12
“The prince? You want me to assassinate the prince?” Mercy gapes at her. “Isn’t that treason, or something?”
“The Guild does not owe its allegiance to the royal family of Beltharos. We offer a service to those who have the money and power to pay for it. We serve the people of every country, regardless of the target.” Illynor crosses her arms. “Do you consider King Ghyslain your ruler?”
“No.”
“Does your allegiance to the royal family outweigh your loyalty to the Guild?”
“No.”
“The king is a man, Mercy. Prince Tamriel is a man. Royal blood or no, it spills just as easily,” Illynor says. She stands and moves to one of the bookshelves lining the room, then picks up a heavy leather tome. “Before you leave, you must know that the tension between the humans and elves in the capital has reached an all-time high since Liselle’s death almost twenty years ago. Do you remember learning about her?”
Mercy shrugs. “A little.”
Mother Illynor flips through the pages until she lands on the one she wants, then she hands the book to Mercy. There are no words on the page, just a drawing—an image so grotesque it turns Mercy’s stomach.
An elven woman is chained by each limb to the front gate of a castle. Her head has lolled forward so all that is visible is the crown of her head and the dirty tendrils of hair hanging down onto her chest. She’s completely naked, her skin coated in dirt and grime from being dragged through the streets before being strung up on the gate. Her throat had been cut so wide and so deeply that the slice is still visible despite her head hanging forward, dry rivulets of blood trailing down her breasts. Only her stomach is clean, pale skin peeking through the dirt as if someone had wiped her down with a dirty rag. Carved in shaky, blood-clotted lines across her tender skin are the words Temptation of the king.
“Awful, isn’t it?” Illynor says. “Liselle Mari was the King’s elven mistress while he was married to Queen Elisora Zendais. She was Elisora’s slave and was serving as her handmaiden when she met Ghyslain at his and Elisora’s betrothal celebration. After the King and Queen were married, she was given her own quarters in the castle. While the Queen was bedridden with pregnancy complications, Liselle began to appear in public with the King and preach freedom for the elven slaves, even going so far as to sit on Elisora’s throne during court.”
“And she was killed for it?”
Illynor nods. “The nobles hated her. It was inappropriate for an elf to have as much power as the King had given her. So when the King was pulled to the Queen’s side during the birth of their son—the birth which killed her—the nobles ambushed Liselle and murdered her. They strung her up like that to send a message to the King.” She leans forward and meets Mercy’s eyes. “Please be careful in the capital. Violence against elves has never been higher than it is now.”
Mercy snaps the book shut, rolls her shoulders, and stands. “When do I leave?”
“In one hour.”
Faye’s bedroom door is ajar when Mercy approaches.
“Hello?” she calls as she steps inside. She’s shocked to find Faye awake and sitting upright in bed. She’s not wearing a shirt; her torso is bound with layers upon layers of linen bandages, and the edge of a dark purple bruise paints her upper ribcage. Just looking at it makes Mercy sick.
Beautiful Faye.
Beautiful Faye who’s glaring at Mercy like she’s the last person in the world she wants to see. Like she wants to rip Mercy apart slowly, inch by inch.
“Come to gloat over your victory?” she snarls. “What is wrong with you, Mercy? You know how much this meant to me, you know how long I’d waited for this opportunity, and still, you took it for yourself.”
“You know how important the Trial is to me—"
“You don’t think it was important to me? You’re not special, Mercy! You don’t want this any more than the rest of us. You’re a mistake—your own parents didn’t want you!” Faye trembles with rage. “I’ve never asked you for anything. I stuck up for you when the other girls teased you. I fought them when you were too afraid to stand up for yourself—don’t pretend you weren’t. But now that you’re all grown up, what do you do in return? You’re finished feeling sorry for yourself and you’ve forgotten everyone who has helped or shown you the slightest kindness because boo-hoo, your ears are shaped differently than ours.
