Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  She and Elvira stare at each other, neither knowing what—if anything—to say. After a long moment, Elvira’s hands tighten into fists and she squares her shoulders. She offers Mercy a firm nod, then turns and runs in the opposite direction.

  Faye waits at the bottom of the stairs and doesn’t say a word when Mercy approaches. Together they creep through the dark hallway, pausing frequently to listen for sounds of guard movements in the adjacent hallways. Hearing none, they continue onward until the servants’ entrance appears in the distance, the form outlined by the pale light of the moon.

  Mercy bites her lip guiltily, remembering her promise to Alyss. The healer must be lying sick in her bed, her mind and body too disease-ridden to do anything other than count the hours until Mercy comes and delivers her poison. Witnessing her own body’s deterioration before her eyes, how long had it taken before she had given up on her cure? Or is she still feverishly working, determined to toil away until her heart stops?

  Thinking of the solid, stubborn woman wasting away makes Mercy sick. It’s not too late to turn around and go to the infirmary. They have time, and the infirmary is only guarded by two men at a time. Any ten-year-old in the Guild could take down two men with ease.

  But looking at Faye, at the grave, remorseless expression on her face, Mercy knows she will never stop for a side trip. If her interaction with Elvira hadn’t proven it, the cool, guarded look in her eyes is evidence enough—it’s the same expression Mercy had worn for seventeen years. In the two weeks they’ve been separated, Faye had become hardened; after losing the Trial, it must have felt like a gift from the Creator himself to be offered the chance to become a Daughter. She will do nothing to jeopardize her mission.

  Faye pulls out a scrap of paper and, after consulting it in the light of a torch, she moves to the door, her fingers flying over the complex set of dials and latches until the door clicks. She pushes the door open, swatting at a vine which catches on her hair when she steps outside. “Freedom.” She grins. “How does it feel?”

  “Let’s just go.” The sooner Mercy leaves the capital, the better.

  “Fine,” Faye says, and leads her around the side of the castle. She peers around the front tower. “Four guards in all, but they’re scattered. When that one passes, we’ll start walking slowly to the gate. At best, they’ll mistake us for servants. At worst . . . well, you have your daggers for a reason.”

  As they wait, a strange feeling of unease comes over Mercy and her hairs stand on end. She rubs her arms once, her skin prickling. It feels like someone is breathing on the back of her neck, but when she turns, they are alone.

  “Tell me about this prince,” Faye whispers. “Is he as awful as everyone says?”

  Tamriel, the familiar stranger’s voice whispers. Mercy shakes her head, a stone sinking in her stomach at the thought of leaving him.

  “He’s had a hard life. I do not fault him for it.”

  “He’s not the first child to grow up without a parent, and he should have learned to accept that.”

  Something Faye had said sticks out in Mercy’s mind—she had said Aelis and Lylia are waiting at the southern gate, but Mother Illynor would never leave a contract incomplete, especially one as important as the one on Tamriel’s head. The other Daughters must be somewhere in the castle, hunting for the prince.

  “I want to go back inside,” Mercy announces.

  “What?” Faye hisses. “Are you mad?”

  She grips Faye’s shoulder and turns her so they’re face-to-face. “I wasn’t able to complete my contract the first time. I want to do it now.”

  “Mercy—”

  “I know the others are in the castle, but I want to be the one to kill him. I can’t return to the Guild a failure, Faye. If we leave now, I’ll return a laughingstock, as I always have been.”

  Faye’s expression is doubtful. She glances back around the tower. “The guard is almost past. We can go soon.”

  “Faye, please.” Mercy allows some pleading to come into her voice. “I know you’re mad at me for cheating you—as you should be—but think how proud Mother Illynor will be when she finds out you helped slay the prince.”

  Faye considers, eyeing Mercy’s daggers with obvious hunger. “When it is done, you will give me your daggers.”

  “Deal.”

  She sighs. “Let’s go.”

  She unlocks the servants’ door again and they dart inside. As Faye closes the door behind them and locks it, Mercy runs a hand over one of the daggers’ pommels, grinning with murderous delight. She imagines the blade slicing into flesh, the warm blood spilling over her hands.

