Blood Mercy (Blood Grace Book 1)

by Vela Roth

  “Very good, Lady. I’ll see to the rest of your unpacking and the mending we hadn’t time to do before we left Namenti.”

  The constant repairs Cassia’s few, well-worn belongings required certainly offered her handmaiden plenty of occupation. Cassia left Perita to her work and set about her own. The morning eased by, not in hours, but in the scrape of wood and ceramic across the stone floor, the seep of water into soil, and the snap of stems as Cassia sliced off lost causes with the sharp edge of her spade. She was rotating the same pot of sage a tiny amount for the fourth time when Perita interrupted her with a bowl of reheated porridge and the news that it was midday.

  Cassia could dally no longer. She covered her hair and ventured out with Knight. As they entered busier parts of the palace, heads turned, but the gawkers quickly resumed their chores. Other people turned their backs instead and continued their conversations about gowns or horses. It wouldn’t be long before these folk lost interest in the king’s bastard, just like their fellow servants and courtiers who had been at Namenti. Cassia looked straight ahead and did not change her pace until she and Knight walked through the door of the main kitchen.

  It would take more than her presence to halt the swell of activity here. She received glances only over sudsy pots and between stages of a carrot’s dismemberment. The head cook closed in, issuing commands and a couple of swats on her way. She fixed Cassia with the same gaze she gave everyone, one that assured them she respected her betters and was the absolute divine authority this side of the kitchen threshold. The courtesy she gave, just deep enough but hardly deep at all, said much the same. Cassia had never met her, but had certainly encountered her sort. After her experiences in many of the palaces to which her nomadic existence had brought her, Cassia already knew how this conversation would end.

  She need not identify herself. Knight at her side was evidence of her blood, and her presence here among the servants was proof of her status. “Good day, Mistress. What a fine kitchen you keep. An equally fine garden is certain to lie without.”

  “Aye, the finest in Tenebra, Lady, make no mistake. This is Solorum. If it grows, we grow it here, and account for every stem and leaf. All requests go through the king’s chamberlain.”

  “In such an impressive garden, there can never be enough hands to give it the attention it deserves. I have come to assist in the tending.”

  “How generous of you to offer, Lady,” the cook said immediately. “We’re honored by your interest, but we know your time is more valuable elsewhere.”

  They exchanged the remaining appropriate complements and farewells between a virtuous cook and a fallen woman’s daughter, and Cassia led Knight out again.

  She always started with the kitchen gardens, on the chance the cook might be like Agata at Paradum, who saw little enough of the king’s household and had been grateful for the help. Cassia had spent a fine season up to her shoulders in pea plants as a result.

  “I suspect they will be in greater need at the temple,” Cassia remarked to Knight.

  Time to try building her bridges with the mages of Kyria. It was just as well. Ladies of the household were to make themselves useful, and bastards were to make themselves unexceptionable. Performing good works at the temple, even more than lending a hand in the palace, was optimal to achieve both, while affording Cassia’s thoughts ample time to do their own work.

  Cassia made sure to catch plenty of gazes and snubs on her way out. At a minor gate on the east side of the palace, she spoke to the guards loudly enough that every man in the gatehouse would remember precisely when she had left.

  The road to the temple proved well kept, certainly one that received frequent attention under the king’s rigorous program of repairs. She walked against the modest traffic of wagons and riders who were joining the court a couple of days late. Sun shone down on all of them, for last night’s clouds had blown out already, and the bare groves that lined the road offered no respite. With any luck, this weather would make Cassia’s freckles even more unsightly. The outdoors enhanced her undesirable qualities to great advantage.

  Today was a rare day for winter, the god of death’s season. The frigid month of Hypnos’s Shroud that descended at Solstice had now lifted, only for the land to feel the icy touch of Hypnos’s Hand. Even when Hypnos’s Dream came and went and spring arrived at last, the Mourning Goddess was certain to usher in the new year with rain in her first namesake month of Chera’s Tears. But today it seemed Anthros rode the sun chariot across his celestial domain, determined to drive out Tenebra’s usual wet weather and remind deities and mortals alike he remained lord of all he surveyed.