“So you take away the one thing that means the most to me. You couldn’t wait one year to turn eighteen and fight in your own Trial, so you had to ruin mine. You saw something you wanted and you took it without any regard for anyone else. What about me? I can’t train with broken ribs. Do you even care?” Faye’s cheeks are pink and splotchy from her tears, and she shakes with anger and pain.
Mercy says nothing.
“No.” Faye answers her own question. “You don’t! You didn’t choose this life. I did— I want this—”
“You’re right,” Mercy snaps. “I didn’t choose this life, but this is the life I have. I’m doing everything I can to serve the Guild the best way I know how.” She knows she shouldn’t say any more, but she can’t stop herself. “If you were meant to win the Trial, you would’ve won whether I was competing or not.”
Faye seethes, and their gazes clash for a long time before Mercy says in a cool voice, “So, they finally turned you against me, did they?”
“You did it yourself.”
Mercy turns and reaches for the door.
“No smart-ass comments?” Faye taunts. “Just leave, then! Get out!” Something shatters above Mercy’s head and she ducks as shards of porcelain land in her hair, tinkling as pieces of the plate Faye had thrown fall to the ground. “Just get out!”
Mercy shakes the shards out of her hair and brushes them off her clothes, then leaves the room without another word.
Aelis and the Strykers have already saddled their horses by the time Mercy passes through the gate of Kismoro Keep, a bundle of clothes in her arms and her double-sided dagger strapped to her back. Amir’s horse pulls a cart laden with the Strykers’ tools and extra weapons, and Calum throws something in before meeting Mercy near the gate, leading Blackfoot and his horse, both saddled.
He offers her Blackfoot’s reins with a quirked brow. “For you, Daughter.”
Mercy grins. She shoves her clothes into one of the saddlebags, along with a small coin purse that Mother Illynor had given her, then swings herself onto Blackfoot’s saddle. He chuffs and stamps his hoof into the ground, sensing her excitement. This will be her first time venturing outside of the Forest, and she can’t wait to see the country.
Mother Illynor passes under the gate in silence. Her scaly face is unreadable as always. “Be safe, my child,” she says. “Be strong, be swift, be ruthless, and never forget your vows.”
“I won’t.”
“Master Hewlin, shall we not meet again until next Spring’s-end?”
“Afraid so. Our journey takes us across the sea.” He dips his head low in respect, and she does the same.
“Creator ease your path.”
“He better,” Amir calls. “This one gets seasick taking a bath.” He elbows Calum in the chest, and Calum mutters something crude under his breath, just loud enough for all to hear. Oren bursts into laughter. Hewlin pretends not to have heard.
“May he guide us all,” he says with an expression of weary affection for the younger men. “Come, let’s be off.”
Mother Illynor moves back to the gate as Hewlin mounts his horse and spurs it to the lead, Oren and Amir behind him. Aelis and Nerran follow, deep in conversation, and Calum waves Mercy forward, taking up the place beside her at the rear.
“Ready to become the best Assassin in history?” he says, and winks.
As they venture deeper into the forest and the trees close in around them, Mercy can’t help but glance back. The castle stands tall and stoic, as it had hundreds of years ago and (Creator willing) shall for generations to come. A backlit figure stands defiantly atop
the wall, directly above Illynor’s head. Although she can’t see the woman’s face, Mercy knows Lylia is watching.
She turns forward in her saddle and doesn’t look back.
Four hours pass with no change.
The trees shimmer red, gold, and orange, thousands of narrow red trunks punctuating the landscape as far as any of them can see. Mercy breathes the same cool, earthy air she has always breathed as the sun passes directly overhead, then begins its western descent. The only change comes in the formation in which they ride; sometimes side-by-side, and other times single-file, until the trail widens once more.
It’s mind-numbingly boring.
The Strykers joke among themselves in hushed voices, peals of laughter cleaving the quiet every few minutes. Aelis is silent the whole time.
For the most part, Mercy rides alone, Calum having moved to Hewlin’s side hours ago when Mercy failed to do so much as grin at his usual antics. She had appreciated his attempts to cheer her, but he will never know how daunting it is to be facing her first contract. This will be her first time in a human city. All she has ever known is seventeen years of living in near-isolation.
