Tamriel sinks into one of the high-backed leather chairs. He has always known his father is sympathetic to the elves—it’s one of the reasons why he and Liselle had gotten along so well—and it has never been a secret between them that Tamriel shares the same stance. Even so, they had never spoken of it until now.
“Hero will be returned to Beggars’ End in a matter of days. Do not seek her out.” As he speaks, something in the king seems to break. He rounds the desk and crouches on the floor before Tamriel. “Oh, my son,” he sighs. “I wish you had never had to hurt that woman. I’ve prayed every day that you would come to your senses on your own, but you’re too stubborn for your own good, just like your mother.”
Tamriel stiffens. They never talk about his mother. Never. “It wasn’t her you were hallucinating today, was it?” Over the years, he has become accustomed to his father’s delusions: broken pottery and furniture often accompany Liselle’s appearance, while sudden racking, heaving sobs accompany his mother’s. For most of his childhood, his sullen, brooding father’s outbursts had terrified him. Now, they are almost routine.
Ghyslain’s jaw works. “I do not hallucinate.”
“Sure, you don’t. And stop calling me ‘Tam’—you know I hate that.”
His father doesn’t listen. His mind goes somewhere distant and he stares at nothing until Tamriel sighs.
“You must speak to Lady Marieve soon. It is in our countries’ best interests to begin negotiations as soon as possible,” he says.
“You’re right. I shall have something sent to her immediately.” Ghyslain stands and leaves the room without another glance at Tamriel, his son—as always—forgotten the moment he leaves his father’s sight.
Tamriel sighs again and leans back in the chair, closing his eyes against the beginning of a headache. He sits there for so long he drifts into a light and uneasy sleep, before the surprised gasp of a maid wakes him.
“So sorry, Your Highness!” she says, scrambling to close the door behind her. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“It’s no problem.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck with a hand. When he sees the broom and pan in her hand, he reaches for it. “Allow me.”
“Oh, no, Your Highness, it’s alright—” she backpedals, eyeing the mess of soot-covered porcelain in and around the fireplace. The king’s tantrums have never been a secret among the castle staff, his messes always carefully—and quietly—disposed of within an hour.
“Please,” he murmurs. He smiles. “I’ll clean it.”
She hesitantly hands him the broom and pan, fearing some joke or test. When he says nothing more than a soft ‘Thank you,’ she nods and darts from the room.
He places the pan on the floor and holds it steady with one foot while sweeping the shards of the broken vases into it. The fire has dimmed to embers, and he cleans as many of the shards out of the ashes as possible, not caring that the soot turns his fingers black.
20
“Leaving already?”
Someone calls to Mercy from across the garden, and the whisper of running steps on grass nears until Serenna Elise halts a few paces from her, her cheeks flushed. “If my father had seen me run like that, he’d have died of mortification. It’s not ladylike.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“Would you like to take a walk around the city? It’s a lovely day. Come, this way.”
Without waiting for a response, Elise leads her through the gate and down the main road. Its cobbled stones have, after hundreds of years of traffic, worn down so far the surface has become shiny, smooth as ice. The road slopes gently, providing a view of the entire expanse of the city as it spreads out before them. Large, extravagant mansions with bright flowers sprouting from the window boxes mark the Sapphire Quarter in the east. Tall, sloping houses compete for space in the market district, where the buzz of hundreds of voices is audible from the castle. A break in the rooftops offers a glimpse into Myrellis Plaza; vendors and merchants sit on colorful blankets or lean against tables filled with miscellaneous bits and baubles.
“How long has your father worked for the king?” Mercy asks.
“Twenty, twenty-five years now, I think. My family didn’t always hold the serenship. My grandfather worked in the treasury and my grandmother attended Queen Guinevere, His Majesty’s mother. My father was named a seren when I was young, which made me a serenna by default.” Elise’s lips spread into a nostalgic smile, her eyes sparkling. “I loved it. We were suddenly invited to a dozen parties a month, each one seemingly grander than the next. I felt like a princess.”