  A large party of riders appeared ahead, traveling toward the palace. Cassia wove closer to the trees to make way, although not close enough to mire herself in the muck on the edges of the road. Knight positioned himself between her and the oncoming travelers. In a moment they were upon her, and as they passed by, she tucked her cloak closer about her to shield against the mud the horses’ hooves flung about. Bridles and mail clinked, and sun glanced off swords and white drapes that protected the horse litter in the center of the party. A lady of high station was joining the court. Behind the unseen noblewoman’s conveyance, a young lady, perhaps a daughter or sister, rode in the open air. Her palfrey was delicate and white, its legs encased in the filth of the road. The young woman’s attendant rode alongside her, offering some murmured jest or gossip that made the lady laugh.

  Cassia let them pass, then walked on with Knight, who needed no sword to defend her, nor expected her to laugh at cruel jokes. As soon as the two of them were out of sight of other travelers, Knight bounded a bit ahead, then behind, but never far enough that he was out of sight. A few times he pricked his ears and glanced away, surely at some small animal under the trees. But he never left her side to pursue them.

  “Poor Knight,” Cassia said. “Never free to go on such a merry chase. We’ll have a game before the day is over, I promise.”

  A liegehound needed more than just frequent walks to stave off restlessness and keep his skills sharp. But she would see to his regimen later. For now he simply relished being outside, and that reassured Cassia she need not be on her guard for the moment.

  She must now give thought to how, in the short term, she would present herself to the Prisma of the Temple of Kyria and, in the long term, give the king every reason to forget her presence at Solorum.

  But her thoughts kept turning to a simple word delivered by a pair of marble lips polished with moonlight.

  No.

  Cassia had waited most of her life for that no. She might now go the rest of her life without ever again beholding a Hesperine.

  She would certainly go the rest of the Summit out of sight at the palace, traipsing between her rooms and the temple, if the Kyrians would have her. Deukalion would see no more of her. This Lio, as he insisted she call him, would be left to wonder at her cryptic question, and no more would come of it.

  As they had acknowledged openly, a Hesperine had nothing to gain by telling the king his daughter had transgressed. Knowledge of her midnight whereabouts would be of great use to some, but not to Deukalion. Such a detail was worth nothing upon a negotiation table where the fate of Tenebra’s children and the treatment of the human dead were at stake.

  As Cassia approached the temple, she encountered some of the castoff children who would be a subject of debate at the Summit. Orphans worked the fields on either side of the road. These were the lucky ones whom the Kyrian mages sheltered, but it was not as if anyone wanted them except the Hesperines.

  The children sang in the Divine Tongue while they broke the soil, sending up prayers or praises to Kyria in their clear, high voices. Cassia wondered how many would one day prove suited to magery and learn to understand the hymns. Would the other orphans, when they set out into the world to make their fortunes, still wonder what those words meant, which they had sung as children? Words that eluded even the king on his throne.

  Bluestone
walls stretched far to the left and right. The Temple of Kyria at Solorum shielded the children and the maiden women who reared them, as well as the women’s magical secrets. Forbidding double doors of solid oak halted Cassia at the entrance. But a smaller panel in one door swung open right away, and a mage in robes the color of the clear sky welcomed Cassia inside.

  “How can Kyria’s handmaidens assist you this day, Lady?” Only the woman’s cheerful eyes could be seen above her veil, a cloth of the palest blue that wrapped her hair and face. She even had a benevolent gaze for Knight, smelly paws and all.

  “I am come to offer something to the goddess,” Cassia replied. “These two hands.”

  “Praise our Mother of the Harvest for extra hands!”

  “Mine are most useful in the garden, and they shall be available to you till sometime after the Spring Equinox, should you have use for them.” Cassia patted the basket she carried over her arm. It never hurt to emphasize pleasing words with bribery. “I would also make a small offering of seeds and cuttings from the south, which might enrich your gardens. With faithful tending from your power, I know they will grow, even in Solorum’s clime.”

