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  “Do you have a problem with her? I thought you are best friends. You begged your father and me to approve the betrothal last year.”

  “No,” he says quickly. “No problem.”

  She raises a brow, but, thankfully, has the grace to change the subject. She kisses his temple—in front of the elves who are still working around them to clear the dishes from the table, it’s as embarrassing as if she had licked her thumb and wiped food from his face—then rises. “I believe Master Cathal would like to speak with you about a matter of the guard”—she frowns when Ghyslain groans—“but I already told him I would meet with him on your behalf. I thought you could use the rest.”

  He lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Anytime.” She glides to the door, then turns back to him, one hand on the wrought iron door handle. “But you will be on time to your appointments tomorrow, do you understand?”

  He smiles. Despite the lack of life in her eyes, despite the fact that Ghyslain is now king, despite the fact that she has been steadily losing weight since his father’s death, she is still the same woman she had always been; always knowing just how to comfort him—and how to chastise him. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Ghyslain is halfway up the stairs to the second floor when a shout from the hall behind him catches his attention. He stops and turns. A moment later, Liselle rounds the corner, a small fabric-wrapped parcel in her hands. “I thought perhaps you hadn’t heard me. I called to you a few times, Your Majesty.”

  “Sorry. Lost in thought.” When she offers him a pitying, knowing smile, he flinches, the tips of his ears growing hot with embarrassment. “Elisora told you about our fight?”

  “She didn’t need to; I’ve been serving her every day for nearly two years. How terrible of a slave would I be if I couldn’t tell when my mistress is upset after that long?”

  “Where is your mistress now?”

  “At her father’s home. I, um, invented an excuse to come here and speak with you.” Her expression turns sheepish, her cheeks flushing. She turns the little parcel over and over in her hands and toys with the thin pink ribbon holding it closed. “I wanted to thank you again for intervening when you found Drake and me, but I didn’t want my mistress to know that’s why I was going to the castle. If what Drake tried to do reaches the public, I’m afraid she’ll blame me for the damage to his reputation.”

  “She would never do that,” Ghyslain promises. “Drake and I spoke a few hours ago. I’ve ordered him to stay away from the slaves and have posted a guard outside his home to ensure that he complies.” As he speaks, Liselle’s gaze wanders from the package in her hands to his face. She raises her brows and opens her mouth, but, for a few moments, nothing comes out.

  “You . . . really did that?” she finally asks.

  He frowns. “Of course. Wouldn’t anyone?”

  “Drake has been terrorizing his slaves for years and no one has done a thing. Dragna, in the kitchen, one tried to report it to the guard, but he caught up to her in the street and dragged her back to his home by her ear. He beat her half to death.”

  “What? When? Why haven’t I heard this?”

  “No one has. After that, all the slaves in the household were too scared to try and stop him. They whisper stories of what he’s done to each other, but no one stops him. According to them, the Zendais boy has more than just the one kid. He’s fathered a couple bastards in Beggars’ End, if rumors are to be—” she pauses, her eyes going wide as she realizes to whom she is speaking. She spins on her heel and marches back to the hall. “I’m sorry. Forget I came, Your Majesty.”

  “Wait—” Ghyslain runs down the stairs, stumbling when he nearly misses a step—by the Creator, how is such a small girl so fast?—and catches up to her in the middle of the corridor. She stills when he touches her elbow and murmurs, “Wait just a second.”

  She turns, worrying that package in her hands. “I don’t want you to think I’m some idle gossip, Your Majesty.”

  He sputters an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think that at all.”

  “No?”

  “No. I think you’re incredibly brave.”

  Her expression transforms from worry to relief. “Your Majesty—”

  “Call me Ghyslain.”

  “It’s highly improper—”

  “Please. I assume you’ll move into the castle when your mistress and I are married. If we’re to see each other every day, I’d like you to use my name. If it suits you,” he adds belatedly, causing her to grin.

  “Very well,” she says. “Ghyslain.”

