“Yes?” Tamriel asks, quirking a brow.
Elvira smiles, then steps aside. “May I present to Your Highness the Lady Marieve Aasa of Castle Rising of Feyndara.”
Surprise flits across Tamriel’s face as Mercy drops into a curtsy. “Feyndara? Truly? Forgive me if I appear shocked—we don’t often have visitors from your side of the Abraxas Sea,” he says. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Marieve.”
“The pleasure is mine, Your Highness.” When she straightens, she eyes the thick metal of his breastplate, the leather-wrapped grip of the sword hanging at his side, and wishes once more for her daggers.
The blonde at the prince’s side smiles. “You’ve come to attend the prince’s eighteenth birthday celebration, then?”
“I would be remiss not to attend the festivities, I should think.” Although she speaks to the girl, Mercy’s eyes never leave the prince, mentally cataloging every chink in his armor. His breastplate is thick and finely made, but the rest of his body is exposed, swathed in fine fabric which would split like tissue when faced with her daggers. His sword could cleave her in two with a single swing, and he’s sure to have had plenty of practice with it. Should it come to a face-to-face fight with him, she will have to rely on speed rather than strength to beat him, particularly because he stands almost a head and a half taller than she. Her gaze locks onto his neck, the thin skin protecting his jugular vein peering out above the collar of his shirt.
All it takes is one slice.
“However, I have more important matters to discuss with the king,” she continues, “such as the conflict in the Cirisor Islands. I’d like to propose a truce. There have been three hundred years of fighting over the territory—there is no need for more.”
The brunette on Tamriel’s left nods. “Both sides have lost many men for an unworthy cause. The Cirisor Islands belonged first to Beltharos—they should have stayed that way.”
“I’m hopeful an agreement can be reached which suits both countries,” Tamriel says. “Pardon my manners, Lady Marieve. This is Serenna Elise”—he nods to the blonde—“and Serenna Emrie, daughters of two of my father’s advisors.”
Elise smiles conspiratorially. “You may have seen my father earlier. He was the one who stormed out with smoke pouring from his ears.”
“Seren Pierce is a loyal—if stubborn—man,” Emrie says, brown curls bounding as she nods. “As for your visit here, I’m afraid it couldn’t have come at a worse time. The state of the capital is volatile—lots of stress between the lower and upper classes. The rich become richer and the poor become poorer each day.”
“And the slaves remain destitute, as they always have,” Mercy interjects, channeling the Feyndarans’ almost holy belief in equality. Emrie trips over her tongue apologizing, while Tamriel watches with an amused expression.
“The work done by the slaves keeps the factories and shops running smoothly,” Elise says. “Their effort is invaluable.”
“And it allows you to profit off their earnings and look the other way while they starve and work themselves to death.”
Elise opens her mouth to object, but Tamriel cuts her off. “I must warn you to be careful what you say in the palace, my lady. Insulting the country in which you are currently a guest could not possibly help peace negotiations.”
“My apologies.” Mercy hangs her head, feigning embarrassment. Three feet separate her from Prince Tamriel. His heart pumps a steady rhythm mere inches below the steel of his breastplate. A well-aimed blade could stop its beat in a fraction of a second.
The tight line of the prince’s mouth relaxes. “Sandori must appear very different from your home, does it not?”
“Yes, it is strange. I don’t know how hundreds of thousands of people fit comfortably inside the city walls.” An unexpected note of honesty slips into her voice; growing up in the decrepit castle in the Forest, Mercy had never been able to imagine a city bustling with so many people. Thinking of the houses crammed on top of each other along the city walls and throughout the market district makes Mercy’s breath catch with claustrophobia. She longs for the miles of wilderness of the Forest of Flames, and the longing only strengthens her desire to complete her contract.
Three feet.
“What is your home like?” Emrie asks.
“Feyndara is covered in forests, so there aren’t many stone cities like this. The houses are more spread out, like some of your smaller villages. Rhys—being the capital—is the exception, of course—”
“The king wishes to speak with you, Your Highness.”
