Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  He stands, hands his glass to Calum, and disappears through a doorway. A moment later, he returns, followed by four servants, each one wheeling a mannequin bearing the armor of a participant. The name of the wearer is inscribed on a piece of thick paper which hangs from the neck: black for Lylia, gold for Faye, silver for Xiomar, and bronze for Cianna.

  “She expects us to fight in those?” Faye whispers, but Mercy’s eyes are glued to the silver set of armor, praying no one notices that the leg pieces are a couple inches too short for Xiomar, the breastplate too narrow through the ribs.

  “The apprentices will be fighting in full armor,” Mother Illynor announces. “It is a challenge which befits a Daughter of the highest degree—the one who shall carry this weapon upon winning.” She extends a hand, and Oren walks into the center of the room, a bundle of cloth in his arms. When he stops, the fabric in his hands falls away to reveal the gleaming blades of a double-sided dagger. He holds the grip in two hands and spins the dagger like a staff, the razor-sharp metal flashing as it cleaves the air. It’s even more glorious than it had appeared in the drawing. The blades curve like a scythe on each end, giving the entire weapon an S shape, and the handguards are sculpted like interlocking branches, a nod to the forest where the Guild makes its home.

  Oren’s awkwardness fades as he twirls the dagger, his stance becoming that of an expert swordsman, his entire being moving with the graceful slashes and arcs of the weapon. In the blink of an eye, he twists the center of the grip apart, and the simple-looking ring of silver becomes the pommels of two separate daggers. They curve menacingly, like the fangs of a serpent, slicing through the open space with the ease of a hot knife through butter, moving like a natural extension of Oren’s arm.

  Mercy tears her eyes from the amazing sight, and they land on Calum, taking full advantage of everyone’s distraction. While Xiomar watches Oren in rapt attention, Calum breaks the wax seal of the bottle of Ienna oil and dumps the contents into Xiomar’s drink, forgotten on the table behind her. He tucks the empty bottle into his pocket, then leans forward and nuzzles Xiomar’s neck, making her giggle. He hands her the goblet and she takes a sip, laughing when Calum kisses a droplet which escapes from the corner of her mouth. He whispers in her ear and his free hand slips around her waist.

  Oren lunges forward one last time, twisting the daggers back into one, and bows to Mother Illynor. She nods and he hurries to the corner, grateful to be out of the spotlight. Wild applause follows him and a blush creeps up his ears.

  “I am going to win that weapon,” Faye breathes, a thought Mercy can’t help but second. I am going to win that weapon.

  “So, friends, enjoy the feast while the night is young,” Mother Illynor says, “and Lylia, Faye, Xiomar, and Cianna—take care to remember every moment of this night. For one of you, it will be your last as an apprentice.” She raises her glass once more and sits as the conversations swell around her.

  “Can you believe it, Mercy?” Faye asks, squirming with excitement.

  “Can you believe it, Mercy? Can you?” a cruel voice mocks.

  Lylia’s beautiful face is sour as she stalks up to the two girls. She is clad in all black, her eyes ringed with a haze of kohl smudged in striking contrast to the blue of her irises. A dark bruise peeks out above the neck of her tunic from where Mercy had choked her.

  Faye sighs, but Mercy notices her friend’s grip on her wine glass tighten almost imperceptibly.

  “What do you want, Lylia?” Mercy asks.

  “Nothing from you, elfie.” Lylia’s eyes narrow and she cocks her head, studying Faye. “My business concerns your friend.” She leans forward and wraps an arm around Faye’s tense shoulders. She shoots Mercy a Save me grimace. Lylia jerks her chin to where Cianna is sitting a little way down the table. “Since this one couldn’t find the pointy end of a sword if it ran her through and this one”—pointing to Xiomar—“is too focused on the first man to show interest in her to think twice about accepting that third glass of wine, I bet you’re thinking your chances of winning are pretty good, aren’t you?”

  She waits until Faye nods to continue.

  “I wanted to stop by and tell you how foolish you are to think that. Because, you see,” Lylia’s voice drops an octave, “I remember all the times you stopped our fun to help your pet here.” She catches Mercy’s chin and tilts it up, smiling patronizingly while speaking to Faye. “When we threw her stuff into the river, when we burned her clothes in the hearth, when we hid poison ivy in her mattress . . . You’re going to regret ruining our games.”

