Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  He stands suddenly, and in doing so, goes deathly white. He sways for a second, then waves off Calum’s and Ghyslain’s steadying hands as they jump forward to help him. “We must execute her, but I am going to speak with her now.” He descends the steps of the dais, then turns back to Calum. “Are you coming, or not?”

  Calum glances at the king and offers him a helpless shrug. Ghyslain looks back pleadingly. “Yes, I’m coming.”

  Calum moves to his cousin’s side and slings one of the prince’s arms over his shoulders. Tamriel grimaces but allows himself to lean against his cousin as they walk out of the room, leaving Ghyslain and the guards staring after them.

  Mercy’s stomach growls. The guard has not yet arrived with the daily cup of water and meager scraps she and Elvira have been allowed during their imprisonment, and the now-constant hunger gnaws at Mercy’s stomach. Sitting against the wall, she kicks at the chain binding her ankles, her face screwed up in irritation.

  “They’re going to kill us,” Elvira says for the hundredth time.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “We wouldn’t be in this situation if you had killed the prince when you’d had the chance. Why did you wait so long? Is that how they taught you at the Guild? Honestly, I haven’t the slightest idea how you became a Daughter.”

  Mercy sets her jaw. “I worked hard, and I earned my place.”

  “Sorin told me you cheated your way into the Trial.”

  “I fought, and I won. I do not regret it, nor will I apologize for it.”

  “Apologize for this, then,” she hisses. “The king will soon tire of keeping us locked in here. Any minute now, that guard will come in and haul us out to the town square to execute us in front of everyone.” Despite her anger, a note of panic slips into her voice. Calum had promised she wouldn’t be hurt if she sent his letter to the Guild, and she had done it. That night, Mercy had left in a haste with that human noblewoman, and the next thing Elvira knew, three soldiers had bashed down her door and thrown her into a cell beside the failed Daughter. Certainly, Calum knows she is here, so why hasn’t he come for her yet? Does he think she failed him?

  “The prince is still alive,” Mercy says. “Ghyslain would have ordered our execution the second Tamriel stopped breathing, if that were the case.”

  “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

  “No.”

  Elvira grumbles. Her hatred for this smug, matter-of-fact, so-called Daughter boils in her veins, threatens to choke her as she speaks. “They will kill us, and they will not wait much longer to do it. Because of you, I am going to die, and my husband will live the rest of his life in slavery believing I am a traitor to the crown.”

  “You work for the Guild. You are a traitor to the crown—you’re just good at hiding it.”

  The door creaks open, the light flooding the room. Mercy and Elvira clamber to their feet as an arm appears through the doorway, a low-burning torch clamped in its fist. Neither utters a word, but their shared thought is loud enough to be heard: Food?

  The two men who enter are not guards; the one holding the torch supports the other as they slowly move into the room. Their heads are down, but their fine clothing betrays their identities.

  “Tamriel?” Mercy breathes in disbelief. She stands in the center of her cell, watching through the iron bars as he lifts his head and stares at her, his expression shifting from fatigue to disbelief. At his side, there is nothing but concern on Calum’s face as he watches his cousin breathing hard, wincing in pain. What a good actor, Mercy thinks wryly. It’s almost like he cares.

  “I didn’t believe it when he told me,” Tamriel says. “I couldn’t believe you’d been the one to try to kill me, but my father showed me your coin. I know you’re from the Assassins’ Guild.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I am from the Guild, but I wasn’t the one who attacked you.”

  Tamriel frowns, and it kills her to see the coldness in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw as he glares at her. “They found you standing over me with my blood on your hands. If you weren’t the one who attacked me, who did?”

  Her gaze sides to Calum, standing just behind the prince’s shoulder. She can’t admit to being framed, not with Calum glaring at her three feet away. If she were to tell the prince the truth, Calum would kill him in a heartbeat. Instead, she pleads, “Tamriel, listen to me. It’s true that I’m an Assassin, but after that night in the library, I decided I wasn’t going to complete the contract. I was going to flee the city the night they arrested me.” She steps forward, the chains jangling loudly with each step, and grips the cold iron bars of her cell door. Tamriel’s eyes widen, and she belatedly realizes why: despite her desperate scrubbing, her fingernails and cuticles are still caked with his dried blood. She mutters a curse under her breath and lets her hands drop back to her sides.

