She lifts a finger to her lips.
“Don’t wake Alyss. She’s in the other room,” she whispers, and jerks her head to the shelves, where a short archway joins a storeroom to the infirmary. “She likes to sleep in there when a patient might die. Sometimes the sound of coughing up blood or choking on vomit wakes her in time to save them. Other times, all she can do is call the guards to remove the body the next morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“People think she’s harsh, but she cries for them when no one’s around. She cries for all of them—she just knows when to shut it off.”
“Does the Sight show you this?”
“The Creator shows me only the good in this world. He shows me a girl falling in love for the first time, a married couple growing old together, watching their children build lives and families of their own. It is a fallacy, silk flowers given by an absent god. This is the work of Myrbellanar. He offers no comfort, no guiding hand, no light in this dark world. He offers only truth.”
“What are you talking about?” Mercy leans forward and, after a moment’s hesitation, takes Pilar’s hands in hers. Surprise flickers across the priestess’s face. “Who is Myrbellanar?”
“We once knew his real name, but it has since been lost to time. Myrbellanar is what they call him in the north. It’s elvish for ‘Fallen Father’,” she says. “In their folk stories, they speak often of the last great battle between the Creator and the last of the Old Gods. They had fallen into a civil war which ravaged the planet for millennia, until only a handful remained on each side. Desperate to end the fighting, those who opposed the Creator sought to steal his beloved, Osha. They thought if the only person for whom he cared was in their grasp, he would be willing to listen to their pleas, if only for her sake. Once Myrbellanar had been chosen to capture her, he kidnapped her and brought her to the Old Gods’ camp in the dead of night.
“The Creator, blinded by love and rage, stormed into the camp and slew the Gods one by one until bodies littered the ground and the blood flowed ankle deep. Locked in her cage, Osha screamed and pleaded for him to stop, but by the time he heard her, it was too late. All were dead—except one. Myrbellanar, his heart heavy with grief for his fallen brothers and sisters, released Osha from her prison and knelt before the Creator, begging his forgiveness,” she continues. “But the Creator’s heart was black and full of fury. He condemned Myrbellanar for his crimes and disfigured him—carved his ears into points so any who saw him would know of his treachery. He slaughtered him and shattered his soul into millions of tiny pieces, and each one he imprisoned in one of the elves he sculpted to serve his most treasured creations—humans.”
“That’s not a story from the Book of the Creator.” Mercy frowns. “They—you—preach the Creator was a benevolent God and created each race as equals.”
Pilar shakes her head. “The Cirisian elves believe a piece of Myrbellanar’s soul is freed every time an elf is slaughtered by a human, and when enough of his soul is restored, he will return to exact justice on those who have wronged his people.”
“And . . . you think it’s coming true?”
“One of the priestesses in my Church is a Cirisian elf. She came here when the fighting between Beltharos and Feyndara destroyed the island her tribe called home.” Pilar pulls her hands from Mercy’s and wraps them tightly around her knees. “She doesn’t speak much about her life there, but she often quotes that story. It may be nothing more than legend, but I can’t help thinking it sounds more like a prophecy.”
“And what about the High Priestess? What does she think of this?”
“She’s dead. The Plague targeted her first, then me.” Pilar bites her lip to keep it from trembling. “I don’t know what is causing this, but someone sent me to find you. I keep seeing this . . . this thing in my head—”
Mercy leans forward. “What do you mean, someone sent you?”
“There’s just . . . someone. I can’t describe it. I can feel her nearby—or . . . or it’s like she’s a part of me. She wanted me to find you. I can’t describe it. The other one—the mean one—he’s blocking her. He won’t let her speak to me, but sometimes she sends me images.” Her brows furrow, thinking hard. “I see the same thing over and over. It’s a flower, I think, or some sort of bud.”
Mercy’s eyes widen. “I think I know which one you’re seeing.” She stands and crosses to the desk, searching for a scrap of paper. All she finds is Alyss’s inventory list, which she flips over as she uncaps the fountain pen with her teeth, and she sketches the scaly flower bud Cassius had drawn on the city map. When she finishes, she holds up the paper for Pilar to see. “Does it look like this? Scaly, with four leaves?”
