She takes a deep breath. “You can put her in here,” she says as they approach the end of the hallway. She opens the door and waves a hand to the stone table in the center of the room. “This used to be the High Priestess’s room, but . . . she has since returned to the Creator’s embrace. Please, place Pilar on the table. Rosalba will give her the last rites before she is laid to rest.”
They do as the priestess instructs, and Mercy feels a weight lift from her chest when she sets Pilar on the table. The grief which has settled in her heart is unfamiliar to her, and Mercy backs away from the table immediately, letting out a sharp breath. No one in the Guild speaks of this side of death—the grief, the regret, the mourning of a life cut short. It feels strange, unnatural. She turns away.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were ye,” Alyss says, and Mercy thinks she’s speaking to her until she glances over her shoulder and realizes the priestess had moved closer to Pilar, a hand outstretched to cup her cheek.
“Do not worry about me.” She runs a light finger over the fabric covering Pilar’s face, tracing the soft line of her jaw. “There are only a few of us left, but we who remain are immune to the disease.”
“How do you know for sure?” Mercy asks.
“The others are either dead or in the hospital in the fields,” she says. “My fellow priestesses and I have a duty to bring the Creator’s peace to these terrified people. We will stay as long as necessary.”
“Was that ever a question? You staying, I mean?”
“The prince visited us two night ago and offered safe passage to Blackhills for any who wished to leave the city. Most chose not to leave. How would it look to the citizens if their church stood abandoned? So soon after Solari, they would find it hard not to believe it an omen for the years to come.”
“Who was the first infected?” Alyss asks.
“The High Priestess, then it spread down through the ranks. It didn’t behave like a normal sickness. It’s strange to think about, but . . . it felt like it were targeting specific people. Pilar insisted on going to the king for aid, but the High Priestess refused. She didn’t want to frighten anyone until she had some idea of what caused it. When it claimed her life . . . Well, Pilar snuck out of the church to find help and never returned. Until now, we hadn’t seen her since before Solari.” She shakes her head, then gestures to the door through which they had entered. “You have two more of our priestesses, do you not?” she asks as she leads them into the central room. She motions for Mercy and Alyss to sit on the first pew, then picks up a candle and a handful of herbs from a table near the wall. “I am eager to hear how Gwynn and Mavi fare.”
“Mavi, that’s ‘er name!” Alyss says. “She never did tell us.”
“It’s not unlike her. Rumor has it she lived in a remote village in the mining district. Mavi was the only name the High Priestess was able to coax out of her, but we don’t know if it’s her name, her surname, or the name of the village,” she says. “A few years ago, her village was destroyed in a fire and she fled to the nearest church for shelter. She’s been shuffled about ever since, and it makes her wary of strangers.”
As she speaks, the priestess sprinkles herbs into the bowl-shaped brazier and lowers the tip of a candle to them. They ignite immediately, burning with an impossibly bright light. “These herbs have been soaked in an oil which allows them to burn for quite a long time without needing wood or producing smoke.” She returns the candle to the table and turns back to the light, which is when Mercy realizes why she’s tattooed in such a strange manner: she’s a Cirisian elf.
The dark brown ink stretches in curling, coiling vines from her temples, across her forehead, and down the bridge of her nose, then continue over her lips and neck and disappear under the collar of her robe. When she moves her hands, Mercy spots more tattoos on her arms, looping around her wrists like bracelets before slinking down the back of her hands and twining around her fingers.
“Yes,” Alyss says hesitantly, staring at the priestess’s markings as she moves from the dais and perches on the pew next to Mercy. The healer recoils slightly, fear flashing in and out of her eyes. “Well, Gwynn and Ow—Mavi, I mean—are doin alright, but I won’t lie to ye: they’ll die if we don’t find a cure soon. I’m doin everything I can to keep their conditions stable, but even that is failing.”
“I see.” The priestess frowns, sorrow tugging at features only a few years older than Mercy’s. “Nevertheless, I am grateful for your help, and for returning Pilar to us. Sometimes easing the suffering of others is all we are able to do in times of crisis.”
