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  Mercy shoves the key back at Calum. “I won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I made my choice. I will not run and hide like a coward.”

  “You may not survive the night.”

  Mercy gestures to the bolt in the stone. “You think I don’t realize that?”

  Calum tugs at his hair and begins to pace. “Then why, Mercy? Do you have a death wish?”

  “The Guild is all I have! It’s all I am!” Mercy lowers her voice to a whisper, casting a glance at the castle. “I will either be a Daughter or dead. I refuse to be no one.” She pivots on her heel and marches toward the castle door.

  “Mercy?”

  She stops, but doesn’t turn back.

  “You were extraordinary today.”

  Pride swells in her heart and she laughs, ignoring the soreness of her throat. She squares her shoulders and grins to herself as she strides across the battlements and into the castle.

  11

  The next morning, two Daughters arrive to escort Mercy to her execution.

  Tanni walks on her right, Sienna on her left. They clasp Mercy’s upper arms, her hands bound behind her back with a length of rough rope. When they had barged into her room an hour before dawn, they had found her standing in the center of her room, meeting them with a leveled gaze and no expression on her face. Their eyes had roamed from the points of her ears to the faint shadows under her eyes, to the dark bruises coiled around her neck. They hadn’t said a word as they searched Mercy for weapons and tied her wrists together.

  Tanni opens the door to the yard and shoves Mercy through. The sun has begun to rise, tingeing the sky a pale, rosy pink. Mother Illynor stands under the gate, exactly where Mercy’s body would have lain had Calum not intervened last night. Mercy shivers at the memory and searches the crowd for Lylia, spotting her flaming auburn hair near the front of the group. She looks every bit as exhausted as she should, but she wouldn’t miss Mercy’s execution for the world. Mistress Trytain stands on Illynor’s right, although she doesn’t look smug, as Mercy had expected.

  Faye is nowhere in sight.

  “Is Faye alive?” Mercy whispers, looking sidelong at Sienna.

  The Daughter ignores her and prods Mercy forward.

  Everyone has gathered in a half-circle around Mother Illynor. Tanni and Sienna push through the crowd, but the people quickly part of their own volition, drawing back from Mercy like she’s diseased. As she nears Mother Illynor, someone snakes her foot out and hooks Mercy’s ankle, sending her stumbling forward. Mercy sets her jaw and glares at the crowd, her cheeks flushing with anger and mortification.

  “Mercy,” Mother Illynor says, her voice filling the courtyard, “you disobeyed my direct orders. You drugged one of your Sisters, poisoned another, and cheated your way into the Trial, our most sacred ceremony. Turn, face the family you have betrayed, and kneel.”

  Awkward and off-balance, Mercy kneels, to snickers from the crowd. The Strykers are scattered throughout, but Calum is not among them. Perhaps he couldn’t face her death.

  “I. Betrayed. No one,” Mercy growls.

  “Master Hewlin,” Illynor calls.

  Hewlin waves to Oren, who walks toward Mother Illynor with the double-sided dagger in his hands. Mercy glares at him. Weak, pitiful, puny Oren will watch as she is beheaded; he will probably piss himself, or vomit, or both.

  Oren passes the dagger to Mother Illynor over Mercy’s head. Mercy closes her eyes and hangs her head, every muscle in her body clenched to the point of pain. Mother Illynor stands behind her shoulder, out of sight, but Mercy can tell when Illynor aims the blade at her neck by the collective intake of breath from the crowd.

  She bites her tongue to keep from letting out a terrified cry when the dagger whistles through the air, aimed straight for her exposed neck.

  Instead, the blade slices through the rope around her wrists, which falls to the grass with a soft thump. Mercy’s arms fall limply to her sides; her face goes slack with shock and relief.

  “Rise,” Illynor commands.

  Mercy does as instructed, her knees wobbling, and Mother Illynor places the double-sided dagger in Mercy’s hands. Confused whispers erupt across the yard.

