Mercy sobers at the sight of the royal seal emblazoned on the breastplates of their armor. Every soldier standing before her is an obstacle between her and the completion of her contract; every pair of eyes peering from behind the visor of a silver helmet could be the one to discover who she really is.
No.
She will not allow it to happen.
Hundreds of well-groomed and perfumed noblemen and women flock through the main hall, slaves, courtiers, and advisors among the masses. They are differentiated by their manner of dress: nobles wear soft, shimmering pastels and sheer chiffons, the courtiers and advisors are clad in a uniform shade of plum, and the white sashes of slaves flutter between them as bodies shift and move. Beyond two thick pillars, the hall narrows. Portraits of past Myrellis royals line the walls, their faces grim. Mercy recognizes none except Colm Myrellis, the first monarch of the Myrellis name, and only because of the gold placard posted below the framed canvas. As she and Elvira near the throne room, the portraits become more recent. Where the last portrait would have hung is a bare section of wall, the gold placard still hanging below where the frame should have been. It reads: King Ghyslain Myrellis and ---------------- expecting the arrival of the prince. The second name has been scratched out so many times it’s illegible, but there’s no doubt who had stood in the painting with the king:
The last member of the now-obsolete Zendais family, the late Queen Elisora.
Mercy and Elvira pass under a stone arch and arrive in the throne room, swept along in the current of bodies. No one pays them any heed as the sea of people splits in two, forming a long open walkway from the arch to the throne, which sits proudly atop a raised dais. A wall of windows behind it provides a magnificent view of the rocky shore and gray waves of Lake Myrella.
A set of doors opposite Mercy and Elvira opens. A company of twenty guards steps through, dressed in full armor with their blades swinging at their hips. Four of them hold crossbows larger than any Mercy has ever seen. Each bolt looks like a spear.
This contract may not be as easy as she had hoped.
The guards break off into twos, taking up their stations along the length of the crowd. The Master of the Guard enters next, a sour-faced man whose nose has been broken so many times it’s hardly recognizable. He is not wearing a helmet, and the thick, puckered scar which runs from the top of his head to his right ear is visible through the gap in his long hair. He stands beside the throne with both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, beady black eyes scanning the crowd.
Finally, the king makes his entrance.
He is not at all what Mercy had been expecting. After the stories of the grief-stricken widower and the unstable monarch on the verge of losing his throne, she had expected him to be a wretched shell of a man. She had imagined him hobbling down the aisle while muttering nonsense under his breath, his fine clothes hanging off a decrepit frame mangled by years of anguish and sorrow. And—even though Liselle had only been killed eighteen years ago—she had always pictured him old.
Yet as soon as she lays eyes upon him, Mercy chastises herself for entertaining such baseless preconceptions.
The king strides down the aisle, his crimson shirt draped loosely across his torso. A dark purple cloak trimmed in gold thread hangs from his shoulders, clasped at the neck with an onyx brooch. Black pants tucked into black formal boots, three rings shining on each hand. His dark wavy hair is combed into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, enhancing his warm olive skin and strong jaw. A diadem of gold and rubies rests atop his head, and although he must be in his mid-forties, the years have been kind to him.
When he settles onto the throne, the guards close all the doors, and a flash of panic jolts through Mercy’s veins. The prince isn’t coming? She nudges Elvira, who glances over and shrugs a shoulder.
Nothing to do but wait.
Ghyslain nods once, and a man steps forward with a guard at his side. He is a commoner, his clothes nothing compared to the luxurious materials surrounding him, and he wrings a hat nervously between his hands. When the king’s eyes land on him, he draws himself to his full height.
“What issue have you brought before His Majesty today?” the Master of the Guard asks.
“Your Majesty, I have come to ask for an edict requiring an increase in pay for the market and factory workers.”
Derogatory snickers erupt across the room. The king lifts a hand and they quiet, but do not cease. “Why should I grant such a request?”