Alyss frowns. “That’s not enough. Not for me.”
“Then do not give up.” The priestess starts to stand, then pauses, her lips twitching into a sad smile. “There is no need to fear me because I am Cirisian, you know.”
Alyss looks away. “I don’t fear ye.”
“You don’t have to lie. I understand. My people seldom leave the islands on which they are born, and few choose to leave for good. True Cirisian elves are something of a rarity in our society, but more and more are fleeing after the fighting between Feyndara and Beltharos destroys their homes. I’m afraid you will see more and more of us in the years to come.”
“Then let’s hope the war ends soon,” Alyss says. She stands and gives Mercy a meaningful look. “We’d best be returnin to the infirmary now, though. I don’t like thinkin about what trouble those two might have gotten into while we’ve been sittin here.”
“Trouble? It’s the middle of the night,” Mercy objects, ignoring the pleading look on Alyss’s face. She feels like an unwelcome stranger in the dark church, the flames in the brazier casting long shadows on the walls and high, arched ceiling. Strangely, though, she finds herself not wanting to leave. The priestess sitting before her watches with curiosity, her eyes unguarded, and it’s hard for Mercy to resist the urge to pepper her with questions. The Cirisian elves are held in the esteem of demigods to most elves across Beltharos—even the one who had been raised alone in the Guild. While lacking overall, the library in Kismoro Keep was not short on literature full of ancient mythology and lore. The fantastic adventures had so enthralled Mercy when she was a child that she had read the books cover to cover more times than she could count. Included among them were tales of the mighty Cirisian elves, who worshipped strange gods and lived in tribes along the archipelago between Beltharos and Feyndara, tracking and hunting the humans who sought to loot their villages and terrorize their people. On every ship, one can find a handful of superstitious sailors who swear by the old adage never to sail through the Cirisor Islands; boats which go missing, their crew strung up in the branches of the tall mangroves lining the islands as a warning to passing ships.
The first—and only—time Mercy had run away from the Guild, she had been trying to go to Cirisor.
Unsurprisingly, the Daughters had found her huddled in the hollow of an overturned tree hours later, wet and shivering after a sudden lightning storm had left her scrambling for shelter. Later, after she had been escorted back to the Keep on Tanni’s horse, Mistress Trytain had taken her by the scruff of the neck and deposited her unceremoniously before Mother Illynor in the middle of dinner. She can still remember the sound of her soggy shoes squelching on the floor as she was marched to the head table, her ears burning with shame. The disappointment on Mother Illynor’s face had cut Mercy deeper than any blade ever could, and she vowed never to be deserving of such a look again. Her resolve was only strengthened when Lylia had informed her the only reason it had taken the Daughters so long to find her was because Mercy had been walking in the wrong direction the entire time—which, in hindsight, was not at all surprising.
“No, your friend is right. I’ve occupied too much of your time already,” the priestess says, standing with the fabled grace of the Cirisian elves. She smiles warmly, detecting Alyss’s discomfort—which only succeeds in making Alyss more uncomfortable. “Thank you for returning our sister to us. For what it’s worth, you have
my gratitude. Should you have need of me, I am Lethandris.”
“You kept your Cirisian name?” Mercy asks.
Lethandris blinks at her. “Of course. To many of the people in Beltharos, my culture is strange and primitive, but it is not something of which to be ashamed. My upbringing shaped me, as everyone’s does, and I have no wish to pretend otherwise.” She grins, then waves a hand at the tattoos on her face. “I can’t hide it, anyway.”
“I suppose not.”
Lethandris leads them down the narrow aisle and to the front doors, which she holds open for them. “Your driver is a good man. He waited for you. My apologies for keeping you so long.”
“No apology necessary,” Alyss says, then slips through the door, pressing against the opposite side of the doorframe to prevent brushing against Lethandris’s skin, despite her assurances of her immunity. She starts down the steps, brushing her arms to coax away her goosebumps. “Come on, Marieve.”
