Chapter Fifty-Two. The Awakening.
Fifty-Two
The Awakening.
As I close the door and lean back against it, I remind myself of how far Merc and I have traveled and all the things we’ve battled and bested by working together.
These memories fight for the forefront of my mind against the image of that pale-haired woman in her messy bed—but neither the things Merc and I have shared nor what he did with her matters.
“It’s not about me,” I hear myself say.
Merc stares down at me, and I swear I can feel his exasperation. And the confirmation of his annoyance is the way he tosses his pack on the table.
“I thought you said Lena was all right.”
“It’s not her, either.”
“So are we going to just play roulette with the names of strangers—”
“It’s not your woman.” Before he can respond to that, I cut in, “And if you can’t help me, I understand. This is … beyond the normal course of things.”
Well, for me it is.
That black and white gaze narrows. “What do you speak of, then. Out with it.”
His sword hand rests on the pack, as if he’s fully prepared to pick it up, strap it on, and resume the exit that was paused out in the hall.
“Go on,” he prompts. “What about it.”
And that’s when my voice fails. At first: “I want you … to kill someone.”
The chuckle that comes back at me is the last thing I expect. “My woman?” he drawls. “As you referred to her.”
“No,” I snap.
Instantly, he changes. “Who hurt you. What happened.”
The fact that he’s willing to come to my defense so readily is a balm I don’t want on my hurt pride. “I told you, it’s not about me.”
With a stumble of syllables, I explain everything except the vision that started it all, and as I hear myself talk, I have to look at the floor because the enormity of what I’m suggesting begins to fall on my head. Except I’m taking none of it back.
Lena called me a healer, and I think she’s right about that. But there’s another side of me, too.
“If we don’t help her…” I clear the lump out of my throat. “And we don’t do it now? She’s not going to live to see tomorrow.”
Merc’s hand leaves the pack and pushes his long hair over his shoulder. As he stands in silence, I catalogue the weapons I can see on him, especially the broadsword that’s currently riding his hip as opposed to his shoulder.
“How certain are you it’s the cook?”
“She, ah … she told me it was him. Just now. I went to check on her and thank her for the food, and he’s…” I motion around my face. “He’s beaten her, badly. I’m pretty sure it’s because she brought that tray up to me yesterday.”
“Okay.”
I wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, my heart pounds with worry. “So what else can I say? Do you have questions or—”
“No.” He turns to his pack, opens it back up, and roots around once again. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
There is a metal-on-metal shift as he unsheathes a strange dagger. The weapon’s sharp end is narrow and very short, but the hilt is nearly as long as his forearm. He tucks the latter up into his sleeve and locks a grip on a bar that rests right about the seat of the blade.
It’s easy to imagine him punching into someone’s stomach and dragging the cutting surface upward.
“There’s going to be a certain amount of cover-up required,” he says. “So it might take a little while. But I’ll handle everything.”
“Merc—”
“And given the nature of this request, will you please stay in here as I go to work? I don’t want to worry about what in fate’s name you’re doing.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “And I’ll throw the latch.”
With that, he leaves, and I immediately bolt myself in—and do it loudly.
Then I back up until my legs hit the bed’s footer and I fall into a sit.
Clasping my hands tightly in my lap, I stare at the gray floorboards as if they are glass and open up a view into the kitchen.
My blood is humming as it does before my panic gets away from me.
And yet I am not scared or anxious.
I feel something else.
Vengeance.
I think of every time I huddled and ran from a man I met in the lane back in my village.
I think of the mob who came for Mare, and Elly’s death on the birthing bed, and the maid downstairs and her twin sister.
I remember those cruel boys taunting the dying dragon, and the top-hatted man with his cadre of dark-hearted guards.
I tell myself I should be horrified by what I’ve set into motion.
Surely this will be a contamination on my soul, for I’ve behaved no better than any of them.
Except I don’t care and I have no regrets. The only thing I feel in my heart is a disappointment that I’m not the one striking down the maid’s tormentor.
Overhead, the rain continues to fall, and as I close my eyes, I see it as blood spilling from a body. I should be horrified. I’m not. Opening my lids, I look down at my palms, and swear I see red all over them. I tell myself I should be shocked. I’m not.
Yet in my core, I know I’ve added another violent layer to all the other wrongdoing of the situation. The cook is an abuser, but am I really any better than him? And what if Merc is caught and killed afterward for the crime? Then I’ve saved the maid and doomed him.
This is bad. What I’ve done is a kind of evil.
A feeling of disquiet animates me, so I set once more to a pacing, and it’s as I make another round of the room that my pack catches my eye.
Before I can comprehend what I’m doing, I go over and pick the weight up, taking it to the bed.
