Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  She glances back at him. “What are you thinking?”

  “You are unlike any princess I have ever met.”

  She frowns and steps out of the water, tugging on her flats when she returns to his side. “I’m not a princess.”

  Tamriel shrugs, and they continue along the shore in silence. After a few minutes, he says, “It’s a terrible idea, you know.”

  “Hm?”

  “Granting the Cirisor Islands their freedom. Making them their own country. How could it possibly work?”

  “It wouldn’t be easy, but what other options do we have? Keep fighting until the other surrenders? That could take decades. Centuries. Let us create a nation which will help both our countries. Use the money which would have gone to fighting to rebuild the islands. My uncle can arrange shipments of supplies and—” she pauses. “It could work.”

  “It won’t. The advisors will never agree to it, and even if they did, the nobles could never be persuaded to help.”

  “Your father doesn’t need their help.”

  Tamriel cocks his head. “Whose money do you think supplies the military? Whose sons march to war and do not return? Their blood has already been spilled—it cannot amount to nothing. If my father pulls the soldiers from the Islands, the nobles will turn their men against the crown.”

  “You can make it work.”

  “Me?” Tamriel sputters, then bursts out laughing. If only she knew the true extent of his influence. “Spend a few more days in the castle and you’ll see what little responsibility my father grants me.”

  Marieve gawks at him, taken aback by his reaction. “You’ll be king,” she protests.

  “Not if my father has any say in it.”

  She lifts her chin. “When you are king, I know you will do what is best for your people and those of Cirisor.”

  26

  “Lady Marieve!”

  Elvira’s voice floats to them from across the lawn, and a few moments later, the elf stops before them, her hair tousled from jogging. She smooths it with a hand and straightens her white sash, then bows to Tamriel. “Your Highness, my lady, please excuse the interruption, but the dressmaker needs to see you immediately if she is to complete your gown in time for Solari. I-I tried to explain to her that you are a very important client and would pay extra for the last-minute order, but she was having none of it.”

  Mercy glances at Tamriel, a question forming on her lips, but he nods before she can speak. “Go,” he says. “I may not have sisters, but I have spent plenty of time with noblewomen, and I know how dire fashion emergencies can be.” He tries to say it seriously, but a hint of a smile tugs at his lips.

  “I’m impressed. Very well. I’ll see you at the celebration tomorrow, Your Highness.” As soon as Mercy finishes speaking, Elvira grabs her hand and practically drags her across the lawn. When they round the corner and are well out of earshot, Mercy stops her. “What’s the problem? Why do we have to leave?”

  “One of the guards may have spotted me snooping around the prince’s chambers earlier,” she says, biting her lip. “I didn’t want them to recognize me as your handmaid and suspect you of anything, so I fled as quickly as I could. I don’t think he was able to identify me.”

  “Good. And you’ve found a way for me to sneak into his bedroom?”

  She holds up an iron key strung on a length of ribbon. “Several of the cooks have them for delivering private meals. I went to visit Bron and pocketed this on the way.”

  “Excellent.” Mercy ties the ends of the ribbon around her neck and tucks the key under the collar of her dress, grinning to herself as they pass through the gates.

  By the time Mercy and Elvira step through the gate of Myrellis Castle the following day, the palace and its grounds have been transformed. Strands of white lanterns hang from tall stakes which line either side of the carriageway, and the flame of a tiny candle flickers inside each one, creating a canopy of light from the gate to the double staircases of the castle’s entrance. The pieces of tinsel caught in the hedge mazes on either side of the garden twinkle like stars.

  “Wow,” Mercy breathes.

  “Did you ever imagine it could look so resplendent?” Elvira reaches up to brush the bottom of one of the lanterns with her fingertips as they pass below it.

  Noblemen and women walk alongside them, carrying them in the current of eager revelers to the castle entrance. A woman beside Mercy lets out a tinkling laugh, clapping her hands in excitement. Elvira smiles at a boy who runs past her, dragging his little sister behind him.