  “Perhaps we should leave, Your Highness,” Calum says.

  “No!” Elvira blurts.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Tamriel continues, ignoring them. “Who paid to have me killed?”

  Calum’s glare sharpens, and Mercy’s smile falls. If she tells him, Calum will surely kill him. She can see it now, Calum running into the throne room with Tamriel in his arms, claiming Mercy had attacked him after he stepped too close to the bars. No—even if she can’t save her own life, she can save his. “I don’t know. Mother Illynor works with clients.”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t come here to listen to you lie. You shall be executed in two days’ time. You”—he turns to Elvira—“will have your hearing the next day, where you may plead your innocence.” She nods, her lips trembling. He turns to Calum. “Let’s go.”

  Calum nods, and—before he turns away—grins and winks at Elvira. Tamriel doesn’t notice. As the two of them step through the doorway, Mercy calls, “Don’t you want to know my real name?”

  Tamriel pauses but doesn’t look back.

  “Mercy.”

  In the hall, Calum lets go of Tamriel to push the door back in place, then returns the torch to its sconce. “Was it everything you hoped for?”

  Tamriel chuckles darkly, his hands braced on his knees. “It wasn’t exactly the reunion I’d wanted, no.” He shakes his head. “I’d been hoping they were wrong. Somehow, I wanted her to be innocent. Is that insane?”

  Calum sighs and rests a hand on Tamriel’s shoulder. “No, it’s not. You really care for her, though?”

  “I do. Or, I did. I don’t know.” He lets out a long breath. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. In two days, she’ll be dead. After what she did, she deserves to die.” He pauses, then glances at Calum out of the corner of his eye. “But don’t you think it’s odd that none of the nobles showed up at my mother’s house after I was attacked?”

  “No, I don’t think so. They must have seen the guards lurking about and thought it was a trap. Are you still going to make a play for the throne on your birthday?”

  “I don’t see what other choice I have. Calum, there’s a cure for the plague—some plant in the Cirisor Islands—and my father was trying to keep it a secret.”

  “What? Why?”

  He shrugs. “Cassius Baccha saw it in a dream—or a vision, or something—and he made me promise not to go looking for it. I had Master Oliver send a company of soldiers to investigate in secret. They should send word sometime this week, but Master Oliver is becoming nervous; he hasn’t heard a thing since they left the city.”

  Calum rubs a hand over his mouth. “Shit.”

  “That’s why I must take the throne. My father thinks he’s protecting our people, but he’s just putting them more in harm’s way. How can he let our people suffer?” He straightens, flinching at the twinge of pain in his back. “I can’t support him, and I can’t allow more of our subjects to die.”

  Calum nods. “After the assassin is executed, you must announce what your father is hiding.”

  “Do it with the utmost secrecy.”

  “I will. You can trust me.” Calum smil
es and stands. “Now, let’s go back upstairs. I’m sure your father is worried sick about you, and Healer Tabris is probably waiting with your next dose of pain medication.”

  Tamriel groans when Calum slings his arm over his shoulder once more. “I will welcome it gladly,” he responds through gritted teeth.

  50

  Calum stands in the middle of Blackbriar’s study the next day, staring out the window. All day long, slaves and advisors had been bustling in and out of the castle, draping the great hall in panels of silver and gold silks, stringing colorful tassels around the room, trimming hedges and manicuring the lawn in preparation for the prince’s birthday celebration. Calum and Master Oliver had poured over the guard schedule for two hours before calling everyone out to the gardens for an armor check. After lunch, Ghyslain and Tamriel had locked themselves away to discuss Mercy’s execution.