They glance over to see Master Oliver wading through the crowd, thick brows furrowed above small black eyes. Barrel-chested and broad, he dwarfs Tamriel when he stops at the prince’s side, a hand on his sword.
“Is it important?”
“He would speak with you now, Your Highness.”
He sighs. “Very well.” He bids farewell to Emrie and Elise, who seem to inflate with the attention, then he turns to Mercy. “I hope we meet again soon, Lady Marieve. In the meantime, I will speak to my father about giving you a private audience so we may begin negotiating.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
As the Master of the Guard leads him away, the clusters of nobles do not shift out of their way, nor do they pause in their conversations, yet it seems every person’s eyes follow his movements through the room. When he disappears through a door, Emrie and Elise exhale.
“You two are serennas?” Mercy asks, and they both start at the sound of her voice. “I’m not familiar with that title.”
“To the crown, it’s more an obligation than an honor. Our fathers are lesser advisors, which means we’re nothing but glorified servants,” Elise jokes. “Most of our days consist of taking notes, delivering letters, duties of the sort.”
“It’s terribly boring, but we know everything about the inner circle—all the gossip, all the rivalries.” Emrie’s voice drops to a whisper and she beckons Mercy closer. “We know secrets which would send half of these men running home to their wives, and the other half hiding from them for fear of a lashing.”
While she speaks, Mercy’s eyes flick to the door through which the prince had left. Now could be her chance. Most of the guards will be surrounding Ghyslain’s chambers, where he and Tamriel must be meeting, but if Mercy can venture close enough to follow the prince to his chambers . . . Well, his soldiers can’t possibly guard him every second.
Sensing her thoughts, Elvira catches Mercy’s eye and raises a brow in question. Mercy nods once, and Elvira turns on her heel, weaving between groups of nobles. She stops beside the doorway and says something to a slave. He nods, she thanks him, then slips into the corridor.
“What is your opinion of the prince?” Mercy asks. “Have you known him long?”
“All our lives.”
“We were all much closer when we were children. Recently, we’ve only spoken to him at public gatherings or courts,” Elise adds. “He always excuses himself early. I don’t know what he does with his time.”
“Tutors?” Mercy suggests.
“I suppose. He’s very smart, always has been. I’ve heard his mother was the same way. He’s honest, too. The king can be a little . . . unpredictable at times, but if Prince Tamriel says he’s going to convince the king to negotiate with you, he will find a way.” Emrie’s head bobs as she speaks, a smile dimpling her cheeks. Clearly these girls will say anything favorable about their prince to a foreign royal, probably hoping he’ll learn of their glowing praise.
“So, you never see the prince while you’re working around the castle?”
“Occasionally in passing,” Elise says. “Sometimes he sits in the library and reads for hours, although he hasn’t done much of that recently. My father told me Tamriel used to sneak out of his bedroom in the middle of the night and curl up on the library’s sofa with a book and a candle he’d stolen from the kitchen. It drove the guards mad trying to find him in all the library’s nooks and crannies.” S
he grins. “By the time they did, he’d have fallen asleep with the book clutched to his chest and the candle sitting a few feet away on the floor. My father said it was a miracle he never burned down the castle.”
The admiration in her voice is obvious, a fact which Emrie ignores either from ignorance or sheer force of will. Her mouth tightens into a line before she changes the subject. “Will we see you here for the Solari celebration in three days, my lady?”
“Yes, I’ll be here,” Mercy says, spotting Elvira as she reenters the throne room, wringing her hands. She pauses in the doorway and waves Mercy over. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way. My grandmother insisted on keeping me busy with a full agenda of meetings—I’m sure you can understand.”
At Elvira’s second, more insistent wave, Mercy smiles at the girls and walks past them, hurrying her pace to as close to a jog as she can manage without attracting stares. A couple courtiers make faces as she passes, spotting her elven ears, but Elvira’s expression prevents her from caring; the poor woman’s face has completely drained of blood.
