Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “They’ve been doing this since they learned to hold a sword,” Ser Morrison says. “Don’t worry. They’ve had the finest tutors in Beltharos.” His voice is even, but Mercy sees his Adam’s apple bob when he finishes speaking.

  Tamriel lunges forward, his blade aimed at Calum’s chest. Calum deflects it and it glances to the side, slicing a thin cut through his shoulder. The man next to Mercy titters with worry as the sleeve of Calum’s shirt darkens with blood, but Mercy knows he won’t realize he’s been cut until after their fight. As it is, the cousins’ teasing smiles have slipped and given way to concentration, their brows drawn low and eyes narrowed against the sunlight reflected from the lake’s waves. Perspiration glimmers on their foreheads and darkens the collars of their tunics.

  Mercy can’t help but smirk as she watches, imagining them fighting someone trained the way she had in the Guild. Tamriel and Calum have undoubtedly been taught well—and put in many hours of training—but they fight with manners and sportsmanship; it’s not the biting, raking, hair-pulling dirty fighting style Mistress Trytain had taught the apprentices. To Mercy, fighting any other way is ineffective. If one is fighting to the death, why bother making it look pretty?

  Tamriel and Calum’s swords lock, each of them grunting with the effort of holding their blades even. With his free hand, Calum pulls a dagger from his waistband and slashes with it, catching Tamriel across the face. The prince exclaims and jumps back—more out of surprise than pain—and his hand flies up to the narrow gash above his eyebrow. A shadow passes behind his eyes and he swings at Calum with both hands on the grip of his sword, allowing his cousin only enough time to lift his sword and absorb the brunt of the force before Tamriel slams into him, knocking him backward with his momentum. Calum stumbles and loses his grip on his dagger, and Tamriel quickly scoops it up, leveling both his sword and the dagger at his cousin’s throat.

  Calum smiles and lowers his sword. “An excellent fight, Your Highness.”

  “I wish I could say the same for you, but it seems you’ve been neglecting your training. You’re a bit rusty.” Tamriel drops his weapons and pulls Calum up, clapping his cousin on his uninjured shoulder. “But I must admit you had few good strikes there.” He swipes with his sleeve at the trail of blood which had dripped from his brow down his temple, streaking some of it across his forehead.

  “You as well.” Calum fingers the hole in his shirtsleeve, dark with blood. “Nothing a bandage or a few stitches can’t fix, though.” He grins, then extends his arms to the slaves gathered around them. His grin turns lopsided as he gives them a flourishing bow. Several clap politely, while others return to their chores.

  Mercy glances over her shoulder—sure enough, Ser Morrison still stands two feet behind her—and then walks over to where Tamriel stands on the grass, watching Calum with an amused and bewildered expression.

  “Has he always been like this?” Mercy asks, rolling her eyes when Calum stoops to kiss the hand of a pretty slave.

  “Overly dramatic and starved for attention? Yes.”

  “And, fortunately, not yet hard of hearing,” Calum adds, turning back to them. “But what is life without a bit of theatrics?”

  Mercy ignores him and gestures to the swords. “Friendly skirmish or settling an argument?”

  “Nothing of the sort. We simply hadn’t practiced in a while, what with Calum traveling for the past year.”

  “You travelled?” Mercy asks, feigning surprise. As far as Tamriel knows, she and Calum had only met a few days ago. “Where did you go?”

  He shrugs. “Here and there. Blacksmithing has always interested me, so I travelled with the Strykers for a while, learning the craft.”

  “The Strykers? I’ve heard a lot about them—recently, in fact.”

  Calum’s smile turns cold. “I’m sure you have.”

  “Yes, I heard they were planning to visit Feyndara soon, actually. It’s a shame you had to return here rather than go with them.”

  “I would have liked to see your country, my lady. Perhaps someday. For now, my place is here, at His Highness’s side.” Although his expression is neutral, mischief sparkles in his eyes. “Until such time as I am no longer needed, my duty is to the people of Sandori, first and foremost.”

