Merciless

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “No buts. Count yourself lucky I didn’t clap you in chains after you snuck away last night.”

  Mercy scowls. Of course Tamriel had told him about that. It explains the suspicious looks Oliver and the other guards had been shooting her all day.

  “After you,” Master Oliver says, holding the door to their room open. The hinges squeak as he closes it behind her.

  The room is furnished sparsely: two hay-filled mattresses sit atop scratched wooden frames on opposite walls, a small lockbox (ironically, missing the lock) at the foot of each, and a dented (thankfully clean) chamber pot in the corner. Mercy tosses her knapsack onto one of the mattresses and changes out of her wet clothes. Her dry trousers and light tunic feel like a blessing on her chilled skin. She shoves her soaked boots under the bed and exchanges them for a pair of woven slip-ons, frowning at her pruned toes. When she returns to the hall, Master Oliver leaves her under Silas’s watch before disappearing into the room to change.

  “Come on. That’s not true!” Calum’s laughter booms from the floor below. Mercy and Silas wander downstairs to find Calum seated at one of the booths, surrounded by the rest of the guards. He grins at some story one of them tells. Tamriel is seated beside him, shaking his head as he chuckles.

  “You’re saying you never went streaking through the throne room? Wasn’t there some incident a few years ago that had all the young noblewomen talking for weeks?” Akiva says, elbowing Calum teasingly.

  “Maybe once. On a dare.”

  “Riiiiigggghhhttt.”

  Calum turns and pins his cousin with a look. “What about you, my prince? Regale us: what’s the worst thing you’ve done in the castle?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t respect me any longer.”

  “Go on, tell us. I already don’t respect you.”

  Tamriel shoves Calum as one of the barmaids walks over with an armful of mugs and platters. On each plate, a grilled fish lies in a pool of citrus juice and grains, garnished with dark herbs. She places once chipped ceramic mug in front of each person, then brings over pitchers of wine, spiced rum, and ale.

  Calum pushes Akiva off the bench, then gestures for Mercy to sit beside him. “Don’t think we’d forget about you, princess.”

  On Calum’s other side, Tamriel frowns at the nickname. “Calum, that’s not appro—”

  “Quit acting like a child. Eat.”

  Tamriel shakes his head and glares at his plate. Mercy smirks and focuses on her food as Master Oliver slips into the booth across from her. The guards’ chatter quiets as they dig into their meal, then swells again as the evening drags on, their faces flushing with alcohol and merriment. Mercy nurses the same cup of spiced rum all night, drinking only enough for a warmth to bud in her stomach, and Tamriel doesn’t drink anything. Twice, she catches him staring at her, but he looks away before she can decipher his expression.

  Late that night, after Tamriel, Calum, and the guards retire, Mercy follows Master Oliver down the hall to their room. Parson and Clyde are standing watch outside the prince’s room in the adjacent hallway.

  If only they knew that the real threat to Tamriel’s life is inside his room, not outside.

  Mercy lies awake on her bed as the hours drag on, watching the stars through the sliver of a window on the far wall. Hay pokes her back through the threadbare sheets covering the mattress, and Master Oliver’s snores fill the room every few minutes, rumbling through his massive, crooked mess of a nose. He’s a remarkably light sleeper—he stirs with every creak of the old building and every moan of the wind outside.

  Tamriel is alone with Calum.

  Mercy blinks up at the ceiling, trying to push her worries away. Tamriel will be fine. Calum isn’t stupid enough to attack with the guards right outside their door.

  But if he did attack, the guards would be too late, and Calum is clever enough to come up with an explanation for whatever tragedy would befall the prince—a thief broke into their room, Tamriel had wanted a late night drink, had fallen down . . .

  She turns onto her side, staring at the sleeping silhouette of Master Oliver. If she told him the truth about the contract . . . he would never believe her. It would be her word against Calum’s—an Assassin against a man who is a guard-commander in all but title, Tamriel’s cousin, his best friend.

  Then she remembers Calum’s hesitation when she had asked him about wanting revenge for his father, that little pause before he lied, the pause which told her he isn’t beyond doing what he must to avenge Drake Zendais’s death.

  Mercy pushes off her blankets, swings her feet onto the floor, and hopes for a miracle.

  She stands. The wooden planks don’t creak or groan. She lets out a soft sigh of relief.

  She tests each floorboard before trusting it with her weight. It’s hardly five feet to the door, but in the dead of the night, it feels like a mile. She freezes at every hitch in Master Oliver’s snores, her bare toes curling against the cold wood. When she finally reaches the door, she grabs the handle and turns it, waiting until Master Oliver’s snore crackles through the room to unlatch the lock and open the door just wide enough to slip out.

  The hall is dark, lit only by the long, flickering flame of a candle ensconced on the far wall beside the stairs. Dried strings of wax hang from the tarnished sconce like miniature stalactites. Mercy tiptoes into the adjacent hallway and rolls her eyes when she sees Parson and Clyde sitting outside Tamriel’s and Calum’s room, slumped against the wall, sleeping soundly. Judging by their breath, their drinking had finally caught up to them.

  She holds up her fist to rap on the door, then thinks better of it. She’d wake the guards, and they’d simply drag her back to Master Oliver’s room. Instead, she sits cross-legged between them, her back against the door, her ear pressed to the wood. Faintly, she can hear two sets of sleeping breaths through the door. Good. Calum hasn’t attacked. He would have been a fool to do it, but she won’t take any chances. She had trusted him before, and it had nearly cost her her life.