Lethandris reaches out a hand to stop her. “When we send Pilar back to the Creator . . . would you like me to send you a message? Would you like to attend her funeral?”
“No!” Mercy blurts, too quickly. She can’t help remembering the weight of Pilar’s limp body in her hands, the way the heat had seeped out of her and left a stranger’s cold corpse in its place. Her heart aches to think of Pilar lying dead on that stone table. “I hardly knew her.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry.” Mercy jogs down the steps before the priestess can say anything more, a grim frown on her face as she follows Alyss into the carriage. The driver closes the door behind her, but not before she sees Lethandris standing in the doorway, watching her sadly. The driver snaps the reins, and Mercy looks away as Lethandris closes the tall front door of the church.
40
“See? There was no reason for ye to worry,” Alyss whispers when they return to the infirmary. She glances at Mercy and scowls, then brushes her palms on her pants as she crosses to the desk. “I didn’t touch anyone.”
Across the room, Gwynn mumbles something in her sleep. She whimpers quietly and Alyss rushes over, tugging off a glove and pressing a hand to the side of her face. “She’s burnin up.” She rounds the bed and checks on Owl, leaning in close to listen to her breathing. “They only have a few days left, I’m afraid. A week, at most. Thankfully, it’s spreading more slowly than it did with Pi—with Pilar,” she whispers, her voice catching on the name.
“It’s only been a few days since Solari. Do you have any idea why it affected her so strongly?”
She runs a hand through her hair, blowing out a long breath before she speaks. “She mighta had a weaker immune system, or she may have been infected for longer than we realized. Or . . . it may have had somethin to do with ‘er Sight.”
“You believe what Lethandris said about the disease choosing people to infect?” Mercy gapes at her, incredulous. “That’s not possible.”
“Ye heard what she said—the High Priestess and the others with the Sight were the first infected. They share the church, the bedrooms, they take care of each other. Two dozen people in such close quarters means any sickness, no matter how severe, is goin to spread like wildfire. So why would only those people be infected first? They must have all been exposed around the same time, but the disease worked faster in the priestesses in higher positions of power.” Her voice, kept low to avoid waking Gwynn and Owl, becomes faster and more pinched as she continues, her eyes widening in panic. “So, yes, I believe the disease is somehow choosing people.”
“Alyss, listen to what you’re saying,” Mercy snaps, seizing the woman’s shoulders and forcing her to stare into her eyes. “There is no way a disease is capable of choosing its victims. It is impossible. This sickness—or disease, or plague, or whatever you want to call it—is unfortunate, but it happens. It wasn’t an omen from Solari, it wasn’t a punishment from the Creator, it just is.”
“Pilar said—”
“Yesterday you said Pilar was raving mad.”
“I changed my mind!” Alyss snaps, her fear giving way to anger. “You’re not a healer, Marieve—or should I say Lady Marieve? Do ye expect me to curtsy as well, my princess?”
“I am not a princess,” Mercy spits, the word filled with venom.
“Shouldn’t ye be up in the throne room, wearin yer pretty dresses and dancin with all the noblemen’s dashing sons? Or perhaps ye have yer eye on a better prize,” she says, tapping her temple with a finger. “I’ve heard the prince is quite taken with ye.”
Mercy is filled with the sudden urge to strangle her, to wipe the smug, self-satisfied grin off her face. She imagines the feeling of the tendons rolling under her hands, Alyss’s nails scratching at Mercy’s hands and face, strong and desperate at first, then growing slower and weaker as the life fades from her. Her lips would turn blue and her body limp and leaden. The impracticality of the plan doesn’t even occur to Mercy.
When a flush of adrenaline jitters through her body, Mercy’s eyes widen and she jerks back, suddenly aware of having unconsciously taken several steps toward Alyss, who still smiles with that goading expression on her face, unaware of the dark thoughts coursing through Mercy’s mind. Mercy forces herself to calm, the anger melting to pity as she stares at the Rivosi healer.