  Two slaves hold the doors open and the nobility spills into the great hall amid a sea of chatter. Slaves wearing severe white sashes weave between bodies, holding silver platters of food and drink high overhead. Panels of colorful fabrics line the walls and the flames from a brazier dance in the air, bathing the room in bright, flickering light. Music blares from the throne room and Mercy is forced to dodge several dancing couples as she and Elvira move further inside.

  Mercy tugs on her sleeve, her fingers brushing the hilt of the three-inch dagger concealed under the fabric. The plain blade had been easier to hide than her twin daggers, which Elvira carries hidden under the layers of her skirt—more a precaution than viable weapons; Mercy’s sheer gown leaves little to the imagination and few weapon-hiding places.

  “My lady—my dear friend, happy Solari!” Mercy tenses as an arm drapes over her shoulders, but it’s only Emrie, smiling with wine-flushed, dimpled cheeks. “Come with me, I’ll show you where the real celebration is.” She plucks a crystal wineglass from a slave’s tray and takes a quick gulp before putting it back, paying no more attention to him than she does the pool of spilled wine she sidesteps as she drags Mercy toward the throne room. Behind them, Elvira hesitates, opens her mouth, then closes it before darting after them.

  “Some of the richest men in Beltharos are here, as well as some of the Rivosi royal family—distant relation to their king, but still. The king sent out invitations months ago.” Emrie pulls Mercy through the hall filled with Myrellis family portraits. Several feet of empty wall spans either side before the archway to the throne room, places for generations of future Myrellis monarchs’ portraits to hang—Ghyslain’s son and grandsons.

  Yet these spots are destined to remain empty—the royal line will end tonight, with the fulfillment of Ghyslain’s contract with the Guild.

  Mercy smirks to herself as they continue into the throne room. The sun blazes low in the west, partially visible through the wall of windows behind the throne, which is notably empty. Ghyslain stands a few feet away, speaking to a potbellied old man and Murray Baccha. Tamriel is somewhere in the chaos, but, despite lifting onto her toes and craning her neck, she cannot see over the sea of people in front of her.

  “Do you see it? Right there, above the tallest boulder.” Emrie points at the sky, her finger trembling with excitement.

  “The moon?”

  “It’s going to cross the sun, and I’ve heard it turns dark as dusk. Can you imagine?” She pauses for a moment, then her eyes lift to something behind Mercy’s shoulder. “What do you want, Leon?”

  He grins as he shoulders past Elvira, who shoots him a dark look he doesn’t notice. “You know what they say about Solari, don’t you? About the moment the sun goes away?”

  “If this is another of your fanciful childhood tales, go find Maisie. I’m sure she’d love to hear.”

  He presses his hand over his heart, his expression wide-eyed and innocent. “True as truth can be, I promise. They say when the sun goes away, the Creator can’t see what’s happening down here; he goes blind. They say for those few minutes, someone can commit the most heinous sin and the Creator will never know. At the end of our lives, he’ll welcome us all through the gates of eternal rest like we’re his own family, none the wiser.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. What sort of heinous sin are you planning, then? Something your father wouldn’t approve?”

  He holds up his hands in mock defense. “J
ust spreading a bit of Beltharan lore to the foreigner,” he says, gesturing to Mercy. “I would never do anything so juvenile.”

  “No? I highly doubt that.” Emrie props her hands on her hips, fighting back a smile. “What about night, then, genius? What happens after the sun sets?”

  “That’s different—”

  Emrie cocks her head. “Is it? Oh! I think Narah would like to hear this fascinating tale, don’t you? Narah, come here!” She rises onto her toes and waves to a girl across the room. Narah smiles, then sees Leon and blushes. She practically floats as she starts toward them.

  “Emrie, no!” Leon hisses, ducking his head. “I’m Elise’s betrothed, remember? I haven’t been able to face Narah since I made a fool of myself by the docks two weeks ago.”

  “Don’t let Narah hear you mention Elise—she’ll get jealous.” Emrie cackles as Leon cringes and darts away, lost immediately in the crowd. When Narah approaches, Emrie points her in the direction he had gone, still giggling. “Sometimes I feel bad for him, but he has been mostly insufferable since he was seven,” Emrie confides, looking pleased with herself.