  Mercy snaps awake the second the wooden door behind her back disappears. Suddenly off balance, she tumbles backward with a surprised cry then scrambles to her feet, her face flushing. Parson and Clyde start and jump to their feet, their hands automatically going to their sheathed swords before they recognize Mercy.

  Tamriel stands in the doorway of his room, his brows furrowed. “What are you doing out here?”

  Parson steps forward before Mercy has a chance to answer. “Our apologies, Your Highness! We’ll return her to her room at once.”

  Tamriel holds up a hand, halting him. “Did you sit here all night?” When she nods, he asks, “Why?”

  She shakes her head, rubbing the sleep from her tired eyes. “Master Oliver snores.”

  “Wha’appened?” Calum mumbles groggily from inside the room.

  Clyde reaches for Mercy’s arm, but she yanks it away and glares at him. “The Guild doesn’t leave any contracts incomplete. The prince needs guards who aren’t unconscious when he’s at his most vulnerable.”

  The guards flinch at her casual mention of the Guild. “You fell asleep,” Parson points out.

  “I’m not being paid by the king to watch him!”

  “Your Highness—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” Tamriel pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “It’s much too early for arguing. Parson and Clyde, Master Oliver is going to have some choice words for you after he hears about your carelessness, but, in the meantime, escort Mercy to her room, then wake the rest of the guards. Since you two were able to catch up on so much sleep, I’ll assume you are rested enough to walk down to the stables and retrieve our horses. I want them saddled and waiting outside in an hour.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” they respond.

  “And Mercy—” Tamriel opens his eyes, then pauses, seeming to notice for the first time that she is standing in the middle of the hallway in nothing but her sleep tunic. For a split second, his gaze slips down to her bare legs befor
e he looks away. Mercy fights back a grin as he awkwardly clears his throat and says, “Just stay in your room.”

  Then he shuts the door in her face.

  When Mercy steps out of her room ten minutes later—after enduring Master Oliver’s tirades against her for not staying in their room and against Parson and Clyde for failing their jobs—Calum is waiting for her, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He scowls at her.

  “I know why you did that.”

  She blinks at him, then glances down at her tunic and pants. “Why I got dressed?” she asks, feigning ignorance for the sole purpose of irritating him. “I would assume that’s fairly obvious.”

  “I know why you sat outside our room all night.” At the other end of the hall, someone’s footsteps clomp up the stairs. Calum lowers his voice and leans close. “Did you really think I would hurt Tamriel?”

  “I don’t trust you. I think I’ve made that clear.”

  “Calum? Mercy?” Akiva calls. He pokes his head around the corner and frowns at them. “Master Oliver sent me to find you. Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  “We’ll be there in a moment,” Calum says.

  “Tamriel wants to leave—”

  “I said we’ll be right there,” he snaps. “Give us a minute.”

  Akiva nods and bolts. Mercy waits until his footsteps fade down the hall to hiss, “I don’t know what your plan is, but I won’t let you manipulate Tamriel like you did me. He and the others might lower their guard around you but—”

  “No, listen to me, Mercy.” Calum pushes off the wall and steps close to her, forcing her back until she’s pressed up against the door to her room, the rough wood catching on her shirt and hair. She reaches for her hip before remembering that she’s unarmed, that Master Oliver still has her daggers. “The only person you should be concerned about is yourself. You’re the only one who knows the truth. You’re the only person standing between me and the executioner’s block, so if it comes down to letting you live or keeping my secret, you know what I’ll pick.”

  Mercy’s voice comes out as a growl when she says, “You should know better than to threaten a Daughter.”

  Calum’s eyes widen. “A Daughter? Where?” He makes an exaggerated show of searching up and down the hallway. “You’re nothing but an imposter, Mercy. You always have been. Training so hard at the Guild, sneaking into the Trial, tagging along on this ridiculous mission—aren’t you tired of constantly trying to fit in where you don’t belong?”

  Mercy shoves him, hard. “You’re one to talk. When Tamriel finds out—”

  Calum’s hand closes around her throat, cutting off her words. “Tamriel won’t find out.” His fingers are cold on her neck, gripping her not tightly enough to bruise, but enough to send a warning. “I haven’t objected to your presence here because I know Tam cares for you. He cares, but he’s wiser than his father. He knows what will happen if he brings an elf back to the capital, so he’ll send you away before long. In the meantime, you do what you must to keep Tamriel in the dark about the contract. Tell him you don’t know who bought it, make up a name, I don’t care. But if you ever pull another stunt like you just did, you’re gone.” His face contorts in anger, his already severe features sharpening. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Calum?” Someone calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you and Mercy still up there? It’s almost time to go.”

  “I’ll kill you,” Mercy whispers. “I swear to the Creator, you will not lay a hand on Tamriel—”

  “I don’t intend to. Nor do I intend to see my family name sullied by an Assassin.” He lets go of Mercy, straightens his shirt, and starts down the hall. “We’re on our way, Silas,” he calls.

  Mercy watches him go, trembling with fury. How dare he claim to care for Tamriel? How dare he demand her silence?

  She turns around and kicks the door, letting out a string of expletives, calling Calum every foul name she can think of—because he’s right. Telling Tamriel the truth only places him in more danger. He’ll remain ignorant for now, but only until Mercy can be certain Calum will pay for what he has done.

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  About the Author

  Jacqueline Pawl is the author of four young adult historical fiction and fantasy novels. She is a Midwest native, travel junkie, and video game fiend (particularly all things Dragon Age). When not busy writing, she can often be found shopping for even more books to add to her constantly-growing TBR pile.

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