“What in the world is wrong? Did you follow him?” Mercy hisses as she passes through the doorway, dragging Elvira along with her. She casts a glance over her shoulder to ensure no one is watching, but everyone else is too absorbed in their own conversations to pay them any attention.
“Follow me.” Elvira pulls out of Mercy’s grasp and hurries down the hall, her dress billowing behind her. Slaves pass carrying platters of drinks or sheaves of parchment, but they pay them no heed as Elvira and Mercy pass under a stone arch and down a flight of stairs.
Down?
“They’re not in the king’s chambers, or his office,” Elvira whispers.
“Why not?”
“Shhh!”
Below the main floor of the palace, the stone walls are thick, the air earthy and moist. Torches line the walls in uneven intervals, the flames sputtering and crackling as they pass. The corridor splits.
Left or right.
Elvira comes to a stop so quickly Mercy trips over the backs of her heels. She mutters an apology, but the sound is lost as an agonized wail fills the halls, echoing and distorting as it bounces through the stone corridor. A gasp of pain cuts off the cry and the resounding silence makes the hairs on the back of Mercy’s neck stand on end. Elvira trembles.
Mercy moves to peer around the corner; Elvira’s fist clamps on the collar of her jacket and locks her in place. “The guards,” she whispers. “This way.”
Elvira leads her a few strides down the left hall and pushes open a door so old the wood has turned the same color as the gray bricks surrounding it. The resulting creaks of the rusted iron hinges seem amplified in the silence, but an eerie, low moan fills the space and drowns out the sound. As soon as the gap has widened enough for them to squeeze through the doorway, they do.
They stand in an abandoned supply closet, rotting crates and pallets stacked against one wall. The room is so small that—standing shoulder-to-shoulder—there is hardly any room for them to maneuver without toppling a pile and alerting the guards to their presence.
“Look.”
Elvira points to a broken stone near Mercy’s hip. When she kneels to examine it, she realizes some of the pulverized stone has been chipped away to form a peephole into the neighboring room. She can barely make out the silhouette of a man against the flickering light of an ancient forge, but can see no higher than his hip. He circles a mound of dirty cloth, and when he strikes it with the tip of his boot there is a sharp, pained intake of breath, followed by a moan.
Hero.
The mound of clothing moves. Clutching her stomach with one arm, Hero rises to her knees and spits a mouthful of grimy hair from her mouth. Her other arm hangs limply at her side, her broken shoulder swollen to twice its normal size.
“You cannot hide from this forever. You cannot turn everything she did into nothing.” She grimaces with pain, but her words come out evenly, laced with disgust. “You are a wretched, pitiful excuse of a—”
Her head snaps to the side, the imprint of Master Oliver’s hand glowing red on her cheek. “You’d better watch your mouth,” he growls. “Remember who you address next time you speak, or we’ll take more than your tongue.”
“Do you remember her?” Hero looks past the guard, glaring at someone outside of Mercy’s range of vision. “Do you remember the way the nobles strung her up on the gate like some cheap ornament? Like some criminal? And now you dance like a puppet for their amusement and run and hide whenever someone dares mention your dearly departed—”
Oliver seizes her arm and wrenches it upward. She screams through her teeth as her broken bones grind against each other, somehow managing to stay conscious despite the agony ripping through her.
“Sweet Creator,” Elvira groans.
When Mercy glances behind her, Elvira is crouched on the floor, shaking. Her hands cover her ears, yet from a glance at her pale face, it’s clear they do nothing to block out the sounds of Hero’s suffering.
“Go upstairs,” Mercy says. “Go back to Blackbriar.”
Eyes shut tightly, she shakes her head.
Another scream erupts in the other room. Hero’s arms have been tied behind her back, and Master Oliver pulls her tongue forward with a pair of tongs. He lifts a red-hot dagger from the coals of the forge, wrapping the handle in thick cloth. Hero’s eyes go wide; with Master Oliver holding her still, all she can do is watch as the glowing blade draws closer to her tongue.
“Wait,” Ghyslain says. “Tamriel will do it.”
Oliver hesitates. “Your Majesty?”
