Mercy flips the double-sided dagger to her left hand and swings it low, then, in one swift motion, twists the handles apart and plunges them into her imaginary opponent’s heart. When she turns back, she is alone.
16
The next morning, Mercy’s muscles scream as she clambers out of bed. After Sorin had left, Mercy had continued her practice until she stumbled into bed a little past two in the afternoon, falling asleep the moment her head had hit the pillow. Elvira had come and gone, leaving a platter of rice and fish outside the bedroom door when her knocks had gone unanswered. Halfway through the night, Mercy had awoken and, ravenous, groped half-blindly for the food, nearly pitching down the sharp stone steps in the hall when her foot caught the corner of the food tray. She had eaten in the dark of her room, a sliver of moonlight shining through her window. She had chuckled at the mental image of Sorin and the others finding her lying at the foot of the stairs in the morning, head cracked open after a midnight tumble down the stairs. It would be her luck, Faye would’ve said, to have come so far only to be defeated by a few blocks of chiseled limestone.
After dozing intermittently for the next few hours, Mercy throws back the covers and, despite the rainbow of extravagant silks and chiffons hanging in her closet, dresses in her tunic and pants. She doesn’t have the energy to try to decipher capital city fashions. She sheaths one of the daggers and tucks it into the leg of her boot, relishing the weight of it against her calf. The other she tucks into her waistband. When she wanders down to the first-floor study just after dawn, she is surprised to see Elvira dressed and lounging beside an open window, reading a book.
“Good morning,” she says, closing her book. “You must be starving. I will prepare breakfast. I’m afraid it will be just the two of us for now—everyone else is still asleep.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find something.” Instead of turning to the kitchen, Mercy steps forward, peering at the cover of Elvira’s book. “What were you reading?”
Elvira places her hand on top of the book, covering the title. As blush colors the tips of her ears. “Nothing of import.”
Mercy raises a brow. “Oh?”
“If the guards find out I have it, they'll confiscate it.”
“Well, now I must hear about it.”
“It’s Escape to Serenity Isle, by an elf named Morris Belden,” she says hesitantly. “It’s about a group of elven slaves who murder their master and escape to an island, where they create their own community and work to free other elves from the hold of the humans. Later, Faylen, one of the original slaves, is so consumed by guilt over his master’s death he discloses the location of the island to the crown’s soldiers, thinking it will ease his troubled mind.”
“Not a happy ending, I assume?”
She shakes her head.
“Then why read it?”
Elvira stands and returns the book to the shelf, her lavender chiffon skirt swishing gracefully around her legs as she moves. “Most people think he wrote it to demonstrate the futility of rebellion from the humans, to prove elves will always depend on their masters for strength. I think Belden was trying to show how precious freedom is, even if it’s temporary.”
She turns on her heel and moves to the kitchen, Mercy trailing behind. “It’s just a story,” she continues, pulling plates and cups from the various cupboards, “but I think it’s banned because the guards are afraid of what will happen if we decide to fight back. The humans pretend not to see how strong we truly are; it frightens them.”
“You could leave.”
“I can’t.” She stops halfway through opening a jar of jam and looks up, meeting Mercy’s eyes. “My husband is a slave in the castle, and I won’t leave without him.”
“What happened?”
“That . . . is a story for another time.” Her face slips behind an emotionless mask as footsteps tap down the stairs. A minute later, she says, “Mistress Sorin, good morning. I trust you slept well?”
Sorin nods, her eyes on Mercy. “Very well, thank you. I only have time for a quick meal before I return to the Guild—Creator only knows what those girls have been up to while I’ve been gone.”
“Of course. I will prepare something for you to take on the road, as well.”
“Thank you. Not to be a bother, but would you mind waking Emryn and Quinn and making sure they are presentable for breakfast? Mercy will finish that.”
“Of course.” Elvira hurries out of the room.