  She walks away, laughing, and Faye bristles. “The one rule—the one rule—of the Trial is we can’t kill. I’d almost like to throw all this away for the chance to wipe the smirk off that psychopath’s face.”

  “We’re assassins, Faye. We’re all psychopaths.”

  “I’m not joking, and you shouldn’t be, either. You’re the one she’s been terrorizing all these years—you heard her! She doesn’t hate you. She does this all because she can, because she thinks it’s fun, like it’s some kind of game.” Faye slams her cup down on the table, earning a few curious glances from the girls around them. “Why doesn’t this bother you? I know you; you should be fuming!”

  “She’s just saying it to distract you. See? It’s working. Focus on the Trial, and you can take all of your anger out on her then.”

  Mercy doesn’t say the real reason why she isn’t worrying about Lylia: while Lylia had been busy intimidating Faye, Mercy had watched over her shoulder as Calum, an arm around Xiomar’s shoulders, had led her out of the dining hall. To anyone who might’ve seen them, it would appear that they were seeking somewhere more private, but Mercy knows Calum had cleared the last obstacle barring her way into the fight tomorrow morning. A dose as large as he had given her will knock her out long enough for Mercy to take her place in the Trial.

  Come dawn, she will no longer be an apprentice.

  8

  Mercy stands in the hall just inside the castle, a time-warped wooden door the only thing between her and the courtyard where the Trial is about to begin. Her stolen silver armor is on; last night, Calum had delivered it to Mercy’s room after Xiomar succumbed to the sleep-inducing effects of the Ienna oil. The visor of the helmet obscures her vision somewhat, but it hides her face, especially in the predawn darkness.

  The helmet sits low on Mercy’s head, her hair braided back and tucked under the collar of her shirt so none of her telltale curls pop out. The armor, although heavy, fits snugly to her body after Calum’s adjustments. The metal has a surprising amount of strength in it, considering the simple, unadorned design. Strapped to her hip is a simple seven-inch-long dagger, sharp but not too sharp, the blade straight and well-used.

  I am invincible.

  It’s time to go.

  Mistress Trytain places a hand on Mercy’s back, propelling her forward, and she realizes she hasn’t seen Calum since last night.

  He’s too late.

  The iron knuckles around Mercy’s fingers flex and curl around the handle of the door. She’s about to pull it open when a voice down the hall cries out, “Wait!”

  She and Trytain turn, and Calum flies around the corner, frantic and unkempt, his jacket and shirt open to his bare torso. He sighs when he sees her and his face breaks into a beaming smile. “Wanted to wish you luck. I thought I’d missed you.”

  Mercy squeals and runs to him, and he catches her in his arms, spinning her so his back blocks Trytain’s view of her. “Not quite,” she purrs in a low voice, and Calum lifts the visor of her helmet, pulling her into a desperate kiss. His arm goes around her waist and tugs her close, and Mercy slides her hands along his hips, his skin warm under her palms.

  “That’s quite enough!” Trytain huffs, pulling at Calum’s jacket. Mercy backs away in time for the visor to fall back over her face. Even though Calum can’t see it, she grins.

  “Fine, fine! I’m leaving!” Calum backs away, holding his hands up. “I’ll see you lat
er, Xiomar.”

  “Come now, you’ve wasted enough time already.” Trytain clamps her hand around the gauntlet on Mercy’s wrist, dragging her to the door. “We’ll discuss this later,” she calls to Calum.

  Mercy glances back to see Calum slowly and theatrically buttoning his shirt. A spot of silver flashes from inside his jacket and he whistles three short, sharp bursts—their signal. The feeling of invincibility swells again as the door swings shut behind her and Mercy and Trytain emerge into the courtyard. Calum’s kiss had distracted Trytain long enough for him to switch out the plain dagger Mercy had worn at her waist with the poisoned one they had prepared the day before.

  There is no way she won’t win.

  Mistress Trytain pushes Mercy forward. A wide circle has been drawn in the center of the yard, and people push in on every side, craning their necks to see above the heads of the people in front of them. Someone notices Mercy and Trytain’s arrival and an opening forms in the crowd. Mercy steps through, and it closes behind her.