She peers at the paper, then jerks back with surprise. “That’s it! You know this?” She claps a hand over her mouth and glances guiltily at the curtains behind which Alyss sleeps. After no movements sound in the room, nor any halt in Alyss’s low snores, Pilar drops her hands into her lap. “Where did you see this?”
“I found it on some papers in Seren Pierce’s study. Does the word ‘Niamh’ mean anything to you? It had been written beside the drawing.”
“No. Maybe it’s the name of the flower.”
Mercy frowns. “Maybe. I’ve never heard of it.” She glances at the books stacked on Alyss’s desk. “But I’ll have plenty of time to research while I’m here. The king banished me to the infirmary for the next two days. They think you’ve infected me.”
“I didn’t. I never would have come if it were a possibility. You’re immune. You have to believe me—that thing told me so.” Pilar leans forward and a strand of her dark hair falls over the side of her face, obscuring the part mottled with blisters and raw skin.
“I believe you, Pilar.” Mercy sits down on the bed and rests a hand on Pilar’s knee, and the priestess inflates with the contact, unfurling from the ball she had tucked herself into at the foot of the bed. Might as well comfort her now, Mercy thinks. Alyss knows she doesn’t have much time left. From the expression on Pilar’s face, she knows it, too.
“I don’t know how it’s connected, but Myrbellanar and this plague are linked, or something. Somehow. I can’t explain it, but I knew I had to tell you.” Her eyes fill with tears. “It’s too late now! It’s been growing and spreading, and I’ve done nothing! I thought, given time, the Creator might show me a way to help.” She turns her face away and swipes angrily at her tears. “He’s shown me nothing. Meanwhile, th-this villain has been hiding in my head, showing me the most awful visions, and I am powerless to stop it!”
Pilar’s voice rises to a tortured wail, and the sounds drifting from Alyss’s room break off mid-snore. After a thump and a muttered obscenity, Alyss shoves the curtains aside and glares at the two of them. She is dressed in nothing more than a long tunic, her hair wild around her head, and she rubs her shin with a hand.
“Creator’s mighty misery, why are ye listenin to a single thing that comes outta this woman’s mouth?” She crosses the room and clamps her thick fingers around Pilar’s arm. “Ye shoulda called me the minute she woke ye. Come now, time for rest.” Short and stocky as she is, her strength is still more than enough to overpower Pilar. She drags her off the bed and across the room, pushing her into the farthest bed from Mercy. “By the Creator, you’re burnin up, woman!” She moves to her desk and grabs a syringe filled with Ienna oil.
“Alyss, don’t you dare!” Mercy jumps up, but the bump on her head throbs at the sudden movement and the world sways beneath her feet. As she regains her balance, Alyss jabs the needle into Pilar’s arm and presses the plunger. Pilar’s movements slow almost immediately, and it takes nothing more than a gentle prod from Alyss for her to stretch out on top of the bed, not even bothering to slip under the blankets.
“You can’t keep drugging her into submission,” Mercy says. She crosses her arms and pretends Alyss’s form doesn’t waver in her vision as the Rivosi woman turns and shuffles through some bottles on the desk. Glass c
links as she searches for what she wants, and after a moment, Alyss turns back to Mercy, the syringe in her hand refilled with the shimmering oil.
“It’s for ‘er own good. She’s only hastenin ‘er own demise, workin ‘erself up like that.” As she speaks, Alyss takes slow steps forward, and it takes Mercy far too long to realize on whom she plans to use the syringe. Mercy steps back, her hands flying up to ward her off.
“Alyss, don’t you dare—” The jab of the needle in her arm cuts off her words, and her first thought is Second time today I’m being knocked unconscious, with a smirk at her own expense.
Her second thought is Wow, Alyss really is strong, as her limbs grow heavy and her head falls forward. She slumps against Alyss, who guides her into bed the same way she had Pilar. As soon as her head hits the pillow, Mercy’s chin knocks against her chest and the inside of her eyelids feels coated in sand; it hurts to keep them open. As she tucks her knees in close to her chest, a wave of anger at Alyss washes over her, anger and hatred for having put her in this vulnerable position.