“The wages we earn aren’t enough to feed one person, let alone a whole family. Most men in the factories earn six aurums a week. A bowl of broth costs two. We’ve got families to support, and the wives make hardly enough at the stalls to buy fruit for breakfast, but no more. Please, Your Majesty.”
“How much do you make?”
The man hesitates. “Eight.”
The king’s brows lift. “And you still you come asking for more? When you already earn more than most in the factories? Tell me, is it greed or pride which motivated you to come to me now?”
“Certainly not either! I ask on behalf of all the workers in the market district, not for my own gain. By your own law, factory owners are required to increase their workers’ pay every two years, which hasn’t happened for nearly six years.”
An advisor steps forward, a smug expression on his face as he stares down his nose at the commoner. “Why come forward now? Why not four years ago, when your pay didn’t increase?”
“The pay wasn’t a problem then, but now—”
“You lived quite comfortably on your wage, didn’t you? But now you want more—”
“Your Majesty—” The commoner steps forward and the guard beside him places a hand on his sword. The man swallows and steps back, and the guard relaxes, leveling a warning stare at him. “I didn’t come forward because everyone who does ends up replaced. The boss will let us work and forget about us, but the moment there’s a complaint, he replaces us with elves from Beggars’ End. They’ll work eighteen hours a day for two aurums a week.”
The advisor sneers. “If you don’t like the pay, leave the city. There’s plenty of work in the mines in Blackhills. Instituting a city-wide wage increase will bankrupt businesses which have flourished for years—”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble. We just want what we are owed,” the commoner pleads.
“Employees earn their pay based on the work they do, and if they are unsatisfied, there are many far needier who would happily take their place.” The advisor offers King Ghyslain a saccharine smile, his hands clasped primly in front of him. “Your Majesty, there is simply no need to change what has worked for years.”
The man glares at him with unabashed hatred, cheeks flushed with anger. He balls up the hat he had been wringing as if he wishes to throw it at the courtier—or shove it down his throat.
The king leans forward and rests an elbow on the arm of his throne. “Is it true my laws have been disobeyed, Seren Pierce?”
“O-Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Then why hasn’t this man been properly paid in six years?”
The smile drops a fraction. “I . . . don’t know.”
“You had better find out. Your position in this court depends on it,” the king says. “Starting today, Seren, you will personally meet with the owner of every major business within the city walls and ensure every worker is being paid what he is owed. When you are finished, you will do the same with every minor business.”
Seren Pierces sets his jaw, glares at the commoner, then turns on his heel and walks out. A guard moves to follow him, but Ghyslain stops him with a wave of his hand. “Let him go. He is no doubt keen to return to his king’s good graces.” He turns to the man. “What is your name?”
“R-Raidon, Your Majesty.”
“Treasurer Evander, escort Raidon to the great hall and make sure he is paid every aurum he is owed. And—how many children do you have?”
“F-F-Four. And another on the way.”
“Give him some extra for the children. I trust this is satisfactory?” he asks.
The man looks close to tears. He places his wrinkled hat on his head and beams. “Better than I could have hoped, Your Majesty. My children will go to bed tonight with full stomachs. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Ghyslain nods to Evander, who bows and leads the man out of the room. Just before the door shuts behind them, Raidon jumps and whoops, pumping a fist in the air. Ghyslain smiles, but it only lasts a moment. “The next issue?” he asks the Master of the Guard.
The court continues in the same fashion for the next three hours; a matter is brought before Ghyslain, a noble or advisor argues, and Ghyslain passes a judgment. Mercy listens with one ear as the king settles a property dispute, dispatches guards to shut down a growing crime ring in Beggars’ End, and discusses a proposal to allow the mining of the Howling Mountains, all the while pondering how she can escape and track down the prince without anyone noticing.