  “Everything you did proves your dedication to the Guild. You emerged victorious from the Trial, so tradition will be honored. Kneel once more—as an apprentice, not a prisoner—that you may take your vows.” Mercy gapes at her, disbelief etched across her features, until Illynor leans in and whispers, “Kneel.”

  Mercy sinks to one knee, twists the dagger so it becomes two, then holds the blade of the knife in her right hand in front of her face, her forehead brushing the cool metal. When Mother Illynor places her hand atop Mercy’s head, she begins to recite the vow she has held sacred since her earliest recollection.

  “On this day, before the rising of the sun,

  I pledge myself to the Guild.

  My mind, my body, my sword, my dying breath is yours to take,

  from this moment to my last.

  I shall have no family but my Sisters, shall serve none other than my Mother.

  From this moment forward,

  I am your Daughter.”

  No one hears the last line. The crowd is angry, cheated out of the blood they had expected Mother Illynor to spill. Their shouts reach a cacophony, drowning out Illynor’s attempts to calm them, and—for the first time—a flicker of fear crosses her face. She removes her hand from Mercy’s head, and Mercy jumps to her feet.

  The sunlight breaks over the trees, shining with such brilliance Mercy must hold her hand over her eyes to see. The crowd stills.

  Mother Illynor jumps at their distraction. “The Great Creator, with his all-seeing eye, shines his light on Mercy. He has accepted her vow.”

  “None of you may lay a hand on her,” Trytain adds, “unless in retribution for the breaking of her vow.”

  “Come, dear.” Mother Illynor slips an arm around Mercy’s shoulders and guides her forward. As before, the onlookers part as they approach, watching with barely concealed outrage. “This is only the beginning of your journey.”

  Half an hour later, still overcome with relief, Mercy sits on the plush couch in Mother Illynor’s room, the same one on which the tutors had sat as they debated whether to kill her. Laying on the cushion beside her is Mercy’s newly-won dagger, back in one piece, and the beauty of it strikes her anew. The grip is smooth brown leather, and the crossguard has been inlaid with tiny orange and red crystals, the same shades as the leaves of the forest. Mercy wonders briefly if Calum had had any input on the design; it seems like the kind of absurdly sentimental thing he would do.

  As if Mercy could ever forget her origins.

  Mother Illynor has taken off her thick fur cloak and is wearing a long-sleeved shirt and riding pants, the crackling fire in her fireplace providing more than enough heat for her cold-blooded, reptilian body. She settles into a high-backed chair across from Mercy, propping her elbows on her knees.

  “I have a contract for you.”

  Calum was right. Mercy perks up. “What contract?”

  “A very important one. Usually, I prefer to give a new Daughter a few days to recuperate and adjust before sending her out, but I thought it best with your . . . extenuating circumstances”—she fixes Mercy with a pointed look—“that you leave right away. Aelis and the Strykers will accompany you to Ellesmere, where Sorin is now. She will accompany you to Myrellis Castle, in the capital.”

  “The castle? Who is my target, the king?”

  “Close,” she says. “His son.”

  12

  “The prince? You want me to assassinate the prince?” Mercy gapes at her. “Isn’t that treason, or something?”

  “The Guild does not owe its allegiance to the royal family of Beltharos. We offer a service to those who have the money and power to pay for it. We serve the people of every country, regardless of the target.” Illynor crosses her arms. “Do you consider King Ghyslain your ruler?”r />
  “No.”

  “Does your allegiance to the royal family outweigh your loyalty to the Guild?”

  “No.”

  “The king is a man, Mercy. Prince Tamriel is a man. Royal blood or no, it spills just as easily,” Illynor says. She stands and moves to one of the bookshelves lining the room, then picks up a heavy leather tome. “Before you leave, you must know that the tension between the humans and elves in the capital has reached an all-time high since Liselle’s death almost twenty years ago. Do you remember learning about her?”

  Mercy shrugs. “A little.”

  Mother Illynor flips through the pages until she lands on the one she wants, then she hands the book to Mercy. There are no words on the page, just a drawing—an image so grotesque it turns Mercy’s stomach.

