“W-What?” Tamriel sputters. His arms drop to his sides and he gapes at Mercy as if she had suggested he run naked through the streets. “You think that’s an option? You think we would consider giving it up after so much fighting?”
Mercy frowns at him. “If you want to stop losing valuable men and equipment, yes.”
“The archipelago belonged to Beltharos. Your country declared war when your grandmother’s troops attacked Beltharan scouts.”
“Our men were on a standard supply run when they were attacked by soldiers bearing your family’s crest.” Mercy had not known this until she had scoured three books about the Cirisian wars in Blackbriar last night. Each had had a different history of the beginning of the third saga of the continuing wars, and it seemed to her nothing more than name-calling and scape-goating, an endless cycle of blame being thrown from the Myrellis family to the Aasa family.
Ghyslain shoots his son a stern look, then turns to Mercy, settling back into his chair. “You must know we cannot allow this. If Feyndara is victorious, you may do what you wish with the territory, but I will not withdraw my forces until your grandmother does the same. I have no guarantee the queen won’t seize the territory the second my men leave.”
“She is our guarantee, I believe,” Tamriel interjects, nodding to Mercy. “Would Queen Cerelia have sent her unaccompanied to an enemy city if she weren’t serious about her offer? Anything could happen to her here; we could hold her hostage until Her Majesty agrees to surrender.”
“Careful, Your Highness.” Mercy warns, her expression darkening. “I do not take kindly to threats.”
“Simply making a point.” Tamriel smiles, but it disappears in the blink of an eye. “Perhaps you should consider, Father.”
“If not this, I’m certain Her Majesty would seriously consider any compromise you extend,” Mercy adds, looking between Tamriel and the king. “All we want is peace.”
Ghyslain stands again, and this time, Mercy does, too. “I cannot promise anything will come of this, but I will bring the offer to my council.” He moves from behind the desk to the door and opens it for her. “Tamriel will walk you back to the grand hall and see you out.”
Tamriel pushes away from the windowsill and slips past her into the hallway. “Shall we?” he says, already moving toward the stairs.
Mercy hesitates. She watches him walk away, then looks questioningly to Ghyslain. His eyes remain on his son as he slowly nods once, but Mercy isn’t certain whether the nod is acknowledgement of her identity or a dismissal.
She returns the nod and steps through the door, and the king closes it behind her without a word.
25
“Take a walk with me in the gardens,” Marieve says a few minutes later.
Tamriel pauses halfway down the staircase and glances back to see her hurrying after him. She stops on the same step and looks at him expectantly, a small smile gracing her lips. “I wish I could, but I am very busy,” he responds, then continues down the stairs.
“Too busy to show me around your home? Not even for half an hour? Fifteen minutes?” She snags his sleeve and he pauses, then she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. He tries not to appear shocked by her audacity as she stares at him with her piercing, unusual eyes.
Tamriel sighs despite the grin tugging at his lips. “Very well. Fifteen minutes.”
He leads her through the great hall and the massive front doors of the castle. When they step outside, Marieve lets go of his arm and strides to the railing at the top of the stairs, staring out at the lush greenery and the city beyond the walls.
“I’ve heard hosting the Solari festival is no small ordeal,” she says.
“No, but the castle has the staff for it, and the council plans almost everything. All my father and I do is show up.”
“You saw the last one, didn’t you? What was it like?”
Tamriel moves to her side, squinting as he peers out at the garden, resplendent under the midday sun. As they watch, slaves walk the narrow gravel paths between the hedges, tossing handfuls of silver and gold tinsel over the leaves and branches. They shimmer and sparkle as they dance in the breeze, and a small elven boy runs through the maze and chases pieces of tinsel that have flown free, his peals of laughter echoing off the castle’s stone walls.
“I do not remember much of it, to be honest. I was almost three when the last one occurred. In fact, all I remember from that day were the clothes. I hated them.”
Marieve’s mouth parts in disbelief. “The clothes?”
