“You kept your Cirisian name?” Mercy asks.
Lethandris blinks at her. “Of course. To many of the people in Beltharos, my culture is strange and primitive, but it is not something of which to be ashamed. My upbringing shaped me, as everyone’s does, and I have no wish to pretend otherwise.” She grins, then waves a hand at the tattoos on her face. “I can’t hide it, anyway.”
“I suppose not.”
Lethandris leads them down the narrow aisle and to the front doors, which she holds open for them. “Your driver is a good man. He waited for you. My apologies for keeping you so long.”
“No apology necessary,” Alyss says, then slips through the door, pressing against the opposite side of the doorframe to prevent brushing against Lethandris’s skin, despite her assurances of her immunity. She starts down the steps, rubbing her arms to coax away her goosebumps. “Come on, Marieve.”
Lethandris reaches out a hand to stop her. “When we send Pilar back to the Creator . . . would you like me to send you a message? Would you like to attend her funeral?”
“No!” Mercy blurts, too quickly. She can’t help remembering the weight of Pilar’s limp body in her hands, the way the heat had seeped out of her and left a stranger’s cold corpse in its place. Her heart aches to think of Pilar lying dead on that stone table. “I hardly knew her.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry.” Mercy jogs down the steps before the priestess can say anything more, a grim frown on her face as she follows Alyss into the carriage. The driver closes the door behind her, but not before she sees Lethandris standing in the doorway, watching her sadly. The driver snaps the reins, and Mercy looks away as Lethandris closes the tall front door of the church.
40
“See? There was no reason for ye to worry,” Alyss whispers when they return to the infirmary. She glances at Mercy and scowls, then brushes her palms on her pants as she crosses to the desk. “I didn’t touch anyone.”
Across the room, Gwynn mumbles something in her sleep. She whimpers quietly and Alyss rushes over, tugging off a glove and pressing a hand to the side of her face. “She’s burnin up.” She rounds the bed and checks on Owl, leaning in close to listen to her breathing. “They only have a few days left, I’m afraid. A week, at most. Thankfully, it’s spreading more slowly than it did with Pi—with Pilar,” she whispers, her voice catching on the name.
“It’s only been a few days since Solari. Do you have any idea why it affected her so strongly?”
She runs a hand through her hair, blowing out a long breath before she speaks. “She mighta had a weaker immune system, or she may have been infected for longer than we realized. Or . . . it may have had somethin to do with ‘er Sight.”
“You believe what Lethandris said about the disease choosing people to infect?” Mercy gapes at her, incredulous. “That’s not possible.”
“Ye heard what she said—the High Priestess and the others with the Sight were the first infected. They share the church, the bedrooms, they take care of each other. Two dozen people in such close quarters means any sickness, no matter how severe, is goin to spread like wildfire. So why would only those people be infected first? They must have all been exposed around the same time, but the disease worked faster in the priestesses in higher positions of power.” Her voice, kept low to avoid waking Gwynn and Owl, becomes faster and more pinched as she continues, her eyes widening in panic. “So, yes, I believe the disease is somehow choosing people.”
“Alyss, listen to what you’re saying,” Mercy snaps, seizing the woman’s shoulders and forcing her to stare into her eyes. “There is no way a disease is capable of choosing its victims. It is impossible. This sickness—or disease, or plague, or whatever you want to call it—is unfortunate, but it happens. It wasn’t an omen from Solari, it wasn’t a punishment from the Creator, it just is.”
“Pilar said—”
“Yesterday you said Pilar was raving mad.”
“I changed my mind!” Alyss snaps, her fear giving way to anger. “You’re not a healer, Marieve—or should I say Lady Marieve? Do ye expect me to curtsy as well, my princess?”
“I am not a princess,” Mercy spits, the word filled with venom.
“Shouldn’t ye be up in the throne room, wearin yer pretty dresses and dancin with all the noblemen’s dashing sons? Or perhaps ye have yer eye on a better prize,” she says, tapping her temple with a finger. “I’ve heard the prince is quite taken with ye.”