  They stand there for a few moments in silence, smiling at each other, until Liselle starts, remembering the parcel she had brought. She blushes and pushes it into Ghyslain’s hands. “This is for you, Your Maj—Ghyslain. You said you don’t want any thanks, but I need you to know how grateful I am for what you did. Most humans would have left Drake to his own devices if they had found us in that library. No one cares for a lowly slave.”

  “You keep saying that. Is that truly how you think of yourself?”

  “Isn’t that how I am supposed to think of myself? Isn’t that all this slave sash is supposed to represent, that I am worth less than the humans around me?”

  Ghyslain stares down at the package in his hand. It’s no bigger than an apple, wrapped carefully in simple white linen and tied with a pale pink ribbon. He doesn’t meet her eyes when he whispers, “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be wearing that sash at all.”

  She sucks in a breath. “You would free me? Free the slaves?”

  “If I could.”

  “Maybe you can’t do it now, but perhaps in a few years? In the meantime, you can take little steps to help us stand against the nobility when the time comes to emancipate us.”

  “Like what?”

  “Visit Beggars’ End. See for yourself the squalor and filth in which the workers and the few free elves of your city live. If you speak to them, learn from them, you’ll see how strong we really are. You may believe that you are alone in wishing to abolish slavery, but go to the End and you’ll soon realize you have more support among the people than you think.”

  “I . . . suppose that could be arranged.” When a guard rounds the corner at the far end of the hall, Ghyslain adds, “Must you return to Elisora soon, or do you have time to stay and discuss this in private?”

  “I should be heading back soon—”

  “It’ll only take a moment, I promise.”

  “Um . . . Okay?”

  “Great. Come with me.” He leads her up the stairs and through the second-story hallway. She stiffens when they pass the double doors to the library, but Ghyslain keeps walking until they reach his father’s old study. He holds the door open for her. When she enters and perches on one of the large leather chairs beside the fireplace, he picks up the iron poker leaning against the wall and prods the flames until the room is illuminated by a flickering orange glow.

  When he turns back to Liselle, she is standing beside the massive desk which takes up most of the room, its surface bare except for a massive map of Beltharos and the surrounding land. She traces the line of the Alynthi River with a slender finger and stops at the little dot marking Sandori. Sensing him watching her, she glances up at him shyly, biting her lip. “You’re staring at me.”

  “No, I, um— I wasn’t— I didn’t—” he stammers. By the Creator, when did it get so hot in here? “I was looking at the map.”

  “It’s all right, you know.” She moves around the desk and returns to the seat she had vacated, resting her hands on her knees. “You haven’t opened my gift.”

  “I . . . Oh.” He pulls it from his pocket, where he had stashed it when the guard had appeared in the hallway. For some reason, he had felt the urge to keep it secret. Liselle shifts to the edge of her seat as he tugs the ribbon free. The fabric falls away, revealing a little wooden figurine, no more than two inches tall
.

  “Do you know what it is?” Liselle asks.

  “It’s . . . a figurine.”

  “It’s an idol of the Old God Myrbellanar. Have you heard of him?”

  “Vaguely. He fought against the Creator in the Great War, didn’t he?”

  She nods. “They were the last two standing at the end of the War. When the Creator slaughtered him, he shattered Myrbellanar’s soul into thousands of pieces, each of which he placed inside the bodies of the elves he crafted to serve his most prized creations—humans. Those of us who worship the Old Gods believe that one day, Myrbellanar will return to save us from the enslavement and mistreatment we have endured for hundreds of years.” She rises and moves to Ghyslain’s side, her voice softening. “I see his hand guiding you, Ghyslain. He has raised you to the throne to help us reclaim the freedoms which were stolen from us by the Creator. It won’t be easy, and you will face lots of opposition from your advisors, but I hope this serves as a reminder of everyone who supports you. You’re not alone in wanting to do what’s right for your people.”

  He swallows, fighting to speak past the sudden lump in his throat. “You must think quite highly of me to believe I can change so much.”

