“Would he prefer you stay with him, Your Highness?” Leon asks. “He looks like he might need the company—or something to distract him, at least.”
“The only people whose company he enjoys have been dead for nearly eighteen years. Follow me.”
Tamriel strides up the stairs two at a time and pushes the castle doors open wide. He apparently only remembers to hold them open behind him at the last second, and he abruptly turns and catches the door with the toe of his shoe before it swings into Mercy. He offers her an apologetic smile and gestures to his head. “Sorry. Distracted.”
He leads Mercy and Leon through the great hall and down a steep flight of stairs. As they descend, the walls narrow and the air turns damp and earthy, and Mercy realizes with a start where he is leading them. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, the abrupt fork in the hallway confirms her suspicion: they’re in the basement, far under the castle. To the left is the storeroom where Mercy and Elvira had watched Tamriel cut out Hero’s tongue with a glowing knife. She trains her eyes on Tamriel’s back as he and Leon continue down the hall, convinced he somehow knows exactly who she is and plans to punish her the same way. Elvira has been gone for hours—perhaps she had revealed to the prince Mercy’s identity in exchange for her husband’s freedom and is now on the run to Cirisor. After Elvira’s outburst earlier, Mercy isn’t sure she’s above it.
When Tamriel turns right at the fork, Mercy lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and hurries after him. She rounds the corner and nearly collides with the prince, who stands still as a statue in the center of the hall, staring at a cobweb-covered door. Leon catches her arm as she stops, and the two of them exchange a look as Tamriel takes a deep breath and grasps the door’s handle. He turns it slowly and the door opens with a low groan. The three of them step inside, and Tamriel turns to them, a grave expression on his pale face.
“Welcome,” he says, “to my mother’s tomb.”
37
Leon lets out a strangled sound which is almost a laugh. “Uh, not her actual tomb, though, right?”
“After her death, her body was buried at her grandparents’ estate in Redscale Down, so no, it’s not her actual tomb,” Tamriel says, looking a bit irritated, “but my father had many of her personal effects placed into this room so he wouldn’t be reminded of her every day. These objects held enough of her life in them he couldn’t even bear the sight of them. He still can’t. I don’t think my father’s ever set foot in this room.”
“Are we allowed to be in here?”
He shrugs. “My father’s not going to come searching. Would you care to look around?”
The room is packed from wall to wall with bookshelves, sculptures, paintings, dresses, bolts of fabric, and various baubles. On a dust-coated vanity is a silver tray of hairbrushes and combs, jars of makeup, and pearl hair clips. A gemstone-encrusted box sits open beside the metal mirror, spilling necklaces of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds, along with strands of gold and tarnished silver. While Mercy and Leon work their way around various pieces of furniture and piles of clothing, Tamriel leaves and returns a minute later with two torches he had taken from the hall outside. Their glow is weak in the dust-filled air, bathing everything nearby in a pale yellow light.
“Here.” He hands one to Leon. “Have you taken a look at that bookshelf over there? There are a few books I think would interest you—my mother loved classical literature, so I’m told.”
“Really? You’d let me . . .?”
“Sure. Right over there. You, too, Marieve.”
They move to the bookshelf and Leon picks up and reads the titles of a few of the leather-bound books, coughing when dust flies up from the pages. He holds the torch in one hand and wanders around to the other side of the bookshelf, and when the light fades and leaves Mercy in a cloak of darkness, she realizes Tamriel hadn’t followed them. She glances back and, after a moment of searching, spots him sitting cross-legged on the floor across the room, partially hidden by the arm of an enormous velvet settee.
He doesn’t move at all as Mercy approaches, and only looks up at her when she stops beside him. The torch he holds at his side illuminates only half his face, but it does nothing to hide the grief in his eyes. At first, Mercy cannot decipher the expression on his face, but it dawns on her as he turns away:
He looks vulnerable.