“My servants learned that day not to dress a toddler in the finest velvets in Sandori. They had wrangled me into this thick black coat—a coat in summer!—with these tiny silver buttons all the way from my navel to my chin. For appearance’s sake, they’d said.” He offers her a sly smirk. “How do you think I appeared to my father when Master Oliver dumped me in front of all the nobility, crying and soaking wet after I’d decided to take a swim in the lake to cool off?”
“You didn’t!”
“You should have seen my father’s expression at watching his young son being led through the throne room by the scruff of his neck, wet boots squelching with every step. He stopped midsentence and his face turned bright red, and he had a servant take me away immediately.”
He gestures to the stairs and they descend, following the springy, soft grass around the side of the castle, passing guards and gardeners and slaves carrying pails of water. “My father is optimistic about tomorrow’s celebration. He says it signals a change for all of us—the dawning of a new era of greatness for our country.”
“You don’t seem to share his excitement.”
“No.” He looks away and lets out a long breath. “I know what the nobles say about my father behind his back. I know what they say about me, too, although my critics tend to be slightly more forgiving. The nobles, the commoners, the advisors—they only support me because they think I’ll turn out to be less crazy than my father. They’re just biding their time until they can usurp me and place some nobleman’s son on the throne, some intolerable yes-man who’ll trip over himself to grant their every wish.”
Marieve laughs. “How very optimistic of you. You can’t honestly think they’d do that.”
“Can’t I? It’s the curse of being royal. Tax the rich to feed the poor and they’ll brand you a thief. Conscript men to strengthen the army and they’ll curse you for their sons’ deaths. Go to war for them and they’ll complain about spending too much money.”
When they round the last tower and arrive at the rear of the castle, Marieve stops, her eyes widening in awe. The wide expanse of Lake Myrella stretches out before them, its gray-blue water spanning for miles in every direction, white-capped waves sparkling under the sun. Boulders as wide as a man and twice as tall rise from its depths, and the seascape is dotted with more than Tamriel can count.
Marieve drops Tamriel’s arm and walks toward the water’s edge, pausing to slip off her flats when the grass gives way to the pebbled shore. She tosses them aside and continues in her bare feet, nearly slipping twice on the slick stones. When a wave rolls over the ground and splashes over her toes and the tops of her feet, she laughs.
Tamriel watches her from the grass. Her awe makes him smile, and he reminds himself not everyone lives with such a beautiful sight in their backyards. She lifts the hem of her dress as the tide rolls in and splashes around her ankles, her face open and unguarded.
She glances back at him. “What are you thinking?”
“You are unlike any princess I have ever met.”
She frowns and steps out of the water, tugging on her flats when she returns to his side. “I’m not a princess.”
Tamriel shrugs, and they continue along the shore in silence. After a few minutes, he says, “It’s a terrible idea, you know.”
“Hm?”
“Granting the Cirisor Islands their freedom. Making them their own country. How could it possibly work?”
“It wouldn’t be e
asy, but what other options do we have? Keep fighting until the other surrenders? That could take decades. Centuries. Let us create a nation which will help both our countries. Use the money which would have gone to fighting to rebuild the islands. My uncle can arrange shipments of supplies and—” she pauses. “It could work.”
“It won’t. The advisors will never agree to it, and even if they did, the nobles could never be persuaded to help.”
“Your father doesn’t need their help.”
Tamriel cocks his head. “Whose money do you think supplies the military? Whose sons march to war and do not return? Their blood has already been spilled—it cannot amount to nothing. If my father pulls the soldiers from the Islands, the nobles will turn their men against the crown.”
“You can make it work.”
“Me?” Tamriel sputters, then bursts out laughing. If only she knew the true extent of his influence. “Spend a few more days in the castle and you’ll see what little responsibility my father grants me.”
Marieve gawks at him, taken aback by his reaction. “You’ll be king,” she protests.
“Not if my father has any say in it.”
She lifts her chin. “When you are king, I know you will do what is best for your people and those of Cirisor.”
