“For the first two years of my reign, I tried so hard to be like him. I tried so hard to be the king he was, the king he wanted me to become,” he murmurs, his voice raw with pain. Tamriel knows what had changed—he’d been born, killing his mother in the process, and Liselle had been ripped away by the people his father should have been able to trust the most. His whole world had crumbled around him that one horrible day. “So even though it’s selfish to keep the throne to myself—to subject our people to the rule of a king who cannot possibly lead them the way they deserve to be led—I’ve never even considered giving you the throne, no matter how much I loathe it. I can’t watch it claim the life of anyone else I love.”
“It won’t—”
“It will, Tam, because you’re just like your grandfather. You care so much for our people, and I am too weak to watch you destroy yourself serving them.” He casts one final look at Master Oliver’s grave, then starts toward their waiting carriage, Tamriel close on his heels. “I have no doubt that when the time comes, you will be a wonderful king. But for your sake, I hope your rule does not come for a long, long time.”
10
Mercy
After Tamriel and the king leave for Oliver’s burial, Mercy slips into the hallway at the back of the Church, peering into every bedchamber she passes until she finds the priestess for whom she had been searching. Lethandris is kneeling in the middle of her room, her head bent forward in prayer. She jumps when Mercy hisses her name.
“Mercy? I haven’t seen you since Pilar . . . since her passing.” She stands and waves Mercy inside, gesturing for her to sit on the single rickety bed against the wall. “I presume you did not come for a social visit. How may I be of service?”
“I need to know more about your people—your myths, your lore, your sacred rituals. Anything you can tell me. A First named Firesse began gathering an army after she took the prince’s cousin hostage. She plans to lead them straight to the city gates.” She explains the events of the past few weeks and, as she speaks, Lethandris’s expression slowly shifts from disbelief to horror, and—finally—to fury.
“She dared to kill another First on Ialathan?” she seethes, pacing the length of her tiny bedroom. “That festival is our most sacred night of the year. Fasta-va shithe,” she curses, spitting the words.
“Please, I need you to tell me everything you remember about Cirisor. I need to know what her strategy might be and how she came to wield Myrbellanar’s powers.” Beside Niamh and Nynev, Lethandris is the only other person Mercy knows who might have some insight into Firesse’s strange powers. Plus, she has access to the Church’s library and sacred documents—resources even the prince doesn’t have. There must be something useful in the vaults under the Church.
“I’ll tell you what I can, but I don’t know anything about the powers you claim she holds. I’ve heard the legend of Myrbellanar, of course, but that’s all it is—a legend.”
“I know an angry little elven girl and a few ghosts who would strongly disagree with that statement.”
The color bleeds from Lethandris’s cheeks. “. . . Fine. I may be able to find more information about Myrbellanar and the other Old Gods in the library. Give me a few days to search, and I’ll send a message once I’ve found something.”
“Thank you, Lethandris. Truly.”
The priestess shakes her head and smiles at her. “You tended to Pilar and eased her suffering, and for that, I consider you a friend. Your thanks are unnecessary.”
The next morning, pounding on Mercy’s door startles her awake. “Come on!” Nynev shouts through the wood. “The trial begins in half an hour!”
Mercy opens the door to find the sisters standing side by side in the hall, clad in simple linen shifts. Niamh’s is the pale blue of a robin’s egg, striking against Nynev’s deep burgundy, but the most shocking sight is the lack of tattoos on the former’s face. It’s like finding a beautiful mural suddenly painted over a dull beige. Niamh self-consciously touches a hand to her cheek. “It’s a bit strange to see it blank, isn’t it?”
“When was the last time you saw it like that?”
“Eight years ago? Ten?” She sweeps past Mercy and begins rifling through her wardrobe. Her sister sprawls out on the bed.
“I can see up your dress,” Mercy says, smirking as she closes the door.
“Lucky you.”