She tears her eyes away and focuses on the painting in front of him, an enormous gold-framed canvas which he had leaned against the wall, the dust cloth which had protected it crumpled at his side; a handful of the rough fabric is still clamped in his fist. In the painting, King Ghyslain and Queen Elisora stand on a balcony overlooking Lake Myrella. Ghyslain and Elisora face each other, their hands clasped between them. The Ghyslain in the painting is dressed in a dark blue shirt and black pants, and Elisora is draped in a gold gown which clings to the curve of her round stomach, heavy with child. The king and queen gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes, and a smile tugs at Ghyslain’s lips.
“It’s beautiful,” Mercy whispers.
“It was painted right before she was bedridden with . . . complications,” Tamriel says. “I’ve seen paintings of her before, but this one is my favorite. They look so happy. I’ve never seen my father smile like that.”
“Never?”
He shakes his head. “You’ve seen the paintings in the hall outside the throne room, haven’t you? The ones of my ancestors? According to tradition, they’re supposed to be portraits of the king alone. Instead, my father was so excited for my arrival he commissioned a family portrait, and had it hung in the hall for everyone to see. He was so proud of it.” Tamriel doesn’t look at Mercy as he speaks, just keeps staring at the painting as the light of the torch flickers and dances across its surface. “Tell me, does that sound like the king you saw outside?”
“No, not at all.”
“This painting hung in that hall for years after her death. The advisors had thought the citizens should have a space to dedicate to her memory, since she wasn’t buried here, and this painting became an unofficial shrine to her. People used to leave coins, jewelry, flowers, letters—they cared for her so much, my father had had no choice but to leave it there, no matter how much it killed him to see it.
“One night, when I was five, I awoke to a crashing sound downstairs, and a howling of such despair it made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I climbed out of bed and followed the sound downstairs, and when I reached that hall, my father was on his knees on the ground, the smashed flowers and vases in pieces around him. There was a puddle of water around him and his knees were bleeding from the shards of porcelain and glass, but he stayed there, sobbing into his hands,” Tamriel says, his voice hollow. “It terrified me. I called out to him and he froze. He simply froze. Then his face turned bright red and he started shouting, screaming at me, and he chased me up the stairs and told me to never, ever spy on him again. The next morning, the painting was gone, and he had blunted a letter opener scratching her name off the inscription.”
Mercy sinks to her knees and places a hand on his shoulder. It startles him and he stiffens, then relaxes slowly, leaning into her touch. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for her death, Tamriel, or the way your father responded to it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. I can tell by the way you talk about her—”
“It’s just— It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? How can you mourn someone you’ve never met? Everything I know about her, I’ve learned from other people. When my father looks at me, all he sees is her ghost. And I don’t—I don’t understand it. How could he have loved her so much and still fallen for Liselle?” He spits her name like a curse. “How could he have betrayed her like that?”
“I don’t know. Have you tried asking him?”
Tamriel chokes on a laugh. “Right. I’m sure he’d be happy to share the intimate details of their relationship, seeing how he can hardly say her name without falling apart.”
&nbs
p; Mercy nods, unsure what to say to that, and sits down beside him, their knees nearly brushing. For a few minutes, neither of them speaks.
“I heard what they said before—what they called me outside Beggars’ End,” Tamriel says softly. “I’m not a bastard.”
“I know.”
He turns to her. “I want you to know I appreciate all the help you’ve given us since your arrival. Thank you—”
“Don’t thank me, Tamriel—”
“I want to, and you deserve it. We’ve been so busy since Solari the negotiations have fallen to the wayside, but you’ve still helped in the infirmary—”
“—where your father ordered me to go—”
“—and you didn’t have to. None of what’s happening is your responsibility. You could have gone home at the first sign of a problem, but you didn’t.” He takes a deep breath, his dark eyes searching hers in a way which makes her stomach flutter. “And that’s why, when I challenge my father’s rule on my eighteenth birthday and ascend the throne, I will ensure you are given everything your country is owed—namely, a peace treaty over Cirisor.”
“A— A what? You’re going to challenge your father?”