  “They’re lucky you value your loyalty so highly.”

  “As are we,” Tamriel says, oblivious to the dark look Calum shoots Mercy. “But I won’t have you standing around, bleeding on everything. Go inside and find Master Oliver or one of his men to patch you up.”

  “Of course.” Calum bends down to pick up his sword, then reaches for his dagger, but Mercy scoops it up before he grabs it.

  “Here you go,” she says cheerily. Then, their heads bent close together, she lowers her voice to a whisper only he can hear. “The soldier standing behind me—I need you to get rid of him. Have him reassigned or something.”

  He nods once. “Done.” He straightens and smiles at her. “Thank you,” he says, tucking the dagger back into his waistband. “I must return to work, unfortunately, but I will see you soon, Your Highness. My lady.” He bows to Tamriel and Mercy, then offers a goodbye to Elvira and Ser Morrison as he leaves. He whistles as he rounds the corner of the castle, seemingly unperturbed by his still-bleeding arm.

  When Mercy turns back to the prince, he is watching her with a strange expression which vanishes a second later, replaced with a worried frown. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the infirmary by now, haven’t you? My father put it on lockdown this morning.” He pauses, then adds, “Pilar’s dead.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “You were—? Oh. How did . . . how did she look?”

  She grimaces. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Oh.” His face falls. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Marieve. We’ve—” He stops and glances at Elvira and Ser Morrison, then takes Mercy by the elbow and leads her a few paces away, out of earshot of them and a couple passing slaves. Mercy tries to ignore the warmth of his hand on her arm, and the fact that he does not let go as he speaks. “We’ve already transported two dozen people from the castle to the tents outside the city. It just—It makes no sense. I’ve had the commanders search for any sign of infection among the guards and slaves, and it’s been fine, but two days ago it came out of nowhere. Two dozen people. It’s possible one of them contracted it in the market and spread it to the others, but we should have been able to root it out immediately, before anyone else was infected.” He glances away with a troubled expression and drops Mercy’s arm, rubbing a weary hand across his forehead. He hisses in pain when one of his fingers brushes his cut and he lowers his hand, staring at the blood on his fingertips as if he had forgotten about it.

  “Here, let me,” Mercy says, then pulls her sleeve over her hand and dabs gently at the blood streaked across his forehead. The cut is long, but not deep, and oozes a few fat red droplets Mercy catches with her sleeve. “Luckily, you won’t need stitches. Just make sure you keep it clean.”

  He grins. “Thanks, Healer Marieve.”

  She makes a face and pulls her hand back, looking away from the eyes which watch her with amusement. She ignores the fluttering in her stomach when he looks at her. “About the plague . . . Is there anything . . . odd about the way it infects people?”

  “Odd?”

  “I mean, is it random, or does it seem like it’s, um, choosing people?” When he does nothing but stare blankly at her, she sighs again and explains what Lethandris had said, and Alyss’s certainty that the disease is preying on people. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but . . . it’s starting to sound like they might be right. The priestesses, Beggars’ End, and now the castle? It keeps cropping up out of nowhere.”

  “You . . . might have a point,” he says slowly, the blood draining from his face. “The castle and the Church are the two most powerful institutions in the city, and Beggars’ End—Well, it’s not powerful, but it’s one of the most highly populated areas in the city, and now that eve
ryone’s locked inside and unable to work . . .” he trails off. “But that’s impossible. A disease can’t pick and choose.”

  “Maybe there’s something more to it. Maybe it’s something new.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ser Morrison shift forward a few feet, frowning at them. Clearly her time with Tamriel is almost at an end. “You must speak to your father. He knows something, I’m certain.”

  “Let’s ask him now.” He grabs Mercy’s hand and leads her a few steps away, then stops when he catches the look on her face. “Is something the matter?”

  “No.”

  He raises a brow and squeezes her hand once. “Don’t lie.”

  “Fine. It’s just—Do you trust Calum?”