“That must have been nice.”
“For a time, it was, but we must all grow up eventually. Parties became less about entertainment and more about schmoozing those of higher rank, and banquets gave way to duties. Times changed, and people changed, too. Look here.” She snags Mercy’s arm, pointing to a dilapidated mansion halfway down the block, its windows cracked and boarded up. “His Majesty gave Elisora that house shortly after they were betrothed. Her family had a mansion further east, but the king wanted her to be able to visit the castle whenever she wished.”
“Visit the castle? Or visit him?”
“Ha. I suppose that was the main reason, yes. You’ve heard the story of how they met in the king’s court? How their betrothal had been arranged by their fathers?”
Mercy nods.
“A nice story, I’ll admit, but a lie. Ghyslain and Elisora had known each other since childhood. He was smitten with her—always had been. They were best friends. Supposedly, he begged his father to allow the match, despite the Zendais family not holding a noble title. It was highly scandalous for the king not to have married a daughter of one of the old families.”
“I thought he only cared for Liselle?”
Elise waves Mercy along, casting one last glance at the house. “People can say what they like, but I believe he loved each of them. It’s rumored after the Queen died, her stuff was moved out of the castle and thrown in that house to collect dust, and no one’s touched it since. Ghyslain couldn’t bear to see it.”
Mercy remembers the empty space where the portrait of the king and queen had hung outside the throne room, Elisora’s name scratched off the placard so many times it was illegible. “What about Tamriel? Didn’t the king keep anything of hers for him?”
“No, nothing. After her death”—she pauses, and Mercy can almost hear the words and Liselle’s—“the king refused to set foot in their chambers until it was cleared out. Every night, he wandered the halls, forcing himself to stay awake until he passed out from exhaustion. He seemed to think if he didn’t face it, her death hadn’t happened.”
“He seems competent enough now, though. Tamriel will certainly be a capable leader once he ascends the throne,” she says carefully. Mercy can’t keep the memories of burnt meat and broken porcelain out of her mind, and she shudders.
“His Highness has been taught well by his tutors, and the nobility respect him. Whatever agreement is made between Feyndara and Beltharos, he will honor until his last breath,” she assures Mercy. Her doe-eyes and round, feminine face shroud her in an air of naiveté, but it’s obvious she does not underestimate the power of politics. “Tamriel may be a little . . . serious, at times, but I have no doubt when the time comes, he will be the king Beltharos needs.”
“I pray he will.”
An aged, ivy-covered arch marks the change from the Sapphire Quarter to the market district, the houses turning tall and lean, crammed beside one another with nothing but a few inches between the limestone bricks. They lean forward into the street so their tiled roofs create a sort of canopy, a reprieve from the sun for pedestrians on the road below. When the breeze calms, the houses in the distance appear to dance, waves of heat blurring their white facades.
As they wander into Myrellis Plaza, Elise holds tightly on Mercy’s arm, concerned about being separated, but her worry is unnecessary; the middle-class workers and shoppers shift out of their way when
they spot Mercy’s and Elise’s fine clothing. A few gawk at Mercy’s pointed ears, but they look away when she narrows her eyes.
“You are very brave to venture into Sandori without guards, my lady.” Although Elise’s voice is nonchalant, she watches Mercy from the corner of her eye. “I’m surprised Queen Cerelia allowed you to come here without a company of soldiers at your back.”
“I came to negotiate for peace. Arriving with a fleet of soldiers is hardly the way to earn His Majesty’s trust, don’t you think?” Mercy says. “Either way, I can handle myself with a weapon.”
“Really? You were given lessons?”
“I have an older cousin, Alistair.”
“He taught you to fight? Against his father’s wishes, I assume.”
“Yes. I beat him frequently.”
Elise laughs. “You must teach me sometime. Some of the noblemen can be quite insistent, given a little wine. One mistakes an innocent comment for flirting, and the next thing you know, he’s dragged you into one of the spare bedrooms, pulling at your clothes, all . . . hands.” She shudders.