  An elven woman is chained by each limb to the front gate of a castle. Her head has lolled forward so all that is visible is the crown of her head and the dirty tendrils of hair hanging down onto her chest. She’s completely naked, her skin coated in dirt and grime from being dragged through the streets before being strung up on the gate. Her throat had been cut so wide and so deeply that the slice is still visible despite her head hanging forward, dry rivulets of blood trailing down her breasts. Only her stomach is clean, pale skin peeking through the dirt as if someone had wiped her down with a dirty rag. Carved in shaky, blood-clotted lines across her tender skin are the words Temptation of the king.

  “Awful, isn’t it?” Illynor says. “Liselle Mari was the King’s elven mistress while he was married to Queen Elisora Zendais. She was Elisora’s slave and was serving as her handmaiden when she met Ghyslain at his and Elisora’s betrothal celebration. After the King and Queen were married, she was given her own quarters in the castle. While the Queen was bedridden with pregnancy complications, Liselle began to appear in public with the King and preach freedom for the elven slaves, even going so far as to sit on Elisora’s throne during court.”

  “And she was killed for it?”

  Illynor nods. “The nobles hated her. It was inappropriate for an elf to have as much power as the King had given her. So when the King was pulled to the Queen’s side during the birth of their son—the birth which killed her—the nobles ambushed Liselle and murdered her. They strung her up like that to send a message to the King.” She leans forward and meets Mercy’s eyes. “Please be careful in the capital. Violence against elves has never been higher than it is now.”

  Mercy snaps the book shut, rolls her shoulders, and stands. “When do I leave?”

  “In one hour.”

  Faye’s bedroom door is ajar when Mercy approaches.

  “Hello?” she calls as she steps inside. She’s shocked to find Faye awake and sitting upright in bed. She’s not wearing a shirt; her torso is bound with layers upon layers of linen bandages, and the edge of a dark purple bruise paints her upper ribcage. Just looking at it makes Mercy sick.

  Beautiful Faye.

  Beautiful Faye who’s glaring at Mercy like she’s the last person in the world she wants to see. Like she wants to rip Mercy apart slowly, inch by inch.

  “Come to gloat over your victory?” she snarls. “What is wrong with you, Mercy? You know how much this meant to me, you know how long I’d waited for this opportunity, and still, you took it for yourself.”

  “You know how important the Trial is to me—"

  “You don’t think it was important to me? You’re not special, Mercy! You don’t want this any more than the rest of us. You’re a mistake—your own parents didn’t want you!” Faye trembles with rage. “I’ve never asked you for anything. I stuck up for you when the other girls teased you. I fought them when you were too afraid to stand up for yourself—don’t pretend you weren’t. But now that you’re all grown up, what do you do in return? You take away the one thing that means the most to me. You couldn’t wait one year to turn eighteen and fight in your own Trial, so you had to ruin mine. You saw something you wanted and you took it without any regard for anyone else. What about me? I can’t train with broken ribs. Do you even care?” She pauses, trembling with anger, then scoffs. “Of course you don’t. You didn’t choose this life. I did— I want this—"

  “You’re right,” Mercy snaps. “I didn’t choose this life, but this is the life I have. I’m doing everything I can to serve the Guild the best way I know how.” She knows she shouldn’t say more, but she can’t stop herself. “If you were meant to win the Trial, you would’ve won whether I was competing or not.”

  Faye seethes, and their gazes clash for a long time before Mercy says in a cool voice, “So, they finally turned you against me, did they?”

  “You did it yourself.”

  Mercy turns and reaches for the door.

  “No smart-ass comments?” Faye taunts. “Just leave, then! Get out!” Something shatters above Mercy’s head and she ducks as shards of porcelain land in her hair, tinkling as pieces of the plate Faye had thrown fall to the ground. “Just get out!”

  Mercy shakes the shards out of her hair and brushes them off her clothes, then leaves the room without another word or a glance at her friend.