26
“Lady Marieve!”
Elvira’s voice floats to them from across the lawn, and a few moments later, the elf stops before them, her hair tousled from jogging. She smooths it with a hand and straightens her white sash, then bows to Tamriel. “Your Highness, my lady, please excuse the interruption, but the dressmaker needs to see you immediately if she is to complete your gown in time for Solari. I-I tried to explain to her you are a very important client and would pay extra for the last-minute order, but she was having none of it.”
Mercy glances at Tamriel, a question forming on her lips, but he nods before she can speak. “Go,” he says. “I may not have sisters, but I have spent plenty of time with noblewomen, and I know how dire fashion emergencies can be.” He tries to say it seriously, but a hint of a smile tugs at his lips.
“I’m impressed. Very well. I’ll see you at the celebration tomorrow, Your Highness.” As soon as Mercy finishes speaking, Elvira grabs her hand and practically drags her across the lawn. When they round the corner and are well out of earshot, Mercy stops her. “What’s the problem? Why do we have to leave?”
“One of the guards may have spotted me snooping around the prince’s chambers earlier,” she says, biting her lip. “I didn’t want them to recognize me as your handmaid and suspect you of anything, so I fled as quickly as I could. I don’t think he was able to identify me.”
“Good. And you’ve found a way for me to sneak into his bedroom?”
She holds up an iron key strung on a length of ribbon. “Several of the cooks have them for delivering private meals. I went to visit Bron and pocketed this on the way.”
“Excellent.” Mercy ties the ends of the ribbon around her neck and tucks the key under the collar of her dress, grinning to herself as they pass through the gates.
By the time Mercy and Elvira step through the gate of Myrellis Castle the following day, the palace and its grounds have been transformed. Strands of white lanterns hang from tall stakes which line either side of the carriageway, and the flame of a tiny candle flickers inside each one, creating a canopy of light from the gate to the double staircases of the castle’s entrance. The pieces of tinsel caught in the hedge mazes on either side of the garden twinkle like stars.
“Wow,” Mercy breathes.
“Did you ever imagine it could look so resplendent?” Elvira reaches up to brush the bottom of one of the lanterns with her fingertips as they pass below it.
Noblemen and women walk alongside them, carrying them in the current of eager revelers to the castle entrance. A woman beside Mercy lets out a tinkling laugh, clapping her hands in excitement. Elvira smiles at a boy who runs past her, dragging his little sister behind him.
Two slaves hold the doors open and the nobility spills into the great hall amid a sea of chatter. Slaves wearing severe white sashes weave between bodies, holding silver platters of food and drink high overhead. Panels of colorful fabrics line the walls and the flames from a brazier dance in the air, bathing the room in bright, flickering light. Music blares from the throne room and Mercy is forced to dodge several dancing couples as she and Elvira move further inside.
Mercy tugs on her sleeve, her fingers brushing the hilt of the three-inch dagger concealed under the fabric. The plain blade had been easier to hide than her twin daggers, which Elvira carries hidden under the layers of her skirt—more a precaution than viable weapons; Mercy’s sheer gown leaves little to the imagination and few weapon-hiding places.
“My lady—my dear friend, happy Solari!” Mercy tenses as an arm drapes over her shoulder, but it’s only Emrie, smiling with wine-flushed, dimpled cheeks. “Come with me, I’ll show you where the real celebration is.” She plucks a crystal wineglass from a slave’s tray and takes a quick gulp before putting it back, paying no more attention to him than she does the pool of spilled wine she sidesteps as she drags Mercy toward the throne room. Behind them, Elvira hesitates, opens her mouth, then closes it before darting after them.
“Some of the richest men in Beltharos are here, as well as some of the Rivosi royal family—distant relation to their king, but still. The king sent out invitations months ago.” Emrie pulls Mercy through the hall filled with Myrellis family portraits. Several feet of empty wall spans either side before the archway to the throne room, places for generations of future Myrellis monarchs’ portraits to hang—Ghyslain’s son and grandsons.
