“I’m here. I’m here. For a little bit longer . . .” She clenches her teeth, shifting her legs under the blanket. “It . . . it hurts.”
“Alyss, is there anything you can give her? The mushrooms?”
“No, don’t!” Pilar interrupts before Alyss can respond. “The pain is something to hold on to, at least. I don’t want to slip away. Not yet.”
Mercy takes one of Pilar’s hands in hers as Gwynn and Owl walk over and settle on the ground on either side of Pilar’s bed. Alyss moves to the foot of the bed, her eyes downcast, and gnaws on her lip. Owl kneels beside Mercy and braids a small section of Pilar’s hair, humming softly under her breath, an old folk song Mercy recognizes from some of the apprentices at the Guild. Sadness and homesickness strike her so strongly she closes her eyes and clasps Pilar’s hand tighter, and the four of them remain in that position long after Pilar’s eyes drift shut for the final time.
They remain seated around Pilar’s bed for so long, Owl falls asleep leaning on Pilar’s mattress, her arms folded under her head like a pillow. Her eyes are swollen and her tears have left pink trails across her face. Without a word, Gwynn stands, grimacing at the cramps in her legs, and rounds the bed. Gently, she picks up Owl and carries her to the farthest bed, tucking the blankets around her small body. Owl mumbles something incomprehensible and shivers, and Gwynn looks down at her for a long time before laying down on top of the blankets and taking the little girl into her arms. It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep.
Alyss stares at Pilar, her face carefully neutral. “We should move ‘er out now,” she says, although her mouth hardly seems to move. “I don’t want ‘er here when they wake up.”
Mercy nods and stands. Together they peel the blankets off the bed and untie the ropes around Pilar’s wrists, throwing both into the fire. Alyss places Pilar’s left arm at her side, then reaches over her to move her right arm, and as she does, the collar of her shirt slips forward enough for Mercy to catch a glimpse of the bright red rash streaking across her shoulder and chest.
“Alyss!” she gasps, and Alyss’s eyes follow hers to her torso, then they widen. She clutches the collar of her shirt and pulls it up to her neck, hiding her diseased skin. “You’re sick!”
“Don’t say a word to anyone!” Alyss hisses, anger suddenly flaring in her eyes—only . . . it’s not just anger, Mercy realizes as she stares at Alyss. It’s terror. The healer’s hands have begun to shake, and she occupies them by pulling up the sides of the sheet on Pilar’s bed. “We’ll wrap ‘er up in this, then we can take ‘er outside.”
“Alyss, don’t change the topic. You’re sick, you shouldn’t be going outside at all. What if you spread it?”
“It’s—It’s only in the early stages, okay? I’ll be careful, I’ll cover up. It’s transferred through touch, as far as I can tell. Maybe they’re immune. Ye never caught it.”
“I’m one person, not the whole of Sandori!”
“Okay, look, you’re strong, but you’re goin to need help to get ‘er out of here. I’m already infected, so there’s no point in involvin two soldiers who might catch it if they move ‘er,” she says. “I’ll help ye carry ‘er out of here, then we’ll come back immediately. No contact with anyone, no spreadin of the disease. Let’s move ‘er, then ye can scold me as much as ye want.”
Mercy sighs. “Fine. But I don’t like this.”
“I don’t like it, either, but what else can I do?”
Mercy and Alyss wrap Pilar’s body in the sheet and carry her to the door, Alyss at her head and Mercy at her feet. Alyss pounds on the door with her heel, and it swings open a moment later to a very confused and groggy-looking soldier. He rubs his eyes, shock and sadness flickering across his face when he realizes what Mercy and Alyss are doing. Out of instinct, he reaches forward to help, then hesitates and draws back, moving out of the way for them to carry Pilar through the doorway. The other guard—who had been lounging on the floor—pushes to his feet and jogs down the hallway ahead of them, and they hear the servants’ door open in the distance. When they approach, the guard holds it open for them.
“Send for a driver to bring a carriage to the front of the castle,” Alyss says as they step outside.
