“Me,” Mercy whispers.
Trytain nods. “You were this ugly, wrinkly little thing with a pinched face and pointy ears too big for your body. When you reached out and wrapped the ends of Llorin’s hair in your little fist, Illynor smiled and said you’d make a fine Assassin one day. After the meal, I spoke with Illynor and begged her to reconsider taking you in.” Her lip curls in distaste. “The Guild has always trained the most beautiful, cunning, deadly human Assassins, and she was willing to throw all those years of tradition away for a sickly elven baby whose own parents didn’t want her!”
“Of course, she said if the Guild can be run by someone who isn’t human, why can’t we train someone who’s not human? Why don’t you have the same right as anyone else to become an Assassin? I laughed at her, yelled at her, threatened to leave, but she refused to reconsider. I thought if I could make her see . . . Elves are good for nothing but slaves and servants.” Her eyes are distant, lost in the memory of that night. “I knew she would turn the Guild into a laughingstock. At midnight, I snuck into the infirmary where you slept and stole you from your crib. I wrapped you in a blanket and shoved a cloth in your mouth so you couldn’t make noise and wake the others.
“I tucked you under my arm and hid you under my cloak, and I walked all the way to this river—just down there.” She nods to the girls below. “I knelt on the bank and stared into your face, let the moonlight shine on you and tried to see what they saw. Where was that beauty, that grace, that power they all saw in you? What had you done, a week-old babe, to captivate them so? I searched and searched, but I never found it. I wrapped you in that blanket and lowered you into the river, waiting until the cloth became heavy with water, and let you go.”
Mercy’s eyes widen in horror and she gapes at her tutor. After so many years, the others’ hatred shouldn’t surprise her, but it always does, and it always stings.
“I was ready to watch you sink under the waves, watch your body being slowly pulled under and to face the consequences of my actions. But the sounds you made,” she says, “the sounds you made were so raw, so incredibly human.” Her voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “It’s my one regret.”
Mercy gapes at Trytain, too shocked to be angry. “How can you say that? I work as hard as any of them. I work twice as hard—”
“Sure, you work twice as hard and will reap half the benefits. That’s how it works here—that’s how it works everywhere.” She shakes her head, noticing the apprentices below beginning to mount their horses and wander from the bank. “I want you to understand my regret isn’t that I tried to drown you. It’s that I failed. Because you, Mercy,” she says over her shoulder as she retreats into the tree line, her bow swinging from one hand, “you are ruthless.”
Mercy sits there for a long time, watching as Trytain appears at the bank below and escorts the rest of the apprentices back to the stables. Faye falters at the edge of the forest, waiting for Mercy to arrive, but she reluctantly spurs her horse forward after Cianna calls her name. Blackfoot wanders around the clearing and nudges Mercy with his nose a few times. When she doesn’t acknowledge him, he chuffs and moves into the shade, munching on clumps of leaves in the underbrush.
Mercy stares down at her fingers, unsure how to process the revelation which had been dumped into her lap, thrust into her hands, shoved down her throat.
She had already known most of the girls hate her. They used to torment her and call her names and pinch her ears. The tutors dislike her, too, although the others are usually more subtle about it than Mistress Trytain, whose hatred had been strong enough to warrant murder. Mercy hadn’t realized a grown woman could see a newborn child and decide she must die, that she had felt qualified to weigh the value of a life which hadn’t had the chance to be lived yet.
Murder of a Daughter is an insult of the highest degree to the Guild, and Trytain had been willing to accept the consequences—until her humanity had kicked in.
Mercy stands, wipes the dirt clinging to her legs. This changes nothing. She will do what she has always done: survive. She will take their hatred and craft it into her armor, because whether they will admit it or not, she will be the best Assassin the Guild has ever trained.
6
Mistress Sorin has already left for Ellesmere by the time Mercy enters the infirmary, and—seeing Arabelle is asleep—she springs into action. Jars clink against one another as she shuffles through them, pausing long enough to glance at the handwritten labels before moving them aside. She searches through the jars on the table, the bottles on the shelves, and the dried clusters of herbs hung in the corner to no avail. She sighs, frustrated, and—before she thinks better of it—slams her fist on the tabletop.
There’s a clink, followed by the sound of something glass rolling over the stone floor.
Mercy drops to her knees, searching the dusty floor under the table. Her hands close around a cold glass jar, and she leans back on her heels, grinning.
The label is distorted, partially covered by the thick white paste which had adhered it to the underside of the table, but the bright pink-and-white flowers inside are unmistakable.
Lusus blossoms.
“Mercy?”
She jumps, banging her head on the underside of the table. Uttering an oath, she crawls out, tucking the jar into the leg of her boot before she emerges. Arabelle sits upright in her bed, watching with curious eyes. “Yes?” she demands, somewhat irritably.
“What are you doing?”
“Catching a rat.”
“A rat!” Arabelle squeaks, clutching the blanket closer around her body. “Where?”
Mercy waves her hand in the general direction of the desk. “I don’t know. How do you feel?”
“Not worse.”