Yet these spots are destined to remain empty—the royal line will end tonight, with the fulfillment of Ghyslain’s contract with the Guild.
Mercy smirks to herself as they continue into the throne room. The sun blazes low in the west, partially visible through the wall of windows behind the throne, which is notably empty. Ghyslain stands a few feet away, speaking to a potbellied old man and Murray Baccha. Tamriel is somewhere in the chaos, but, despite lifting onto her toes and craning her neck, she cannot see over the sea of people in front of her.
“Do you see it? Right there, above the tallest boulder.” Emrie points at the sky, her finger trembling with excitement.
“The moon?”
“It’s going to cross the sun, and I’ve heard it turns dark as dusk. Can you imagine?” She pauses for a moment, then her eyes lift to something behind Mercy’s shoulder. “What do you want, Leon?”
He grins as he shoulders past Elvira, who shoots him a dark look he doesn’t notice. “You know what they say about Solari, don’t you? About the moment the sun goes away?”
“If this is another of your fanciful childhood tales, go find Maisie. I’m sure she’d love to hear.”
He presses his hand over his heart, his expression wide-eyed and innocent. “True as truth can be, I promise. They say when the sun goes away, the Creator can’t see what’s happening down here; he goes blind. They say for those few minutes, someone can commit the most heinous sin and the Creator will never know. At the end of our lives, he’ll welcome us all through the gates of eternal rest like we’re his own family, none the wiser.”
“Oh, I’m sure. What sort of heinous sin are you planning, then? Something your father wouldn’t approve?”
He holds up his hands in mock defense. “Just spreading a bit of Beltharan lore to the foreigner,” he says, gesturing to Mercy. “I would never do anything so juvenile.”
“No? I highly doubt that.” Emrie props her hands on her hips, fighting back a smile. “What about night, then, genius? What happens after the sun sets?”
“That’s different—”
Emrie cocks her head. “Is it? Oh! I think Narah would like to hear this fascinating tale, don’t you? Narah, come here!” She rises onto her toes and waves to a girl across the room. Narah smiles, then sees Leon and blushes. She practically floats as sh
e starts toward them.
“Emrie, no!” Leon hisses, ducking his head. “I’m Elise’s betrothed, remember? I haven’t been able to face Narah since I made a fool of myself by the docks two weeks ago.”
“Don’t let Narah hear you mention Elise—she’ll get jealous.” Emrie cackles as Leon cringes and darts away, lost immediately in the crowd. When Narah approaches, Emrie points her in the direction he had gone, still giggling. “Sometimes I feel bad for him, but he has been mostly insufferable since he was seven,” Emrie confides, looking pleased with herself.
“My lady—” Elvira whispers. She had been following and listening the whole time, but now her eyes focus on something at the front of the room.
Tamriel stands on the dais near the throne, turned slightly away from his father as Ghyslain listens to Cassius Baccha, whose wrinkled hands shake as he runs them through his silver-white hair, tugging at the few wispy strands. The old man gestures first to the windows, then to the people dancing and mingling on the floor. Ghyslain uncrosses his arms and leans toward Cassius, placing a hand on his shoulder, and the tension immediately releases from Cassius’s body, although his expression remains worried.
Murray darts from the crowd and clamps a fist on the collar of Cassius’s shirt, her face flushed with embarrassment. She bows to the king and prince and engages in a short, clipped conversation with them—all the while shooting dirty glances at her husband—before gesturing to the band playing in the corner and dragging him away to dance. Tamriel frowns and murmurs something to his father, who does not appear to respond. Ghyslain’s eyes flick to the mass of revelers, then he turns away to speak to Master Oliver, who had been watching the partygoers through half-lidded eyes. For a split second, Tamriel looks crestfallen. His lips part to object and his fingers curl into fists at his sides. He takes a half step forward before he closes his mouth and scowls, then pivots on his heel and stomps off the dais.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 24