Mercy takes Elvira’s place and slathers slices of bread with wanderberry jam, while Sorin set plates on the table. Neither of them speaks for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Mercy finally murmurs.
“Thank you.” Sorin leans close, her voice soft as she says, “But if you ever presume to order me about again, I’ll have you scrubbing the Keep’s chamber pots until your fingers bleed. Got it?”
“Understood. Now, hand me that summerfruit beside you”
Mistress Sorin raises a brow.
“Joking. Please?”
Sorin tosses the bright yellow fruit to her. “That’s better.”
“This isn’t going to work,” Elvira says an hour later, her lips pursed and brows furrowed. She crosses her arms as she stares into Mercy’s open closet. Behind her, Mercy stands in nothing but her underclothes, scowling.
“You’ve had others from Kismoro here,” she points out. “How did you hide their scars?”
“Creative draping.” Elvira grabs a dress and holds it up to Mercy contemplatively. She tosses it onto the pile on Mercy’s bed. “But none of the others had so many.”
Mercy crosses her arms, imitating Elvira’s earlier stance. An uneven crosshatch of pale puckered skin trails across her forearms and over her shoulders, stray scars peeking out below her collarbone and above her hip.
“They weren’t too friendly with the only elven apprentice, huh?”
Mercy narrows her eyes, but Elvira pretends not to notice as she holds up another featherlight dress. “They cut me because I wasn’t fast enough,” Mercy says, “not because I am an elf.”
“Either way, your scars don’t befit a royal.” Again, the dress is discarded—thankfully. The fashion in Sandori is ridiculous; because of the heat and constant sun, they have figured out how to layer yards upon yards of fabric without covering more than a few inches of skin.
“If you can’t dress me like a Sandorian, can you dress me like a Feyndaran?”
Elvira’s eyes widen a fraction, and she is already moving to the stairs when she begins to speak. “I don’t know much about the fashion beyond the Abraxas Sea, but I suppose I could. Give me a minute, I’m sure I can find something.”
She returns moments later, a triumphant smile on her face. “This will work.” She helps Mercy into a pair of wide-legged silk palazzo pants, tying the wide sash into a bow at the small of Mercy’s back. A black military-style jacket follows, embroidered in a floral pattern with golden thread, the shoulders topped with gold chain epaulets. Gold flats complete the ensemble.
Elvira steps back and appraises her work, nodding slowly. “This is perfect. The pants and shoes are markedly Sandorian, but I was afraid if I layered you too much, the heat would get to you. The jacket is Feyndaran, for sure. They’re all about utility and strength over there. Someone must have left it when she came back from a contract. Now turn and let me fix your hair.”
She swiftly runs her fingers through Mercy’s curls and twists them into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, allowing a few strands to fall forward on either side of Mercy’s face. She pins it in place with a fan-shaped comb, then smiles. “You’re ready for the court.”
Myrellis Castle makes Kismoro Keep look like an anthill.
A wall surrounds the castle and its grounds, and the latticed portcullis gate and stone archway are three times Mercy’s height. When she blinks, the image of Liselle’s limp body strung across the cold metal plays on the backs of her eyelids, the young woman’s head lolling forward, her hair stringy and matt
ed with dried blood. As she passes under the massive arch, an unfamiliar sense of foreboding chills Mercy’s blood. Liselle was King Ghyslain’s mistress—the most powerful elf in all Beltharos—and he couldn’t protect her from his court.
Imagine what they will do if they find out who Mercy really is.
Mercy’s hands clench into fists.
She wishes she had brought her daggers; without them, she feels naked in this unfamiliar place. She had hidden them under the mattress of her bed at Blackbriar after Elvira had advised against bringing them. The flighty elf now leads her through the Myrellis castle gardens. After helping Mercy dress, she had changed from her lightweight housedress to a loosely draped linen gown, cinched at the waist by a thick belt, and her hair is piled atop her head in a braided bun. The severe white sash marking her as a slave is stark in comparison to the soft, feminine folds of her dress. Mercy spies many more men and women in similar garb in and around the castle grounds.
