“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous. I won’t lose another person I love—another person I cherish. Please, please promise me.”
“Fine, I promise,” Tamriel snaps.
Ghyslain’s shoulders slump with relief. “Thank you, Tam. Thank—”
Tamriel turns on his heel and walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He pauses just outside, breathing hard, and doesn’t appear to hear Mercy when she says his name.
“Tamriel—” she repeats. When she reaches for him, he shrugs off her hand and walks away.
When he rounds the corner without looking back, something inside of her breaks for him.
42
“Master Oliver! Master Oliver, come here!”
Tamriel sprints through the soldiers’ barracks, stepping over books and piles of folded and crumpled clothing, not slowing until he reaches Master Oliver, who stands in a circle with several senior officers. He pauses midsentence and stares at the prince as he nears, shaky and out of breath, and shoves the commanders out of his way to meet Tamriel in the center of the room.
“Creator’s mercy, Your Highness. What’s wrong?”
“We—We must speak in private. Your office?”
Master Oliver waves a hand to the door of his office, and Tamriel rushes inside, pulling him in. As the prince pulls the door shut, Master Oliver rounds his desk and shuffles the mess of papers and reports into a haphazard pile. At the sound of the door’s bolt snapping into place, he pauses. “Your Highness?”
“Do you completely trust everyone in your command?”
“Of course,” he says without hesitation. “What do you need?”
“My father cannot know about this. No one can know—I don’t want word getting back to him.” Tamriel begins to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I need you to send a company of soldiers to Cassius Baccha’s house to ask him about a flower he dreamt of—”
“A flower?”
“He will describe it to them. They must depart immediately for the Cirisor Islands, find it, and bring back as many as they can. They must tell no one what they are doing.” He stops pacing and turns to Master Oliver, letting out a long breath. He offers him a weary, relieved smile. “We may have found a cure for the plague.”
“That’s wonderful! Right?” Master Oliver says hesitantly. “Why do you not want your father to know?”
“He’s known about the cure this whole time and wasn’t planning to tell anyone. He made me promise not to search for it, which is why you must help me do it behind his back.”
“Your Highness . . . I’ve known your father a long time. I’ve been in his employ since before you were born. You are asking me to violate decades of trust and friendship to help you—you realize this?”
“I do.”
Master Oliver sinks into his chair, resting his elbows on his desk as he studies Tamriel’s solemn face. He sighs. “Listen, son, I’m not asking you to pretend you and your father have a great relationship—or a good one, at that—but if he’s asking you not to pursue this, he must have a reason. He cares for you—”
Tamriel snorts, and Master Oliver fixes him with a look.
“You know he does.”
“You’ve been more of a father to me than he ever was.”
“Nevertheless, your father is a good king. He does what he can to protect his people, even if it kills him to do it.”
“Then why didn’t he tell anyone about the cure?”
Master Oliver narrows his eyes. “How certain are you this cure is real?”
Tamriel slumps into the chair opposite him. “Not very. But if there’s something I can do to help my people, I’ll do it. I’ll do everything I can—I won’t leave them to suffer.” He rubs his temples wearily, careful to avoid his cut. “I don’t understand why he’s not exhausting every opportunity to prevent our people’s suffering. He’s always been cautious, but never selfish. Has he said anything to you?”
He shakes his head. “Not a word.”
Tamriel deflates. “I thought not. Will you help me?”
Master Oliver opens his mouth, closes it, then nods. “I will. I’ll have Leitha Cain visit Cassius, then depart for Cirisor with five of her men in a matter of hours.”
“Six soldiers? You think that’s enough to make it to the Islands and back? What if they encounter Feyndaran forces?”
“Leitha is one of our highest-ranking commanders—trained well, and resourceful, too. If she and her men find themselves in a jam, she’ll know how to get them out without engaging the enemy.”
“No one will question her absence?”
“She often travels throughout the country searching for recruits. No one will question it.”
“Good.” Tamriel stands, the weight on his chest marginally lessened. “Thank you.” He moves to the door, but before he reaches for the doorknob, Master Oliver’s voice halts him.
“Your High—Tamriel.”
He doesn’t turn around. “What?”
“Don’t be so hard on him. Your father raised you the best he could, while grieving and ruling the country, no less. Don’t forget, you weren’t exactly a saint as a child, either,” he says, and although Tamriel can’t see it, he hears the smile in Oliver’s voice. “Each of you carries blame and each of you is responsible for pushing the other away. I’m not saying it has to be now, but you know if you ever want to find peace, you have to forgive him.”
Tamriel is quiet for a long time. “I’m trying,” he finally says, and leaves.
When he exits the soldiers’ barracks, he is greeted by the sound of raised voices drifting down the hall. He cannot make out the words, but he recognizes Marieve’s voice first—not yelling, but agitated. He smirks to himself as he turns into the next hall and, sure enough, Ser Morrison, Marieve, and her handmaid—he cannot remember her name—are standing in a circle in heated debate.
Marieve steps forward, and Ser Morrison blocks her path. Her expression darkens. “As I have told you, my lady, I cannot allow you to pass. These are the barracks, and you have no business being inside. You must remember you are a guest within this castle and your welcome here could very easily be revoked.”
