43
No one says a word during the walk to Blackbriar, until Mercy stops Ser Morrison in his tracks the minute they step off the street and onto the paved stones leading to the front door.
“You’ll wait right there,” Mercy says, crossing her arms. “The king may have assigned you to follow me around the city, but I’d like some privacy in my own home.”
Ser Morrison frowns.
“What do you think I’m going to do, sneak out?” Mercy rolls her eyes. “There’s one door, and you’re looking at it. The minute I step outside, you can follow me around to your heart’s content. In the meantime, don’t worry, I’m not going to climb out the window or anything.”
And this—to be fair—is a lie, because that’s exactly what she does.
Later that night, Mercy opens the curtains and pushes one of the wide glass windows in the first-floor study open wide, leaning out to stare up at the sky tinged with the red-orange streaks of sunset. She glances back at Elvira and grins, then boosts herself up and over the windowsill, hopping down onto the stone outside.
“Okay, hand me everything.”
Elvira passes her a thick black bundle of cloth, and Mercy unwraps the twin daggers and tucks them into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back. Her loose top hides their bulk well enough, but she still drapes the black cloak over her shoulders and ties the strings into a knot at her collarbone, grateful for the thick wool when a cool night breeze sweeps past. She pulls the cloak tighter around herself, only the toes of her worn leather boots peeking out from under the hem. They’re far from the finery she’s become accustomed to wearing, but they’ll be much better for running and sneaking than her usual silk flats. While still of high quality, the clothes she has chosen will keep her warm on the road in case she is forced to flee the city in the middle of the night. All she wears are simple black pants and a crimson knitted top, and Elvira’s white sash is tucked into her pocket in case she needs a quick disguise.
Elvira passes her a small silk pouch, full of the aurums she’d saved and the Guild coin Aelis had given her. Mercy tucks it into her pocket.
“Thanks, Elvira,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”
“Or not,” she responds. Mercy steps back as Elvira reaches out and swings the window shut, but before she latches it, she adds, “Good luck.”
Mercy nods, then turns and walks around the corner of the house, squeezing into the narrow alley and inching along until she is close enough to peer at the front door. Ser Morrison sits on a stool Elvira had left for him, slumped half-upright against the doorframe. He snores quietly, his head bobbing against his chest as he breathes. Mercy steps out from the alley and makes it three feet before something white flutters in her peripheral vision. It’s a scrap of paper, pinned to the ground next to Ser Morrison’s boot with a pebble. She eyes him cautiously as she approaches, uncertain whether this is a trap to catch her sneaking out. When he does nothing more than mumble incoherently in his sleep, she picks up the paper then darts onto the street and out of sight before she reads it.
The scrap had been torn from an order log, neat rows of boxes filled with numbers and shipping codes in cursive script crossing its surface. The note scrawled across it had clearly been written by a different hand.
You have about three hours before he wakes up and finds you missing—don’t waste a second, love.
—C
Mercy tears up the note and tosses the pieces behind her as she starts toward the castle, a slight smirk on her face. She is going to complete her first contract tonight, going to prove all her Sisters wrong. I am going to be the best Assassin the Guild has ever trained. The street bustles with pedestrians, carriages, and wagons carting last-minute shipments, and Mercy has no problem slipping into the midst of a group of slaves who follow their human masters along the sidewalk.
When they reach the corner, Mercy breaks away and strides through the main gate of the castle, walking at a leisurely pace until she nears the foot of the stairs. She darts to the side and around the corner until she sees the vine-covered trellises which hide the servants’ entrance. A few guards wander the gardens, but they pay her no mind aside from a cursory glance. Although the sun shines low in the west, she knows the shadow cast by the castle is enough for them to identify her clearly elven body and the shape of her pointed ears without looking too closely at her face.
She finds the door and unlatches the complicated lock as Elvira had explained to her. The door springs open to the dark corridor, a far-off point of light flickering where the hall to the infirmary intersects the one ahead of her. Mercy pulls the door closed behind her and starts down the hall, refusing to look at the infirmary door or think of Alyss and the two priestesses when she passes. Her boots muffle the sound of her footsteps as she makes her way up the stairs, then down a hallway and up two more floors.
She emerges from the stairwell facing the door to the library, and when she opens it, warm air caresses her cheeks and twines in her hair. A fire crackles somewhere inside, beckoning her closer.
“Tamriel?” she calls softly as she wanders down the aisle between twenty-foot-tall bookshelves. Iron ladders lean against the shelves at intermittent intervals, the sides shiny where hands have rubbed the metal smooth. In the middle of the aisle, oversized velvet settees overflowing with satin pillows and soft throw blankets are clustered around mahogany side tables and leather ottomans every few yards, the silver candle sconces on the ends of the shelves bathing the area in warm light.
At the back of the library is a huge black fireplace, a latticed iron gate protecting the carpet from the sparks which fly from the logs as they crackle and shift. Mercy slows as she approaches, untying the strings of the cloak before she removes it and drapes it over the back of the nearest couch. She glances down the rows of shelves around her, but the prince is nowhere in sight. Is this a trap? She begins to perspire, both from the heat and the nerves running up and down her spine, and slowly brings her hand back, her fingers brushing the handle of one of her daggers and—
She sees him.