Between the wall and the castle span hundreds of yards of lush garden, carefully pruned hedges, and vibrant flowers blooming in perfectly parallel rows, with gravel walkways winding lazily throughout. While it’s no match for the wild verdure of the Forest of Flames or the untamed long-grass prairies surrounding Ellesmere, the honeyed scent of blossoms and the clean breeze sweeping across the lake create an air of peacefulness and repose. A gravel carriageway passes through the gate and up to the front of the castle, winding past a fountain which could double for a swimming pool. A flight of gleaming stairs rises to meet the ornately crafted doors of the palace, cherry red wood wrought with iron. The castle is a perfectly symmetrical mess of arched ceilings, soaring towers, and rambling corridors. The gilded roofs of the towers shimmer in the sunlight with flecks of obsidian and onyx.
As they climb the steps, surrounded by various members of the royal court, Mercy tries not to gawk as Elvira leads them through the open doors and into the main hall, guards flanking each wall at regular intervals. She admires the gleaming swords hanging at their sides, crafted by a blacksmith as gifted—nearly as gifted—as the Strykers.
Mercy sobers at the sight of the royal seal emblazoned on the breastplates of their armor. Every soldier standing before her is an obstacle between her and the completion of her contract; every pair of eyes peering from behind the visor of a silver helmet could be the one to discover who she really is.
No.
She will not allow it to happen.
Hundreds of well-groomed and perfumed noblemen and women flock through the main hall, slaves, courtiers, and advisors among the masses. They are differentiated by their manner of dress: nobles wear soft, shimmering pastels and sheer chiffons, the courtiers and advisors are clad in a uniform shade of plum, and the white sashes of slaves flutter between them as bodies shift and move. Beyond two thick pillars, the hall narrows. Portraits of past Myrellis royals line the walls, their faces grim. Mercy recognizes none except Colm Myrellis, the first monarch of the Myrellis name, and only because of the gold placard posted below the framed canvas. As she and Elvira near the throne room, the portraits become more recent. Where the last portrait would have hung is a bare section of wall, the gold placard still hanging below where the frame should have been. It reads: King Ghyslain Myrellis and ---------------- expecting the arrival of the prince. The second name has been scratched out so many times it’s illegible, but there’s no doubt who had stood in the painting with the king:
The last member of the now-obsolete Zendais family, the late Queen Elisora.
Mercy and Elvira pass under a stone arch and arrive in the throne room, swept along in the current of bodies. No one pays them any heed as the sea of people splits in two, forming a long open walkway from the arch to the throne, which sits proudly atop a raised dais. A wall of windows behind it provides a magnificent view of the rocky shore and gray waves of Lake Myrella.
A set of doors opposite Mercy and Elvira opens. A company of twenty guards steps through, dressed in full armor with their blades swinging at their hips. Four of them hold crossbows larger than any Mercy has ever seen. Each bolt looks like a spear.
This contract may not be as easy as Mercy had hoped.
The guards break off into twos, taking up their stations along the length of the crowd. The Master of the Guard enters next, a sour-faced man whose nose has been broken so many times it’s hardly recognizable. He is not wearing a helmet, and the thick, puckered scar which runs from the top of his head to his right ear is visible through the gap in his long hair. He stands beside the throne with both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, beady black eyes scanning the crowd.
Finally, the king makes his entrance.
He is not at all what Mercy had been expecting. After the stories of the grief-stricken widower and the unstable monarch on the verge of losing his throne, she had expected him to be a wretched shell of a man. She had imagined him hobbling down the aisle while muttering nonsense under his breath, his fine clothes hanging off a decrepit frame mangled by years of anguish and sorrow. And—even though Liselle had only been killed eighteen years ago—she had always pictured him old.
Yet as soon as she lays eyes upon him, Mercy chastises herself for entertaining such baseless preconceptions.
