Lethandris nods and bends down to place her books in her bag. “What’s this?” She reaches under Mercy’s bed, then straightens, a small slip of paper pinched between her fingers.
“Let me see that.”
The priestess drops it into her hand. Mercy stares at it, wisps of a memory floating back . . . brown eyes . . . a sickeningly sweet tonic . . . the man who saved her life pressing the note into her palm. She must have dropped it after she’d fallen asleep. She unfolds the note. An address had been scrawled across the paper in a hurried hand—some house near Guinevere’s Square—and below it is a single word:
Bareea.
21
Tamriel
“I think we’ve done it,” Niamh says, a hopeful smile on her lips. She leans back in the infirmary’s desk chair and hands Tamriel a piece of paper on which she has scrawled a recipe. “One cup mashed Cedikra, two spoonfuls extract of tulsi, and a half cup dried starvay blossoms,” she recites, beaming. She leads him over to the bed where Atlas is sleeping and gently rolls back one of his sleeves. The flesh of his forearm is pink and raw, covered in dozens of little scabs, but blister-free. “Tabris and I applied the mixture topically after using Pryyam salt to remove the layer of infected skin, and it seems to be doing the trick.”
Tamriel rests a hand on her shoulder. “I told you you’d figure it out. You shouldn’t have doubted yourself.”
Her grin falters. “I shouldn’t get the credit. I still hardly know anything about healing; I’m more likely to accidentally poison someone than I am to save his life. Alyss had the idea of using tulsi and Pryyam salt, and the other healers figured out the proper ratio of ingredients. I did nothing except peel and mash Cedikra for a few hours.”
“You’ve been working on the cure harder than anyone. When was the last time you slept more than a few hours?”
“I could ask you the same question, prince,” she retorts, pinning him with a knowing look. Indeed, in the six days since Mercy was shot, he has hardly taken the time to eat or sleep, instead devoting every waking moment to learning who else had been involved in the plot to assassinate Mercy. Drayce had been well paid—that much was obvious by the new fine clothes he’d packed in the rucksack he’d stashed in the house. The wicked barbed arrows Tabris had pulled out of Mercy’s chest were expensive, too—above the pay grade of a common guard. The question of which of the nobles are behind the crime remains to be answered; Adan’s interrogation of the Hamell family has turned up no leads thus far. “How is Mercy recovering?”
“After being confined to her room for nearly a week, I’m sure she’ll be skipping through the halls now that Tabris is about to clear her from bedrest.” Yesterday, she’d been so desperate to leave her room that she’d tried to bolt when a slave brought lunch. When Nynev caught her not two feet past the threshold, she had struggled so much the wounds in her chest and shoulder had begun to bleed again. It had taken the huntress threatening to tie her to the bedposts to make her agree to stay in bed.
“Niamh?”
They jump at the sound of Atlas’s voice. Niamh grips the guard’s hand tightly, her eyes again sweeping over the scabbed, raw flesh on his forearm. “How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“I can make something to soothe the inflamed skin, to keep it from itching—”
“Leave it.”
She pauses, frowning. “But—”
“Leave it,” he growls, his gaze sliding to Tamriel. His expression hardens. “The pain keeps me from—from thinking of her.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” is all Tamriel can bring himself to say, his stomach clenching at the anger and grief in his old friend’s eyes. Two days ago, Niamh had finally given in to his incessant questioning and told him the truth about Elise’s crimes and execution. Atlas has hardly said a word since.
Now, he merely scowls and turns his face toward the hearth.
Niamh lays a cool cloth over his forehead, then gestures for Tamriel to follow her to the next bed, where a guard he doesn’t know slumbers. “Give him time. Gods be good, he’ll soon be well enough to return to work, and it’ll take his mind off her long enough for that wound to begin to heal.”
The door creaks open. “Tamriel, are you in here?” Ghyslain calls. Niamh whirls around and drops into a bow as the king appears at the end of the row of shelves. “No need to be so formal, Niamh. I’ve been informed that we have a viable cure thanks to you.”