“You should wear this one.” Niamh pulls out an emerald gown the guards had retrieved from Blackbriar upon their return to the city. The silk shimmers and ripples in her hands, as fine and fluid as water.
“We’re going to court, not a ballroom dance.”
“Fine. This one?” She holds up a knee-length champagne-colored dress. The bodice is fitted and sleeveless, embroidered with tiny flowerbuds and glittering with crystals. “Oh, you will look so beautiful!”
Mercy pokes the girl’s side until she huffs and steps back, then grabs her usual black tunic and pants. “These will do. Wrapping myself up in silk isn’t going to protect me from the court, or make them forget who I am. Those will”—she nods to her daggers, sitting in their sheaths atop the vanity table—“not that dress. I’m not masquerading as a royal anymore.”
“If I have to wear a dress, so do you,” Nynev says, rolling off the bed. “You stand out to the nobles from your ears alone. At least if you dress like them, you’ll blend in a little. Go in looking like you’re ready for battle and they’ll make you fight for every last inch. They’ll respect you more once they stop seeing you as some uncultured Assassin and start seeing you as a player in their silly little games.”
“I don’t care about their respect. All I care about is curing the plague and keeping Tamriel safe.”
The sisters share an amused look, some unspoken agreement passing between them. Niamh carefully returns the champagne dress to the wardrobe.
Mercy backs up a step, sensing an ambush. “I’m guessing I’m not going to like what that look means.”
“No, you’re not,” Nynev says. Then they pounce.
Through some marvel of teamwork, they manage to wrangle Mercy into the dress without tearing the delicate lace along the hem and collar. To be honest, she isn’t quite sure how it happened.
“It’s like trying to dress a feral cat,” Nynev had grumbled as she’d forced the garment over Mercy’s head.
Now, she watches in the polished metal mirror atop the vanity as Niamh sweeps her wild curls into a loose updo, a few stray strands falling down to frame her face. “There,” she murmurs, tucking one final pin behind Mercy’s ear. “What do you think?”
That I look like some child’s dress-up doll, she thinks sourly. Despite her aversion to dresses, though, she cannot stop herself from admiring the soft fabric and the way the tiny crystals across the bodice sparkle when she moves. Seeing the hopeful look on Niamh’s face, she simply says, “I look lovely. Thank you.”
She beams. “You’re welcome.”
“You almost look like you couldn’t kill someone with your bare hands,” Nynev, who had resumed lying atop Mercy’s bed, calls from somewhere in the mass of downy pillows and silk sheets.
“Is that a compliment?”
“You can take it as one if you like.”
Niamh rolls her eyes. “Come on, you two. We’re going to be late.”
Nynev had been right, Mercy realizes as they join the current of nobles ambling into the throne room a short while later; no one looks twice at them as they make their way to the front of the room. All around them, whispers fill the air. The courtiers speculate about the king’s evidence and what the punishment will be if Elise is found guilty, whether her sentence will be reduced because of her family’s position in the nobility. Hangman’s noose, Mercy thinks, or the executioner’s blade. Treason can be answered by no lesser punishment. She, Niamh, and Nynev find an open spot by the foot of the dais just as two guards drag Elise in by her underarms.
Her hands are cuffed behind her back, and the chains jangle loudly with each step, star
tling the gathered nobles into silence. Even after three days in the dungeon, the Creator-damned girl still has the gall to look lovely. She holds her head high and her shoulders back, proud despite the stains and tears on the hem of her dress. She doesn’t look like a criminal. In fact, she looks exactly as she had doubtless intended—a scared young woman, a daughter of the nobility, framed by a king desperate to protect his claim to the throne. Mercy can tell by the pitying expressions on several of the courtiers’ faces that the ploy works, and it disgusts her.
The guards order Elise to kneel before the dais. She obeys, trembling, and trains her eyes on the empty throne. Her hands clench into fists behind her back.