  Aelis and the Strykers have already saddled their horses by the time Mercy passes through the gate of Kismoro Keep, a bundle of clothes in her arms and her double-sided dagger strapped to her back. Amir’s horse pulls a cart laden with the Strykers’ tools and extra weapons, and Calum throws something in before meeting Mercy near the gate, leading Blackfoot and his horse, both saddled.

  He offers her Blackfoot’s reins with a quirked brow. “For you, Daughter.”

  Mercy grins. She shoves her clothes into one of the saddlebags, along with a small coin purse that Mother Illynor had given her, then swings herself onto Blackfoot’s saddle. He chuffs and stamps his hoof into the ground, sensing her excitement. This will be her first time venturing outside of the Forest, and she can’t wait to see the country.

  Mother Illynor passes under the gate in silence. Her scaly face is unreadable as always. “Be safe, my child,” she says. “Be strong, be swift, be ruthless, and never forget your vows.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Master Hewlin, shall we not meet again until next Spring’s-end?”

  “Afraid so. Our journey takes us across the sea.” He dips his head low in respect, and she does the same.

  “Creator ease your path.”

  “He better,” Amir calls. “This one gets seasick taking a bath.” He elbows Calum in the chest, and Calum mutters something crude under his breath, just loud enough for all to hear. Oren bursts into laughter. Hewlin pretends not to have heard.

  “May he guide us all,” he says with an expression of weary affection for the younger men. “Come, let’s be off.”

  Mother Illynor moves back to the gate as Hewlin mounts his horse and spurs it to the lead, Oren and Amir behind him. Aelis and Nerran follow, deep in conversation, and Calum waves Mercy forward, taking up the place beside her at the rear.

  “Ready to become the best Assassin in history?” he says, and winks.

  As they venture deeper into the forest and the trees in close around them, Mercy can’t help but glance back. The castle stands tall and stoic, as it had hundreds of years ago and (Creator willing) shall for generations to come. A backlit figure stands defiantly atop the wall, directly above Illynor’s head. Although she can’t see the woman’s face, Mercy knows Lylia is watching.

  She turns forward in her saddle and doesn’t look back.

  Four hours pass with no change.

  The trees shimmer red, gold, and orange, thousands of narrow red trunks punctuating the landscape as far as any of them can see. Mercy breathes the same cool, earthy air she has always breathed as the sun passes directly overhead, then begins its western descent. The only change comes in the formation in which they ride; sometimes side-by-side, and other times single-file, until the trail widens once more.

  It’s mind-numbingly boring.

  The Strykers joke among themselves in hushed voices,
peals of laughter cleaving the quiet every few minutes. Aelis is silent the whole time.

  For the most part, Mercy rides alone, Calum having moved to Hewlin’s side hours ago when Mercy failed to so much as grin at his usual antics. She had appreciated his attempts to cheer her, but he will never know how daunting it is to be facing her first contract. This will be her first time in a human city. All she has ever known is seventeen years of living in near-isolation.

  Calum glances over his shoulder then and grins, giving a little wave before turning forward. No one else pays her much attention, although it’s not out of malice. This band of Strykers has been making this journey for years, each spring escorting another girl to the edge of the forest; Mercy is just another name on the list.

  The ride leaves too much time for thinking.

  She has no idea what to expect of the outside world. Mannerisms, colloquialisms, habits, etiquette—she has knowledge of most of these from her classes in the Guild, but it’s nothing like living there. Still, Sorin had taught the apprentices how to blend in among the nobility, and Mercy is too stubborn to allow a pompous, perfumed nobleman to stand between her and the completion of her contract.

  Now is the time to formulate a plan.

  Mercy trusts Mistress Sorin to sneak her into the capital, if not directly into Myrellis Castle, but how she kills the prince is entirely up to her.

  Poison? It wouldn’t be hard to find some in a city as large as Sandori, and there are plenty of medicinal herbs which can be deadly in the right doses. Provided she can sneak into the kitchen, it would be easy to slip the poison into his food or drink, and most would be untraceable on a corpse—assuming he doesn’t have a food taster. If so, it will be difficult—nearly impossible—to sneak it into his food without being noticed.