She straightens, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “It’s not certain yet, Your Majesty, but our initial tests have yielded positive results.” She nods to the guard behind them, whose face is dotted with thick scabs everywhere the blisters had once been. “To be honest, I really didn’t do that much—”
“Tabris told me quite the opposite,” the king responds, raising a brow. “Including that you’ve taken to sleeping here.” He nods to the curtained-off alcove in the back of the room, where Alyss had once slept.
“Yes, well, I wanted to stay close in case one of them took a turn for the worst.”
“I’m grateful for your help—for everything you’ve done here.” Niamh’s cheeks turn bright pink when Ghyslain offers her a small bow. When he straightens, his expression turns grim. “Tam, speak with me outside.”
As soon as they’ve turned the corner and are out of earshot of the guards, Ghyslain says, “Firesse and her people have attacked again. We received the news from Sapphira’s guard-commander ten minutes ago.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of parchment. Without even glancing at the paper, he recites: “A dozen of Sapphira’s most wealthy citizens were slaughtered in their beds two nights ago, cut open from their necks to their bellies and left to bleed out. The Cirisians shredded their bedsheets, tied their victims to their beds, and carved their ears into points. Then they freed all the slaves and snuck them out of the city.” He jams the letter into his pocket, growling, “A patrol rode out after them, but none of them have been seen since.”
Tamriel’s hands begin to tremble with fury. “Slaveowners or not, those people did not deserve to be butchered like that. Firesse is evil—evil and cruel and rash. She just wants us to watch our country bleed. She doesn’t care who she hurts in the process.”
“With luck, her army won’t last the week. Soldiers are on their way to Fishers’ Cross as we speak, and Master Adan has written to the guard-commanders in all of the eastern cities with orders to increase patrols until further notice.”
“What about Feyndara? You could petition the queen to send ships, trap the Cirisians between us and the sea—”
“And indebt my kingdom to a country with whom we have been enemies for generations?” Ghyslain asks sharply, the words almost a snarl. “Never.”
“But—”
“No.” His father starts to walk away, then pauses and adds, “Mercy’s mother has sent another note. The Strykers and the Daughters have pledged their aid to Firesse’s cause. It seems Calum has been working with the smiths to outfit them with arms and armor, as well as fighting beside them on the battlefield.”
“As a hostage or a soldier?” To whom has Calum—that Creator-damned liar—given his loyalty now?
“We’ll find out soon enough. Our soldiers have orders to arrest him on sight so he may face trial. I swear to you, Tam, I will see him given the justice he deserves.”
Tamriel nods tightly, too furious to speak. He listens to his father’s footsteps fade down the hall, then slumps against the cold stone wall of the corridor, burying his face in his bandaged hands. Five seconds—he allows himself only five seconds to give in to the sorrow weighing on him, to mourn his people’s deaths, before he straightens and starts after the king. He wills that mask of cool indifference to slide over his face. Grieving won’t save his people’s lives. Grieving won’t undo what damaged Firesse has already inflicted on his country.
“Your Highness? Your Highness!” Seren Pierce calls to him as he passes through the great hall. Tamriel almost doesn’t recognize him
; he’s dressed in a drab black tunic, so different from his usual pomp and flash, and he doesn’t stop wringing his hands as he stammers, “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I wish to beg your forgiveness for . . . for everything. For threatening Mercy. For speaking out against your father. For taunting you.” He drops into a low bow. “For my insolence, I offer you my sincerest apologies, Your Highness.”
“Why the sudden change of heart, Pierce?” He can’t keep the venom out of his voice as he glares at the seren. “I thought you hate my family and everything we represent.”
