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  “Most of us come here as children. When we take our vows, we lose our family name and pledge our loyalty to our new family.”

  “And Illynor is the head of the Guild, a Qadar from Gyr’malr?”

  Mercy nods. “She’s been here from the beginning, hundreds of years ago. She and her sister were exiled from their country, so they created the Guild here in the forest, taking odd jobs until they built up the reputation the Assassins’ Guild has today.”

  After a pause, her eyes widen and she wraps a fist in Calum’s shirt, pulling him close. “I should not have told you so much. You must tell no one outside of this castle what you have heard and seen tonight.”

  He nods gravely. “I swear it.”

  They both glance over as Faye prances through the door, her face flushed from her wine. “Mercy! There you are, love.” As Mercy pushes Calum away, Faye stumbles forward and wraps an arm around Mercy’s shoulders. “Did you hear? I’m going to be in the Trial!”

  “Yes. You have known all year.”

  “We should celebrate!” She does a double-take, belatedly noticing Calum standing beside them. “You can come, too!”

  “No, he’s not coming anywhere with us,” Mercy says, slipping an arm around Faye’s waist as she sways dangerously close to the balcony railing. “Come on, I’ll help you to bed.”

  Despite Faye’s protestations, Mercy leads her through the dining hall and up to the apprentices’ wing. Faye slumps onto the bed, snoring just moments after her head hits the pillow. As Mercy tugs the blanket up and over her friend, she cannot help but wonder how Calum thinks he is going to help her enter the Trial.

  3

  Breakfast the next morning is a quiet affair—most of the girls and the Strykers are nursing various degrees of hangover—but the energy in the air is almost palpable. This morning Mother Illynor will announce how the apprentices will compete in the Trial: horseback, archery, hand-to-hand combat, tracking, hunting—all skills necessary for an Assassin.

  Despite still feeling jaded by Mother Illynor’s refusal to include her in the Trial, Mercy can’t wait to hear what the competition will be.

  Halfway through the meal, the door to the dining hall bangs open and all eyes lift to see Calum striding in, not looking the least bit perturbed at having the weight of fifty-odd gazes upon him. He saunters across the room at a leisurely pace, nods a good morning to Mother Illynor at the head table, and plunks down on the bench next to Mercy. She scowls.

  “Careful, love, or your face might get stuck that way.” He reaches for a roll and takes a bite, grinning.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I like calling you that.”

  “Okay,” Mercy says, turning to face him. “I’ll rephrase that. Call me that again and I’ll gut you. Understood?”

  Calum nods, although a teasing glint remains in his eyes. He glances at Faye, sitting across from him. “Is she always like this?”

  “No,” Mercy says.

  “Yes,” Faye says at the same time.

  Mercy glares at her.

  “Careful. You heard what he said,” Faye grins.

  “You have training today?” Calum mumbles around a mouthful of bread.

  “Of course.”

  “Come visit me when you’re done. You know the way to the forge?” When Mercy nods, he smiles. “Excellent. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  “Vanos.”

  Calum swallows and looks up as Hewlin’s hand drops onto his shoulder. Instantly, his expression shifts into respectful admiration of the older man, and some of the teasing in his eyes fades. “You came up with something?” Calum asks, and Hewlin nods. Behind him, the rest of the Strykers have begun filing out of the room.

  “We should go down now, while the idea’s fresh. Sorry to take you away from your friends, but this is time sensitive.”

  When Calum stands to follow Hewlin, Mercy catches his sleeve. “What is time sensitive?”

  He bends down and whispers into her ear, “Later, you’ll see. I promise. Right now, I must go help.” He straightens, and his voice returns to normal as he swipes another roll. “Don’t forget to visit me later, love.”

  Mercy turns to smack his arm, but he’s already darted out of her reach, chuckling. “He’s an idiot,” she says. Faye merely quirks a brow.

  A few minutes later, Mother Illynor’s chair screeches against the floor and she stands, surveying the gathered Daughters and apprentices as they halt their conversations and turn their eager attention to her.

