Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Someone has run out after him and tugs at his boot, shouting to come back, that it’s not safe, that he won’t find Tamriel. Calum grunts in response and kicks at the hand around his ankle. He reaches in further, the water up to his shoulder.

  Creator please don’t let him die Creator—

  His arm strikes something solid. Calum lets out a cry of victory as he recognizes the thick pelt of Tamriel’s jacket and closes his hand around his cousin’s forearm, dragging him up and out of the water. Tamriel coughs and sputters, his eyes wide, and Calum nearly loses his grip when Tamriel kicks and jerks away in terror. He wraps his arms around his cousin’s chest and yanks him up, not letting go until he’s pulled him back to the shore.

  Calum drops Tamriel and peels off his cousin’s soaked coat, tossing it aside and wrapping his own around the little boy’s shoulders. The prince curls up on his side and vomits dark lake water onto the snow, and Calum sobs with relief when Tamriel reaches behind him and clasps his hand in a vice grip, his hand small and trembling, but strong.

  Calum stumbles away from the couch, the clarity of the memory making him weak in the knees. “Damn it,” he whispers, then sheathes his dagger. His fingers shake when he lets go. He turns and sneaks out of the library, easing the door shut behind him without a sound.

  In the hallway, he makes it three steps before he stops and turns back, reaching for the door handle.

  Just one slice, and it’ll be done.

  “Coward,” he curses himself. “Go back inside and—” He tugs at his hair. Tamriel is innocent—innocent and as close to a brother as Calum has ever had. The king is the one who hired the Assassins to kill Drake, the man who had murdered Liselle to keep her toxic ideals from weakening the kingdom. He had done nothing more than his duty, protecting Beltharos when the king was too blind to see the threat she posed. Does his father not deserve to be avenged? For all the pain the king has caused Calum’s family, losing his son and his throne seems a fitting punishment.

  And yet, does he betray the man who had brought him into his home, who had raised him, to avenge the man who had sired him—a man Calum never knew?

  He takes a deep breath. He pivots on his heel and walks down the stairs to the great hall, then mumbles, “The prince is asleep in the library. Make sure he doesn’t burn the place down,” to the first guard he sees. She nods and begins to run, her footfalls echoing through the empty hall as Calum opens the double doors and walks out into the night.

  Something pings on the window.

  Elise looks up from her painting, her brows furrowing in confusion. A second later, when the sound comes again, she sighs and places her palette and brush on the stool beside her. Moving to the window, she cups her hands around her eyes and peers out.

  “Oh, Creator,” she sighs. She turns and walks into the hall, pausing at the sound of her parents’ voices drifting from her father’s study. If she’s quiet, they won’t hear the whisper of her slippers on the staircase. Liri has already gone home after serving dinner, and Aelyn is likely busy in the kitchen. Biting her lip, Elise tiptoes down the stairs and hurries to the front door.

  “Elise?” She cringes and turns. Aelyn stands in the archway of the dining room, wiping her hands with a towel. She raises a brow. “Everything okay?”

  “Of course. I just need some air.” Upstairs, her mother laughs, and Elise’s eyes dart to the front door. After her outburst the other night at dinner, her parents have been watching her with eyes like a hawk. She hopes Aelyn hasn’t been commanded to do the same.

  “Okay, just be careful out there—don’t go near anyone who could be sick. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Would you like some tea when you return?”

  “That’d be lovely.”

  “Okay, it’ll be ready in a few minutes.” She smiles and walks back into the dining room, then pauses and turns back. “Do you think Calum would like some as well?”

  Elise nearly chokes. “Aelyn!”

  She holds up a hand. “I won’t tell them he’s here, but you must get rid of him. Your father won’t take kindly to him lurking outside. He needs to accept the fact that you’re betrothed to someone else.”

  Relief sweeps over Elise. “I know. Thank you.”

  Satisfied, Aelyn walks away, and Elise waits to leave until she hears the elf humming in the other room. She slips outside and pulls the door closed behind her, then rounds the corner of the house. Calum stands just below the window to her studio, one hand full of pebbles and the other poised to throw.