“Of course.” The guard nods and runs off, closing the door behind him. Mercy and Alyss maneuver Pilar’s body away from the vines and carry her along the side of the castle. When they reach the corner, Alyss stops and sticks her head out, waiting for the carriage to arrive before stepping out in the open with the body. Alyss scowls when the driver tries to help them place Pilar’s body on the floor. He offers each of them a hand as they climb inside—a hand Alyss avoids as if he were the one infected.
“Where would you like to take her?” he asks, unfazed by what he assumes is Alyss’s lack of manners.
“To the Church.”
“You . . . know there’s practically no one left, don’t you? Most of them were moved out of the city for treatment.”
“We’d like to return ‘er to ‘er family. The Church, please.”
He nods and closes the door, and the carriage dips with his weight as he climbs onto the front and settles onto the bench. He snaps the reins and the horses lurch forward, their hooves crunching on the gravel.
Her arms crossed over her chest, Mercy glares at Alyss, who stares back with stony resolve. The healer’s anger mounts until it’s practically tactile, suffocating them in the small space until she finally snaps. “I suppose you’re goin to continue lecturin me now, aren’t you?”
“You can’t hide this, Alyss. You’re sick and you’re going to make more people sick. You need treatment.”
“So I can rot in some putrid tent out in the fields? No, not while I’m able to work. We’ve been dealin with Fieldings’ Blisters for decades. I can find a cure for this, I know I can. I just need more time to try.”
“There is no cure. Pilar told me. She saw it.”
“Half of the things she claimed to see were hallucinations,” Alyss insists, although she doesn’t look quite as certain as she had earlier. “Ye should have seen the way she was ravin earlier, talkin about flowers and somethin called ‘Niamh.’”
Mercy pauses. “She said that?”
“I thought it might be a place, or someone’s name. Does it mean something to you?”
“It . . . might. I’m not sure yet. But”—Mercy shakes her head sharply, her frown mirroring Alyss’s—“don’t try to change the subject. This is about you, Alyss. You can’t hide this.”
“The hell I can’t!” she explodes, so loudly one of the horses nickers nervously. She lowers her voice and leans close to Mercy. “I will, as long as I’m able, ‘cause I swore an oath to serve the royal family and the people of Sandori, and Creator damn ye if ye think I’ll turn my back on that for a measly rash! Ye saw what this disease did to ‘er,” she says, nodding to Pilar, “the way it corrupted ‘er and poisoned ‘er mind. She spoke of dead gods and spirits and blood spillin across the city, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t believe ‘er when she says there is no cure for this ‘Fieldings’ Plague,’” she says, her eyes wide. “If this disease kills me, so be it, but I will not sit idly by and wallow in self-pity waitin for it to claim me. I will spend what little time I have left exactly where I belong—tendin those far sicker than I and workin to find this cure. If I fail, another healer will pick up where I leave off, and there will be no need for any more people to suffer.” She stops suddenly as her eyes brim with tears, turning away to swipe at them angrily. After composing herself, she adds, “And I will not hear another word on the matter.”
Mercy nods—not because she thinks it’s the right choice, but because she doubts arguing further would convince Alyss to change her mind. In fact, she’s sure it would only succeed in making Alyss more certain she’s right.
Alyss stares at the white sheet covering Pilar’s face, then says in a quiet voice, “When it comes time for me to die, ye must remember yer promise.”
Mercy nods. “
I will.”
“Good.”
Alyss offers her a small, grateful smile and looks away. Neither of them speaks again for the remainder of the ride.
39
It’s only a matter of minutes before the carriage stops in front of the steps of the Church in the market district. The driver climbs down from his seat and pulls the door open, then backs away from the carriage, not risking another scathing look from Alyss. She and Mercy carry Pilar up the three stairs to the church, waiting under the stone overhang after Alyss knocks on the door with the toe of her boot. The sound resonates in the quiet, and a moment later, the door is swung open by a surprised priestess. Her purple robe hangs crookedly off her shoulders, thrown on in haste, and her hair is a frizzy halo around her strangely tattooed face.