The tie all but falls free for me, and getting a hand inside is like pouring water it’s so easy.
The box comes out as if it’s moving on its own.
When I go to free the little hook, it’s already been released, and the lid comes up as if blown open—
A flash of lightning flickers around the room and the circle of black crystals catches the illumination as if breathing in the energy.
An uncontrollable urge to take the object out stirs in me, but I’m not about to cut myself on it again, so I’m careful about how I reach in. This time, it doesn’t feel cold, and there’s no sharpness as I take the circle of—
A crown.
It’s … a crown.
As the contours emerge from the box, my eyes skip around.
Curls of black metal seat the spears of black crystal that rise up at different levels, all of them capturing the lantern light and going rainbow.
The detailing of the workmanship is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and what I think is just an abstract pattern of waves turns out to be the depiction of an army of warhorses and weaponed men.
I turn, turn, turn the circlet in my hands so I can inspect each individual figure, their swords and musket guns, their forward leans over the necks of their galloping, furious steeds, the many deep of the ranks.
It is a crown of war made of shadow, and Mr. Lewis’s voice enters my mind as if he’s speaking right to my ear.
One is a compass that will guide you on your quest, the other is the point of it all.
For some reason, tears spear into my eyes—
“Sorrel, it’s me.”
I jump to attention and look at the door. Has Merc acted this fast? “Coming!”
My hands are sloppy as they return the royal jewel to its velvet seat, and it’s as I get the box back into the pack and then jump forward to unlock things that I revisit my resolve: That object is not my journey.
I am at my destination.
My fingers fumble with the bolt on the door, and I’m shaking as I open things up for so many reasons.
Merc enters and shuts us in together. “Not the right time.”
As he goes over to the table and puts the strange knife away, I struggle with a cowardly relief and a surging frustration—and when he turns to me, I feel even more unstable. He’s so calm, but then again, this is his business. He’s unbothered because this isn’t a shocking situation for him to be in.
I remember him saying he wanted to kill the cook himself.
“There are workers all around him in the kitchen.” Merc nods as if I’ve asked him a question.
“Yes, she’s there and surrounded by others.
They’re in preparation for the evening meals.
It’s better to wait until the pub is full and the drinking is well on.
The chaos will be to my advantage, and the night will make the after work much easier. ”
This is a sign, I tell myself.
Maybe I should call off the murder and find another solution.
Merc goes over to the window seat and settles in. Crossing his arms over his chest, he lowers his chin and closes his eyes.
“Get some rest.” He exhales and shifts his shoulders as if getting more comfortable. “I know night is a while off, but we both need it after the travel.”
Then again, with the incessant storming, it might as well be after dark already.
I turn to the bed. Then look up at the ceiling and think about the night before. “Merc.”
“Mmm…?”
There’s a creak of leather as he looks over at me. Then on an abrupt surge, he’s back on his feet, and coming across.
As our eyes meet, his callused, scarred hand reaches out and brushes at my hair. I think of him and the blond working woman and feel sick to my stomach.
“It shouldn’t come easy,” he says.
“I’m … sorry?”
The black side of his stare reminds me of the crystals rising out of the crown’s beautifully wrought black metal. “Killing something, even if … you’re doing it for the right reasons. It shouldn’t be easy.”
That’s when his mask falls away, and I’m leveled from the pain and the regret in his soul. It’s as if I’ve entered a dark, deep cave of torture and I’m staring into an abyss of pain. And still his eyes roam around my face, my hair, my shoulders.
“You are a rare light in this world, Sorrel. Fearless and brave, strong and true—”
“I am no such thing.”
“You need to acquaint with yourself, woman.” His exhale is ragged. “You’re all that and more.”
“I’m a coward who’s asked you to commit murder.”
His shrug is so offhanded, we might as well be talking about the weather. “The cook has it coming. And don’t let him bother your conscience. He’s not worth it.”
“Murder is wrong.”
“And you’re only feeling like this because it’s your first time.” Abruptly, his tone grows weary. “It’s the hardest.”
“It’s my only time.”
In the silence, I think of the speech that Sallae Mae always gave the new girls, about how the first time … was always the hardest—and I try to find the farmer in the mercenary before me, the man beneath all the weapons and the scars.
“Was that true for you? Was your … first … the hardest.”
It’s a long while before he shakes his head. “I thought so for a long time. But as fate would have it … I was wrong.”
Riding a desperate wave, I gather his much bigger hands in my own, and squeeze to try to get through to him. “You can stop. You can get out of this life. I see what’s inside of you—”
“No, I can’t.” He separates us and goes back to the window seat, resettling his body in a determined pose of repose. “And … you don’t.”