A moment later, Ghyslain strides in, followed by Tamriel and Master Adan. The crowd bows as the king settles upon his throne, his son behind his left shoulder and the Master of the Guard behind his right. Even though they are standing directly in his line of sight, Tamriel makes no sign of having noticed Mercy or the sisters.
“Your Majesty—” Elise begins, her voice tight.
“Serenna Elise LeClair, you were arrested three days ago on charges of treason, forging His Majesty’s signature on an official document, and conspiring to assassinate your prince,” Master Adan interrupts, his deep voice booming through the hall. “How do you answer these charges?”
“Innocent! I’m innocent, I swear! I—” She jumps to her feet, but the guards force her back to her knees. She hangs her head, squeezes her eyes shut, and mumbles, “I’m innocent.”
Mercy snorts derisively. Several of the noblemen and women around her shoot her dark looks, but she doesn’t care. Her attention is focused solely on Tamriel. The prince’s face is remarkably devoid of emotion, but she can read his anger in the tension in his body and the betrayal burning in his eyes.
“You helped Calum forge a false Guild contract on my life,” he says, the words clipped. “You used your access to my father’s documents to copy his signature. Later, when Calum tried to kill me, you framed Mercy for the attack. Do those sound like the actions of an innocent woman?”
“I did none of those things, Your Highness.”
“You did, because you knew Calum was going to make a play for the throne after you two framed my father and had him deposed. You were planning to marry him after he ascended the throne.”
“Your Highness, I have served your family faithfully for years. Your cousin and I are friends, yes, but that is all our relationship has ever been.” At that, even Tamriel can’t resist an eyeroll. “Even so, do you think me so foolish that I would expect the council to place a commoner on the throne? I assure you, I have a much greater grasp of the intricacies of politics than that.”
“The girl has a point,” someone behind Mercy mutters.
“Poor, sweet dear,” another says.
“Considering that you committed treason, I haven’t the slightest clue what you were thinking,” Tamriel growls. “You used your skill with calligraphy to forge my father’s signature on the contract.”
Elise jerks her chin up, staring the prince dead in the eyes. “Claiming that I would use such privileges to undermine you is an insult to all the work I have done for this kingdom. My family has served yours for generations. We owe all we have to you; why would I risk throwing that all away?”
He opens his mouth to argue, but pauses when murmurs of agreement ripple across the crowd. Ghyslain was right, Mercy realizes, sudden panic gripping her chest like a vise. They believe her. She gapes at the people around her. A few nod and point to Elise, sympathy on their powdered faces. Tamriel blinks at them, stunned, for a few moments before he remembers to hide his surprise.
“QUIET!” Master Adan shouts, but he may as well have whispered for all the good it does. The nobles have turned their attention from the girl before the throne to the man sitting atop it, and Mercy can feel their sympathy shift to suspicion. The king sits silently before it all. His face is quickly turning ashen.
She narrows her eyes, struggling to keep her temper under control. All she wants to do is jump up and shout, She’s lying! How can none of you see it? But Elise had fooled Mercy once, too. She’d managed to trick an Assassin into trusting her; it should come as no surprise that the nobles would fall for her lies, as well.
Nynev leans over and whispers, “I wish I’d brought my bow. One clean shot, and all this trial nonsense would be over.”
“Next time, you have my permission to do just that.”
Niamh shushes them as Seren Pierce pushes his way to the front of the room.
“It’s remarkable that he managed to hold his tongue this long,” Mercy murmurs, but then she sees why: Nerida, Landers, and Leon are close behind him. They had likely counseled him against speaking up too soon, waiting for the tide to shift in their favor.
Pierce steps forward and offers the king the barest imitation of a bow. “Your Majesty, it’s clear these accusations have no substance. What is even more obvious, however, is that the arrest and mistreatment of my daughter—this entire trial, in fact—are nothing but a ploy to hide your own crimes.” He ignores the king’s scowl and turns to the crowd. “Are we all not aware of the Guild’s rule about buying a contract on a royal? Do we all not suspect that His Majesty plotted his own son’s death to keep himself in power? After the turmoil he caused with his affair with Liselle, do we really trust his ability to rule us? He turned his back on our beloved queen long ago. It’s easy to imagine him turning his back on the boy who killed her,” he spits, thrusting a finger in Tamriel’s direction.