He’s sitting on the floor ten feet away, his back against one of the bookshelves and a candelabrum on the floor at his side. One of his legs is stretched out in front of him, the other bent to prop up the spine of the book he’s reading. He leans into it as if he wishes to step into the pages and transport himself into that make-believe world.
She’s never seen him more at peace.
She lets her fingers drop from the dagger and simply stands there, watching him. His head is bent forward, his hair falling into his face, a small crease between his brows as his eyes move across the page. He bites his lip, his fingers curling tighter around the book’s cover. Two more books are stacked beside him, as if he had decided to stay and read all night if that’s how long it would take her to arrive. The gesture warms her more than the fire.
“I can come back later, if you’re busy,” she murmurs.
Tamriel starts and looks up, his lips spreading into a smile so bright it puts the stars to shame. “Too busy for you?” He closes the book and places it on the ground beside himself, then stands. “Never.”
“How did—”
Before she can say anything else, Tamriel closes the distance between them, cups her face in his hands, and kisses her.
His fingers twine in her hair, pull her closer, trace little trails of fire along her scalp and the line of her jaw. Her hands are pressed against his chest, curled in the soft fabric of his shirt. For a moment, Mercy stands frozen in shock. When Tamriel slides one hand to the small of her waist and tugs her flush against him, every thought leaves her head.
Every thought except I want this.
She wraps her arms around Tamriel’s neck and rises onto her toes. His lips are soft against hers, kissing her with want, with desire, with need. She shivers when his hand slips under the hem of her shirt and grazes her bare stomach.
Too soon, he pulls back, breathless, and rests his forehead against hers. �
�You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispers. When he leans forward to kiss her again, she turns her face away, guilt threatening to choke her.
What are you thinking? she wants to scream at herself. What the hell is wrong with you?
Instead, she takes a shaky breath and says, “Did you speak with the advisors?”
He frowns at the sudden change of subject. “I did. Unfortunately, they all think it’s a ruse my father and I created to test their loyalties. I’m going to speak to them again tomorrow night and see if I can convince them to trust me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They listened, which means they’ll at least consider supporting me. After the morning we had, this feels like a step in the right direction.”
“Is that optimism? From you?” If he notices the quiver in her voice, he doesn’t show it.
“Master Oliver reported that the soldiers he dispatched to find the cure spoke to Cassius Baccha. Apparently, he was very cooperative, and, with luck, the soldiers will send word from Cirisor before my birthday. Then I can reveal to everyone that I may have found the cure, and hopefully that will be enough for the nobles to support me.” He rubs the back of his neck with a hand, frowning at the ground. After a moment, he looks up, troubled. “Did you see the look on my father’s face earlier? Whatever he thinks is coming terrifies him.”
“I know what you mean,” Mercy says. “It scares him enough to put thousands of lives at stake.”
Tamriel frowns, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He bends down and picks up the candelabrum, then places it atop the fireplace’s mantle. His fingers hover an inch away after he releases it, then he shakes his head and straightens, turning toward Mercy. “No,” he says.
“No?”
“I can’t dwell on this anymore. I’m done wracking my brain trying to make up excuses for that pitiful, broken man. All I can do is try to fix his mistakes,” he says. He stares into the fire, the light from the flames turning his olive skin copper. “You’re not here to listen to my whining and my problems. That’s not why I asked you to come.”
He steps closer, and she holds up a hand. “Don’t. Please, Tamriel.”
For every step he takes closer, she steps back, feeling her resolve crack a little more with each inch. Remember your vow. Remember how Lylia tortured you all those years. Remember Calum. Yet how can she focus on anything but the way Tamriel is watching her, his lips curling into a crooked smile, and how her heart races whenever he is near? “Everything we’ve accomplished, we’ve accomplished because of you. On Solari, Pilar came looking for you; she spoke to you. You suggested we seal Beggars’ End days before a mob tried to raze the neighborhood. You figured out my father was hiding the cure.” His smile widens. “Because of you, we will save thousands of lives.”
Closer.
Back.
“I wouldn’t give myself that much credit.”
He shakes his head. “You’re extraordinary, Marieve.”
Tamriel places his fingertips under her chin, tilting her head up until their gazes meet. His eyes search hers with a question he doesn’t dare voice, but he reads the answer on her face. She swallows painfully when he cups her cheek, his thumb softly brushing her skin.
Traitor! the voice inside her mind screams.
He leans forward.
She lifts her face in response, her fingers tracing the light stubble along his jaw. When their lips are an inch apart, she closes her eyes and whispers, “We shouldn’t do this.”
He smiles, and his warm breath tickles her lips when he responds teasingly, “What are you afraid of?”
Her heart stutters. So much.
When their lips meet again, a jolt goes through Mercy’s entire being. She clutches him to her as his teeth graze her lower lip, and he guides her back until she’s pressed against the bookshelf, her spine arching with pleasure. The shelf digs into her back, but she doesn’t care. She can’t focus on anything but the trail his hands take as they slip down her sides to rest on the curve of her hips.
I want this, she thinks again. I want him.