Tamriel drops his head into his hands. “I hadn’t seriously considered it until this morning, when I saw how unhinged he’s become. He’s getting worse—more distracted, more deranged— He told me he sees Liselle . . . He—He talks to her. How can I in good conscience allow him to keep the throne? I have a responsibility to my people.
“There are several nobles whose loyalty to my father is questionable, at best. If I meet with them, I bet they will support me. They will help me dethrone my father, and then I will be able to negotiate with you for Cirisor.” He speaks quietly enough that Leon can’t hear him, an intoxicating, wild excitement in his eyes. He hesitates before speaking again. “And if you still desire it . . . I will need a queen to rule beside me . . .”
Mercy’s mouth drops open, and he quickly adds, “It’s not ideal, I know, but . . . it would benefit both our countries greatly. This animosity between Beltharos and Feyndara must not continue, and you said it yourself, what better way to form an alliance than through marriage?”
“I, uh, I did say that.”
“So, what do you think?” He hesitantly reaches forward and cups her chin, running his thumb gently over her cheek.
Mercy swallows painfully, her mouth suddenly dry. She might have laughed in his face if not for the way he is watching her. His eyes are trained on her face, the firelight flickering mesmerizingly in their depths, and his lips part into a small, sheepish smile.
Creator damn her, she cannot deny he is beautiful.
She opens her mouth and silently curses herself for what she is about to say:
“Yes.”
38
Later that night, Mercy is training with her daggers in her bedroom when a series of quick, short taps on the front door interrupts her mid-swing. She frowns and wipes the sheen of perspiration off her brow, then twists the pommels of the daggers together and slips them between the bed frame and her mattress. She smooths her shirt with her hands as she walks into the hallway, shaking her head at Elvira when she glances out of her bedroom, a questioning look on her face.
“It’s probably nothing.”
As Mercy descends the stairs, the tapping comes again, louder and more urgently. She pads down the hall, and the door creaks loudly in the nighttime quiet when she opens it and finds herself staring into Owl’s wide hazel eyes.
“Thank the Creator I found you,” she sighs, clasping Mercy’s hand in her gloved one. Every inch of the little girl’s skin is covered except her face, from the silken scarf wound around her head to the too-large cloak which pools at her feet. “Come, we must return to the infirmary immediately.” She tugs at Mercy’s hand, but weak as she is, she doesn’t even succeed in shifting Mercy’s balance.
“Owl, wait—What are you talking about?”
“It’s Pilar—she doesn’t have much time. Alyss doesn’t think she’ll last the night. Now let’s go, and I’ll explain on the way.”
“I— Fine, okay, let’s go.”
Owl pulls Mercy along the sidewalk, tugging her scarf further over her face when they pass a house and the light from the open window shines on her. Mercy glances at her and realizes with horror that three-quarters of her face—which had been clear, healthy raw skin after Alyss’s Pryyam salt bath—is now covered in pitted, crusty scabs and milky blisters. Owl notices Mercy’s stare and quickly turns away, hastening their pace until they return to the shadows. “Alyss’s treatment didn’t work,” she says in a quiet voice. She drops Mercy’s hand and moves half a step away, dismissing the topic for conversation.
Instead, Mercy asks, “How did you manage to leave the infirmary? Aren’t the soldiers still guarding the door?”
“Yes, but they can’t do their jobs nearly as well if they’re unconscious; Alyss drugged them so I could come find you. Pilar kept asking for you—she’s half-delirious, spouting all these things about visions—and she wouldn’t quiet down until Alyss agreed to send for you.”
Owl takes a shuddering breath and leads Mercy through the gate. Rather than following the gravel path to the castle’s front doors, they cut through the garden and jog to the side of the castle, where a wooden door is nestled between vine-covered trellises. On its surface are a series of metal latches and switches, which Owl unlocks with quick, lithe fingers faster than Mercy can follow, and the door springs open. When Mercy gapes at her, she glances back and shrugs. “Alyss taught me.” She and Mercy step inside, and she pulls the door shut behind them.