“You don’t think we have more important issues than this?” she snaps. “More and more people are dying by the day. And you’re afraid of me seeing what, the patrol schedule? You could change it in five minutes, before I could do anything with the information.”
“There is sensitive information inside.”
“Oh, there is? Why didn’t you say so? I bet that information is much more valuable. Maybe I’ll steal that.” Marieve rolls her eyes. “I bet the king is having a great laugh over all this, sending you to supervise me,” she says bitterly.
The handmaid tugs on her sleeve. “Let’s just go. The prince is clearly busy, he—” She stops, her large elven eyes going wide when her gaze lands on Tamriel. “He’s right there,” she says shyly, immediately blushing when he approaches.
“I am,” he affirms, then looks to Marieve. “I assume you were waiting for me and not some dashing young soldier who has caught your attention?”
She rolls her eyes. Her face, flushed with anger, relaxes a little, then tightens again with concern. “What happened?”
“Tonight, Master Oliver is going to send a group of soldiers to Cirisor to search for the cure. Hopefully they will return within a week or two with news.” His father’s warnings about trusting her ring in his ears—she’s Feyndaran, and an elf, at that—but he’s seen the way she looks at the king with disdain in her eyes, and he knows she will not betray him by running back to his father. Her unusual brown-and-gold eyes widen in sympathy, and it’s almost too hard to tear his gaze away.
He turns to the handmaid and Ser Morrison. “If you value your lives, you will not speak a word of this to anyone, least of all my father. Understood?”
They nod, their expressions grave. The elven woman shrinks away.
“Good. Now, Ser Morrison, if you would
n’t mind escorting these two to their house?”
“But—” Marieve starts.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Marieve glowers at him. “I don’t need to be ‘escorted’ anywhere.”
“It’s for your safety. With the disease spreading and people becoming more anxious about Beggars’ End, I can’t be too careful. What would your people back home think if you were hurt?” He tries to remain serious, but the combination of her annoyed expression and her curly hair flowing like a wild mane around her face makes him smile. Her scowl deepens.
“I can take care of myself.” As Marieve speaks, her handmaid gapes at her like she is insane for speaking so brazenly.
“I’m sure you can, but please”—he steps closer and takes one of her small yet strong hands in his—“everything’s so uncertain right now. It would put my mind at ease.”
“Fine,” Marieve says, looking somewhat mollified. She pulls her hand out of his. “You’re sure you don’t need help?”
“My duties here didn’t start when you arrived, my lady. I’m quite sure I can handle this on my own.”
She nods, and Tamriel waves a hand to Ser Morrison to lead them to the great hall. He and the handmaid—Elvira! That’s her name, Tamriel thinks with satisfaction—take the lead. When Marieve turns to follow, Tamriel catches her sleeve and gestures for her to be quiet before they start walking, waiting until Elvira and Morrison are out of earshot to follow.
“I’m sorry for sending you away, but I must speak to my father’s council, and I am afraid having foreign royalty there could make them suspicious of my intentions.”
“You’re going to talk to them about your father? Are you going to tell them about—”
“No, I can’t tell them about the cure. I don’t want too many people to know in case it ends up not working. Plus, if it does work, I don’t want people wondering why my father had been hiding it so long.” He looks down at his feet. “So, it turns out you were right about him hiding something.”
“Pretty lousy thing to be right about.” She moves closer and places a hand on his arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head. “I’m still . . . sorting through everything. If this cure works, it will save a lot of people’s lives, and that’s all I want to think about right now.” They walk a few more steps in silence, until Tamriel says, “I’m going to speak to the advisors who might support my ascension to the throne. Most of them are loyal to my father—he made sure of that when he appointed them—but I know a few who have begun to doubt him these past few years. Maybe they can spread the word to the nobility to support me.”
“I hope so, but you need to be careful. What if your father hears of your plan?”
“I’m his late wife’s only son. He won’t hurt me, but I’d still prefer he not know.”
“Well,” Marieve says, “you have my support, for what it’s worth.”
When Ser Morrison glances back and narrows his eyes, Tamriel points to an oil painting on the wall, and Marieve feigns interest until Morrison turns forward. Elvira walks a few feet behind him, nervously eyeing the sword hanging from his belt. The four of them walk in relative silence until they arrive in the great hall. Calum stands in the center of the room, speaking to Emrie and two nobles’ sons Tamriel recognizes, but does not know by name.
The double doors of the castle stand wide open, and Ser Morrison starts toward them at an unnecessarily fast pace. Tamriel wonders if he feels uncomfortable with the revelations they had uncovered, with the secrets of which he’s now a part, then chuckles under his breath. Of course, he feels uncomfortable. Even Tamriel feels uneasy, knowing what his father had been hiding from him and the rest of the kingdom. What nags at him most is the fact his father had not been planning on telling anyone about it—and for what? The fear on his face had been real—of that much, Tamriel is certain—but he should be fearing the impact of the potential thousands of deaths in Sandori and across Beltharos, if the reports of the plague in other cities are to be believed.