  “My lady—” Elvira whispers. She had been following and listening the whole time, but now her eyes focus on something at the front of the room.

  Tamriel stands on the dais near the throne, turned slightly away from his father as Ghyslain listens to Cassius Baccha, whose wrinkled hands shake as he runs them through his silver-white hair, tugging at the few wispy strands. The old man gestures first to the windows, then to the people dancing and mingling on the floor. Ghyslain uncrosses his arms and leans toward Cassius, placing a hand on his shoulder, and the tension immediately releases from Cassius’s body, although his expression remains worried.

  Murray darts from the crowd and clamps a fist on the collar of Cassius’s shirt, her face flushed with embarrassment. She bows to the king and prince and engages in a short, clipped conversation with them—all the while shooting dirty glances at her husband—before gesturing to the band playing in the corner and dragging him away to dance. Tamriel frowns and murmurs something to his father, who does not appear to respond. Ghyslain’s eyes flick to the mass of revelers, then he turns away to speak to Master Oliver, who had been watching the partygoers through half-lidded eyes. For a split second, Tamriel looks crestfallen. His lips part to object and his fingers curl into fists at his sides. He takes a half step forward before he closes his mouth and scowls, then pivots on his heel and stomps off the dais.

  “Excuse me,” Mercy says to Emrie, already moving toward the front of the room. She keeps her eyes trained on Tamriel’s black hair as she weaves through the crowd, determined not to lose him in the sea of bodies. As she nears, she snags a glass of wine from a slave’s tray and drains it to the dregs, leaving only droplets visible through the crystal.

  “Who was that?” Mercy asks Tamriel, who she finds standing perfectly still at the edge of the mass of revelers, watching a musician pluck the strings of a lute. The melody is happy and upbeat, yet a shadow flits from his face when he turns to her, replaced with a not-quite-there smile.

  “An old friend of my father’s. He mentioned he’d met you yesterday.”

  “Yes, we met at a dinner party. He seemed worried. Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing we can solve right now. Relax, enjoy the festivities.” He waves to the table laden with food behind them, where several people cluster and nosh on fancy pastries and desserts. “Have you tried the fruit caviar?”

  Mercy blinks. “I don’t even know what that is.” She gracelessly tries to drain the last of the wine from her glass and frowns when it comes up empty. Then, for fear of being too subtle, she pretends to stumble.

  Tamriel reaches out to steady her. “How many of those have you consumed?”

  “Not nearly enough.” She pastes a lazy grin on her face, feigning tipsiness as she sidles closer to the prince. She lightly traces her fingers down his arm, then pauses. “Are you alright? You don’t seem nearly as happy as one might expect on a national holiday.”

  He glances at the lute player, whose head is bent over his instrument, his eyes closed. “My mother used to play the lute,” Tamriel admits. “I’ve always wished I’d been able to listen—I’ve been told she was quite talented.”

  “Do you know much about her?”

  “I know what others have told me about her, but it’s not the same as knowing her. I don’t care how fairly she ruled or how much she inspired the masses. Those are the actions of a queen, the things they write in history books. That’s not my mother.” His expression turns bitter. “Hindsight turns everyone into a saint. If I wanted to hear some idyllic fairytale, I’d go to the Church.”

  Mercy laughs, and the sound seems to startle him. “Be careful, Your Highness, or you might inspire a religious uprising.”

  “Any action would be better than these noblemen’s masquerading, don’t you think? I hate how they hide behind their petty niceties and their false promises. You do, too.” He smirks at her surprise and continues before she can object. “Don’t you think I noticed? The day I met you, you watched me walk in here with a screaming, bawling traitor being dragged at my heels. You simply watched.”

  “What would you have had me do? Faint?”

  “Maybe you do things differently in Feyndara—maybe you can see through their charade,” he says. “Whatever it is, it’s refreshing.”