  “Bless you for your generosity, Lady. Who shall I say is here to see the Prisma?”

  “Cassia Basilis.”

  The light of interest, rather than censure, appeared in the woman’s gaze. “If you will please follow me, Lady. I am Deutera, and I will show you the way.”

  Excellent. Cassia would go home with dirt under her fingernails today.

  She and Knight followed Deutera across a courtyard, past archways through which came the scents of water and soil. The temple must have male guests today, for Deutera did not remove her veil.

  The mage led Cassia to one of the structures built up against the inner wall, which towered above them, a bulwark within the bulwark of the outer walls. With any luck, Cassia would be allowed through that boundary today, where only women were permitted and the real work of the temple took place. For now, the mage ushered Cassia into an antechamber for strangers and visitors from all walks of life.

  “Please make yourself comfortable, Lady.” Deutera disappeared through a door that must lead to the Prisma’s vestibule.

  Cassia sat on a bench facing the vestibule door, and a beam of light fell on the crown of her head from a window near the ceiling. The panels were small, their glass thick and plain, but stained in shades of blue that made the room seem full of cool water. Knight relaxed beside her. She heard no voices on the other side of the door. If any conversation was in progress within, strong architecture and magic shielded it from listening ears.

  It wasn’t long before the door swung open, and Cassia stood, ready to present herself. She found herself face-to-face with the new royal mage.

  He observed her with bland brown eyes. He had the olive complexion and dark hair common in Namenti. But there was nothing bland or common about his red-gold robe denoting his honored mastery in the Order of Anthros and the bronze chain of office around his neck, which every royal mage before him had worn. Cassia dropped him a courtesy. He folded his hands into his sleeves and nodded to her.

  Amachos’s lapdog stepped out behind him. Like his master, the apprentice appeared to hail from southern Tenebra, but there the similarities ended. The young man’s sunny yellow robes turned his tawny face sallow, and his slouch made him look permanently abject. He dipped his head in a further gesture of deference, which made his apprentice cap slide forward and push his limp black hair into his eyes.

  Deutera had escorted the men out of the Prisma’s vestibule. “I am sure I need make no introductions.”

  Amachos’s smile was like his voice—pleasant, except for the undertones. “Lady Cassia, I believe?”

  Her name and identity were not beneath his notice? Perhaps the stain of shame never escaped his attention. “Indeed, Honored Master Amachos.”

  “To what do I owe the delight of seeing you in this holy place?”

  “It is my custom to devote my time to Kyria whenever I am near one of her temples.”

  “What a worthy endeavor for a lady of your station.” His nasal tones made the remark sound even more patronizing.

  Bright gold light flashed in Cassia’s eyes. The hair on the back of her arms stood on end, and a host of tiny pinpricks stung her skin. She glanced up to see a glyph of Anthros hovering over her head. The image faded as quickly as it had appeared.

  “May Anthros make your efforts fruitful,” Amachos intoned.

  Cassia bowed her head and spared him her response. If he hoped to scrub the stain from her, it would take a great deal more than a glyph. She doubted Anthros cared about her parsley, but if his mage’s tracings in the air could make it grow faster, so be it. She resisted the urge to fidget at the tingles that still ran over her, although the symbol was gone from the air.

  Amachos spoke to Deutera with the air of concluding a discussion. “Rest assured, as I told the Prisma, should there be so much as a hint that Eriphites draw near, you shall not want for my assistance.”

  Deutera clasped her hands together. “I’m sure the children will rest easier tonight. We have heard the tales of the dissenters’ violence against obedient temples. They seem bent on revenge upon all of us who would cleanse their corruption from the land.”

  Amachos lifted both hands in a gesture of reassurance. “No such thing shall befall this holy house while I am near. Fear not, for the Eriphites’ wild, false cult dwindles to mere remnants. They are little more than bandits now. Had they gracefully accepted Anthros’s rightful authority over their lesser god, they might have remained a proud and prosperous people.” Amachos sighed. “Their misguided ways have been their own reward. We must pity what has become of them. But most of all, we must ensure their disobedience brings no harm to the faithful.”