  Mother Illynor is seated atop a large platform overlooking the ring, a dark silhouette against the gray of the predawn sky. Mistress Trytain takes her place at Illynor’s right, and the other tutors are scattered among the crowd of Daughters, apprentices, and Strykers. In her peripheral vision, Mercy sees Calum slip into the group, watching her with interest.

  Each girl stands on an opposite side of the circle: Lylia across from Mercy, Faye on her right and Cianna on her left. Mercy can’t see their faces, but the colors of their armors help the participants and onlookers keep track of each girl. Cianna stands tall, staring straight ahead. Faye cracks her knuckles and adjusts the strap of one gauntlet. Lylia has her dagger unsheathed and a flick of her wrist sends it twirling through the air, catching the hilt every time.

  A rush of adrenaline shoots through Mercy.

  Mother Illynor nods, signaling the beginning of the Trial. When Faye lunges toward Cianna, Lylia charges straight for Mercy. They collide in a crash of steel, and Lylia batters the pommel of her dagger against the side of Mercy’s helmet until her ears ring. Mercy catches hold of the leather strap of Lylia’s breastplate and pulls her close, then shoves her backward with all her strength.

  Lylia’s eyes go wide as she stumbles back. Mercy fumbles for her poisoned dagger, but Lylia tackles her and knocks it out of her hand, where it bounces onto the grass a few feet away. Mercy grunts as Lylia straddles her hips, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her almost upright before slamming her back on the ground. Mercy’s neck snaps back painfully and she grits her teeth, prying at the fingers Lylia has clasped around the neck of her breastplate. Her other hand grasps only grass and dirt as she searches blindly for the dagger.

  Lylia grins. Psychopath, Mercy thinks. Her fingers close around the leather grip of her dagger just as Lylia’s weight is lifted off her.

  “Oof,” Lylia groans. Faye throws her to the ground, breathing hard, her bloody dagger in hand. Mercy scrabbles to her feet and glances about the ring. Cianna is nowhere to be seen, she realizes, but she doesn’t have time to wonder what Faye had done to her.

  Faye drops to her knees and drives her knife straight down, and Lylia rolls away just in time. Faye’s blade sinks into the grass and she grunts in frustration. Mercy shifts her grip on her poisoned dagger and leaps forward.

  Faye pivots and slashes with her knife, only inches from a vulnerable part of Mercy’s arm, and while she’s distracted, Lylia jumps to her feet. Faye lunges for Mercy, and Mercy backs away, feigning intimidation. The poisoned blade isn’t meant for her.

  They’re panting, sweating, grunting with the exertion, and the crowd is silent, watching in rapt attention. Even the forest seems to be holding its breath. It feels like they are the only three people for miles.

  Mercy wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

  When Faye lunges again, Mercy flips the knife in her hand and slams the pommel down on Faye’s helmet. Faye sways with the impact, the jarring noise amplified by the metal so close to her ears. Lylia seizes the opportunity to leap on her, landing on Faye’s torso with her full body weight.

  Something crunches.

  The crowd sucks in a breath.

  Faye’s breastplate is dented, caved in and crumpled under Lylia’s knees, and her eyes—the only part of her face visible through her helmet’s visor—are shut. She shudders once and goes still.

  An inhuman roar of rage escapes Mercy’s lips. Lylia doesn’t have time to glance back before Mercy is on top of her, knocking her sideways off Faye’s body. They roll twice in the dirt, scrabbling for a hold, kicking and punching and slashing with their daggers in the tight space.

  Lylia yelps.

  Mercy’s dagger is buried in her thigh.

  She howls and yanks the dagger out, and bright red blood paints the black of her armor. She throws the dagger to the side, out of the ring, and climbs on top of Mercy, pinning her legs beneath her.

  Lylia batters Mercy’s breastplate with her fists until the skin over her knuckles bursts open and oozes a steady flow of blood, and still she doesn’t let up. The metal of Mercy’s armor begins to groan and she can feel the tremors of each blow course through her body. Lylia lifts Mercy up and slams her to the ground, sending shooting stars through Mercy’s vision.

  She does it again, this time knocking off Mercy’s helmet.

  She goes still.