  “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to—” Elise begins, but Calum’s kiss cuts her off. Elise lifts a hand to push him away, but before she can, he pulls back, frowning.

  “She didn’t do it.”

  “She didn’t—what? Mercy didn’t kill him? Why?”

  He shakes his head. “She”—kissed him—“ran away. I tried to do it, to get it over with, but . . . Elise, he’s my cousin. He’s the closest thing I have to a brother—to any real family.”

  “Your father was your family.”

  “I know, but I can’t be the one to kill Ta—” He glances up at the window, then lowers his voice. “I can’t be the one to kill Tamriel. I just . . . can’t do it.”

  She sighs and entwines her fingers in his. “I know. I don’t want to hurt Tamriel either, but this was your idea, remember? I love you, but I’m betrothed to someone else.”

  “Leon.” Calum spits his name like a curse.

  “Yes, and you know I have to marry him—”

  “You don’t.”

  “Yes,” she says, tightening her grip on his hand, “I do, because no matter what my brother does, they’ll never make him a Cain—not after they found him with Julian.” She levels her gaze at him and he looks away sheepishly. “Now he’s locked in Beggars’ End, surrounded by people who are sick and dying, and it’s only a matter of time before he—before he—” Her lip trembles and she takes a deep breath. “So it’s my responsibility to care for my family, and I can do that by becoming a Nadra. I can’t marry you, Calum, not if you’re a commoner.”

  He hangs his head and slips his hand out of hers. “I know.”

  “I have to go before my father notices I’m not in my studio.” She waits a moment, half-expecting him to object and beg for a minute longer. When he says nothing, she turns and begins to walk away, not hiding the hurt on her face.

  “Wait—” he says, and she pauses.

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow night, I need you to go to Blackbriar and escort Mercy to Tamriel’s meeting with the nobles an hour early—tell her he asked for her to come. I’ll speak to that skittish handmaid of hers and have her send a letter back to the Guild saying Mercy’s in trouble. With any luck, they’ll send someone to collect her and complete the contract before his birthday next week, and we won’t have to do a thing. If not . . .”

  “It’ll be up to us.”

  He nods grimly.

  “I understand. Goodnight, Calum.”

  “Goodnight, my love.”

  45

  Tamriel’s eyes fly open when the library doors bang shut a second time. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Marieve?” he calls, his hopeful voice echoing through the cavernous room. No response comes. He groans. Look what you’ve done, you idiot. Not for the first time, you’ve made a fool of yourself. He remembers with a flush of embarrassment the look of surprise on her face when he had kissed her, the way she had tensed when his lips had met hers. For a moment, he’d been seized with panic when she hadn’t immediately kissed him back, but it had all vanished a second later when she’d melted in his arms.

  Everything—the fear, the nerves—had come crashing back, had threatened to choke him, when she’d pushed him away and darted from the room.

  She hadn’t looked back.

  Tamriel shoves the memory away. He stands and piles the ruined, torn books on the table beside the couch, then blows out the flames of the candelabrum sitting on the fireplace’s mantle. He drums his f
ingers against his thigh as he walks the length of the library and out into the hallway, nearly colliding with a guard who rounds the corner too quickly.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness,” she says breathlessly. “Your cousin sent me to watch over you, Your Highness. He didn’t want you left alone.”

  Tamriel squints his tired eyes, and finally her name comes to him—Vela. She’s been in his father’s service for the better half of a decade. “How did he know I was in the library?”

  “He came to speak to you, I believe. He didn’t say why.”

  “He does know I’m a grown man, right? I can take care of myself.”

  “Rightly so, Your Highness. Shall I escort you to your chambers?”

  “No, thank you.” He starts in the direction of his rooms, then pauses. “The healers in the makeshift infirmary—those tents outside the city—have been working on cures, haven’t they? And they’ve sent samples here for Alyss to test?”