Calum glances over his shoulder then and grins, giving a little wave before turning forward. No one else pays her much attention, although it’s not out of malice. This band of Strykers has been making this journey for years, each spring escorting another girl to the edge of the forest; Mercy is just another name on the list.
The ride leaves too much time for thinking.
She has no idea what to expect of the outside world. Mannerisms, colloquialisms, habits, etiquette—she has knowledge of most of these from her classes in the Guild, but it’s nothing like living there. Still, Sorin had taught the apprentices how to blend in among the nobility, and Mercy is too stubborn to allow a pompous, perfumed nobleman to stand between her and the completion of her contract.
Now is the time to formulate a plan.
Mercy trusts Mistress Sorin to sneak her into the capital, if not directly into Myrellis Castle, but how she kills the prince is entirely up to her.
Poison? It wouldn’t be hard to find some in a city as large as Sandori, and there are plenty of medicinal herbs which can be deadly in the right doses. Provided she can sneak into the kitchen, it would be easy to slip the poison into his food or drink, and most would be untraceable on a corpse—assuming he doesn’t have a food taster. If so, it will be difficult—nearly impossible—to sneak it into his food without being noticed.
Blades? She has her daggers, sharp enough to be lethal with one stab and small enough to be hidden in the folds of the absurd fashions worn in Sandori. The problem is the blood. Mercy will have to do it somewhere private, somewhere without his guards, and she will have to bring a change of clothes in case any blood splatters on her. It’s not the most convenient option, considering she won’t know when to strike until the rare opportunity presents itself. It could be weeks after her arrival.
Her hands? They are the most reliable of her weapons—narrow fingers, surprisingly strong grip, callused from years of training—and they do not require any additional equipment. There’s little chance of blood, unless it ends in an all-out fist fight, but again, the difficulty would be in getting the prince alone.
Mercy doesn’t notice they’ve stopped until Blackfoot rears back, nearly colliding with Nerran’s horse.
“Mercy,” Calum says, and she realizes everyone is staring at her. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Look.”
She glances over his shoulder and—
“Oh.”
The edge of the forest. It’s straight ahead, maybe ten feet away. The trees are farther apart here than by the Keep, the leaves a pale yellow-green and the underbrush long and sparse. Green grass and a blue sky are visible beyond the red trunks.
“Go ahead,” Hewlin says, his eyes sparkling.
Mercy slides off Blackfoot’s saddle and takes his reins in her hand, unable to hide her look of wonder. Her horse’s hooves clomp softly on the moist ground as he trails behind her, his warm breath tickling her arm. Aelis and the Strykers part as she passes.
Ten feet, then eight, then six.
Calum beams.
Three, two, one.
And she’s out.
13
There’s so much space.
Wide-open prairies sway with long grass and clumps of yellow wildflowers. The path they follow widens, then shifts into a dirt road, marred with imprints of horseshoes and wagon wheels. They ride side-by-side here, Hewlin in the lead. Calum has returned to his place at Mercy’s side. She tries to hide the awe on her face, but when Calum dips his head forward and smiles to himself, she knows she has failed.
Another half-hour passes, and the scraggly flatlands change. The grass is short here, the fields bare, with sprouts of plants in even rows peeking out a few inches over the dirt.
Mercy catches Calum’s sleeve and points. “Farms?”
“Yes. The Forest of Flames makes up the southern border of the agricultural sector of Beltharos. There are also the mining and fishing sectors, and Sandori is the center of it all—the trade center and capital city. The city is backed by Lake Myrella, which connects all the major rivers in the country; anything bought in Sandori can be shipped anywhere in the country.”