  Up on the platform, Mother Illynor jumps to her feet, her mouth agape. Trytain leans forward in her chair.

  “Mercy,” Lylia breathes.

  “Hello.”

  Mercy’s hair has sprung from its braid, sticking to her face in sweaty tendrils, and her cheeks are flushed bright pink. The smug grin on her face slips when she realizes Lylia’s blade is hovering an inch above her nose.

  Closer.

  Lylia is going to kill her.

  Mercy’s head pounds from the blows. She closes her eyes and waits.

  Nothing.

  After a second, Mercy opens one eye, then the other. A slack expression on her face, Lylia slumps to the side and Mercy scrambles out from under her. Her dagger slips through her fingers and Mercy snatches it.

  “Mercy—” Lylia chokes. “You are . . . an abomination.” Her eyes flutter shut and she shudders, then falls face first into the grass.

  Mercy pushes to her feet, clutching Lylia’s knife. She chokes on a laugh as chaos erupts around her.

  Mistress Trytain leaps from the platform and crouches at Lylia’s side, checking for a pulse in her neck. She yells to Amir and Nerran to carry her to the infirmary, then runs to Faye, who moans. Calum and Oren are supporting Cianna, who looks dazed but not terribly worse for wear, sporting a split lip and bloody nose. Everyone else shouts in outrage, and Mother Illynor and Hewlin stand atop the platform, attempting to calm the wave of rising rage.

  Mercy stands in the center of it all, grinning like a madwoman.

  She won.

  She won the Trial.

  Lahrenn stands beside the door to the castle. Mercy shoves her way out of the crowd, and Lahrenn cowers when she approaches. “Lylia will be fine as long as the antidote is administered quickly,” Mercy says. “I wrote out the recipe, and all the ingredients are sitting on the desk in the infirmary. Take them to Trytain.”

  Lahrenn nods, her chin bobbing up and down. She doesn’t move.

  “Now!” Mercy growls, and Lahrenn yelps, bolting into the castle. Mercy follows at a leisurely pace, heading up the spiral stairs when she comes to the fork in the hallway. From the apprentices’ wing, the shouts and cries from the courtyard are muffled.

  Mercy gasps.

  Her iron knuckles clatter to the ground. The metal plates around her forearms follow, then she removes the cuisse and chain from her right leg. Another ten steps down the hallway and the left leg follows. Mercy’s bedroom door is within sight. She opens it, closes it behind her, and leans against it as she undoes the straps which hold her breastplate closed. She slips the metal over her head and tosses it to the op
posite side of the room.

  She grins as a fatigue unlike anything she’s ever known settles into her bones.

  She won the Trial.

  9

  A small earthquake beats down my door.

  A thousand fists, it sounds like. Looks like it, too, from the way the door shakes with every enraged rap.

  I’m sitting on the floor in my tiny room, legs crossed in front of me, hands folded in my lap. The stone wall is cool behind my back, the single window open above my head. I’m wearing a clean white shirt, simple pants, and my hair is free around my face, dripping water from the bucket I filled from the huge basin in the kitchen.

  I’m calm.

  I know the rules and still I cheated them. I know there will be consequences. I know I will have to pay for what I’ve done.

  I’m not sorry.

  The Guild is my life. I didn’t choose it, didn’t want it for years. But when I stopped fighting it, stopped trying to resist all the ways they were trying to change me, I realized I enjoy it. All the teasing, all the mocking, all the quips about pointy ears and the girl whose parents didn’t want her—they don’t matter in a fight.

  I will be hated for the work I do—by the Daughters who will see my success as nothing more than a mistake, by the families whose lives I’ll ruin.

  I will be hated.

  And I will love every minute of it.

  10

  The pounding on Mercy’s door has stopped.

  She has been sitting in the same spot for hours. The sun has risen and set, and the moon which should hang bright and full in the sky is obscured by clouds. Mercy doesn’t bother to light a candle. Come morning, she’ll either take her vows or be killed. Mother Illynor has spent almost eighteen years turning Mercy into a fighting machine, a weapon for the Guild; she won’t let Mercy leave with a head full of the Guild’s teachings.

  The Guild is serious about its rules.

  The last time one of the Daughters was killed by her Sisters, she was trying to run away to a man with whom she’d fallen in love.