“Father?” Tamriel’s voice comes out pinched, tight with fear and surprise.
“You heard me, Oliver. Hand over the dagger.” Master Oliver must hesitate, because a second later, Ghyslain roars, “Hand him the dagger!”
Through the tiny hole, Mercy watches as the prince pushes off the far wall and crosses the room, stopping at Oliver’s side. He doesn’t take the knife. Hero kneels on the floor before him, her eyes wide and terrified, glassy with pain.
“Take the dagger, Tamriel,” his father says, his voice now deathly quiet. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, but you put yourself in this situation. It’s not my fault. Oliver, the knife.”
Master Oliver hesitantly passes over the dagger and tongs, and Tamriel’s hands shake as he lifts it to Hero’s face.
The prince holds the dagger over her tongue, its blade still glowing brightly. After a moment’s hesitation, he slices with one swift motion, and the sound of sizzling meat is drowned out by Hero’s scream.
Almost.
18
Elvira is still trembling when they return to Blackbriar. The minute they step into the foyer, she excuses herself and retreats to her bedroom.
Mercy paces the kitchen. If she’d had her way, she’d have stayed in the palace and tried to learn more about the prince; many of the nobles—while suspicious of the elven royal—seem to have rather loose tongues when it comes to their opinions about the royal family. They’ve seen how Ghyslain behaves; they’ve watched Tamriel grow up.
Ghyslain and Tamriel. Father and son. If Ghyslain truly is mad, he hides it well, ruling with fear and harsh punishments—yet he had given that worker so much more than he had asked of the court, and out of the royal treasury, too. In her mind, she sees Raidon’s fist pumping in the air as he leaves the throne room. Then Hero’s screams echo in her ears and she flinches.
No one had said anything when Tamriel had carved through Hero’s tongue, the stench of burning flesh filling the damp, earthy air. He had performed the task and thrown the meat into the forge while Hero choked on smoke, tears pouring down her face. Then he and his father had watched as Master Oliver had dragged her out of the room.
Mercy tugs her hair out of its bun and moves to the study, rubbing her eyes, wishing she could remove the memory of the cruelty she had just witnessed. She traces the cracked leather spines of the books lining the bookshelf, the embossed titles
bumpy under her fingertips, and thinks of the story Elise had told her about the boy who had snuck into the library at midnight to read himself to sleep. That child bears no resemblance to the young man she had met today.
Tamriel will turn eighteen in a little over two weeks, which is more than enough time for Mercy to complete her contract. After the Solari celebration will be her best chance of luring Tamriel somewhere private, although it will be difficult to move his body with so many guests and guards wandering about; if she hides him, there’s no guarantee she will be able to return and move him later.
Well.
She will do what she has always done:
Adapt.
Elvira barely speaks to her the next morning, breaking her silence only to ask Mercy to pass a plate of fruit as they eat breakfast and to help her dress an hour later. The silence isn’t out of anger or sadness, but something far more complex; it hangs in the air around her, dragging down her usually graceful movements. Even so, the woman refuses to keep still, patting and fluffing every pillow on Mercy’s bed, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles on the skirt she has wrestled Mercy into. A long-sleeved tunic hangs over it, loose-collared and crafted of emerald crepe.
The questions nagging at the back of Mercy’s mind rise to the surface, and she dares to voice one as Elvira closes the doors of the wardrobe. “How do you know the castle so well?”
She pauses. “You are not the first Assassin I have helped, and Tamriel is not the first royal to be assassinated.”
“You knew where the guards were going to be, you spoke to a slave, you even knew where that storage closet was.”
Elvira crosses her arms and sighs. “My husband has been a slave in Myrellis Castle for twenty years. He was eight when he was taken from an orphanage in Beggars’ End and brought to the castle, and we met during a Solari feast. I was serving an old noblewoman at the time, and when she passed, Kier and I snuck out of the castle. We were going to flee to the Howling Mountains, then east to Cirisor,” she says wistfully, “but a guard caught us a few hundred yards out on the lake in a stolen boat.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 19