Alyss sighs as she wipes her hands against the front of her tunic. “Ye like to act tough, I know, but ye need to rest, whether you’ll admit it or not.”
Mercy murmurs something rude under her breath, but it is lost in the shuffle of the blankets as Alyss tucks them around her shoulders. She tucks Mercy’s hair behind one of her ears, and, as she slips under the heavy blanket of unconsciousness, Mercy isn’t sure whether she feels or imagines the feverish heat emanating from the healer’s palm.
By the next morning, Alyss has dismissed her elven helpers and all four beds in the infirmary have filled. Two more priestesses had been brought in on stretchers while Mercy and Pilar had slept, carried in by guards who had shared some information about the state of affairs outside the castle. Despite the short notice, Landers and Leon had succeeded in setting up the hospital in the fields, and Ghyslain had ordered a company of guards to search the Church of the Creator and transport all the infected out of the city. Tamriel had accompanied them—despite his father’s protests—and had had the two worst cases sent to the castle to be examined and treated by Alyss, who he deemed the best healer in Sandori, she had recounted to Mercy with obvious pride. After sharing this, Alyss had refused to answer any more of Mercy’s questions before performing a proper examination of the two priestesses, which was turning out to be much more extensive than Mercy had expected.
One of the priestesses is half Mercy’s age, and has neither moved nor spoken the entire time Mercy has been awake. Alyss has taken to calling her Owl; her golden-hazel eyes stare unfocused and unblinkingly through the stone wall, and stripes of white scars crisscross her cheeks like the quills of feathers where she has scratched the raw and peeling skin too deeply. Her knuckles, swollen to nearly twice their natural size, deform her hands into claws.
Pilar cries when she sees her.
Alyss orders the two soldiers guarding the door to drag in a large washing basin, and she fills it with warm water from the hearth, stirring in several handfuls of herbs, which wilt as soon as they touch the water. Coils of steam rise from the surface of the water, and the spicy fragrance of the herbs’ oils fills the room.
Mercy helps Alyss undress the girl, then throws her soiled clothes into the hearth. She calls through the door for a change of clothes, then hurries to help Alyss lift Owl from the bed. The girl barely weighs sixty pounds—her ribs are sharp and defined under her inflamed skin, and each of her vertebra protrudes along her spine like a knot on a tree trunk—but she bucks and flails when Alyss tries to close her arms around her. Owl’s eyes finally focus and suddenly she’s screaming, squirming and crawling backward on the bed until her back hits the wall, her feet tangling in the blankets as she tries to kick them away. Alyss moves forward and Owl’s hand shoots out; her fingernails rake Alyss’s cheek and scratch three jagged lines.
“Damn it!” Alyss cries, her patience snapping. She swipes at the blood welling on her cheek and scowls. “Grab those bandages and bind ‘er hands with ‘em.” She glares at Pilar, then at Owl, who has quieted to little whimpers. “I was hired to heal, and by the Creator, that’s what I’m goin to do. They never said I had to be gentle.”
She snatches the bandages out of Mercy’s hands and gestures for Mercy to hold Owl’s wrists. As she does, Alyss winds the fabric around her wrists tight enough for the surrounding skin to turn white, and Owl fights against Mercy’s grip. After a few seconds, Owl’s fingernails begin to turn blue.
Alyss nods, satisfied. “The fabric will loosen in the water. Don’t want ‘er to slip out and hurt someone.”
Mercy stoops and lifts Owl from the bed, and her stomach roils at how impossibly light the girl feels in her arms. She can count every bone in Owl’s body, can practically see through the sallow skin where the infection hasn’t yet spread.
Mercy holds her over the bath and slowly lowers her in, starting with the tips of her toes and moving up her body. Owl’s eyes go wide at the sudden warmth and she relaxes in Mercy’s arms, practically going limp with relief. When she is mostly submerged, Mercy lets go, and the girl bobs for a minute before propping herself against the side of the basin. She stares at her pitted and mangled body in disgust, which slowly morphs into wonder as the heat and herbs soothe her pain. Standing beside the desk, Alyss lets out a snort.
“They always make it harder than it has to be. Ye won’t give me that much trouble when it’s yer turn, right?” she says. When Mercy had explained what Pilar has said the night before about her being immune, the healer had dismissed it with a snort.