  He blinks, then shrugs. “As much as I trust any of my father’s advisors. He’s my cousin—we grew up almost as brothers—but sometimes I think he resents the fact I am of royal blood and he is not. When we were younger, while I was being praised and paraded around to all my father’s social events and holiday celebrations, he sulked in the background and made a game of trying to steal food off people’s plates when they weren’t looking. Any time someone did pay attention to him, he took it as pity. After a while, he refused to go to formal functions altogether, until my father threatened to throw him out if he didn’t take up a position in the castle.”

  “And since then he’s been no trouble?”

  “Not at all. That was some time ago. I think he’s grown up and realized his place is that of a commoner, not a prince,” he says, then shoots her a smile which makes her heart stop beating. “Sometimes I think he forgets not everyone goes home to a castle every night.”

  Mercy frowns. “I would just . . . keep an eye on him, if I were you. Something about him gives me a bad feeling.”

  His grin widens. “You scowl too much,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about me. I think I proved I can handle myself.”

  “What, in that fight?”

  “You’re not impressed?”

  Mercy raises a brow. “Was it meant to impress me?”

  “Not necessarily, but it wouldn’t be an unwelcome side effect.”

  She lets go of his hand and walks ahead of him, lifting her chin. “I’ve seen better.”

  “You’ve seen better,” Tamriel repeats skeptically. “I don’t believe it. Where?”

  “Hey,” Mercy says, turning around and continuing to walk backward to where Ser Morrison and Elvira wait. “Do you want to talk to your father, or not?”

  “You’re cruel,” Tamriel says, then laughs and jogs after her.

  “What are you not telling me about the plague?”

  Tamriel stands over his father, crossing his arms over his chest. Ghyslain sits at the desk in his study, staring at the fire roaring in the fireplace while Mercy, Elvira, and Ser Morrison stand outside, listening intently. Or, rather, Mercy listens, watching through the crack in the door, Elvira paces, and Ser Morrison stands a few feet away, disapproving of the whole affair.

  “Nothing.”

  “I know you know something about it. Marieve already told me there isn’t a cure,” Tamriel says, and Elvira squeaks in surprise. “What else are you not saying?”

  “What is he talking about, no cure?” Elvira whispers to Mercy, but she waves her away.

  “Shhh!”

  “Marieve!”

  “I’m trying to listen.”

  “Father, come on. You know I only ask because I have the country’s best interests in mind.” His tone turns cold. “What are you hiding?”

  “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this,” Ser Morrison grumbles. “This is sensitive information which should not be entrusted to a foreign royal.”

  “This was Tamriel’s idea. Do you think His Majesty would tell him anything if I were in there with him?” Mercy whispers. “If you’d like, you could walk in there now and tell the king everything. I’m sure he’d be very happy to hear you’ve been standing outside his study for the last five minutes, listening to his ‘sensitive’ conversation.”

  Ser Morrison glowers at her, then closes his mouth and looks away. Mercy smirks and shifts closer to the gap in the door, peering in with one eye. Tamriel still stands over his father, his jaw set stubbornly, but Ghyslain has turned away from the fire and now looks up at his son like he doesn’t recognize him.

  “Whose idea was it to ask me that?” he says slowly. “Yours or Marieve’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “I see.” Ghyslain sits back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “And was it on your order that she came and spoke to me last night, as well?”

  “That she— What?”

  “She didn’t tell you? I’m surprised, considering how much time you’ve been spending with her lately.” He sighs. “Why, Tamriel? Why do you trust her? She’s from Feyndara, in case you’ve forgotten—a country with which we are at war! You cannot allow her into your confidence, not if you have any love for your country.”

  “She has been nothing but helpful to us. We owe her, Father.”

  “I do not owe her anything. Whatever foolish promises you’ve made to her are yours alone.” Ghyslain stands, and although his stature dwarfs Tamriel, his son doesn’t back down. “Someday, when you take the throne, you will make these decisions. You can meet with the Queen of Feyndara—if she deigns to allow you onto her shores—and you can agree to negotiate for Cirisor. You can give away all of Beltharos if it so pleases you, as you seem so enthralled by Feyndarans already.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—”

  “Ridiculous? It’s not Marieve, then, who is standing outside, eavesdropping?”