Then he shifts, and his fingers brush her back just above the handles of her daggers. Mercy stiffens, reality crashing back into place, and pushes Tamriel away. She darts around him and picks up her cloak from the couch, clutching the fabric to her chest, wishing it could protect her from what just happened.
“What’s wrong?” Tamriel doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach out for her, just watches with sadness and hurt in his eyes.
Mercy takes a deep breath, raking her fingers through her hair to remove the memory of his touch. She feels unsteady, uprooted. Her vision swims and, when she turns and almost stumbles, she has to catch her balance with the back of the couch before she straightens. “I told you we shouldn’t have done this,” she says, then bolts from the library.
Tamriel watches Marieve’s cloak swish behind her as she runs, twisting around her legs when she pauses to open the heavy door. When the sound of it crashing closed behind her echoes through the empty library, Tamriel leans his head back and stares at the ceiling, running a hand over his face as he groans. What does he think he’s doing? What—What in Creator’s name compels him to act this way around her?
“Shit,” he sighs, dropping his hands back to his sides. He bends down and picks up the three books he’d picked out, then stacks them on the table beside the settee, staring down at the top book’s worn cover. A moment later, he shouts in frustration and knocks them off the table. They crash onto the ground loudly and splay open, several pages bent or torn.
He sinks onto the corner of the couch, cradles his head in his hands, and gives in to the exhaustion threatening to overtake him.
44
“I told you we shouldn’t have done this.”
Mercy’s words hardly register in Calum’s ears; it takes him a few moments to realize what she has said—that she hadn’t killed Tamriel—and he draws back into the shadows of the bookshelves just before she rushes past. She doesn’t notice him, but it’s still instinct to duck out of view after years of nobles kicking him out of every private function. Often, he’d been spotted halfway through and promptly kicked out, but after a while, it had become something of a game between the cousins to see just how long he could hide. As he and Tamriel grew, the game had continued, the stakes raised with increasingly larger wages. Calum would invariably win and collect his earnings with a sly smirk as his younger cousin turned out his pockets of every last aurum. After a while, Calum had refused to accept any more money from Tamriel, but the proud prince still found a way to repay his debts every time—even going so far as to have one of the cooks stick the coins into a slice of Calum’s birthday cake one year, ruining the entire piece.
Calum chuckles silently at the memory of his teeth striking the hard coin mid-bite, the horror which had dawned on him at the thought of having broken a tooth. Seated to his father’s right at the dinner table, Tamriel hadn’t laughed, but his smug grin had been enough to convince Calum they were much too old to play such a game any longer.
Across the library, Tamriel lets out a frustrated bellow and something thumps as it hits the ground. Calum jumps. He stands and peers around the corner of the bookshelf. Tamriel is slumped on the couch with his back to Calum, the firelight casting him in a golden aura.
Calum pulls his dagger from the sheath on his belt, stepping out of his hiding spot and into the center of the library. His fingers tighten on the smooth leather grip of his dagger. Why couldn’t Mercy have killed Tamriel when she had had the chance? The coward! Where is the vicious, heartless assassin he’d met in the Forest of Flames, the bloodthirsty elf who had wished so much to become a Daughter she had risked death to cheat her way into the Trial?
After all these years, I should’ve known better than to rely on anyone else.
Calum creeps forward. On the couch, the prince lies on his side with his head propped on his arm like a pillow, his eyes shut and legs tucked in clo
se to accommodate their length. His face is calm and relaxed, no trace of its usual sharpness. Calum fidgets with the dagger in his hand, the handle slick in his palm.
One slice, right across the throat.
Now, before he wakes.
Calum steps over the books splayed on the floor, biting his lip as he moves closer. Tamriel shifts and his hand falls over the side of the couch, grasping the air, and Calum pauses, the sound of shattering ice ringing in his ears.
The little prince’s laughter is cut off by a shriek of terror which is ripped from his lips by the whistling, biting wind as the hole opens underneath him.
Bluegrass Valley’s frozen lake swallows him.
Calum screams, sprinting, stumbling over the snowdrift and past the young boys who stand petrified by the shore. One boy seizes Calum’s wrist, but he shoves him off without slowing, his eyes locked on his six-year-old cousin’s hand as it bobs once above the water and disappears. He darts onto the lake, his feet pounding on the ice which threatens to give way underneath him. Tamriel surfaces again, his face pale and eyes wide.
“Calum!” he screams. “Help!”
He has lost one of his gloves. His pale fingers scratch at the ice but cannot find a hold, and he screams again as his body is pulled under by the weight of his coat.
“Tam!” Calum cries. He dives onto his stomach as he nears the hole, nearly sliding in as he plunges his hands into the frigid water. His skin prickles as if stung by a thousand needles. He cries out at the pain.
No no no please Creator please—
He reaches as far as he can into the water, scrabbling for a hold on something familiar—Tamriel’s hand, maybe, or the hood of his coat. Anything. The water numbs his fingers, but something twines between them. Tamriel’s hair? Calum pulls at it but comes back with nothing but a handful of seaweed. He tosses it aside, a choked sob escaping his frozen lips, and plunges his hands back into the water.
Merciless Page 32