“No? Then it’s a shame you wasted so much medicine by throwing it up. We’re almost out of Benza root, so I’ll have to go dig some up later, but we have enough for one more batch.” Mercy moves to the cabinet and pulls out the mortar and pestle, then moves to the rack of ingredients lining the wall.
Arabelle crosses her arms, scrunching her nose. “It’s not my fault I was poisoned.”
“It’s your fault for eating something you didn’t recognize.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Mercy says. She crosses the room and perches on the corner of Arabelle’s bed, leaning forward until their faces are only inches apart. Her voice drops to a whisper. “You find something you’re not familiar with? Make someone else try it first. If she lives, it’s safe. If not, she’s a fool for trusting you.”
Arabelle smiles.
“So, now or later?” Mercy asks, holding up the pestle.
She considers. “Later.”
“Okay.” Mercy sets the pestle on the bedside table and moves to the bed opposite Arabelle, who stares at her unabashedly. Mercy stares back, narrowing her eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“You’re an elf.”
“You’re a human.”
“You’re the only elf.”
“Where did you find those flowers you ate?”
Arabelle frowns at the change of subject, but relents after Mercy raises a brow. “In one of the Strykers’ bags. Elia said they carried weapons more glorious than anything we have here, except for the Daughters’ weapons, of course. I-I wanted to see them, but all we found were the flowers.”
“So you decided to have a snack instead?”
She shrugs, daring Mercy to chastise her.
Mercy leans forward. “Whose bag was it?”
“OREN!”
Mercy thunders down the stairs to the smithy, barges in, and grabs Oren’s shirt in her fists. The other Strykers stop their work and stare open mouthed as she pins Oren against the wall. He struggles against her grasp, his hands tugging at her wrists, his eyes like saucers.
“Who did you intend to poison?” she spits. “Hm? Did you think you would get away with it? In the Guild?”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me! I know you brought it here. Who was your target?”
“Mercy,” Calum warns, prying them apart. “Let go of him.”
Mercy slips under his arm and lunges toward Oren again, shoving her face into his. “Those flowers came from the north. The capital. Only five strangers have been there recently, and they’re all standing in this room. What was your plan?” She shakes Oren one more time. “A little girl is sick because of you!”
“But I didn’t— It’s medicine!” he finally cries, trembling.
“It’s poison!”
Calum pulls her away, positioning himself between Mercy and Oren. “Mercy, calm down—”
“Get out of my way, Calum. He tried to hurt one of my own. Let me deal with him.” She tries to move around him and he blocks her step. Her hands clench into fists. “I’m not kidding.”
“I’m not either. Take a deep breath and calm down, or our deal is off.”
She turns away and sighs, then turns back. Calum watches her with a stony expression.
“Oren didn’t bring the flowers to hurt anyone,” he begins.
“They’re poison!”
“Oren has seizures,” Calum says, and the objection on the tip of Mercy’s tongue dies.
“What?”
The other Strykers glance away and return to their work, all except Calum and Oren, the latter standing against the wall, pale and shaking. Mercy studies him over Calum’s shoulder.
“Yes, he has seizures. He’s had them since he was born. Lusus blossoms, when brewed in a tea, help calm them.”
Embarrassment creeps up Mercy’s neck, but she clenches her fists tighter, refusing to allow the blush to spread to her face. Perhaps it’s true. Most likely it’s true, and a fairly recent treatment, judging by Oren’s sallow skin and recent weight loss. Still, Arabelle had managed to find them, and had almost died because of it.
She masks her embarrassment with a scowl. “You should keep them better hidden. If I hear of another apprentice finding them—”
“You won’t.” Oren’s head bobs up and down. “I promise.”
“Good.”
Calum looks at Mercy and raises a brow.
“And . . . I’m sorry,” she adds, and bolts out of the smithy.
Mercy avoids everyone for the next couple days, holing up in the infirmary with Arabelle and planning her strategy for the Trial. Each participant will be armed with a dagger and wearing full armor, but will carry nothing else, which means none of the girls will expect what Mercy has up her sleeve. Calum has decided Xiomar’s armor will fit Mercy best out of the four sets, and has had Mercy try it on in secret so he can make the necessary adjustments and show her the most vulnerable points. Despite his occasional teasing, he is a good teacher.
It feels good to have someone on her side.
On the second day, Arabelle returns to her own room, having recovered enough from the poison to return to training. Before she had left, the little girl had gotten a kick out of Mercy’s story of barging into the smithy and threatening Oren. The infirmary feels a bit bleaker without her presence, Mercy admits, although she has little aptitude or affection for children.
She searches the infirmary shelves for oil of Ienna. When she finds it, she rolls the jar between her fingers, watching as the gold liquid shimmers under the light. The description from Mistress Sorin’s textbook surfaces in her mind; she’s read it so many times over the past two days, she’s memorized it:
Oil of Ienna: relieves headaches, migraines, and shortness of breath. May also be used to cure sleeplessness—causes drowsiness; best taken thirty minutes before resting.
“Mercy?”
Mother Illynor stands in the doorway, her forehead pinched in concern. “I had assumed you would be training,” she says. “Do you not feel well?”