Pierce shakes his head, still staring down at the toes of his boots. “The rift between your father and me has been there for longer than you’ve been alive. It was destined to reach a breaking point sooner or later. It’s hard to believe His Majesty once considered me a friend, is it not?” He dares a glance up, his watery brown eyes full of sorrow. “I am sorry, Your Highness—more than you can imagine. I just keep thinking . . . it’s my fault she’s gone. My Elise. If—If I’d just said yes when Calum asked for her hand, if I hadn’t pushed the betrothal with the Nadras, perhaps she would not have gone to such lengths to get Calum on the throne. Maybe neither of them would have gone through with the contract on your life. Maybe she’d . . . Maybe she’d still be here.
“Cassius found me after the trial and told me about the letters. I-I didn’t know she was guilty. Even after she confessed, I didn’t want to believe it. All I have ever wanted was to protect her, and now that she’s gone . . .” His voice breaks on the last word. He sniffles. “If your father will take me back, I would proudly renew my oath of fealty to the crown.”
Tamriel doesn’t say anything for a long time. The seren continues to bow, sniffling every few seconds, until at last Tamriel commands, “Rise.”
Pierce obeys.
“Swear your oath to the crown and I’ll forgive your past indiscretions.” The seren lets out a breath of relief. Tamriel loathes offering him this mercy, trusting him after all he has said and done, but they’re in need of allies now more than ever.
“Thank you, Your Highness. It will be an honor—”
“I’m not finished,” he snaps. “Before you seek out my father, you will go down to the infirmary, fall to your knees before your son, and beg his forgiveness.”
“He’s—He’s in the infirmary? Not the End?” A spark of hope returns to the seren’s eyes. “You got him out?”
“I made your daughter a promise, didn’t I?”
Pierce’s head bobs up and down. “Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll go see him now.” He turns on his heel and starts toward the infirmary, then pauses. “If I may leave you with one thought, though, Your Highness? I warned you what would happen if you kept Mercy in the capital. That bastard Drayce Hamell put two arrows in her in front of half the city, and soon the rest of her enemies will try to do the same. You should send her away before the next arrow finds its mark.”
22
Mercy
Mercy practically leaps out of bed when Healer Tabris finally clears her from bedrest after lunch. “Finally,” she groans, her knees wobbling a bit as she pushes herself upright.
“Careful,” Tabris warns, reaching out to steady her. “Your wounds are still healing, and the medication has made you weak. Take it easy for a while. Maybe enjoy a leisurely walk around the castle gardens before you dare to venture into the city. Build your strength back up.”
Behind the healer’s back, Nynev smirks. “Of course. Our Mercy is always one to take it slow.”
Mercy ignores her. She rolls her neck, grimacing when the strap of the sling binding her left arm chafes against the already raw skin. After a week of doing nothing, she’s desperate to go outside, to move, to practice her drills from the Guild, but she doesn’t dare admit it to the healer. He’s not above having her locked in her room to force her to rest, and if she has to spend another day in this cell, she’ll go mad.
“Thank you, Tabris. I’ll do exactly as you instruct.”
He snorts at the sweet smile she offers him. “I’ve patched up enough guards to know that gleam in your eye means you’ll do whatever the hell you please. There’s no time to rest—there are rounds to do and training to attend. What would an old man like me know about that?” He packs up his medical kit and shuffles to the door. “Send for me tonight. I do love getting to say ‘I told you so’ after my patients tear their stitches.”
Nynev rolls her eyes as he ambles into the hall, shutting the door behind him. “Nutty old bat.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
With Nynev’s help, Mercy changes into clean clothes, and together they wander toward the great hall with the guards Tamriel had assigned her in tow. Every day since Elise’s execution, Mercy had waited for the stranger who had saved her life to return, but he never did. She reaches into her pocket, her fingers brushing the note he’d left her.
Bareea.
Only a handful of people know her true name: Liselle, who has not returned from the In-Between since they left the Islands; her parents, in Fishers’ Cross alongside Firesse’s hundreds of soldiers; and her siblings—Ino, Cassia, and Matthias. When Liselle had told her about their siblings, she’d confessed she didn’t know where they’d gone after her death or if they were even still alive.