As they near the doors, Tamriel turns to Marieve. “Will you come back tonight?”
She startles, dragging her eyes from where she had been staring at Calum—which Tamriel notes with a flicker of jealousy—to meet his. “What?”
“Meet me in the library this evening. Please?”
“O-Okay.” Marieve searches his face for a second, her brows furrowed. After a pause, she nods. “I’ll see you later, then. Good luck.”
She stares up at him for a moment longer before hurrying after Ser Morrison and Elvira, who wait at the castle entrance with matching frowns. He watches them leave, then turns and pulls Calum out of his conversation and drags him across the room.
“What are you doing? Tamriel!” he objects.
“I need you to gather the nobles in my mother’s old house tomorrow night,” he hisses, “but only those who will support my ascending the throne on my eighteenth birthday.”
Calum’s jaw drops. “Are you . . . saying what I think you’re saying? Are you crazy? What the hell happened to convince you to do that?”
“Let’s just say some new information has come to light which makes me question my father’s ability to rule. Can I trust you to do this for me?”
Calum nods, looking shocked. “Of course. When?”
“Midnight. And I don’t want any guards along, either—I don’t want anyone who might report back to my father.”
“Okay, but for your safety, I’ll make sure everyone who comes leaves their weapons at the door.”
“You’re not coming.”
“I’m not—What?”
“I want you here, to cover for me in case anyone comes looking. I doubt my father will, but you should be here in case there’s an emergency.”
“You mean in case you end up strung up on the castle gates, too?”
Tamriel’s lips quirk upward. “Something like that. I’m sure there’s no shortage of noblemen eager to impress my father by rooting out potential usurpers, even his own son.”
“You’re not making a very good case for going out on your own,” Calum says, then sighs, “but I can see you’re not going to change your mind. I’ll stay here, if that’s what you wish.”
“Thank you. And don’t worry, I’ll wear armor and carry my sword, as well.”
“Good. Be careful. I would hate for something to happen to you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Just then, Elise walks into the throne room, a bundle of papers in her arms. Calum pauses when he sees her, and Tamriel follows his gaze across the room.
“Go talk to her.”
“Should I?”
He shrugs. “How many months has it been? I doubt she’s changed her mind, but you can certainly try. I have to go, anyway. Just . . . don’t go all doe-eyed and forget to speak to the nobles, alright?”
Calum waves him off, already moving away. He ignores Tamriel’s chuckle as he moves toward Elise, and the prince laughs as he heads into the adjacent corridor.
Elise’s pretty face is scrunched in thought. Her heels tap lightly on the floor as she continues toward the doors, not noticing Calum until he steps right into her path. She lets out a surprised yelp and stops midstep, nearly barreling into him. He catches her and grins. “Hello there.”
“Don’t do that to me, Calum!” She clutches the papers to her chest and swats at him with one hand.
“Ow, watch it! I just got stitches there, if you hadn’t heard.”
“I heard all about your little fight by the shore, believe me. I’m sure it was a sight to see. Exactly how many times were you knocked onto your ass?”
“Only twice.”
“Oh, so an improvement.” She arches a brow, and her teasing smile makes him weak in the knees. His hand still rests on her arm, his fingers toying with the tie on the sleeve of her silk dress. She smiles at him for another second before backing out of his reach, and his hand hovers in the air, empty, before he brings it back to his side.
“I have to take these orders to the docks for my father. He’s trying to secure shipments of medicine and dried herbs from other cities since the healers have already begun to run out.”
“They have?”
She nods, her face grim. “The herbs they need don’t grow this time of year, so they’ve had to rely on their limited stores of dried herbs. Meanwhile, more and more people are being transferred to the makeshift hospital each day.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I overheard Landers saying they ran out of beds two days ago. They’ve had to string up hammocks between the cots and still people are left to sleep on the floor. Oh, Calum, it’s so terrible, isn’t it?”
Her lip trembles, and when Calum pulls her into a hug, she doesn’t fight him. “We’ll make it through this,” he whispers. “I promise.” Her arms stay curled around the bundle of papers as he embraces her, but she rests her head briefly on his shoulder before backing away again.
“We shouldn’t do this.” Her grip tightens on the papers, her fingers fidgeting with the corner of one of the sheets. The movement mesmerizes him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, my love,” he says. He looks away and shuffles his feet for a moment before glancing back up at her. “I’ve missed you.”
Her lips twitch into an almost-smile, then she catches herself. “What do you need me to do?”
“His Royal Highness has invited Marieve to meet him in the library tonight for a chat. You don’t think you could stop by the market and pick up something to help our friend Ser Morrison sleep tonight, do you? I think I’ll pay him a visit later with a refreshment. I’ll also make sure the soldiers stationed around the library are reassigned this evening so she can make a hasty escape with the body.” The last bit he says under his breath, just loudly enough for Elise to hear, and she nods.
“Okay, I will. You’re sure she’ll do it?”
“Absolutely.”
She smiles and shifts the bundle of papers into one arm as she shoulders past him, brushing his fingertips gently with her own. She squeezes his hand once, then lets go and saunters away.
Merciless Page 31