“How may I—Oh,” she says, focusing belatedly on the body in their arms. “Who—Who is that?”
“Pilar.”
“Oh.” Her face falls and she steps aside, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”
She leads them through the center of the church, past rows upon rows of pews set before a bowl-shaped altar. The vaulted ceiling stretches high overhead, and the priestess offers Mercy a small, knowing smile when she notices her gaping at its height. “This is the tallest building in Sandori,” she says, “even taller than the castle. A hundred years ago, after his coronation, King Esmond had the spire added to show deference to the Creator. He was a devout believer in the Book of the Creator.”
They follow her through a curtained archway and down a short hall to the priestesses’ chambers. The few bedrooms they pass are noticeably empty, the mattresses stripped of sheets and the bedside tables empty save unlit candelabras and well-worn copies of the Book of the Creator. The priestess doesn’t slow or glance inside as they pass, yet her pace falters when Mercy asks, “Where is everyone?”
She takes a deep breath. “You can put her in here,” she says as they approach the end of the hallway. She opens the door and waves a hand to the stone table in the center of the room. “This used to be the High Priestess’s room, but . . . she has since returned to the Creator’s embrace. Please, place Pilar on the table. Rosalba will give her the last rites before she is laid to rest.”
They do as the priestess instructs, and Mercy feels a weight lift from her chest when she sets Pilar on the table. The grief which has settled in her heart is unfamiliar to her, and Mercy backs away from the table immediately, letting out a sharp breath. No one in the Guild speaks of this side of death—the grief, the regret, the mourning of a life cut short. It feels strange, unnatural. She turns away.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were ye,” Alyss says, and Mercy thinks she’s speaking to her until she glances over her shoulder and realizes the priestess had moved closer to Pilar, a hand outstretched to cup her cheek.
“Do not worry about me.” She runs a light finger over the fabric covering Pilar’s face, tracing the soft line of her jaw. “There are only a few of us left, but we who remain are immune to the disease.”
“How do you know for sure?” Mercy asks.
“The others are either dead or in the hospital in the fields,” she says. “My fellow priestesses and I have a duty to bring the Creator’s peace to these terrified people. We will stay as long as necessary.”
“Was that ever a question? You staying, I mean?”
“The prince visited us two night ago and offered safe passage to Blackhills for any who wished to leave the city. Most chose not to leave. How would it look to the citizens if their church stood abandoned? So soon after Solari, they would find it hard not to believe it an omen for the years to come.”
“Who was the first infected?” Alyss asks.
“The High Priestess, then it spread down through the ranks. It didn’t behave like a normal sickness. It’s strange to think about, but . . . it felt like it were targeting specific people. Pilar insisted on going to the king for aid, but the High Priestess refused. She didn’t want to frighten anyone until she had some idea of what caused it. When it claimed her life . . . Well, Pilar snuck out of the church to find help and never returned. Until now, we hadn’t seen her since before Solari.” She shakes her head, then gestures to the door through which they had entered. “You have two more of our priestesses, do you not?” she asks as she leads them into the central room. She motions for Mercy and Alyss to sit on the first pew, then picks up a candle and a handful of herbs from a table near the wall. “I am eager to hear how Gwynn and Mavi fare.”
“Mavi, that’s ‘er name!” Alyss says. “She never did tell us.”
“It’s not unlike her. Rumor has it she lived in a remote village in the mining district. Mavi was the only name the High Priestess was able to coax out of her, but we don’t know if it’s her name, her surname, or the name of the village,” she says. “A few years ago, her village was destroyed in a fire and she fled to the nearest church for shelter. She’s been shuffled about ever since, and it makes her wary of strangers.”
As she speaks, the priestess sprinkles herbs into the bowl-shaped brazier and lowers the tip of a candle to them. They ignite immediately, burning with an impossibly bright light. “These herbs have been soaked in an oil which allows them to burn for quite a long time without needing wood or producing smoke.” She returns the candle to the table and turns back to the light, which is when Mercy realizes why she’s tattooed in such a strange manner: she’s a Cirisian elf.