Apparently, one of her brothers is in the city. She can only hope the rest of her siblings are with him.
Does he work in the castle? How many times has she passed him in the hall, completely oblivious to his existence? And why had he never approached her before?
Consumed by her thoughts, she doesn’t realize they’ve wandered into the great hall until Seren Pierce’s voice floats to them from the throne room. She stops dead in her tracks, bristling. “What is he doing here?” she hisses to Nynev.
“Hell if I know.”
They peer into the throne room to see the seren kneeling before the dais, still clad in his black mourning clothes. Ghyslain is lounging on the throne, Tamriel behind his shoulder, as Pierce says, “I swear I will perform my duties as your seren to the best of my ability, Your Majesty. Never will I raise a sword against you or knowingly allow harm to befall you or your family. I vow, on my honor and that of my forefathers, to serve you faithfully until I am no longer fit to do so.”
“An oath of fealty?” Mercy calls, unable to hold her tongue. She storms up to him, Nynev and the guards on her heels. “What good is the word of a man who tried to make a fool of his king before his own court?”
“On my daughter’s grave, my vow is sincere.”
“Your daughter was a traitor and a liar.”
Without standing, he looks at her over a shoulder. “My daughter was one of the few people in this world I cherish. Now she’s gone, and my son clings to life in the infirmary as we speak. I stand nothing to gain and everything to lose by opposing His Majesty.”
“Do you not recall threatening my life, Seren?” She turns on Ghyslain. “Is this the type of man you wish to appoint to your council? A liar and a would-be murderer?”
“Pierce is not the only would-be murderer in this room,” the king responds, fixing her with a stern look. “Or am I misremembering the events leading up to your arrival in Sandori, Mercy?”
“No, Your Majesty,” she forces through clenched teeth.
“Then if we can trust an Assassin to behave civilly, why not him?” The king’s gaze slides to the seren. “Rise, Pierce. I accept your apology and your oath of fealty. If you are ready to return to work, you may reclaim your place on my council.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your Highness. My . . . lady.” He stands and bows. “If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, I believe my time would be better spent investigating the Hamell attack than serving on your council. The courtiers trust me; I may be able to glean more information about the plot against Mercy’s life than your guards.”
“Very well. Speak to Master Adan and Evelynn Cain. They’re the ones who questioned Drayce’s family.�
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The seren bows one more time, then hurries out of the room.
“If you are to remain here at court, Mercy,” Ghyslain says, a warning in his voice, “I suggest learning when to keep your remarks to yourself. A tongue as barbed as yours will earn you few friends among the nobles.”
“I don’t want them to be my friends.”
“One would think your position on that would have changed after nearly being killed by one.”
“Funny how being stuck full of arrows would fail to endear them to me.”
“At the very least, try not to make enemies of every person you meet.”
“Oh, but she’s so very good at it,” Tamriel interjects. “How else would we know she’s feeling better?” His eyes sparkle when they meet hers, devoid of the coldness with which he had regarded Pierce. “It’s good to see you up and about.”
“Good to be up and about. You trust the seren?”
“We’ve made amends. I think he’ll stick to his vow.”
“And how do we know he didn’t help Hamell plan the attack?”
“He knows many of the guards through Atlas. If he were behind it, he’d have chosen a better marksman. Besides, now that Elise is dead, he has finally realized how much he still stands to lose by turning against us.”
“So, all we have to do to earn the nobles’ loyalties is kill off some of their family?” she asks, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “That could be arranged.”
Ghyslain shakes his head. “Mercy . . .”
Behind her, some of the guards shift uncomfortably.
Tamriel shakes his head. “If only it were that easy.” He pauses, his gaze drifting down to her sling for the first time, and his face pales. He nods to the door set into the wall a few yards away. “Speak with me in private a moment, won’t you?”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 90