The servants’ entrance is only a few short hallways from the infirmary, and when they turn the last corner, Mercy suppresses a snicker at the sight of the two guards slumped against the wall. Owl raps on the door, casting a worried glance over her shoulder when one of the guards stirs at the sound, and Gwynn lets them in, a grave expression on her face.
Owl darts around the shelves and Mercy follows, to find Alyss kneeling on the side of Pilar’s bed, tightening ropes around Pilar’s wrists. The bed frame groans as Pilar tugs on the ropes, moaning quietly. Her legs are free and kick out halfheartedly, tangling the blankets around her feet. Mercy hesitates at the sight, and Owl brushes past her and moves to the opposite side of Pilar’s bed, brushing sweat-slick hair from her forehead, like a mother tending her child.
“Pilar, look who we brought.”
“Mer—”
“—Lady Marieve,” Owl corrects, then looks up at Alyss. “How is she doing?”
Alyss stands and crosses her arms, although Mercy notices her hands trembling as she does so. “She’s . . . hangin in there, and I’ve done wha’ I can, but I’m afraid ‘er pain’s not going away. I’ve given ‘er as much as I can without overdosin ‘er.”
Pilar turns her face toward Mercy, and it takes everything Mercy has not to let out a gasp of shock. The priestess’s face is scabbed and scarred, just like Owl’s and Gwynn’s, but her blind eye is no longer white—it’s turned a dark red, almost black, and the skin around her eye is inflamed and irritated, crisscrossed with tiny scratches. Her other eye has turned cloudy, with just enough left of her sight for her to track Mercy as she moves to the side of the bed and leans forward, hovering over Owl’s shoulder. The scabs continue down the side of Pilar’s face and neck, oozing blood where her sudden movements had ripped the skin open.
“What happened to her?” Mercy asks.
“Sh-She was havin’ delusions,” Alyss says in a shaky voice. “She says she no longer feels the Creator’s presence in ‘er visions anymore—all she sees are death and destruction. Last night, I found ‘er tryin to scratch ‘er eyeballs out to make the visions stop.”
Behind them, Gwynn hiccups a sob and buries her face in her hands. She falls to her knees beside the fire and murmurs a prayer between labored breaths.
Pilar moves her arm to reach for Mercy, but the rope pulls taut and she growls in frustration. Mercy
rests a hand on her arm, then looks up at Alyss. “Could we have a moment in private?”
Alyss nods and steers Owl by the shoulders to the hearth, next to Gwynn. After a few moments, Owl bends her head and joins the prayer, while Alyss watches Mercy and Pilar with concern.
Mercy kneels by the side of the bed and rests her elbows on the mattress, pressing a hand to Pilar’s cheek until the priestess’s cloudy eye focuses on Mercy. “How do you feel?”
She closes her eyes as a shudder racks her body. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “I’m not ready to go to the Beyond. I want to help.”
“You are helping. You’ve been helping this whole time. You’re the one who alerted us to Fieldings’ Plague. Because of you, we’re able to treat people who are suffering. Alyss and the other healers are working to find a cure.”
“You can’t cure it.” Pilar opens her eyes and blinks up at the ceiling. “Not really. You can only keep it at bay. To remove it completely, you must defeat it . . . defeat him.”
“Who?”
“The one who preys on Cirisor. Myrbellanar.”
“From the legend?”
“I thought it was a legend—I used to. But I saw him.”
“An Old God.” Mercy stares at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“He wants to hurt the Creator by destroying his Creations. You mustn’t let him. It must be you.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not a hero,” she says. “I’m no Chosen One.”
“No, you’re not, but if you don’t, who will?” Pilar whispers. “He’s shown me such terrible things, Mercy, things which would shatter the toughest Daughter.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and she begins to mumble under her breath. Every few seconds, her eyelids drift shut, and each time stretches a little longer before she opens them again.
“Pilar? Pilar, don’t go yet, okay? Stay here. Stay with me.” Mercy shakes Pilar’s arm gently until her eyelids flutter open.
Merciless Page 27