  Amid the hustle and bustle, it hadn’t been difficult for Calum to slip away unnoticed, a sheaf of parchment and two familiar daggers tucked under his coat.

  Calum’s fingers graze the cut on his shoulder and he winces at the memory of Tamriel’s victorious smile as he held his sword at Calum’s throat. They had been tutored in swordplay for years, dueling each other since the first time their tutor had placed the wooden practice swords in their hands. Calum, two years older, won constantly—much to Ghyslain’s chagrin—and Tamriel often left the ring with a bloody nose or black eye or some other malady.

  It hadn’t taken long for Calum to learn it wasn’t particularly uplifting for the nobles to see their future king in such a state, and the next time they dueled, Calum had let Tamriel swing first. He stuck to defense, parrying Tamriel’s attacks with ease, and when his cousin realized what he was doing, his expression had contorted into rage. His strikes became faster, harder, his movements more precise, and when he disarmed Calum and held his blade to his chest, the prince threw aside his sword in disgust.

  “Never pity me again,” Tamriel had spat, then turned on his heel and walked away.

  Behind him, the door opens and three heavily-armed Assassins file into the room.

  “You were almost too late,” Calum says. “The prince turns eighteen tomorrow.” He waves a hand to the papers on the table. “There’s a map of the castle. I’ve marked where the guards will be stationed tomorrow, and the combination for the servants’ entrance door is on the bottom. You will also need this.” He reaches into his pocket and hands a key to the Daughter on the couch. “That’s for Tamriel’s chambers.”

  She nods and slips it into her pocket. “What’s this?” she asks, eyeing the pile of aurums next to the parchment.

  “From the king for your trouble.” As he speaks, the Daughter pulls out a pouch and adds the money, and Calum flinches with each clink of the coins—his coins. “You must leave the capital by tomorrow night. The guards will be on high alert, so be careful.”

  The Daughter leans forward and tears a long strip from the bottom of the map, slipping it into her pocket. “Destroy that,” she says, nodding to the map.

  “You . . . don’t want it?”

  “We don’t need it. We’re going to the castle tonight. All I needed was the key and the combination.”

  “T-Tonight?” Calum chokes out. He turns away and clears his throat when all three Assassins glance at him curiously. He isn’t quite sure why, but he hadn’t expected the Daughters to strike so soon. He pushes away a twinge of guilt and says, “Very well.”

  “Did you think we would let one of our own rot in a dungeon any longer than necessary?” the woman standing beside the bookshelf says.

  The assassin next to her bares her teeth in a grin laced with cruelty, and it’s that gesture which causes him to remember her name: Lylia. “You don’t have to worry about us. We’re not all as inept as Mercy. Tell your king the prince will be dead by sunrise.”

  He nods. “The daggers are on the counter in the kitchen.”

  The Daughters leave as quickly and silently as they had come, and Calum flinches when the front door clicks shut behind them. He sinks onto the corner of the couch, rubbing his face with his hands. In a matter of hours, it’ll be done. Tamriel will be dead and Ghyslain blamed for his death. Calum groans, fighting the guilt threatening to overtake him. This is what his father deserves.

  Calum drops his hands into his lap and leans his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes.

  In a matter of hours, all this will be over.

  After a moment, his eyes fly open and he darts out of the room. The front door rattles on its hinges when he slams it shut behind him.

  Mercy looks up at the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway, turning her head toward the door.

  “Are the guards coming for us already?” Elvira asks.

  On the other side of the door, someone cries out, but it’s abruptly cut off. A second later, something thumps against the door.

  “Oh,” Elvira says with dawning realization.

  The door opens with a flood of light, but the person holding the torch isn’t a guard. She steps into the dungeon and looks around, a ring of keys in her hand. When she turns toward Mercy, she gasps.

  “Faye?”

  “Mercy!” Faye runs to her cell, fumbling with the keys. At last she finds the right one and shoves it into the lock, and the cell door swings open. “We came as soon as we heard. I’m to take you back to the Keep.” As she speaks, she unlocks the shackles around Mercy’s wrists and ankles. She sighs with relief, rubbing the bruises which had formed where the heavy metal had rubbed against bone.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  Faye nods toward Elvira as she unlocks her cell. “She sent a letter.”