  “Yes, but she hasn’t come to collect them in several days. Rumor has it she’s been infected too.”

  “Can you take me to where they are being stored?”

  The guard bites her lip, then nods. “Follow me, if you would, Your Highness.” She starts down the hall and leads him to a room adjacent to the king’s study. As they pass the study’s wide wooden door, Tamriel averts his eyes. His anger over being forced to maim Hero has faded to a dull blaze in the face of the busyness of the past few days, but he hasn’t been able to stomach being in the same room as his father after learning of the king lying about the potential cure.

  The guard pushes open the door and gestures to the large central table, dozens of vials of unlikely cures lined up along its length, the mixtures inside illuminated by the moonlight drifting in from the open windows. Tamriel’s heart sinks at the sight—so much hope bottled up in these little jars, and not one will save the thousands of sick people languishing throughout the city. Tamriel shudders to think what might happen if Leitha and her soldiers don’t return soon with the Cirisian cure.

  He picks up one of the vials and rolls the cool glass between his fingers, watching the pale pink liquid slosh against the sides. Then he has an idea. The vials won’t cure the plague, but they will ease his people’s pain and suffering. “Fetch me a bag, Vela,” he says suddenly. “And call for a carriage.”

  She does as he bids and when she returns, he carefully dumps all the wax-sealed vials into the soft canvas bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he follows Vela to where the carriage waits at the bottom of the castle’s steps.

  “Shall I accompany you, Your Highness?” she asks.

  He glances up at the castle’s tall, imposing structure, the gilded towers and flecks of obsidian glinting under the starlight. He imagines his father inside, acutely aware of the suffering of his people, yet doing nothing to stop it. “I’m going to Beggars’ End. Come with me if you wish—I won’t order you to put yourself in harm’s way.”

  To her credit, her expression doesn’t waver except for the slightest hint of surprise. She calls their destination to the driver before clambering into the carriage behind Tamriel, her mouth set in a tight line.

  “I know it’s dangerous,” Tamriel says.

  “I am sworn to protect you, Your Highness. My place is by your side.”

  The driver snaps the reins and the carriage jolts forward. Tamriel and Vela sit in silence for the fifteen-minute ride to the western sector of Sandori, the only sounds the clomping of the horses’ hooves and the occasional friendly greeting from carriage drivers they pass. Soon the carriage slows, then halts, and the driver climbs down and opens the door. As Tamriel exits, he thanks the driver and instructs him to wait for their return.

  Tamriel strides toward the gate to Beggars’ End. It’s not the same one the mob had tried to break through only days ago—he fears Master Oliver had posted extra guards there since the commotion—but there are still more guards here than usual. The three young men bow when Tamriel and Vela approach.

  “Let us through the gate, please,” Tamriel says to Dorian, the eldest of the trio. When Dorian straightens, his brows furrowed in confusion, Tamriel adds, “That’s a command, not a request.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” He lifts the large ring of keys and unlocks the heavy padlock. The iron gate creaks as Dorian and pulls it open, and the guards exchange a concerned look when Tamriel and Vela step through. The clang of the gate closing behind them seems to echo in the night, and Vela rests a hand on the grip of the sword at her hip.

  Tamriel fidgets with the strap of his canvas bag as he and Vela walk the streets, skirting potholes and foul-smelling pools of what Tamriel hopes is water. They pass shops with broken shutters and peeling paint, houses with sagging roofs smelling of filth and rot, and occasionally small groups of people huddled in the alleys, who peer out at them with sunken, hopeless eyes. Vela is close at his side, keeping his clipped pace with ease. The jingling of her chainmail and the quiet clinking of the glass vials follows them as they round a corner. A large warehouse comes into sight before them, one of the few still standing in the district. As they approach, a familiar figure pushes off the wall and starts toward them.

  “No one’s supposed to be out this late,” Atlas calls, lifting a lantern and peering out into the night. “By decree of the king.”

  “At ease, friend,” Tamriel says, and Atlas stiffens at the sound of his voice.