  “I’m glad I’m such a great source of entertainment to you, then. That was my real reason for coming to the capital, after all.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” They fall into silence, until Tamriel haltingly says, “You . . . look very nice tonight, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. I suppose you understand why I had to run off yesterday, then?” Mercy runs her hands over her skirt, relishing the lightweight fabric. The dress is floor-length and made of sheer champagne-colored chiffon, embroidered along the bust and sleeves with white lace and tiny crystals and pearls. It looks like a robe, held closed with a line of satin laces down the front from the neckline to just below her hips, so a single tug on the string or a strong breeze might send it fluttering away. Under it, she wears a long-sleeved gold leotard, which hides both her knife and the majority of the scars on her upper body but leaves her legs completely visible through the skirt. As strange as it feels to be so exposed, she cannot deny its beauty.

  “I do. You look—”

  “It’s starting!” a voice cries. People gasp and there’s a loud splintering sound as a wine glass shatters on the stone floor. “Look! Look up there!”

  There’s a collective intake of breath as everyone turns to the wall of windows. The sun blazes over the lake, a tiny black shadow over its top right side. The music slows and turns to a low, mournful lullaby. Slaves run from wall to wall and extinguish the torches until the room is bathed in shadow, the only light shining from the sun, dimming as they watch the moon crawl past one-quarter, one-half, three-quarters of the sun. They watch in the lake’s reflection, stealing glances every few minutes to stare in awe of the moon’s passage.

  Beyond the glass, the sky grows darker, first blue, then violet. A line of pale pink divides the horizon, the outline of the Howling Mountains like sharp black teeth against the warmth of the light. The last note of the musicians’ song is low, resonant, and holds for what feels like an eternity as they watch the moon completely eclipse the sun, the sky turning dark as twilight. Stars twinkle in the distance. A ring of fire surrounds the moon like a halo, and Mercy can still see its outline when she looks away.

  Glancing behind her, Mercy is shocked by the reaction of the revelers. Some of them stand in awed silence, their jaws hanging open and the plates of food in their hands forgotten. Some have their eyes closed, heads bowed, mouthing words of silent prayers. Others have opened their arms to the sky, tears flowing freely down their faces.

  Ghyslain is a few feet behind Mercy and Tamriel, kneeling on one of the steps leading up to the dais. His head hangs forward and he has removed
his ceremonial gold diadem. He stares down at it in his hands, murmuring what Mercy assumes is a prayer. Hidden in the shadows along the wall, Elvira sobs into her hands; her shoulders shake with quiet, hiccupping gasps.

  Beside her, Tamriel’s eyes are locked on the sun’s reflection, his posture rigid and shoulders set. A muscle in his jaw works. After a moment, he looks away, blinking, and tugs on one end of the ribbon holding his hair in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Mercy wonders if he’s thinking about his mother.

  Quietly—so quietly Mercy almost doesn’t hear—he whispers, “Forgive me.”

  A flare of sunlight bursts from the upper right side of the sun as the moon continues its path, and a cheer rises from the watching crowd. It echoes throughout the city; a distant cry so loud Mercy can hear its rumble through the stone and glass of the castle. Beside her, Tamriel wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. As the sun returns bit by bit, the music swells, turning into a jaunty, happy tune, and with it, the people frozen in prayer begin to thaw. In front of the crowd, Ghyslain stands and returns the diadem to his head, smiling as several young women—each dragging a dashing nobleman behind her—spread out across the floor and begin to dance, their sheer skirts billowing as they twist and turn.

  “Well? What did you think?” Tamriel asks.

  “It was— It was—” Mercy pauses, searching for a word to do it justice. In the end, she settles for, “It was incredible.” And it had been—she doesn’t have to believe in the Creator to know that this . . . this thing which had occurred isn’t normal. The hush which had fallen over the room had been so complete, so deferential, it was unlike anything she had ever experienced. But she did not come for celebration. She grimaces and presses a hand to her forehead, and Tamriel’s expression shifts to worry.

  “Do you feel alright, my lady?” he asks.

  She frowns at the wine glass in her hand. “Perhaps I have had too much, after all. Is there somewhere I could just . . . lie down for a bit?”