“The mountains have been off-limits for nearly two hundred years, since His Majesty’s great-great-grandfather made a treaty with the Rennox,” Elvira whispers, mistaking Mercy’s boredom for confusion. “The Rennox attacked every scouting party the crown sent there, thinking the humans were trying to steal their precious eudorite. By the time the king finally convinced them to parley, fifty soldiers had been lost to the Rennox. After the peace treaty was signed, the Rennox gifted the crown with enough limestone to fortify the city, as restitution for the soldiers lost. That’s why Sandori is white stone instead of gray, like other cities.”
“No one has seen a Rennox in over a generation,” the advisor in favor of the proposal says. “They used to trade with some of the northern mining cities, but one year, they simply stopped. We’ve found no evidence of their continued existence; they might have gone into hiding or been wiped out by disease. Whatever it is, we cannot ignore a possible source of building material, not to mention whatever else is hidden in the karsts!”
“They wouldn’t have gone into hiding over nothing,” the other advisor shoots back. “We have no idea what deadly creatures lurk in those mountains, and if the threat was serious enough to scare away the Rennox, we shouldn’t wish to find out.”
“Perhaps they simply left. Perhaps they decided to stop trading with us. Whatever the reason, we would be remiss to leave those mountains sitting there, abandoned. They’re a part of our country—we should know more about them.”
The door at the back of the room bangs open. Four guards step through, with a fifth dragging a hissing, spitting woman behind him. Her hair is a mess, clenched in the fist of the guard and stuck to the angry tears streaming down her face. Several noblewomen gasp. The two warring advisors shrink into the crowd, mouths agape in surprise and disgust.
As the guard throws her at the foot of the dais, one more figure darkens the doorway. He pauses at the threshold, then strides confidently into the throne room despite the curses the woman hurls at him. The silver pommel of the sword on his belt flashes as he walks.
When his eyes meet Mercy’s, Prince Tamriel smirks.
17
His gaze rests on her for a moment, tracing a line from her eyes to the points of her ears before dropping to her chest, searching for the sash which isn’t there. He could just as well be staring at her breasts, Mercy muses, although it’s not likely he’d be impressed. There are plenty of young noblewomen here with twice her curves, and their sheer dresses leave little to the imagination. Mercy crosses her arms and scowls.
He climbs the steps of the platform and takes his place beside his father. Standing over the king’s shoulder, it’s evident that Tamriel is a carbon copy of Ghyslain—they share the same wavy dark hair, olive complexion, and dark eyes, complete with the ramrod-straight military stance. He is clad in a slate gray breastplate, black cloak, pants, and leather boots. At least two women near Mercy swoon.
The woman before the throne staggers to her feet, her skirt in tatters. She does not speak, but pushes the hair out of her face and stands defiantly amid the five guards, her hands clenched into fists.
A guard steps forward. “We caught her sneaking runaway slaves out of Beggars’ End, Your Majesty. She had arranged for boats to carry them to Saskia, where they would then sail to freedom in the Cirisor Islands.” Another guard dumps the contents of a canvas bag on the floor, spilling exotic coins and scraps of parchment. “We estimate she has led over thirty slaves to freedom thus far. The elves call her Hero. She refuses to give her real name.”
Prince Tamriel crosses his arms as King Ghyslain leans forward, studying the woman. He narrows his eyes. “You are aware it is a capital offense to aid or orchestrate the escape of a runaway slave, I am sure,” he says. “Do you deny this allegation?”
She says nothing, lifting her chin to glare at the king. The throne room, which had previously been abuzz with whispers, is quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
“Have you anything to say in your defense?” Ghyslain asks.
“Nothing which will not fall on deaf ears,” Hero retorts.
“You should speak to your king with more respect,” Tamriel says sharply.
“A king who profits off the work of those he has enslaved is no king of mine.”
“That’s enough,” Ghyslain snaps. He turns to the guard who had spoken first. “You found her in Beggars’ End?”
“Just outside, Your Majesty. With the aid of an unknown accomplice, she had created a tunnel through the wall which had allowed passage in and out of the city. My men are filling it as we speak. The six elves she had been helping were captured and punished accordingly.”