  “Faye, Lylia, Cianna, Xiomar. The four of you have completed your training, and by the end of this week, one of you will become a Daughter.” Her eyes flick to each girl in turn. “The Guild demands a price: your loyalty, your strength, your blood, and your life. Will you relinquish these and more in service to the Guild?”

  “We will,” they say in unison.

  “And you, dear Daughters,” she says, focusing on the other table. “Your time to compete has come and gone, and over the years, you have gained and lost Sisters and friends. I have found these girls to be ready and worthy of swearing the Guild’s vow. Upon the completion of the Trial, will you accept the victor and welcome her into our family?”

  “We will,” they answer.

  “The Trial is the final test each apprentice must pass before swearing her oath to our organization. It will test not only your physical strength, but your mental and emotional strength, as well. This year’s Trial is . . . close-range combat.”

  Mercy grins. Combat-related Trials are one of the favorites in the castle. The only rule is a competitor can come as close to killing her opponent as possible without stopping her opponent’s heart. While her opponent may concede defeat, it almost never happens; it’s not nearly as entertaining.

  “In accordance with tradition, the victor, upon swearing her oaths, shall receive a weapon crafted by the master blacksmiths of the Strykers, some of the finest weapon-makers and armorers in the world.”

  Faye seizes Mercy’s hand. “I’ve heard their blades cut through a man’s armor like he’s wearing nothing at all.”

  “It’s true,” Threnn, an apprentice of only eleven years, interjects. “I’ve seen it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  Threnn opens her mouth, then closes it, pouting. “I’ve seen it,” she repeats, and Faye laughs.

  “Never you mind,” she says. “It’s a fine prize. I wonder what it will look like? A sword or dagger? Or a crossbow, maybe?”

  “Does it matter? You’re a master at all of them,” Mercy says, although the unceasing hunger in her stomach begins to gnaw at her. She must find a way into the Trial; she needs this weapon.

  She was born for it.

  Two months.

  When Faye turns her attention to the girl sitting beside her, Mercy stares up at Mother Illynor, who has taken her seat and resumed eating her breakfast. Sensing Mercy’s gaze, she glances up. Mercy tenses, waiting for Mother Illynor’s eyes to find her. They do.

  Then they pass over her as if she is made of nothing more than air.

  Mercy glares at the uneaten food on her plate, her appetite gone. After seventeen years of dedicated training, only two months separate her from her place in the Guild.

  She refuses to wait for next year.

  As the Daughters drift off to complete their chores and the servants clear the table of the breakfast scraps, Mistress Trytain gathers the apprentices for training. “Out to the yard,” she says, shooing them through the hall and into the courtyard. “Good, now line up there, against the wall. Look here and pay attention.”

  She gestures to Lahrenn, who steps forward and falls into defensive stance. Trytain lunges and feigns a punch to the girl’s right, but dips to the side when Lahrenn moves to block and strikes her unguarded side. Lahrenn grunts and aims a blow which Trytain easily knocks aside. The tutor hooks her foot around Lahrenn’s ankle and pulls, sending the apprentice crashing onto her back, wheezing.

  Trytain straightens, not eve
n winded. “Find a partner and practice sparring. Do not expect your adversary to fight honorably. The fight’s not over until you or your opponent is dead. When you are out on a contract, you must do everything you can to survive.”

  “Come on, lazy,” Faye singsongs, scooping Lahrenn up by her armpits. Lahrenn makes a noise of protest, but her mouth quirks into a smile as she and Faye face off.

  A blow to the back of Mercy’s leg sends her to her knees.

  Fingers thread through her hair and yank her head back. “You should pay better attention to your surroundings,” Lylia hisses in her ear. She pulls Mercy’s head back farther, tugging until she can hear the individual hairs begin to snap.

  “You should know better than to think . . . I’m so easily defeated,” Mercy growls through gritted teeth, and drives her elbow into Lylia’s stomach. It’s enough to surprise her, not injure her, but Mercy takes the opportunity to slip out of her loosened grasp.

  She springs to her feet just as Lylia lands a punch on the side of her head, making Mercy’s ears ring and her teeth rattle. She shakes her head and lunges, but Lylia dodges her fist and jumps out of the way. She ducks as Mercy swings again, and punches Mercy in the stomach.