  When the last latch clinks into place, Faye turns and grins.

  “Let’s go find the prince,” Mercy says.

  51

  The door to Tamriel’s chambers stands ajar, grunts and the ring of steel on steel echo from inside. Two dead guards slump against the wall outside, their eyes open and unseeing. One still clutches the gaping hole in his side. Mercy’s eyes widen at the sight, but neither she nor Faye slows as they burst into the prince’s bedroom, sending the door flying open with a resounding crack. They immediately unsheathe their weapons, but it takes Mercy a moment to make sense of the chaos.

  Lylia stands in the center of the room, slashing and hacking at the six guards who surround her. She grips a sword in her right hand—taken from one of the dead guards lying at her feet—and a dagger in her left, which she uses to parry a soldier’s swing. As Mercy watches, she catches his sword with the dagger, then plunges her sword through the chink in the armor around his midsection. When she pulls the blade out, it drips with blood, and the soldier crumples to the ground.

  At Mercy’s side, Faye sends a throwing knife into the neck of one of the guardsmen. He gurgles and falls, and Faye unsheathes her dagger and dives into the fray, taking up an offensive stance beside Lylia. She slashes with lightning-fast strokes, and it’s all the guards can do to deflect her continuous attacks.

  Mercy can’t see the prince, but she knows he’s here, somewhere. She twists the pommels of her daggers together to form the double-bladed staff and leaps onto Tamriel’s bed, her heart thundering in her ears. When she spots the prince, her breath catches.

  He’s standing in the corner, he and the two guards in front of him forced into a defensive position by Aelis’s vicious attacks. His sword is in his hand, but he wears no armor; his loose white undershirt and cotton pants are rumpled from sleep. Several shallow cuts on his arms bleed and stain the linen of his shirt crimson.

  Aelis lunges toward the prince, her teeth bared in a snarl. A guard leaps forward, but she feints right and lunges left, ducking under the arc of his sword as it whistles through the air. She darts behind him, shoving her sword through the back of his thigh. He cries out in agony and falls to his knees. Four inches of the sword stick out of the front of his leg. Tamriel roars and charges toward her, but the other guard pushes him out of the way.

  Aelis hasn’t even broken a sweat.

  She pulls her sword out of the soldier’s leg and lifts it just in time to block the other guard’s swing. Their swords clash and Aelis grunts with the effort of fighting the man’s strength. Tamriel darts forward, his sword raised, letting out a war cry. Aelis turns and delivers a kick to the prince’s chest which sends him flying into the stone wall. The sword falls out of his hand and clatters to the floor.

  Mercy jumps off the bed as Aelis shoves her sword through the other guard’s side, piercing his heart. Mercy rounds the circle of soldiers fighting Lylia and Faye—only three left now, each bleeding heavily—and tightens her grip on her double-edged dagger as Aelis pulls her sword out of the guard. He falls, dead before he hits the ground.

  Tamriel is unarmed, groaning with pain, but Aelis turns her attention to the soldier kneeling on the ground. He lifts his sword and tries to stand, blood pouring down his leg, but he only manages to make it halfway before falling back to his knees. As Aelis approaches, grinning a predatory smile, he lifts the p
oint of his sword, but he’s too late.

  His head thumps to the floor.

  His body follows.

  Aelis wheels on the prince. Tamriel pushes onto his knees, scrambling for his sword. His eyes are wide, his face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. The Daughter makes a show of wiping the blood off her sword as Tamriel stands, a hand braced against the wall. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that it’s trembling.

  Mercy pushes past the last guard and places a hand on Aelis’s shoulder. “Allow me.”

  Tamriel’s eyes meet hers. Recognition, disbelief, horror, and terror flicker across his face in a matter of seconds, finally settling on a look of abject hopelessness.

  Aelis frowns but steps back, waving a hand to the prince as if to say After you.

  Mercy’s fingers are tight around the grip of her daggers, the leather smooth and luxurious under her calloused hands. She steps forward until only two feet separate her and the prince, two feet between her and the completion of her first contract—what she’s been waiting for her entire life. She was raised to become a Daughter. This life of killing is all she has known, and it feels so, so right.