The king strides down the aisle, his crimson shirt draped loosely across his torso. A dark purple cloak trimmed in gold thread hangs from his shoulders, clasped at the neck with an onyx brooch. Black pants tucked into black formal boots, three rings shining on each hand. His dark wavy hair is combed into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck, enhancing his warm olive skin and strong jaw. A diadem of gold and rubies rests atop his head, and although he must be in his mid-forties, the years have been kind to him.
When he settles onto the throne, the guards close all the doors, and a flash of panic jolts through Mercy’s veins. The prince isn’t coming? She nudges Elvira, who glances over and shrugs a shoulder.
Nothing to do but wait.
Ghyslain nods once, and a man steps forward with a guard at his side. He is a commoner, his clothes nothing compared to the luxurious materials surrounding him, and he wrings a hat nervously between his hands. When the king’s eyes land on him, he draws himself to his full height.
“What issue have you brought before His Majesty today?” the Master of the Guard asks.
“Your Majesty, I have come to ask for an edict requiring an increase in pay for the market and factory workers.”
Derogatory snickers erupt across the room. The king lifts a hand and they quiet, but do not cease. “Why should I grant such a request?”
“The wages we earn aren’t enough to feed one person, let alone a whole family. Most men in the factories earn six aurums a week. A bowl of broth costs two. We’ve got families to support, and the wives make hardly enough at the stalls to buy fruit for breakfast, but no more. Please, Your Majesty.”
“How much do you make?”
The man hesitates. “Eight.”
The king’s brows lift. “And you still you come asking for more? When you already earn more than most in the factories? Tell me, is it greed or pride which motivated you to come to me now?”
“Certainly not either! I ask on behalf of all the workers in the market district, not for my own gain. By your own law, factory owners are required to increase their workers’ pay every two years, which hasn’t happened for nearly six years.”
An advisor steps forward, a smug expression on his face as he stares down his nose at the commoner. “Why come forward now? Why not four years ago, when your pay didn’t increase?”
“The pay wasn’t a problem then, but now—”
“You lived quite comfortably on your wage, didn’t you? But now you want more—”
“Your Majesty—” The commoner steps forward and the guard beside him places a hand on his sword. The man swallows and steps back, and the guard relaxes, leveling a warning stare at him. “I didn’t come forward because everyone who does ends up replaced. The boss will let us work and forget about us
, but the moment there’s a complaint, he replaces us with elves from Beggars’ End. They’ll work eighteen hours a day for two aurums a week.”
The advisor sneers. “If you don’t like the pay, leave the city. There’s plenty of work in the mines in Blackhills. Instituting a city-wide wage increase will bankrupt businesses which have flourished for years—”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble. We just want what we are owed,” the commoner pleads.
“Employees earn their pay based on the work they do, and if they are unsatisfied, there are many far needier who would happily take their place.” The advisor offers King Ghyslain a saccharine smile, his hands clasped primly in front of him. “Your Majesty, there is simply no need to change what has worked for years.”
The man glares at him with unabashed hatred, cheeks flushed with anger. He balls up the hat he had been wringing as if he wishes to throw it at the courtier—or shove it down his throat.
The king leans forward and rests an elbow on the arm of his throne. “Is it true my laws have been disobeyed, Seren Pierce?”
“O-Of course not, Your Majesty.”
“Then why hasn’t this man been properly paid in six years?”
The smile drops a fraction. “I . . . don’t know.”
“You had better find out. Your position in this court depends on it,” the king says. “Starting today, Seren, you will personally meet with the owner of every major business within the city walls and ensure every worker is being paid what he is owed. When you are finished, you will do the same with every minor business.”
Seren Pierce sets his jaw, glares at the commoner, then turns on his heel and walks out. A guard moves to follow him, but Ghyslain stops him with a wave of his hand. “Let him go. He is no doubt keen to return to his king’s good graces.” He turns to the man. “What is your name?”
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