  "Give up yet?" Lylia taunts.

  Mercy runs forward and wraps her arms around Lylia’s waist, tackling her to the ground. She grunts when Mercy lands on top of her and Mercy immediately scrambles up so she’s straddling Lylia’s waist, leaning forward and digging her elbow into her neck until her eyes bulge and she’s gasping. Lylia’s legs kick the air and she rakes Mercy’s face with her fingernails, leaving four thin lines of bright red blood on her cheek. Mercy growls and leans into Lylia’s neck until her full lips begin to turn blue.

  “That’s enough!” Two strong hands clamp around Mercy’s arms and lift her up. Her feet kick at the air and her skeleton jolts as she’s dropped to the ground a few feet away. Mercy scrambles to her feet, breathing hard, and takes a step toward Lylia.

  “I said,” Trytain hisses, positioning herself between them, “that’s enough.”

  Only then does Mercy realize that everyone else has stopped fighting and is now staring at her with wide eyes. Lylia is gasping and choking, leaning forward on all fours, and her ribs contract as she dry heaves into the dirt.

  "You," she rasps, "I will kill you." She struggles to her feet and pushes Lahrenn away when she extends a hand to help her up. "Get away from me."

  Faye moves to Mercy’s side and grasps her hand in hers, opening the fist Mercy hadn’t realized she was clenching. The last hints of adrenaline fade away as Lylia shoves past her and trudges into the castle. Mercy turns to Faye in horror. “What have I done?”

  “Now,” Trytain says, clapping her hands together. “Everyone back to work, the performance is over. Keep practicing.” She drops a hand on Mercy’s shoulder. “Not you,” she hisses, her eyes narrowing. “I think you’ve had enough for today.”

  Just then, little Threnn runs through the doorway of the castle. She plants herself before Mistress Trytain. “Mistress Sorin is in need of assistance. She asked for Mercy.”

  Trytain’s mouth puckers as Threnn runs back into the Keep. “Very well. Go help now, but watch yourself next time. We spar, but we don’t try to kill our own.”

  Mercy nods, backing away. When Mistress Trytain turns back to watch the girls train, she pivots and escapes to the relative safety of the castle.

  “Mistress Sorin?” Mercy raps her knuckles on the ancient wooden door of the infirmary. “You sent for me?”

  The door opens and a woman fills its frame, her pinched face relaxing when she sees Mercy. “About time. Follow me.”

  An earthy, herbal scent, mixed with the coppery tang of blood which had long ago soaked into the cracks in the floor, fills Mercy’s nose when she steps into the room. Cabinets teeming with jars and bottles of dried herbs and salves line every wall, and three beds are crammed in the center of the room. One holds the body of a young girl, curled into a ball and dwarfed by the giant lumpy mattress.

  “Her name is Arabelle,” Sorin says, shuffling through papers on the mixing table. “She only arrived this winter, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t know her.” She opens a thick leather-bound book and flips through until she finds the page for which she had been searching. “Ever seen that?” She taps a drawing of a seven-petaled flower, pink with stripes of white in the center.

  Mercy squints to read the label scrawled above the image. “Lusus blossoms. No, I don’t think so.”

  “I’d be surprised if you had. They’re not indigenous here; they thrive in the warmth of the north. So, the question is how Arabelle managed to stuff her pockets and eat enough to paralyze a full-grown Qadari warrior.” She nods to a pile of crushed blooms on the bedside table, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

  “She found them here? Did one of the Daughters bring them back from a contract?”

  “I don’t know; she was unconscious when Amir brought her here.”

  Mercy perches on the edge of Arabelle’s bed. Although the apprentice is covered in a thin sheet, her fair cheeks are pink and a sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead. Mercy presses the back of her hand to the little girl’s forehead. “She’s running a dangerously high fever.”

  “A side effect of the poison, I’m afraid. It’s working its way out of her system. I’ve managed to counteract the toxin, but I don’t know how long she’ll be able to hold the medicine down. That’s why I need you to help me make more.” Sorin crosses the room and grabs a mortar and pestle, which she passes to Mercy, then digs through the cabinets and returns with a small collection of ingredients: a jar of Nightwing berries, a bundle of Claudia’s Song leaves, and something called dried Benza root. “Mash those into a paste and pray we won’t have to use it.”