Mercy is filled with the sudden urge to strangle her, to wipe the smug, self-satisfied grin off her face. She imagines the feeling of the tendons rolling under her hands, Alyss’s nails scratching at Mercy’s hands and face, strong and desperate at first, then growing slower and weaker as the life fades from her. Her lips would turn blue and her body limp and leaden. The impracticality of the plan doesn’t even occur to Mercy.
When a flush of adrenaline jitters through her body, Mercy’s eyes widen and she jerks back, suddenly aware of having unconsciously taken several steps toward Alyss, who still smiles with that goading expression on her face, unaware of the dark thoughts coursing through Mercy’s mind. Mercy forces herself to calm, the anger melting to pity as she stares at the Rivosi healer.
“Alyss, listen to yourself,” she whispers. “You’re acting paranoid, like Pilar the night of Solari. You remember, don’t you? That’s why Lethandris made you so nervous, why you’re so convinced the disease is hunting people. It’s not you, Alyss, it’s the sickness. You’re worse than you think.”
Shock, denial, and terror flicker across Alyss’s face. For a few seconds, she doesn’t say anything, then her expression darkens. “Get out of my infirmary,” she says in a voice unlike any Mercy has ever heard from her. She bites off each word, brandishing them like weapons. “Get out! I don’t want to see ye around here anymore. Take yer pity and yer chastisements elsewhere—and forget about yer lousy promise!”
“You want me to leave? Fine.” Mercy glances over to the far bed, where Gwynn and Owl sit upright in petrified silence. She doesn’t know how long they’ve been listening, but they’ve heard enough. She offers them a curt nod, then pivots on her heel and walks out of the infirmary. Just as she closes the door, she hears Alyss burst into tears.
She doesn’t look back.
The two guards are already waiting when Mercy steps into the hallway, their hands hovering over the pommels of their swords. They start when they see Mercy, their eyes flickering questioningly from her face to the door, but they don’t seem particularly surprised at Alyss’s outburst. Mercy doubts her short temper is much of a secret to anyone in the castle.
“Don’t allow anyone to leave the infirmary,” she orders.
The guards glance at each other, then back at her. “Uh, my lady?” one says. “We are supposed to follow Healer Alyss’s orders alone. We cannot deny her the right to come and go as she pleases.”
Mercy huffs, then glances conspiratorially down the hall, although the three of them are alone. She crosses her arms and leans in close. “Alyss is infected with the plague.” The guards exchange a shocked look and one swears under his breath, but Mercy quickly continues, “Under no circumstances should you enter the infirmary, do you understand? We’ve already lost one person to the plague, and I doubt you two would like to follow her to the grave. Do not speak of this to anyone, unless you’d like to incite even more of a panic than there already is.”
One of the guards sighs and turns to the other. “Stay here and do as the lady said until I return. I must discuss with Master Oliver how he would like us to proceed.”
Mercy grins. “Good. Now take me to the king.”
The council room looks a lot larger when it’s not full of bickering nobles.
The thought occurs to Mercy as she sits alone at the center of the long rectangular table, her fingers drumming idly on the arms of her chair, and a smirk tugs at her lips. Across from her, the tall doors engraved with the Myrellis family crest part and King Ghyslain walks in alone
, his tunic rumpled and untucked as if he’d just risen from a fitful sleep. His hair is loose around his shoulders, but when he meets her gaze, his dark eyes are awake and alert. As the doors swing shut behind him, she sees the guard from the infirmary plant himself just outside the doorway, then Mercy and the king are alone.
“Your healer is infected,” Mercy says without preamble. She doesn’t bother to stand and bow, but Ghyslain doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He presses his lips into a tight line and crosses the room, resting his hands on the back of the chair opposite Mercy.
“How much longer does she have?”
“A week. Maybe two.”