  She’s not wearing any armor. If Tamriel wanted to, he could plunge his blade straight through her heart. He won’t, though, and they both know it. Tamriel halfheartedly lifts his sword, his eyes pleading with her. The sharp point quivers in the air between them, reflecting the moonlight which streams in through the open curtains. Behind her, the last two guards cry out and their lifeless bodies thump to the ground.

  “Mari—Mercy,” Tamriel pleads.

  She lifts the dagger.

  Then spins and plunges the blade into Aelis’s stomach.

  Aelis’s mouth drops open, but no sound escapes. Her eyes drift from Mercy’s face to the hilt protruding from her stomach, where her blood flows through her punctured leather armor. Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly as Mercy twists the dagger a quarter turn, then pulls it out, causing blood to gush from the hole in Aelis’s abdomen. She sways for a moment before her eyes roll back and she crumples to the ground.

  Mercy glances at the prince, whose face is white with shock. When his eyes meet hers, she smiles weakly. “You’re welcome.”

  “TRAITOR!” Lylia roars. She tackles Mercy, knocking the wind out of her when they land on the hard floor, and Mercy’s daggers slip from her grasp and fly out of reach. Mercy coughs and sputters, a hand going to her ribs, which are almost certainly bruised, if not broken. “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Lylia screams, battering Mercy with her fists. “Drowned you in the river, poisoned your dinner, shot an arrow through your heart. I should have pushed you off the wall of the Keep years ago. When I’m done with you, they’re not going to—”

  Lylia’s weight is lifted off Mercy, and she opens her eyes to see Tamriel’s hands clamped around Lylia’s throat, squeezing until her eyes bulge. Then Tamriel lets out a disgusted noise and shoves her backward. “I am not a murderer.” He offers Mercy a hand and pulls her to her feet.

  Lylia stumbles over a body, then straightens and pulls her dagger from her belt. Her eyes narrow and she rushes forward, her blade gleaming as she raises it high. Faye—who had been standing in the center of the room, frozen with shock—springs into action now, reaching out to catch Lylia’s wrist, but she’s too slow.

  Mercy pushes Tamriel behind her and braces herself.

  She’s unarmed.

  But Lylia never reaches them.

  A crack of thunder fills the air, causing Lylia and Faye to fly across the room like ragdolls. They hit the wall, and when they don’t immediately stand, Mercy runs over and presses a hand to Faye’s neck. She checks Lylia, too, then sighs with relief.

  “They’re unconscious,” she says to Tamriel, but he doesn’t hear her. He’s too busy gaping at the woman who stands before him.

  Her body is made of gray smoke, translucent enough that Mercy can see the silhouette of the furniture and the guards’ bodies through her. She looks from Mercy to Tamriel, her long, pointed ears peeking through her hair.

  “You must leave the castle now,” she says, and Mercy’s blood runs cold. Hers is the voice which has been whispering in her ear all along. “If the soldiers see you outside of your cell, they won’t stop to ask questions. When they see him”—she nods to Tamriel—“all bloody and pale, they’ll blame you, and you won’t have to wait for an execution this time.” She picks up Mercy’s dagger and crosses the room to hand it to her.

  Mercy takes it and looks up into the woman’s face for the first time, stifling a gasp. She’s strikingly beautiful, from her dark, serious eyes to the wavy hair framing her face. While they share the same lithe build as every member of the elven race, her body is lean and her movements far more graceful than Mercy could ever hope to emulate. There is also something strangely familiar about her.

  The woman smiles. “Hello, sister.”

  “Liselle?” she whispers.

  Tamriel lets out a choked sound, his face pale, and he sways as if he is about to pass out.

  “How—”

  “No time,” Liselle says, and holds out a hand to Mercy. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepts. Liselle’s hand is as solid as hers, unnaturally warm, yet Mercy recoils as soon as she stands. “I’ve risked much to find you and I’ve stayed too long already. You must leave the castle and go north, to Cirisor.” She drags Mercy behind her and shoves her at Tamriel, who catches her in his arms. They exchange a bewildered look as Liselle continues, “The thing Pilar saw . . . the danger brewing in the north—it’s real. Myrbellanar, the disease—it’s all connected. You must stop it. Leave now, while the castle is in disarray. You remember the flower?”