“Colm Myrellis settled there with his wife and two sons four hundred years ago and created a shipping company on the bank of the lake, which is why they later named it after him,” Nerran adds. “He built a dam on the junction of Lake Myrella and the Alynthi River, charging a levy on the competitors’ boats and allowing his ships to transport goods tax-free. Because the dam prevented the city’s streets from flooding after the spring showers, the townspeople did nothing to stop his monopoly over western trade, and his family grew rich from the profits, eventually becoming the ruling family we know and love today,” he adds sarcastically.
“Smart-ass,” Oren calls. “You trying to impress someone?”
“Not you,” Nerran retorts, eyeing Aelis.
“Lay a hand on me and that’ll be the last time you have hands.”
“Promises, promises. Don’t worry, my charm simply needs time to take its full effect.”
“Please. You’d have better luck getting ass from that ass over there.” Amir points to a field on their right, where a fat donkey stares at them, blinking its large, dumb brown eyes slowly.
Mercy snorts. “Even that would be a feat.”
“Well I’ll be damned—”
“She speaks!”
“Silence wasn’t one of your vows, huh? We thought they’d added something new.” Amir elbows her jovially.
“We had a bet going to see how long it would take for you to say more than two words to someone other than Puppy-Dog-Eyes here. Oren, you owe me six aurums, and don’t try to weasel your way out of paying like you did in that tavern back in Xilor. I’ve got my eye on you.”
Around and around their banter goes, so quickly Mercy can’t keep track of who says what. Even Hewlin joins in, spinning tales of his early days in the Strykers. Calum, being new, seems to be the butt of most of the jokes, but he accepts the teasing with a grin and several clever wisecracks of his own.
Long after the sun sinks below the horizon and stars freckle the sky, Hewlin stops the group to make camp for the night. Amir unstraps his horse from the cart and tosses each of the Strykers a bedroll; neither Mercy nor Aelis had thought to bring one.
“You can sleep here, my darling,” Nerran calls to Aelis, patting the ground beside him.
She sneers. “I’d rather my ass be covered in Fieldings’ Blisters than spend one night next to you.”
“Just as well, then,” Oren says cheerfully. “Lie with him for a night, and you’ll find something equally nasty growing down there soon enough.”
Nerran throws his shoe at Oren, who catches it and makes a rude gesture with his free hand. “I’ll show you nasty,” Nerran says, and feigns a lunge toward Oren.
Hewlin frowns an
d steps between them. “Are you five? Because the last time I checked, you’re not, so you’d better start acting your age.” Without waiting for a response, Hewlin sits down on his bedroll, facing outward. “You get some sleep now, we’ve another day’s ride to Ellesmere. Amir, you’re next watch. I’ll wake you in two hours.”
Nerran makes a face at Oren, who throws Nerran’s shoe back.
“I said sleep,” Hewlin says without looking back.
As they all settle into their places, Mercy lies down on the cold, hard dirt. They’ve camped a short distance from the road, and although summer is fast approaching, the nights are still cool, especially without any trees blocking the wind. Hewlin had insisted on not building a fire in case passing bandits or highwaymen were to see it, despite Nerran’s arguments that thieves would never venture so far past the most southern of the agricultural towns. But even if they didn’t know about the Guild, Hewlin had replied, there were always people interested in exploiting the Forest of Flames’s natural resources.
So they remain cold and fireless.
Mercy rests her head on her bundle of clothes, staring at Calum’s empty bedroll enviously. He had gone to find a stream for the horses, and she knows he would have offered her his blanket if he were here. She’s too proud to accept, even as she shivers on the ground as a springtime wind slices through her tunic. She closes her eyes, clutching her sheathed daggers to her chest. Despite trusting these men with her life, she will never let anyone lay a hand on her blades.
The numbness of her fingers wakes her late in the night. She lifts her head and glances at Hewlin’s sleeping form from where she lies, but the muscles in her neck are too stiff from her awkward position to move much more. Her fingers, still wrapped around her daggers, are freezing, and she pries them off and slips her hands into her sleeves, tucking her arms close to her body. She draws her knees in with a shuddering breath, clinging to the quickly-fading heat from her mostly-asleep body.
Merciless Page 8