He frowns. “I see.” He pulls the chair back and its legs shriek as they scratch across the stone floor, then he sits and rests his elbows on the table. “And what of the three priestesses?”
She shakes her head and holds up two fingers. “As of this morning.”
His face falls and he looks away, a muscle working in his jaw. “So what do you want from me?”
Mercy opens her mouth, then closes it and frowns. She’s suddenly unsure why she had wished to meet with him—only that after the spectacle of the past morning and her strange conversation with Tamriel, it had felt almost . . . right. And now, knowing he is not the one who had bought the contract on Tamriel, Mercy feels something akin to pity for him for what she’s planning to do to his only child. “Your son,” she blurts. “Do you think he will be a good king?”
He glances at her sharply. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
She shrugs.
“I think Tam will make a fine king.”
“You’re not a great liar, Your Majesty.”
His lips twitch into a sad smile. “He’s his mother’s son. If there was ever a person more fit for the throne than she, I have not met her. I’m sure the boy has many of the same qualities.”
“Is that why you continue to push Tamriel away? He reminds you too much of her? Are you that much of a coward?”
“I loved my wife,” he says slowly, ignoring her insult. “Can you blame me for mourning her death?”
“People die every day.”
He shakes his head. “Not like her. People like her don’t just die—they don’t just stop existing, like their lives meant nothing at all. The day she died, it was like the Creator had reached inside of me and ripped the heart out of my chest. Do you know what it’s like to lose someone whose mere presence lit up the room when she entered? Do you know what it’s like to hold your newborn son in your arms as you listen to the doctor explain why the bedsheets are soaked in blood and your wife’s heart no longer beats?” He stares straight at Mercy, but his eyes are unfocused, staring through her as the words tumble from his lips of their own volition. “When he told me, it was all I could do not to drop the baby. I wasn’t sad, or angry, or anything at all—I was numb.
“Seeing her face in his, I resented him for it. I resented him for killing her. I know it’s unfair, but I couldn’t control it. He was a constant reminder—he had lived and she had not. By the time I realized how wrong I was, Tamriel was almost grown and I had long been unworthy of being called his father.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that anymore,” Mercy says. “He’s still here. He grieves for a father who still lives. You still have time.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I do. The boy needs his mother.”
“His mother isn’t here. You are.” How did I become so entangled in these people’s lives? Mercy thinks sullenly.
“The die has been cast; the damage done. The boy holds a grudge which won’t easily be healed. At least in that way, he takes after me.” Ghyslain chuckles darkly, more out of self-loathing than humor. “But what was your question? Whether he will make a good king?”
“That was my question, yes.”
“What do you think?”
“I think if you want him to become a great king, he should not be running around completing meaningless tasks and pointless errands. He should be at your side, learning how to run a kingdom.”
“His presence is good for the public. He has their hearts, much more than I ever have. In due time, he will learn what must be done to rule a kingdom. For now, you mustn’t worry. He will not be inheriting the throne for many years to come.”
“You could die tomorrow. You could die five minutes from now.”
“I do not think so, unless your real intention for meeting me here was to murder me.”
Mercy smiles. “No. Simply making a point.”
“Well, consider your point taken.” He stands, staring down at Mercy. In the candlelight, she notices a faint shadow of a beard across his face. She wishes he would grow it out, she realizes, because then he wouldn’t look so much like Tamriel . . . not that it would help much. As much as the prince hates to admit it, he and his father have a lot more in common than looks—from their manner of speech to their stances, to the way they watch her with the same mixture of amusement and curiosity.
Ghyslain pushes his chair back under the table. “Now, if we’ve nothing more to discuss, I’m sure this can wait until after the sun rises, don’t you think?” He turns and moves to the door—a brave decision considering she had mentioned the possibility of his impending death not two minutes earlier. Perhaps he does not think she would do it.
“I know about the cure.”
He pauses, his hand hovering over the door handle. Without turning around, he says, “What do you think you know about it?”
“There isn’t one.”
Silence.
“How long have you known?” she asks him. “How did you find out?”