“And who is this mystery accomplice?” Ghyslain asks Hero.
She says nothing, glaring from the king to the prince and back.
He sighs. “Fine. If you insist on keeping your silence, allow me to make it a little easier for you. I won’t have your toxic views spreading to the rest of the city.” He looks at the guards. “Take her to the dungeons and cut out her tongue. Throw her back in Beggars’ End when you are done.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The guards grasp Hero by the arms, intending to lead her out, but she remains immobile, glaring at the king. They prod her forward, harsher and harsher each time. “Move,” one growls through his teeth. Whispers rise throughout the court, and Prince Tamriel studies her with curiosity.
“Fool woman. What is she doing?” Elvira murmurs.
The butt of a crossbow cracks against the back of her knee. She crumples to all fours, pain contorting her face. “I said,” the guard hisses, “move.” He raises the crossbow to swing again, and someone in the crowd cries out as it begins its descent. Before it strikes her, Hero lifts her head and spits at Ghyslain’s feet.
“Is this what Liselle would have wanted?” Hero snarls, silencing the courtroom with the name. Several nobles look more insulted than if she’d uttered a curse. Pain and anger flicker across Ghyslain’s face.
“Bitch,” the guard spits, swinging the crossbow. It strikes her shoulder and a sickening crunch echoes across the room, coupled with Hero’s cry of agony.
“Get her out of my sight,” Ghyslain orders.
The guards haul her out of the room, her shouts and curses fading down the corridor. Tamriel glances away when the door swings shut behind them, while Ghyslain smooths the folds of his shirt and takes a breath before speaking.
“That will be all for today. Master Oliver, I’d like a word.”
Without another glance at the court or his son, he stands and stalks out of the room, the Master of the Guard close at his heels. When the hem of his cloak disappears into the next room, a weight lifts from everyone in the room—Prince Tamriel included. He rolls his shoulders back and descends the platform. He is immediately pulled into conversation with two young, pretty noblewomen.
Mercy turns to Elvira. “Introduce me to the prince.”
Elvira takes her hand and begins wading through the crowd, closer and closer to the t
hrone. Some of the nobles leave to wander the grounds, but most remain in the throne room, flitting between groups and schmoozing those of higher rank. Mercy catches snippets of conversation as they pass and smirks at the ridiculousness of their discussions.
“—spilt it all down her lap and ruined a perfectly good dress—”
“—threw an extravagant party last week. He even had pastries decorated with real gold from Rivosa. Can you imagine the cost?”
“—after his father’s death, trying to get revenge, they said—”
“—fit to wear the crown? Even eighteen years later, he bolts at the mere mention of her.”
This piques Mercy’s interest. She glances at the five older men they’d passed as they chuckle, round bellies jiggling under their fine clothes and gold necklaces. She wants to stop Elvira and eavesdrop on their conversation, discover more about the tension building between Ghyslain and his people. Despite their seemingly respectful silence as he had held court, some of the king’s rulings had met snorts of derision among the courtiers, clever quips too quiet to be picked up by the guards. Instead, Elvira’s grip on her hand tightens as she pulls her forward.
Is what the old man said true? Does Ghyslain carry so much grief over Liselle’s death that he cannot bear the thought of her? It’s absurd; Mercy cannot imagine belonging so completely to someone else. Love is nothing but a weakness.
Elvira drops Mercy’s hand suddenly, startling her out of her thoughts. The elf plants herself between two noblewomen competing for the prince’s attention and stares at him expectantly, hands clasped in front of her. As flighty as she had seemed yesterday, she appears wholly in her element amidst the nobility.
After a moment, Tamriel notices his silent observer and turns to Elvira with a puzzled expression, taking in the white sash across her chest. Clearly, he is accustomed to elves scampering out of his way when he passes, not staring unabashedly while in the company of some of the richest people in the city.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 18