  “I knew you were different when you saved me from Drake. Simply the way you’ve been speaking to me—as if I’m your peer, not property to be ordered about—is enough to convince me that you will be so much better than the kings who came before you.”

  “Even my father?”

  “Even your father.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Liselle.” He stares down at the tiny wooden idol in his hand, at the pointed ears sticking out of Myrbellanar’s mop of curly hair. He closes his fist around the figure and holds it to his heart. “Thank you.”

  She beams, and in that moment, he’s struck again by her beauty. Her eyes sparkle as she grins, crinkling a bit in the corners. Her dark curly hair is swept back into a loose braid down her back, a few inky black strands falling out to frame her face and the tips of her ears.

  “You wanted to ask me something, Ghyslain?” she asks, jarring him from his thoughts.

  He blinks and slips the idol into his pocket. “Yes.” He clears his throat. “I want you to serve as my advisor.”

  Her jaw drops. “Your what?”

  “My advisor. I can’t give you a spot on my royal council—the rest of the council would likely riot—but I need your insights if I’m to do everything of which you think me capable. You know what life is like for the poor and the enslaved. You know the best ways for me to bridge the gap between my world and theirs.” He smiles. “If I’m to champion a cause as controversial as abolishing slavery, I can think of no better person to have by my side. What do you think?”

  “Will Elisora know?”

  “She . . . could. I don’t know if she shares the same views now, but . . . I’m sure she could be persuaded.” Liselle’s expression is still doubtful, so he continues, “Or we could meet in secret. Until Elisora and I are married, I’ll send for you whenever we must speak—I’ll make up excuses. After the wedding, you’ll be living here as her handmaid, so it won’t be difficult to plan in private.”

  She hesitates. “It would be risky. If any of the nobles find out, they could accuse me of trying to corrupt you—”

  “They won’t find out, I promise. Please. I need your help.”

  At that, she finally nods, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Okay.”

  In that moment, Ghyslain sees something change in her eyes, feels something shift within him in response. It isn’t the same indescribable thing he had seen pass between his parents, still hopelessly in love after thirty years of marriage, but the possibility of it starts his heart pounding against his ribcage. You’re engaged to Elisora, his traitorous conscience whispers, but he pushes the thought away. She doesn’t love me. She may never love me. Why should I subject us both to decades of a miserable marriage? She could be so much happier on her own.

  Perhaps his anger at Elisora causes him to say what he says next. Perhaps he wishes to hurt her the same way she had hurt him. Or . . . perhaps after everything he has endured over the past week—the death of his father, his rise to the throne, his fight with Elisora—the thought of letting the chance to be happy with a woman who might truly love him slip through his fingers is simply too much to bear.

  “Wonderful,” he says, taking Liselle’s hands in his. She beams at him, the hope in her eyes infectious. He takes a deep breath and presses a gentle kiss to the back of her right hand, then her left. “How shall we begin?”

  THE END

  Merciless (Book 1)

  1

  Fwoomp.

  A twist of the breeze, a slight shift of the fingers is all it takes to bury the obsidian-tipped arrow in the wood beside Mercy’s head rather than sending it cracking through her skull. She scowls as a warm drop of blood wells where the jagged teeth of the arrow had bitten her skin. It trails slowly down the soft flesh of her ear. It has broken the skin, but not enough to wound.

  Exactly where it should be.

  “Almost got your pointy little ear, elfie.” Lylia’s goading voice precedes her as she saunters forward to examine her shot. Her longbow, nearly as tall as she and equally as deadly, is slung over her shoulder. Mercy stares up at her as she pulls the arrow from the wood, sending another fat droplet of blood down Mercy’s ear and neck. Lylia smiles. “But we wouldn’t want to do that, now, would we? Can’t have you thinking you’re any better than the dirt from which you were born.”