The dark brown ink stretches in curling, coiling vines from her temples, across her forehead, and down the bridge of her nose, then continue over her lips and neck and disappear under the collar of her robe. When she moves her hands, Mercy spots more tattoos on her arms, looping around her wrists like bracelets before slinking down the back of her hands and twining around her fingers.
“Yes,” Alyss says hesitantly, staring at the priestess’s markings as she moves from the dais and perches on the pew next to Mercy. The healer recoils slightly, fear flashing in and out of her eyes. “Well, Gwynn and Ow—Mavi, I mean—are doin alright, but I won’t lie to ye: they’ll die if we don’t find a cure soon. I’m doin everything I can to keep their conditions stable, but even that is failing.”
“I see.” The priestess frowns, sorrow tugging at features only a few years older than Mercy’s. “Nevertheless, I am grateful for your help, and for returning Pilar to us. Sometimes easing the suffering of others is all we are able to do in times of crisis.”
Alyss frowns. “That’s not enough. Not for me.”
“Then do not give up.” The priestess starts to stand, then pauses, her lips twitching into a sad smile. “There is no need to fear me because I am Cirisian, you know.”
Alyss looks away. “I don’t fear ye.”
“You don’t have to lie. I understand. My people seldom leave the islands on which they are born, and few choose to leave for good. True Cirisian elves are something of a rarity in our society, but more and more are fleeing after the fighting between Feyndara and Beltharos destroys their homes. I’m afraid you will see more and more of us in the years to come.”
“Then let’s hope the war ends soon,” Alyss says. She stands and gives Mercy a meaningful look. “We’d best be returnin to the infirmary now, though. I don’t like thinkin about what trouble those two might have gotten into while we’ve been sittin here.”
“Trouble? It’s the middle of the night,” Mercy objects, ignoring the pleading look on Alyss’s face. She feels like an unwelcome stranger in the dark church, the flames in the brazier casting long shadows on the walls and high, arched ceiling. Strangely, though, she finds herself not wanting to leave. The priestess sitting before her watches with curiosity, her eyes unguarded, and it’s hard for Mercy to resist the urge to pepper her with questions. The Cirisian elves are held in the esteem of demigods to most elves across Beltharos—even the one who had been raised alone in the Guild. While lacking overall, the library in Kismoro Keep was not short on literature full of ancient mythology and lore. The fantastic adventu
res had so enthralled Mercy when she was a child that she had read the books cover to cover more times than she could count. Included among them were tales of the mighty Cirisian elves, who worshipped strange gods and lived in tribes along the archipelago between Beltharos and Feyndara, tracking and hunting the humans who sought to loot their villages and terrorize their people. On every ship, one can find a handful of superstitious sailors who swear by the old adage never to sail through the Cirisor Islands; boats which do go missing, their crew strung up in the branches of the tall mangroves lining the islands as a warning to passing ships.
The first—and only—time Mercy had run away from the Guild, she had been trying to go to Cirisor.
Unsurprisingly, the Daughters had found her huddled in the hollow of an overturned tree hours later, wet and shivering after a sudden lightning storm had left her scrambling for shelter. Later, after she had been escorted back to the Keep on Tanni’s horse, Mistress Trytain had taken her by the scruff of the neck and deposited her unceremoniously before Mother Illynor in the middle of dinner. She can still remember the sound of her soggy shoes squelching on the floor as she was marched to the head table, her ears burning with shame. The disappointment on Mother Illynor’s face had cut Mercy deeper than any blade ever could, and she vowed never to be deserving of such a look again. Her resolve was only strengthened when Lylia had informed her the only reason it had taken the Daughters so long to find her was because Mercy had been walking in the wrong direction the entire time—which, in hindsight, was not at all surprising.
“No, your friend is right. I’ve occupied too much of your time already,” the priestess says, standing with the fabled grace of the Cirisian elves. She smiles warmly, detecting Alyss’s discomfort—which only succeeds in making Alyss more uncomfortable. “Thank you for returning our sister to us. For what it’s worth, you have my gratitude. Should you have need of me, I am Lethandris.”
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