across his back. He takes a deep breath and braces himself for the next lash. Master Oliver lets the whip fly again, and again, and again, no expression on his face. The speed and power behind his lashes never changes, and he doesn’t waver when, halfway through his twenty lashes, the man’s legs give out and he hangs from his arms alone.
On the fifteenth strike, the whip lands in the same place the first one had, and the skin splits and oozes dark blood.
After the last lash, a soldier moves forward to collect the man, and he pulls him away through the gate. The next offender is tied to the stake, and this time, he doesn’t make a sound as the whip tears his flesh to ribbons. He stands there, silent tears running down his face, and glares at Ghyslain.
The third offender is an elven woman, her body soft and undefined. Her pale skin splits after the fifth lash. By the twelfth, her back and the waistband of her pants are soaked in blood. When Master Oliver swings his arm back for the next lash, she squeaks in fear and twists to the side, and the whip catches the side of her breast and stomach. She lets out a choked sob and goes slack, leaning her weight on the stake. The blood on her back shines under the sunlight as she takes quick, shallow breaths, her ribs visible as they expand and contract. The crowd murmurs and whispers, several of the women turning away or covering their faces. Across the clearing, Tamriel’s Adam’s apple bobs and the blood drains from his face despite his efforts to remain emotionless.
“Enough, Oliver,” Ghyslain says suddenly. “That’s enough.”
“That’s only sixteen, Your Majesty.”
“Look at her. She’s learned her lesson. Take her away.”
A soldier steps forward and unhooks her arms. He slips an arm around her waist, careful not to touch her lashed skin, and slowly walks her toward the gate. Halfway through, she goes unconscious, and the soldier lifts her into his arms and continues.
While the next three people are punished, Mercy averts her gaze, focusing on the tips of her shoes, caked with dirt after running alongside the soldiers earlier. Her stomach roils and she flinches with every scream. Leon shoots her a worried look. When all six people have been taken into the castle grounds, Ghyslain rubs a weary hand across his brow, knocking his crown askew. When he lowers his hand to his side, Mercy notices it trembles.
Master Oliver wipes the sweat from his forehead and coils the bloodied whip in one hand. He tosses it aside and pulls the wooden stake from the ground, then carries it into the castle grounds with the help of a soldier. Another guard steps forward and returns the cobblestone into the street where the stake had been planted.
Ghyslain steps forward and opens his mouth. The crowd hushes, waiting for him to speak. For a moment, his jaw works, but no sound comes out. Then he glances at his son, who stands across the clearing, watching him. Ghyslain frowns, turns sharply on his heel, and bolts through the gate.
Surprise flickers across Tamriel’s face, then he clears his throat and steps into the clearing. “Emerick, make sure these people return home safely,” he murmurs to the nearest guard, “and have someone clean up this mess.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Tamriel nods once and walks across the intersection. He steps in the drying puddle of blood where the stake had been, and his boots leave dark red prints on the cobblestones for a few strides. The bottom of his cloak drags behind him and leaves a thin line of blood which follows him through the gate and behind the castle’s walls.
“Bring them into the castle to be tended. Don’t put them in the infirmary, put them . . . somewhere else. Put them— Well, you know the castle. Find somewhere they’ll be comfortable. Send for a healer, too. Not Alyss—she has enough to do already and I don’t want those priestesses left alone. Send for someone in the market, someone who won’t get too queasy at the sight of them.”
Ghyslain paces on the grass, his fingers rubbing small circles on both temples. When the six soldiers carrying the offenders turn to walk them up the gravel to the castle, Ghyslain stops and stares after them, swaying slightly, as if he’d just stepped onto land after a month at sea. He presses a hand against the wall to support himself. He flinches and
shuts his eyes.
“I’m not cruel,” he murmurs. “I did what I had to do to keep them safe. To buy time. They won’t try again—not yet.”
“Do you think he realizes we’re here?” Leon whispers. They stand awkwardly a few yards away, watching as the king removes his crown and stares down at the central ruby as if it holds all the answers. Leon shuffles his feet, digging the toe of his shoe into the grass.
Mercy elbows him. “He will if you don’t shut your mouth. Let’s go.”
They start toward the gate and are only two feet away when Tamriel says a quick goodbye to the advisor he’d been speaking to and jogs over, catching Mercy by the arm. “You’re not leaving yet, are you?”
“We were planning to. Why?”
“I need you to save me.”
Mercy frowns. “What?”
Tamriel shakes his head, staring at his father. “He’s inconsolable when he’s like this. In about five seconds, he’ll stop talking to himself and start talking to the ghosts which live in his head, and I promise you, you don’t want to see that. I don’t want to see that. So please, help me escape somewhere he’ll never look.”
He turns and starts toward the castle, and Mercy trails a few paces behind before she realizes Leon isn’t following. He stands in the same place as before, glancing between Mercy and the prince, looking uncomfortable.
“You’re not coming?”
“I, uh, wasn’t sure the invitation was meant for me,” he says, raising a brow.
Tamriel stops. “If you would like to spend the next hour consoling the Mad King, be my guest. Otherwise, you are welcome to join us.”
Leon hesitates, then jogs to Mercy’s side. Tamriel looks back and smirks, then starts again up the long carriageway. “He’s been like this for as long as I can remember. He blames himself for the crimes of his people and calls himself a failure of a king.” He frowns down at the gravel as it crunches under his feet. “Usually he keeps it together until he returns to his study.”
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