“Alyss, listen to yourself,” she whispers. “You’re acting paranoid, like Pilar the night of Solari. You remember, don’t you? That’s why Lethandris made you so nervous, why you’re so convinced the disease is hunting people. It’s not you, Alyss, it’s the sickness. You’re worse than you think.”
Shock, denial, and terror flicker across Alyss’s face. For a few seconds, she doesn’t say anything, then her expression darkens. “Get out of my infirmary,” she says in a voice unlike any Mercy has ever heard from her. She bites off each word, brandishing them like weapons. “Get out! I don’t want to see ye around here anymore. Take yer pity and yer chastisements elsewhere—and forget about yer lousy promise!”
“You want me to leave? Fine.” Mercy glances over to the far bed, where Gwynn and Owl sit upright in petrified silence. She doesn’t know how long they’ve been listening, but they’ve heard enough. She offers them a curt nod, then pivots on her heel and walks out of the infirmary. Just as she closes the door, she hears Alyss burst into tears.
She doesn’t look back.
The two guards are already standing when Mercy steps into the hallway, their hands hovering over the pommels of their swords. They startle when they see Mercy, their eyes flickering questioningly from her face to the door, but they don’t seem particularly surprised at Alyss’s outburst. Mercy doubts her short temper is much of a secret to anyone in the castle.
“Don’t allow anyone to leave the infirmary,” she orders.
The guards glance at each other, then back at her. “Uh, my lady?” one says. “We are supposed to follow Healer Alyss’s orders alone. We cannot deny her the right to come and go as she pleases.”
Mercy huffs, then glances conspiratorially down the hall, although the three of them are alone. She crosses her arms and leans in close. “Alyss is infected with the plague.” The guards exchange a shocked look and one swears under his breath, but Mercy quickly continues, “Under no circumstances should you enter the infirmary, am I understood? We’ve already lost one person to the plague, and I doubt you two would like to follow her to the grave. Do not speak of this to anyone, unless you’d like to incite even more of a panic than there already is.”
One of the guards sighs and turns to the other. “Stay here and do as the lady said until I return. I must discuss with Master Oliver how he would like us to proceed.”
Mercy grins. “Good. Now take me to the king.”
The council room looks a lot larger when it’s not full of bickering nobles.
The thought occurs to Mercy as she sits alone at the center of the long rectangular table, her fingers drumming idly on the arms of her chair, and a smirk tugs at her lips. Across from her, the tall doors engraved with
the Myrellis family crest part and King Ghyslain walks in alone, his tunic rumpled and untucked as if he’d just risen from a fitful sleep. His hair is loose around his shoulders, but when he meets her gaze, his dark eyes are awake and alert. As the doors swing shut behind him, she sees the guard from the infirmary plant himself just outside the doorway, then Mercy and the king are alone.
“Your healer is infected,” Mercy says without preamble. She doesn’t bother to stand and bow, but Ghyslain doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He presses his lips into a tight line and crosses the room, resting his hands on the back of the chair opposite Mercy.
“How much longer does she have?”
“A week. Maybe two.”
He frowns. “I see.” He pulls the chair back and its legs shriek as they scratch across the stone floor, then he sits and rests his elbows on the table. “And what of the three priestesses?”
She shakes her head and holds up two fingers. “As of this morning.”
His face falls and he looks away, a muscle working in his jaw. “So what do you want from me?”
Mercy opens her mouth, then closes it and frowns. She’s suddenly unsure why she had wished to meet with him—only that after the spectacle of the past morning and her strange conversation with Tamriel, it had felt almost . . . right. And now, knowing he is not the one who had bought the contract on Tamriel, Mercy feels something akin to pity for him for what she’s planning to do to his only child. “Your son,” she blurts. “Do you think he will be a good king?”
He glances at her sharply. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
She shrugs.
“I think Tam will make a fine king.”
“You’re not a great liar, Your Majesty.”
His lips twitch into a sad smile. “He’s his mother’s son. If there was ever a person more fit for the throne than she, I have not met her. I’m sure the boy has many of the same qualities.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 35