No response.
“When are you going to tell them?”
Suddenly he’s looming over her, having turned and crossed the room faster than she had thought him capable. He splays his hands on the tabletop and leans forward, scowling, the candlelight casting long, sinister shadows across his face. “My Lady Marieve, it seems you have had no trouble inserting yourself into every problem you’ve managed to find since your arrival. Now I’ll admit I haven’t a clue how foreign royalty is treated in Feyndara—your grandmother made certain of that—but I am not so much a fool that I would willingly oversee the actions of someone as influential as yourself within my kingdom without a degree of suspicion, particularly when it concerns my son. This, at least, I can do for him. So, I’ll ask you again: why are you really here?”
She stands, mirroring his stance with her hands pressed into fists on the table. The flame from the candle flickers and she can feel its heat warming her cheek as she stares back at him with an equally hard expression. His eyes, dark as chips of obsidian, bore into hers. “And I’ll say again,” she says through clenched teeth, enunciating each word, “I am here for nothing more than Cirisor.”
He lets out a sharp laugh and his sudden whoosh of breath causes the flame to sputter and dim, obscuring them in darkness for a few seconds. When it swells again, his head hangs forward and his shoulders shake with quiet laughter at her expense. “You know I can’t give you that. Your grandmother should have known that before she sent you.”
“Maybe I’m an optimist.”
He smirks. “Very well.” He turns and opens the doors, then waves the guard over. As he approaches, Ghyslain continues, “Until you choose to reveal your true purpose for being here, Ser Morrison will escort you to and from the castle, and on any other promenades around the city, as well—for your own protection, of course.”
Mercy’s answering smile is razor-sharp. “Well, thank you for your concern, Your Majesty.”
He nods. “My pleasure. Now, I must bid you goodnight, my lady. Ser Morrison, see her out.” He offers her a small bow—more out of courtesy than sincerity—and leaves the room, the double doors swinging shut behind him.
41
The next morning, a curious sight greets Mercy when she crosses the castle gardens and arrives in the rear of the castle: a dozen slaves are clustered in a circle a few yards from
the lake’s edge, two soldiers hovering nearby with worried expressions. The ring of steel on steel echoes off the castle’s stone façade, then a sudden Oof! elicits a burst of excited cries from the people watching. As Mercy nears, Elvira and Ser Morrison in tow, a man flies from the circle, crashing through the crowd and landing hard on his back in the grass. The point of his sword quivers in the air, still clenched in his fist. Elvira jumps back, squeaking in surprise, but Mercy merely frowns at the man staring up at her, his head mere inches from the toes of her flats.
Calum grins at her. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“Quite.”
He smiles again when Tamriel steps forward and lowers the point of his sword to Calum’s throat. “I told you to try to stay in the circle this time,” the prince complains. “What’s the point if you can’t follow the simplest instructions?”
“Aside from the fact that I’m funnier, smarter, and a hell of a lot better at swordplay than you?”
Tamriel smirks. “Brave words from the man on the wrong side of the sword.” He glances up at Mercy and grins. “Hello, Marieve.”
Calum knocks Tamriel’s blade aside and catches the prince’s ankle with his foot, pulling hard enough to unbalance him, but not topple him. Tamriel regains his balance easily and snorts. “Is that the best you can do?” He lifts his sword and sends it whistling downward, and Calum rolls out of the way just before the point pierces the ground where his heart had been seconds before. He jumps to his feet and slashes at Tamriel, who parries his swing with ease. They exchange several blows, their swords clashing loudly amid the enthusiastic chatter of the onlookers. An elven woman standing across from Mercy watches with awe, clapping excitedly as the two men shuffle back into the center of the circle, their gazes locked.
“Dear Creator,” Elvira gasps quietly, hovering behind Mercy. She hides her face behind her hands, watching through her fingers as Tamriel narrowly misses being slashed across the arm. “You’d think they wouldn’t use real swords for practice.”
Merciless Page 29