  Mercy mixes the amounts Mistress Sorin instructs as the healer bustles around the room. Most of Sorin’s time is spent in the infirmary, but she sometimes ventures out to instruct the apprentices in the use of herbs in medicines and poisons, as well as teaching them general healing. Mercy has a natural talent for herbalism, which Mistress Sorin claims has been passed down through the elven for generations—although whether she truly believes that or had simply taken pity on young Mercy remains to be answered. Either way, she had taken Mercy under her wing and has been helping her develop her skills over the years. This is hardly the first time she has been pulled out of training to assist in the infirmary.

  The only thing Mercy hasn’t managed to improve is her bedside manner—or, more accurately, her lack of it.

  “You should be glad she’s asleep,” Sorin says, reading Mercy’s thoughts, “or she’d bolt the second she saw your face. How’d you manage this?” Her fingers lightly brush the scratches on Mercy’s cheek.

  She grimaces. “It’s nothing. Worry about the girl.”

  “I worry about all of you here. Do not act like you are worth less than anyone else.”

  Mercy fights the urge to roll her eyes. The healer seems to think every issue stems from her being the only elf in the Keep. “I am acting like poisoning is more serious than a few scratches.”

  Sorin clicks her tongue and waves for Mercy to continue mixing. With a few more pounds of the pestle, the deep red berries mash into a bright purple juice which thickens with the addition of the root and leaves. “Nightwing for pain, Claudia’s Song as a muscle relaxant, but what does the Benza root do?”

  “It counteracts the poison. Lusus blossoms are very dangerous, you know. They take their time to kill you. It targets the blood first, so it can spread through the entire body rapidly. Within minutes, the victim will complain of a pounding headache and suffer weakening of the muscles and loss of coordination. Complete paralysis follows thereafter as the muscles and organs begin to shut down.”

  “You consider that slow?”

  “No, the worst part comes after. The victim will remain paralyzed as the toxin seeps into the brain tissue and nervous system—if he’s lucky, he’ll die in a few hou
rs. Most people last a few days, sometimes a week or more.” Mistress Sorin frowns as she brushes a strand of the girl’s hair back, cupping her cheek the way a mother would her child. “The poison kills in the worst way possible. Can you imagine being a slave in your own body, unable to move your hands or feet, unable to call for help or cry or do anything but wait for the pain to be over? It’s not a death I’d wish on anyone, contract or no. Amir found her collapsed in the hall outside of the bedrooms and brought her straight here. Luckily, the poison had not taken hold of her completely. With proper rest and medicine, she will be up and moving again within the week.”

  Sorin stands and wipes her hands on her dress, and in the blink of an eye, her expression returns to a carefully-crafted mask of neutrality—her ‘doctor’s face,’ Mercy calls it. “Hand me the mixture and that dropper there,” Sorin says. Jars clink against each other as she searches a chest and straightens with a small bottle in her hand. “Ah, here it is. A little bit of milk to soothe the throat and help the medicine down. Now hold her mouth open wide.”

  Mercy does as she says and parts Arabelle’s lips while Mistress Sorin sticks the dropper into the back of the girl’s throat, squeezing out the contents. She catches Mercy’s doubtful expression. “The medicine looks awful and tastes worse. Trust me, this is the easiest way to make her take it.”

  They hold their breath, waiting for some response.

  Arabelle’s eyelids flutter, then she jerks upright and vomits on the floor.

  Mistress Sorin doesn’t look surprised. She hands the girl a bucket, which Arabelle clutches to her chest, blinking up at Mercy with large, dazed eyes. She attempts a reassuring smile but doesn’t fail to notice when the girl shrinks away and into Sorin’s arms. Clearly, her reputation precedes her.

  “Unfortunately, Benza root also acts as an emetic in some people,” Mistress Sorin sighs. “She’s going to need another dose. You remember the quantities?”

  Mercy nods and returns to the mortar and pestle, pouring in each ingredient as Sorin had instructed.