  “What a relief to have you near, Honored Master Amachos, one of Tenebra’s very own from Namenti. Our brothers and sisters in Cordium shall see how fortunate we are to have the strength of your magic to protect us.”

  Amachos exchanged a sympathetic look with her. A knowing look. “We certainly would not wish the supreme Cordian Orders to trouble themselves over our little problems, would we?”

  “You have our thanks and our prayers.”

  “Do not hesitate to call upon me, should there be a need.”

  “Honored Master, Apprentice, allow me to see you out.” Deutera nodded to Cassia again, holding open the door. “Lady, the Prisma will be glad to see you now.”

  Cassia entered the Prisma’s vestibule with a new harvest of words. One never knew what fruit they might bear later.

  The temple’s watery light bathed the two occupants of the room, a votive bluestone statue of Kyria and a figure hooded and robed in white. When the door shut behind Cassia, the goddess’s attendant rolled up her bell sleeves above ropy forearms and wrinkled elbows, then put back her cowl to reveal a gray head and a smile. “Welcome, child. How glad we are that you have come.”

  “Thank you, Prisma. I hope I can be of service to you.”

  “Of course! This is the place for any woman who wants to discover her gifts and enjoy the fruits of her labors. And escape the confusion of the outside world for a little while.” The Prisma reached beneath the ceremonial drapery at the goddess’s feet and retrieved a wad of fabric—an apron stained all shades of green, apparently stowed in haste, which she now donned over her immaculate robes of office. “Poor Lady Cassia, trapped at Solorum, surrounded by men’s foibles and a pack of foreign heretics.”

  Cassia returned the Prisma’s secret smile. It was good the mage did not know just how different their secrets were.

  The Prisma was brazen to imply she disapproved of the king and his Hesperine guests. But it was no wonder she had the confidence to make her opinions clear, especially when very human Eriphite heretics among Lucis’s own subjects raided about and threatened those in her care. The lives of her mages and the children depended on every single decision she made throughout the day
.

  “You have come to the right place,” the Prisma promised.

  Cassia spent the afternoon helping the mages ready their gardens for the coming spring. Knight lay about at the edges of the beds, accepting pats and accolades from the women while they worked and he lazed.

  Cassia counted herself fortunate indeed. Her recent fraternization with a wicked heretic went unnoticed by all these mages. Even the powers in the temple could not detect whatever mark her conversation with Hespera’s disciple had made on her.

  But she felt it, as if Deukalion had left some magic on her, discordant with the persistent sensation of Amachos’s blessing. More than once she smeared her hands and arms with more dirt than necessary, and she wasn’t sure which she was trying to drive away.

  Had she really expected a yes?

  She had not known what the odds might be that one of the Hesperines in the delegation performed the Mercy. Her experience told her nothing so useful as how many Hesperines were usually at large in Tenebra, how many were responsible for that particular rite, and whether one of them was likely to offer the Mercy and also be an ambassador.

  She was not sure what she had expected, and that alone was foreign and unsettling to her. She always knew what to expect from such occasions as giving a cloak to a seamstress. But when it came to negotiating with Deukalion, she didn’t know nearly enough.

  That no was not enough.

  Cassia froze in the act of drawing and quartering a resistant winter weed. Knight saw her pause from the end of the row and lifted his head.

  Was she really considering making another escape?

  She applied herself to the weeds again before anyone noticed her hands shaking.

  What a fool she was. She had gone through the forbidden door once already. How dare she attempt it a second time? It wasn’t worth it. Not when all Deukalion might give her was another no.

  She employed this reasoning on herself for the rest of the afternoon. But she knew too much to fall victim to her own manipulation.

  She knew much more than a simple negative awaited her if she spoke with Deukalion again. Even if none of the Hesperine diplomats had ever performed the Mercy, it didn’t matter. There was so much more at stake than that one word and the one question she had so far dared ask him.