  Mercy’s blood runs cold, but Tamriel doesn’t miss a beat. “Seeing ghosts again, Father? Who is it this time, Mother or the elven slut?”

  Ghyslain jumps to his feet, knocking over the candelabra and sending a splatter of hot wax across the desk. The flame extinguishes as it falls, a thin ribbon of smoke rising from the black wick. “Don’t call her that. Don’t you ever call her that, you ungrateful child. You have no idea what it was like, losing her—losing them both—”

  “You’re right!” Tamriel shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I have no idea what it was like—what any of it was like—because you refuse to speak about it. You refuse to speak about anything remotely related to them. All my life, all you’ve ever done is sulk and shout and push me away. I used to beg your advisors to tell me stories about Mother, because you’ve never told me anything! You think it was hard losing her? I never knew her!”

  “Then you’re lucky! You didn’t grieve for her like I did!”

  “You think I didn’t grieve?” Tamriel asks, bewildered. “You think I don’t ask myself every day why she had to die? That I never wondered why my father could barely stand the sight of me? It killed me to know you blamed me for her death. I blame myself for her death!”

  “Y-You do?” Ghyslain chokes out.

  Tamriel freezes, more startled by the sadness in his father’s voice than when he had shouted. “How could I not?” he murmurs, his entire body taut and motionless except the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “I read it on your face every time you looked at me. I’ve never been your son, not to you. You only see me as your wife’s killer.” His mouth quirks into a self-deprecating smile. “It wasn’t hard to start seeing myself the same way.”

  “Tamriel—” Ghyslain says, and the word holds so much anguish it physically strikes Tamriel. He flinches and backs away.

  “Forget it. Just answer my question: what are you hiding about the plague?”

  “Son—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Father and son glare at each other, the tense silence stretching between them becoming more and more electric by the second. Mercy tightens her grip on the metal doorknob as she watches. The anger and hurt pouring off Tamriel is practically palpable, even across the room, and when Mercy glances back, Elvira has stopped pacing and stares at her with wide eyes. Even Ser Morrison has moved a few feet c
loser, listening intently.

  Hypocrite.

  Inside the study, Ghyslain’s expression softens, shifting to resignation. “There . . . is a cure,” he says slowly. “A flower native to the Cirisor Islands. But, Tamriel, you must not search for it. Promise me.”

  “Promise you?” Tamriel’s brows shoot up. “Were you never going to tell anyone? You’re willing to let our people suffer—to let them all die? Why?”

  “Tam, I’m begging you, do not look for the cure. It will only bring you and the rest of Beltharos harm. There’s nothing you or I can do to stop it.” Ghyslain’s voice turns pleading and he rounds his desk, his hands outstretched to Tamriel, who backpedals before his father can touch him. When he reaches the center of the room, he slows, eyeing his father warily. Ghyslain’s face falls, his hands slowly lowering to his sides. “Please,” he whispers. “I can’t lose you, too.”

  “You’re mad. How did you learn about the cure?”

  “Cassius Baccha. The Sight is prevalent in his family, but only strong enough to provide fractals of visions through his dreams. You remember the nightmare he had?”

  Tamriel nods, staring at the king as if he’d sprouted two heads.

  “It’s the worst he’s had in years. The most vivid, too.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “He’s been right so far. He was so agitated on Solari, when the priestess showed up—”

  “Pilar. Her name was Pilar.”

  “—and he predicted Beggars’ End being most devastated by the plague.”

  Mercy remembers the city map she had seen in Seren Pierce’s study, the red ink painted across Beggars’ End, and a stone drops in her stomach. Behind her, Elvira’s breaths come out in quick, ragged gasps, and she covers her mouth with a trembling hand. She sinks to her knees in the middle of the hall and begins to murmur a prayer, and Ser Morrison watches her uncomfortably.

  “You must not go searching for it,” Ghyslain says again, pleading. “Promise me.”