  Elvira merely nods, remembering the threat glinting in the prince’s cousin’s eyes the night of the attack. Your husband works in the castle, does he not? Calum had asked, blocking Blackbriar’s doorway with his body.

  He . . . does, she had answered hesitantly.

  Well, if you wish him not to be shipped off with the rest of the diseased or locked inside of Beggars’ End for the foreseeable future, you will make sure the contract is completed. One way or another, the contract will be fulfilled. He had given her an envelope to send to the Guild, the seal of the royal family pressed into the wax holding it shut. Do you understand?

  She had agreed. Of course she had. For Kier, she would do anything.

  “We have to go.” Faye leads them into the hallway, stepping over the body of the guard she’d slaughtered, and hands the torch to Elvira. She slips the bag off her shoulder and rifles through it before handing Mercy her sheathed daggers. “Feels good to see these again, huh?”

  “More than you know.” Faye hands her a belt, and Mercy slides the sheaths onto it and loops it around her hips. “How did you find these?” She stops. “Ah. Calum.” The mere mention of his name sets her blood boiling. The next time she sees him, she will flay him alive. That’s the least he deserves for making her the fool.

  When they reach the end of the hall and Faye peers around the corner, Mercy can’t help but ask, “Why are you here?”

  She can practically hear Faye’s eyes roll. “To save you.” Seeing no guards, she waves them forward and up the nearest flight of stairs.

  “I mean, you’re an apprentice.”

  “I came with Aelis. Mother Illynor promised to make Lylia and me full-fledged Daughters when we bring you back. I think she felt bad about the botched Trial.”

  “So . . . you’re not angry?” Mercy asks, remembering the way Faye had shouted and screamed at her, the shattering of the porcelain when she had thrown her plate at Mercy’s head.

  “I’m an Assassin. I’m always angry,” she responds. Then, a few steps later: “But I understand why you did it. I don’t like it, but I won’t abandon you to rot in a cell.”

  They emerge at the top of the stairs on the main floor, in a hallway which is—miraculously—empty. The rug running the length of the corridor muffles their running footsteps, and when they
pass a window, Mercy understands why the hallway is so deserted: it’s the middle of the night. After so long in the pitch-black dungeon, Mercy had lost all sense of the passage of time.

  They round a corner and continue at their breakneck speed. At the opposite end of the hallway, a slave carrying a silver platter of wine and several goblets steps out of a room and closes the door behind her. She looks up and yelps, and—without missing a beat—Faye pulls a throwing knife out of her belt and sends it flying end over end until it impales itself in the tapestry behind the elf’s head. The servant stands frozen in horrified silence, the cups rattling on the tray as she trembles.

  Faye pulls out another knife and cocks her arm. “You never saw us. Understood?”

  The elf’s head bobs up and down.

  “Good.” Faye reaches out and snags the knife as they pass. They continue through three more halls, each more twisted and labyrinthine than the last.

  Finally, they reach the top of the stairs which lead to the infirmary, and beyond, to the servants’ entrance. Mercy and Faye continue down the steps without slowing, but Elvira pauses at the top. “Wait,” she says in a tight voice. “My husband.”

  “Come on,” Mercy says, “before someone realizes we’re missing.”

  She shakes her head. “The guards will be looking for me. I’ll have to leave the capital, and I’m not going without Kier.”

  “You’re wasting time, and—more importantly—you’re putting all our lives at stake by delaying us.” Faye climbs the steps until she’s face-to-face with Elvira. “We leave now. If you go back, there’s no telling what they’ll do if they find you.” The meaning behind her words is clear: Escape now, or search for him on your own. “Make your choice.”

  “I made my choice when I married him.”

  She shrugs. “Suit yourself. Should you change your mind, the others are waiting with the horses at the southern gate.” She continues down the stairs, waving Mercy along.