  Mercy’s lips twitch into a smirk. Lylia’s baiting her. She’s the only one who still tries. Years ago, the other apprentices in the Assassins’ Guild had thought it would be funny to throw Mercy’s few belongings into the white rapids of the Alynthi River.

  They had been right.

  Until the moment eight-year-old Mercy had shown them how creative she could be with a knife.

  Since that day, none of the other girls have bothered to speak much to her.

  Mercy feigns a yawn. “Do you intend to talk me to death? Because if so, I’ll save us both the trouble and end it now. Give me your dagger.”

  Lylia glares down at her, toying with the feather fletching of her arrow. She’s a strange sort of beautiful—perfect to the point of flaw, cold and unnatural. Despite their varied backgrounds, many of the Daughters of the Guild share a similar look, a beautiful ferocity, but none so striking as Lylia. Her long hair is a flaming auburn and her eyes are so light a shade of blue it almost appears she has no irises at all. “Mercy, you’re so funny,” she sneers.

  Mercy cocks her head, adopting an innocent expression. “It’s good to know those born bereft of a sense of humor are still capable of recognizing it in others. Here I thought you were hopeless.”

  Lylia growls low in her throat and pushes Mercy away from the wall to take her place. Mercy strides to her mark, her significantly smaller and less ornate bow resting against the trunk of a tree. It’s not as flashy as Lylia’s bow, but it does its job. All around them, arrows thud into walls, sharply inhaled breaths are slowly released, and Mistress Trytain snaps, “Don’t flinch!” at the other apprentices.

  Lylia leans against the wall, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. She raises a brow to say You really think you can beat that shot?

  Mercy nocks an arrow and lifts the bow, easily finding Lylia’s bright hair in the sights. She takes a moment to determine the wind’s speed and direction, then pulls the string taut. It naturally slides into place between the calluses on her fingers, formed through years of archery practice, and she feels the bow quiver with barely restrained power.

  She closes her eyes.

  And releases.

  The arrow whistles through the air, and someone gasps as the arrowhead cracks against something solid. For a moment, the forest is deathly silent.

  Mercy opens her eyes.

  Lylia stands against the wall, her arms limp at her sides and her head leaning at an awkward angle.


  No—not leaning.

  Pinned.

  The old shack’s walls are marred with scars from years of use during the apprentices’ target practice, but this shot is clear as day. Mercy’s arrow is a millimeter from Lylia’s face, the tiny braid Lylia wears above her ear pinned in the teeth of the arrowhead. Mistress Trytain rounds the corner and examines the shot, nodding her approval. When she pulls it from the wall, a few red strands of Lylia’s hair float away on the breeze.

  “Very good.” Trytain nods and clasps her hands around the shaft of the arrow. “Now seems as good a time as any to end today’s lesson. Remember, one millimeter can be the difference between life and death, and between failing and fulfilling your contracts. In a real fight, your blood will be pumping so hard you won’t be able to hear anything else. Your hands will shake and you will be jittery with adrenaline. Never flinch. You must learn to control your reflexes, or they’ll betray you when you need them most.”

  A wave of murmured agreement passes through the apprentices. When Trytain nods a dismissal, girls in groups of twos and threes gather their supplies and begin the walk back to the castle. Trytain is one of a handful of tutors in the Guild, former Daughters who were fortunate enough to grow too old to continue working assassination contracts. She teaches fighting and weaponry to the apprentices, girls aged from six to eighteen who have found their homes in the Guild. Most found their ways to the Guild after family tragedies. The ragtag group of orphans found a balm for their suffering by throwing themselves into thankless, nameless work. Some came as adults searching for a new beginning, while others were abducted as children by Daughters instructed to find new ‘recruits.’

  Whatever their backgrounds, all have some idea of what the outside world is like.

  All except Mercy.

  When Mercy’s father, a slave, had accidentally discovered a Daughter of the Guild standing over the corpse of his owner, he offered the life of his newborn daughter to the Guild to save his. Only, rather than killing her, Mother Illynor, head of the Guild, had decided to raise Mercy as her own.