“Perhaps I should have brought guards, after all.”
“Perhaps.”
They wander past the square and into the cluster of trading company warehouses crammed along the banks of Alynthi. The river is three times as wide as it had naturally been, Elise explains, the banks having been dug out when the dam was built. Colm Myrellis, a trader and engineer, had designed it to provide power to the factories, and later added two massive doors so his ships could pass through. The money he earned from the levy had made him the richest man in Sandori, and upon his deathbed, his son was made ruler of Sandori, and later, Beltharos.
“The Myrellis bloodline has been royalty since,” Elise continues. “Not always without challenge, but they’ve managed to keep a tight rein on their power. Say, have you any plans for tonight?” She spins to face Mercy, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk with the abrupt change of subject.
“No,” Mercy says hesitantly. Although she wishes to return to the castle and spy on the prince, there is no guarantee she will be able to find him, and no reason for Lady Marieve to be wandering the castle alone at night.
“Wonderful. You shall come to my house for dinner. My father is having some of his colleagues over for a pre-Solari feast. You’re going to come, too, and I will explain more about the holiday to you.”
“I— Very well.” Dining with nobles and listening to their incessant chatter is likely to drive Mercy insane, but if Seren Pierce is as quick to trust as his daughter, perhaps she can glean some information which will help her complete her contract.
Elise smiles. “Then I will have the servants prepare an extra seat at the table. You’ll love it. My father brags that Liri is the best cook in Sandori. First, I want to introduce you to someone.”
She takes Mercy by the hand and pulls her down a series of side streets. There are more workers here than anyone else; stout, red-faced men wearing tattered hats carry crates past them, and the tall masts of ships move steadily southward in the distance. When they near the docks, Elise freezes.
“Where is Atlas?” she asks a soldier overseeing the loading of a shipment.
“Elise? Didn’t think I’d be seeing you around for a while,” he says, frowning. “Positions changed. Atlas was assigned to Beggars’ End. He didn’t tell you?”
Elise pales. “When did this happen?”
“Two weeks ago. He really didn’t tell you?”
“If this is about—”
“No, it’s not,” he says quickly, raising his hands to cut her off. “Creator’s honor. He’s in Aldrich’s Square, last I heard.”
Her jaw sets. “Okay. Okay.” She pivots on her heel and waves Mercy forward, waiting until she catches up to speak. “It’s my brother,” she murmurs. “The idiot. Allow me to walk you to the castle, my lady, or to your home. I will speak to my brother afterward. I will see you tonight, correct? Just tell me where your house is and I’ll have an invitation sent.”
“That’s not necessary. Let me help you.”
“No, it’s highly improper. You don’t need to see Beggars’ End. My family’s problems are our responsibility.”
“I want to help.” After the warning at the city gate two days ago and Elise’s reaction to the news about her brother, Mercy’s curiosity piques. Every city has a slum, but half the nobility can’t say the name without a derisive curl of the lip or wrinkle of the nose. “Let me help, Elise. I don’t mind.”
“I . . . Fine.” Elise nods, some of the color returning to her cheeks. “Let’s go, then.”
21
They smell Beggars’ End before they see it. The stench floods over the wall which encloses the slum, a rank combination of sewage, rotting food, and body odor. The wall is shorter and more haphazardly constructed than those surrounding the city, and in some places, small window-like holes where stones had fallen out—or been removed—offer a glimpse into Beggars’ End.
Stone arches had been built into the walls at uneven intervals. At each one, a wrought-iron gate stands open, and a latch on the wall suggests a place for a lock. What occasion the king could have for locking people inside Beggars’ End is left to the imagination.
When they step through the gate, the first to notice them is a young boy with lank black hair hanging in his face. He crouches in the street beside three other children, blinking at the strangers.