Mercy doesn’t respond. She picks up a small brass pitcher and uses it to pour some of the water over Owl’s hair. Owl smiles, her eyelashes beaded with silver droplets, and nods for Mercy to do it again. She does, and Owl closes her eyes and leans back, the water splattering against the stone floor as it drips off the ends of her hair. The little girl sighs contentedly.
For what feels like the first time in ages, Mercy’s lips part into a genuine smile.
33
The peace lasts seven minutes.
Mercy is pouring more warm water into the bath when Alyss rounds the shelves with a jar of purple salt-like crystals in her arms. She steps around Pilar, who had settled at the head of the basin, braiding flowers into Owl’s hair, and scowls.
“Those aren’t for ye to play with,” she says. “I’ve half a mind to stick ye wi’ another dose of that sleepin oil if ye don’t stay out of my stock.”
Pilar’s hands drop from Owl’s hair. She scuttles toward the hearth and watches Mercy and Alyss work, her blister-covered arms wrapped around herself. She glances at the other priestess, who had received a dose of her own after her shouted rantings had set them all on edge earlier, and she shudders.
Alyss turns to Mercy. “This is a Rivosi housewife’s secret weapon. We call it Pryyam salt. It’s not really salt—don’t ask me why it’s called that—but it helps to detox. Watch.” She holds a strip of leather up to Owl’s mouth. “Bite down on this.”
Owl stiffens, but obeys, gingerly taking the leather between her teeth.
Alyss grabs a handful of salt and lifts Owl’s arms out of the water by their binding. “Hold ‘er tight, she’ll be slippery.”
Mercy holds Owl’s wrists, and—after checking to be certain her grip is tight—Alyss begins grinding the salt into Owl’s skin. The girl screams into the leather, her eyes filling with tears as she tries to jerk her arms free, but Mercy holds tight. Alyss continues working without pause as the crystals shred Owl’s outer flesh into tiny ribbons. The blisters across her arms and shoulders break and the milky pus inside runs down her arms in little rivulets before dripping into the bath and mixing into the water. Tears stream down Owl’s face and her cries echo around the room, loud enough to make Mercy’s ears ring.
Alyss finishes one arm and moves to the next, never acknowledging Owl’s agony, and Mercy can see why. The salt is working. Little flakes of red, infected skin float on the surface
of the water and cling to Owl’s wet arms, but through them, Mercy can see the pink, healthy skin underneath. Back by the hearth, Pilar’s sobs begin anew.
“Don’t put yer arm back in the water,” Alyss instructs through the girl’s screams, “or we’ll have to do this again. Got it?” She waits for Owl to sniffle and nod before continuing, this time turning to Mercy. “Wrap ‘er arms in bandages while I work on ‘er legs. Owl, I need ye to stand and move to the hearth so I can see.”
Owl whimpers and nods, and Mercy and Alyss help her out of the bath, goosebumps erupting across her raw skin. Pilar scuttles out of the way, terror plain on her face, but Alyss pins her with a stern look.
“Don’t go too far,” she says. “You’re next.”
Pilar trembles, but agrees, then settles on the corner of Mercy’s bed and watches forlornly. Mercy bandages Owl’s arms while Alyss works the salt into one of her legs. Owl bites down so hard on the leather the tendons strain in her neck, and she tilts her head back and cries silent tears of misery, her long, flowered braid trailing down her bare back.
By the time they finish treating the last priestess, an older woman named Gwynn, Mercy is soaking wet, cold, and sore. The three priestesses sit huddled on the other side of the shelves, whispering to each other. Together, Mercy and Alyss dump the dirty bathwater into the drain in the middle of the floor, and, after the guards take away the basin, Alyss turns to Mercy with an expectant stare.
“Strip.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ye heard me. Yer turn. Strip.”
Mercy holds her arms out at her sides. “I’m fine, Alyss. No sign of the disease. See?” She spins in a slow, exaggerated circle, but when she turns back, she can tell Alyss isn’t satisfied. She sighs. “You’re not going to budge on this, are you?”
“Ye think I’m goin to let ye waltz out of this infirmary without makin absolutely certain you’re not infected?”
Merciless Page 23