“The mad king finally cracked,” someone whispers. “Just look what he’s done to that poor girl.”
“The grief which poisoned our dear king’s mind has finally gotten the better of him,” Pierce continues, smirking as the nobles begin chattering to one another, no longer bothering to mask their whispers. “And our prince has fallen prey to the allures of the elves, just like his father.”
“The Assassin is still here?”
“I saw her in the Plaza with a savage just the other day.”
“Stop him,” Tamriel barks at his father, seething. “Guards, get him out of here.”
“Belay that order,” Ghyslain snaps as two guards start toward the dais.
“Your Majesty?” Master Adan asks. “The evidence, perhaps?”
The king doesn’t respond.
“Father?” Tamriel says, uncertainty slipping into his voice. Ghyslain holds himself still as a statue, his eyes trained on the girl kneeling before him. The throne room has gone so quiet a pin dropping would have sounded like a thunderclap.
Mercy clenches her fists. Stand up to them, you coward!
“We have evidence,” the prince blurts, clearly grappling for control. “The contract—”
“The contract bearing your father’s name, you mean?” Pierce replies smugly.
“We have letters—”
“Let her go.”
Tamriel freezes, then whirls on his father. “What?”
“You heard me. Guards, let her go. She’s innocent.”
Master Adan repeats the order, looking a little shocked himself, and the guards help Elise to her feet and unlock her shackles. They walk her to her father, who smiles and slips an arm around her shoulders.
“My baby,” Nerida cries, stroking her daughter’s tangled hair as tears slip through her lashes. The three of them stride out of the room, every pair of eyes following them until they disappear into the hall. Landers and Leon melt back into the crowd.
“He’s giving up?” Mercy hisses, a red haze of fury filling her vision. “He’s letting that weasel win?”
“Get out,” Ghyslain orders, and the nobles start to drift out after the LeClair family, murmuring to one another as they go. The king stands and brushes past his son, who gapes at him, on his way to the door to the side of the dais. Half of the guards follow him. Master Adan claps Tamriel on the shoulder, shaking his head, before trailing after the king.
“What the hell was that?” Tamriel bellows t
o the quickly-emptying room. For the first time, his gaze finds Mercy, Nynev, and Niamh, still standing at the foot of the dais, and he gestures for them to follow. “Come with me quickly, before my spineless excuse of a father shuts himself up in his room. I need to hear his excuse.” He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “He’d better have a damn good excuse.”
11
Mercy
They catch up to Ghyslain just as he strides into his study. He starts to close the door, but Tamriel sticks his foot in the doorway before it swings shut. “Don’t think you’re getting away so easily,” he snarls, shoving the door open with his shoulder. “You have some explaining to do.”
Ghyslain sighs and slumps down in his desk chair. He doesn’t look at any of them as they file into the room. “Calm down, Tam.”
“CALM DOWN?” he explodes. “Calm down? You presume to order me around after you let the smug son of a bitch walk all over you? What were you thinking?”
“Did I not tell you exactly what would happen in there?” Ghyslain snaps, anger winning out over his guilt. “Did Seren Pierce not do exactly what we expected?” When Tamriel opens his mouth to speak, Ghyslain holds up a hand. “Listen to me. Who here has more experience with those snakes than I? Their loyalties were with the LeClair family, and I did what was necessary to keep the nobles appeased. If I hadn’t, both of our heads would have ended up on spikes on the castle walls before the week was over.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Mercy growls.
Tamriel storms up to the desk. “Elise forged the contract. She tried to have me killed. She framed Mercy for attempted murder. She must be punished.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 82