Mercy forces her pace not to falter when she sees the boy lean forward and whisper to the other children. They turn and look, and—almost simultaneously—their expressions shift into replicas of the boy’s: a mixture of distrust and wariness, even hostility. They stand, but do not move closer. When she and Elise turn a corner, Mercy lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Right over here,” Elise says, her voice trembling slightly. She points to a building which looks like an old storage facility, complete with boarded-up windows and a stack of broken crates against one wall. A man’s shadow stands just inside the doorway, arms folded over his chest. Elise runs to him.
“Elise, what—” The rest of his sentence is muffled as she tackles him in a hug. His eyes widen, then his arms close tighter around her and he smiles. “It’s good to see you, sister.”
“You had not expected to see me so soon,” she says as she pulls back. “Atlas, what have you done to be transferred to this place? And why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ah, who is it you’ve brought?”
“Lady Marieve Aasa—my brother.” Elise frowns, begrudgingly slipping into the poise drilled into her by years of working in the castle.
“Aasa? You mean you’re . . .?”
“Feyndaran.”
“Royalty,” Elise says at the same time.
“Well. Welcome to Beltharos, my lady. I must say, I applaud your choice of companions, but speaking as her brother, I’ll admit I’m biased.” He turns to Elise, whose expression hasn’t changed despite the praise. “I didn’t tell you about the change in posts because I didn’t know about it until the day it went into effect. Even if I had tried to tell you, do you really think Father would have let me speak to you?”
“There are plenty of times Father isn’t around, but— You should speak to him, Atlas.”
“He has made his opinion of me abundantly clear.”
They lock gazes then, and it strikes Mercy how dissimilar they look. While Elise’s face is femininely soft, Atlas’s is long and lean, with high cheekbones and a hint of stubble along his jaw. His brows are the same dark blond his hair would be if worn longer than its current short crop, and they are several shades darker than Elise’s white-blonde locks.
“Fine.” Elise breaks first, her gaze dropping to the floor. “But this doesn’t mean I approve.”
“I thought Feyndarans want nothing to do with us,” Atlas says to Mercy, ignoring his sister. “You’re here about Cirisor, then?”
“How did you know?”
“There’s no
other reason why Her Majesty would allow her granddaughter to journey here. I hope the king gives you the land. I’ve seen enough friends march off to fight and not return to know whatever Ghyslain hopes to win will never be worth it.”
Mercy nods solemnly.
“Atlas, what is this place?” Elise’s voice is pinched, her face stark white.
She stares down the length of the building, at a crumbling doorway from which two elderly men have just exited. One has frizzy white hair which hangs around his shoulders, and the other is permanently bent into a hunchback, his head and neck jutting forward at an uncomfortable-looking angle. His hooked nose and wrinkled neck make him look like a vulture. The two men carry something wrapped in a sheet between them.
“Leave.”
The word is nothing more than a whisper, a hiss on the breeze, and, at first, Mercy isn’t sure whether she had imagined it. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Atlas place his hand on the grip of his sword. Elise is still looking in the direction of the old men, and Atlas takes a protective step toward her.
“Sister,” he says, his voice laced with caution. “I have told you before not to come here.”
Steel glides against leather as he pulls the sword from its sheath. Mercy’s veins fill with ice, and by the time she realizes what she is doing, her daggers are already in her hands. She ignores Elise’s surprised gasp as she turns to face the threat.
It’s the children.
Not only the children they’d seen before, but at least a dozen more, as well as parents, siblings, elves, beggars, cripples. They surround Mercy, Elise, and Atlas, each holding a rock in one hand, poised to throw. They must have pulled the stones from the wall, Mercy realizes with trepidation, noting that many of them are large enough to fracture a skull.
“Leave.”
A four-year-old girl hisses it first. Brown hair hangs limply around her heart-shaped face, matted and tangled, and her cheeks are coated with grime. Her startlingly bright green eyes narrow and her upper lip curls, revealing a flash of tiny, crooked teeth.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 21
