Chapter 3 Mercy Is a Weapon
Mercy Is a Weapon
Flora
T
he Ever crumples to the moss. His pale hair spills around him, and the sharp lines of his jaw go slack in a way that only heightens the shock of seeing all that immortal strength toppled to the ground.
I inhale deeply and try to will myself to stay calm. The scent of birch and pine resin and cool, wet earth serves to ground me. Somewhere a thrush calls and another answers.
I press my hand against the Ever’s throat, feeling for his pulse. It’s there, faint and thready. He isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway, but there’s too much blood seeping from his chest.
Why isn’t his body healing itself? Evers are meant to be able to survive almost any wound, and this injury must have happened days ago.
Though really, it would make things simpler if he died. Wouldn’t it?
He’s unconscious, and his sword lies within easy reach. The pommel glimmers in the sunlight, a solid globe of yellow crystal with a heart that glows like fire. I can feel the heat and magic rolling from it, so there’s no doubt the weapon is made of celestial steel.
He probably wouldn’t even feel it if I thrust the blade into his heart. Then I could bury all three Evers deep enough to ensure no one would ever find them.
I stare down at him, trying to work up the courage to take the sword from its scabbard.
But even unconscious, there’s something about him that is equal parts magnificent and vulnerable.
Something almost human in the way his brows draw together, leaving a small crease that speaks of tension, and in the way that pain etches small brackets around his lips.
Like generations of women in my family, both of my grandmothers were healers. The thought of betraying what they taught me makes my heart pound and my stomach sink.
Mercy is a two-edged weapon. I have no doubt it will come back to make me bleed. But I can’t bring myself to kill the Ever, and I won’t let him die.
His presence here is dangerous, but if I kill him while he’s defenceless, I’d be no better than the Everfolk.
Cursing myself, I drop to my knees beside him. Cold damp from the moss seeps through my skirts as I lay him on his back.
He doesn’t wake, even when I unfasten the buttons of his coat and use my dagger to slit his shirt open.
A thick, blood-soaked bandage is wrapped around his chest and stomach.
I slice through that, too, and my nose wrinkles at the sharp, metallic tang of something that isn’t the iron found in human blood.
This is more like the air after a lightning strike.
The sodden bandage drips with blood as I peel it back to reveal a gash that starts a hairbreadth below whatever passes for the Ever’s heart.
Bone gleams white between torn flesh crusted with unnatural streaks of black, then the wound grows shallower down the laddered muscles of his abdomen.
By the time it vanishes under the waistband of the breeches that sit low across his hips, it’s little more than a thin pink line of healing skin.
The Ever groans beneath my touch, rolling his body towards me, his breath too hot against my wrist.
The blackening worries me more than his fever does. I’ve only seen this sort of reaction once—when my brothers shot a boar with arrows dipped in wolfsbane. It took the poor, poisoned beast days to die.
Unless I help him, the Ever won’t survive. He certainly won’t be strong enough to leave. It’s a full day’s ride to the boundaries of Domhnall land in every direction, and if he collapses again, there’s no telling who might find him.
Even if I decide to treat him, I’ll need water and supplies, and he’s too weak for me to move him. I’ll have to work in stages.
With a sigh, I reach beneath my skirt and use my dagger to cut off a section of my chemise to serve as a temporary bandage before I leave to gather moss and pine pitch to slow the bleeding.
I push his coat aside, and something crackles in the left pocket—a folded piece of parchment sealed in wax.
A corner of the document is stained with blood nearly the same red-brown colour as the seal. The wax is warm from the heat of the Ever’s body, and it has lifted away from the paper on one side. It practically begs me to read it, but the Ever is still losing blood.
I set the document aside while I take advantage of his unconscious state and bind his chest as tightly as I can. Then I pick the document up again and weigh the potential invasion of privacy if I read it against my responsibilities.
It’s well past sunrise now, and Dunhaelic Keep will be in motion.
Iain will be feeding the mares, Faolan checking the battlements, Morag baking, and Catriona carrying my mother’s breakfast to her solar.
Peat smoke and warm yeast will mix with the scent of horses and heather on the wind.
These are the scents of my beloved Dunhaelic.
There’s so little left of what my home once was, and too few people remaining in my care. All of them have lost as much in this war as I have, yet they work beside me every day to keep what’s left intact. I cannot—I will not—fail them.
The parchment unfolds with a whispered hush, and I read the first words. My heart kicks into a sprint as I realise the document is a letter addressed to the rebel king.
Your Royal Highness,
As no one in Alba Scoria has gambled more than I have in supporting your cause, I find myself deeply affected by our loss at Culodur and the difficulty in which Your R.H. finds himself.
Sir, I hope you will forgive a few truths upon which all our commanders agree.
It was highly wrong of the High King and the Assembly of Tirnaeve to allow you to set up your royal standard here without having received the men, gold, and supplies needed to restore you to your crown.
If the Raven Queen retains the throne of Alba Scoria, it shall be upon their account.
I must also acquaint Your R.H. that we are all convinced Lord Sean, whom Your R.H.
considers the greatest of friends, committed gross blunders on every occasion.
I never doubted that we might retreat from the queen’s forces without great loss, but I was overruled by this man in whom you have placed so much trust and who, I must assure you, has either betrayed you or is as unfit to be a general as he is to be a shoemaker.
He has rendered himself odious to all our army and has disgusted them to such a degree that it bred a mutiny in our ranks.
In short, you place too much confidence in him and in one or two of your other Siorai companions.
Please consider this warning as you plan your return from Eireen with Tirnaeve’s promises fulfilled and the additional mercenaries from there and Galia across the seas.
I shall await word of your plans to land the reinforcements and stand ready to venture my life in the cause whenever Your R.H.
returns. But to be sure, unless Lord Sean and your Riders give greater regard to my opinions, I cannot flatter myself with hopes of success.
I remain, with great zeal, Sir, Your R.H.’s most obedient and humble servant,
Seoras Mora
The letter trembles in my hand. I read it through a second time before folding it closed.
Lord Mora—General Mora—commands the rebel army.
This letter could change the outcome of the war.
If the Raven Queen finds out the rebel king means to land a force of Siorai warriors from Tirnaeve, along with hired soldiers from other mortal realms, she would scorch the earth to stop him. And does the king already know that one or more of his Riders may be a traitor?
General Mora could be wrong, of course. I know too little to make assumptions. My decisions are getting harder, and firm ground is vanishing from beneath my feet with every step.