“I’m fine,” Mercy responds, pushing the bottle of Ienna oil away. “Just came to make sure we have enough bandages for the Trial, which we do. I’ve also double-checked the inventory. We’re well stocked for the fight.”
Mother Illynor steps into the room, sympathy in her eyes. “I didn’t come to ask about bandages. I came to ask about you. You’ve been sulking.”
“I have not,” Mercy objects, although this, too, is part of the plan she and Calum had created. Don’t let them see you preparing, Calum had said. Pout, like you’re angry Illynor won’t let you fight. She’d gone along with it, and Mother Illynor is playing right into her hands. “But I don’t have to pretend to be happy about it.”
“The Trial is important to you, Mercy. It’s important to all of us, but so is tradition. So are rules. Obedience.” She places a hand on Mercy’s, her scaly skin like sandpaper. “It’s not about how long you’ve been here, it’s about being ready.”
“How can you say that? Xiomar and Cianna are competing, and they’re not remotely ready. You know they don’t stand a chance against Faye and Lylia. I do.” Mercy leans close, her eyes begging Illynor to reconsider. “How can you say I’m not ready? This is my life—”
Illynor sighs and pulls her hand away. “I have told you my answer, my dear.”
“Tell me what to do to change your mind,” Mercy says, a note of pleading slipping into her voice. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” As Illynor turns away, Mercy catches a handful of her cloak and hangs on it. “Please.”
Illynor peels Mercy’s hand away. “There is nothing you can do but wait.”
7
Later, Calum peers over her shoulder as Mercy kneels in front of the pot hanging over the infirmary’s fireplace, boiling Lusus blossoms in water. “If this works,” he says, “you’re a genius.”
“I need to achieve the right toxicity for it to work as a contact poison. Too weak and it will take too long to be effective. I’ll dip my knife in it, and just a scratch will down the victim in a matter of minutes.”
“That also means if you accidentally cut yourself or get a drop of that poison on an open wound, you’re as good as dead.”
“Why do you think you’re here? Make sure that doesn’t happen. Besides, we have plenty of herbs for the antidote. I wrote down the recipe, so anyone can make it.” She removes the pot from the fire, taking care not to burn her hands, and pours the contents into a stone bowl. Steam rises when it hits the cold stone, smelling deceptively sweet, like honey. As it cools, the poison forms a dark film over the surface of the water. “Hand me that, won’t you?”
Calum passes her the dagger, and the metal hisses when she slides it into the poison, little bubbles forming along the blade. “You’re ready for tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“I heard from a servant there’s a special contract in Mother Illynor’s room,” he says. “It bears the royal seal. I think she’s going to give it to the winner of the Trial.”
“The royal seal? What use would the king have for the Guild? He has an army.”
Calum shakes his head. “I don’t know who the target is, but it makes sense if he’s high-profile. Ghyslain would want someone no one could trace back to him, and an Assassin could slip in and out without being noticed.”
“Okay, but why not give the contract to an older Daughter, someone more experienced for such an important job?”
“I don’t know,” he says again, running a hand over his forehead, “but it’s going to be dangerous. I thought you should know before going into the Trial. Consider if this is something you want to do.”
“Of course I’ll do it,” she scoffs. “I’m the best for the job.”
Calum grins. “I thought you’d say that.” He extends his arm to Mercy, who slips her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Since that will take a while”—he nods to the dagger—“shall we go to dinner?”
She passes him the bottle of Ienna oil, which he tucks in the pocket of his jacket. “We shall.”
If the night the Strykers arrived had been a party, tonight is a festival. The tables are piled high with food, the chatter of the Daughters echoi
ng off the high ceiling as they weave from conversation to conversation. A couple of girls play a pair of ancient-looking instruments they had found in the castle’s storage rooms, filling the hall with an upbeat melody.
Across the room, Calum stands with a group of Daughters, listening as Nerran and Amir describe a tale which elicits loud laughs from the gathered crowd. He leans down and murmurs something in Xiomar’s ear, and she blushes. He touches her shoulder lightly, his eyes alight and a smile on his face, and she leans into the gentle touch.
Faye is sitting on a bench, talking to Oren. He flinches when Mercy sits down beside Faye and stammers something reminiscent of an excuse, nearly knocking over his goblet of wine in his haste to leave.
“What was that?” Faye asks, lifting a brow.
“A couple days ago I threatened him and accused him of trying to murder one of the apprentices,” Mercy shrugs.
Faye’s eyes widen. “You didn’t!”
Mercy nods, grinning.
“Oh, if he didn’t have to change his trousers after that, sweet Oren,” Faye says. “He looks like he’s seen a ghost.”
“Just me.”
“I don’t know which one is more terrifying.”
Mercy’s smile grows, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Me.”
At the front of the room, Mother Illynor stands, and all eyes turn to her. “Tomorrow morning, we shall meet in the courtyard for the Trial,” she says. “Tomorrow will be the Guild’s three hundredth Trial, and to commemorate the anniversary, the Strykers have crafted something special for the participants. Hewlin, will you do the honor?”
Merciless Page 5