  “Y-Your Highness?”

  “The one and only.” They meet in the middle of the block, the flickering flame of the lantern momentarily blinding Tamriel after the long, dark trek from the gate. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small envelope Elise had given him the day before. Atlas’s eyes widen when he sees her perfect, elegant handwriting. “This belongs to you.”

  “Your Highness, please tell me you didn’t venture all the way out here to deliver a letter.”

  “I made your sister a promise. She made quite a fuss when she found out you were stuck here.”

  “Sounds like her.” He chokes on a laugh and accepts the letter, clutching it so tightly Tamriel worries he’ll rip right through the paper. He stuffs it into his pocket. “Will you . . .?” He trails off, his face flushing. “Nevermind. I-I wouldn’t presume to—”

  “Go ahead.”

  Atlas bites his lip. “Will you just let her know I’m okay? The other guards and I are watching out for each other. We’re handling it.”

  “Is that true?”

  “We . . . lost Willard and Geoff, Your Highness, two days ago.” Tamriel doesn’t recognize the names, but his heart still aches at the grief in Atlas’s voice. “Please don’t tell her that, Your Highness. Tell her I’ll see her when this is all over. Soon.”

  Tamriel places a hand on the guard’s shoulder. “I’ll tell her. I trust all has been quiet since the district has been quarantined?”

  “As much as one would expect. The people weren’t happy to find the gates locked, and violence between the humans and elves here tripled in the first few hours of the lockdown. People panicked. But, uh, as more people fall sick, the streets grow more empty by the day.”

  Tamriel starts toward the warehouse, the two guards falling into step beside him. The light from Atlas’s lantern bobs as they walk, the small orange flame reflected in the shards of glass hanging in the windows where the wooden boards had rotted away. Even after almost twenty years, streaks of black soot mar the gray stone, scars from a blaze which had claimed over a dozen other buildings and taken the city’s firemen two days to extinguish. The building had been home to rodents and squatters in the decades since, only recently cleared out by the guards to quarantine the infected after the healers’ tents in the fields had filled.

  “I’ve brought what I can,” Tamriel says, gesturing to the vials in his bag. “They haven’t been tested because our healer is . . . indisposed . . . at the moment.”

  When they reach the door of the warehouse, Atlas sets the lantern at his feet and pulls three handkerchiefs from his po
cket. He hands one to Tamriel, who ties it over his mouth and nose, then turns to Vela. The prince stops him before he can pass it to her. “You two are waiting out here.”

  “But—”

  “Your Highness—”

  Tamriel huffs exasperatedly. “If one more guard questions my orders tonight, I’ll have the lot of you thrown into the Abraxas Sea.”

  They close their mouths.

  “Atlas, your family has served mine for generations. I owe too much to your father and sister to allow you into harm’s way. You shouldn’t have been locked in here in the first place—none of you. Vela, wait outside until I return. I will return,” he says in response to her stricken look. It’s hardly my first visit to Beggars’ End.

  “Take the lantern,” Atlas insists, pushing the heavy metal handle into his hands. “The moonlight’s enough for us to see by.”

  The whoosh of air which greets Tamriel when he steps into the warehouse is thick and stale, putrid with the odor of unwashed bodies. The lantern’s flame sputters and flickers, illuminating the vague shapes of people huddled in blankets against the walls, strung up on stained hammocks between large stone pillars, and lying on the bare ground. It’s nearly impossible to tell which of them are dead and which are simply sleeping. Their infected skin is red and scaly, the boils swollen and crusty where the blisters have popped, and all is silent save the quiet rasp of pained breaths.

  “Here,” Tamriel whispers as he kneels beside an elderly woman with skin like tissue paper. She squints against the light of the lantern. He breaks the wax seal on the first vial and pours the contents into the woman’s half-open mouth, catching a droplet which dribbles down her chin with a fingertip. “Rest now. The medicine will ease your pain.”

  The woman nods once, weakly, her eyelids fluttering open and closed.