  Mercy nods.

  “Find it.” She looks at Tamriel. “The soldiers you sent are gone. If you value your people’s lives, you must leave tonight. Do not let your father dissuade you.”

  “My father?”

  “He’s known you would have to leave for some time. You must choose.”

  Tamriel presses his lips together, his fingers tightening on Mercy’s shoulders. She wraps her arms around him, startled when her hands come away wet; the entirety of his back is soaked with blood. She gapes at him, but he steadfastly ignores her. Somewhere in a distant hallway, a man shouts, and the stamping of heavy boots follows him—more guards drawn by the sounds of fighting, no doubt. Mercy stiffens. If they find her, they will kill her.

  “Choose,” she whispers to Tamriel.

  “Quickly,” Liselle adds.

  The prince’s eyes flick from Mercy to Liselle, uncertainty shining in their depths. He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. Then he seizes Mercy’s hand and they sprint out of the room.

  52

  He drags her into the hallway, pausing at the sight of the slain soldiers slumped on either side of his door. He frowns, and Mercy wonders how well the prince had known them. Living in the castle, it couldn’t have been easy to remain strangers with everyone in his command.

  The hallway extends to their right and left. From their left, the sound of running footsteps grows louder as the guards approach. To their right, it’s only a few corridors to the stairs which will lead them to the main floor and out of the castle. Tamriel wavers, glancing from side to side. For a moment, Mercy fears he will decide not to trust Liselle and take her left, leaving her to the soldiers’ mercy. After everything that had happened, she wouldn’t blame him. It’s her fault he almost died tonight, after all.

  Tamriel makes his decision, and then they’re running again. Mercy lets out a cry of relief when he leads her right and they arrive at the spiral staircase. She keeps her eyes trained on Tamriel’s back while they run down the steps. He won’t be able to continue much longer at this speed; the blood darkening his linen shirt continues to spread. When he glances back at her, she sees he is clenching his teeth in pain.

  They sprint down the stairs so quickly Mercy is surprised her feet don’t tangle underneath her. Tamriel’s hand is wrapped a
round hers, slick with perspiration and blood, and he tightens his grip to keep her from slipping away. The soldiers pursuing them are closer than they had been before; the clattering of their metal armor echoes on the stone walls and steps above Mercy’s and Tamriel’s heads. As they reach the first floor, Tamriel pulls her out of the stairwell with a sharp tug, but not before one of the guards catches a glimpse of Mercy’s hair.

  “The Assassin’s there!” he cries.

  “Hurry,” Mercy urges Tamriel.

  “This way.”

  She doesn’t realize until it’s too late where he’s leading her.

  “No!” she shouts as the prince shoves open the doors to the great hall. “The guards!” She tugs at Tamriel’s hand, but she’s too weak after her time in the dungeon to escape his grasp, and he hasn’t yet realized his mistake.

  Ten guards in identical armor stand in front of the tall doors which lead out of the castle, their swords raised. Seeing them, Tamriel stops in the middle of the room so quickly Mercy crashes into him. He hisses in pain and drops Mercy’s hand, breathing hard. He lifts his chin. “Step aside, soldiers.”

  None of them move.

  Behind Mercy, the guards who had chased them from Tamriel’s chambers enter. They freeze when they see the prince standing beside Mercy, and all of them drop to one knee, bowing their heads.

  “Forgive us, Your Highness,” the commander says. “We didn’t realize—”

  “Rise.”

  Tamriel flinches at the voice, then slowly turns to face his father, standing in the doorway to the throne room with his eyes trained on his son. He frowns and steps closer, and the frown deepens when Mercy raises her dagger.

  “That’s close enough,” she warns.

  Behind her, the guards stand and unsheathe their swords. Ghyslain holds out a hand to stop them, and Tamriel shoots her a look of warning. She glowers at him, but obliges, lowering her weapon.

  “Where are you going, Tamriel?” Ghyslain’s expression is one of innocent curiosity; he appears truly puzzled. “And why is she out of her cell?”