Mercy

By Maxine Smith

Magic will overwhelm a witch when suppressed. It will become wild and volatile. I know this because I lost control-I lost everything. But it was the outburst that saved the world.

Mercy grew up in fear of her magical powers, in fear of the very thing

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637303160

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Mercy

Mercy

Maxine Smith

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2021 Maxine Smith

All rights reserved.

Mercy

ISBN

978-1-63730-314-6 Paperback

978-1-63730-315-3 Kindle Ebook

978-1-63730-316-0 Ebook

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Prologue

A Storm is Coming

Listen to your Elders

The Lazy Dog

Strange Friend

My Feet Hurt

On the Streets of Cogar

All Grievances Will Be Heard

What You’re Made Of

The Eight Witch Prophets

Visions of the Lost and the Hidden

Scars and Brambles

Even Stone Will Crack

The Hidden Door

Giant Plans, Giant Discoveries

Tellman Boutique

An Apothecary and His Apprentice

The Bandit Wood

Lost in the Woods

Pointy Ears

Gods and Prophets

No Mercy Left Behind

Birds of a Feather

Squirrel or Rabbit

Beneath the Mountain

The Goblin City

Aimless

The Witch City

Proper Practice

The Road to Rosieck

In the Shadows of Giants

In Death and Death Alone

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

To the moment consumption became creation.

Author’s Note

Reading and writing were once the bane of my existence.

The irony that I have since become an avid reader and author is not lost on me. In fact, this change speaks to my reason for writing this book in the first place: growth.

Eight years ago, my sixth grade English teacher, Mrs. Halbur, recognized my hate of these two pastimes. Somewhere along the way during her class, she challenged me to read a new book for one of our end-of-school projects. I dreaded the thought and put it off until the last possible moment—much like editing this book. Having picked up and dropped a number of titles leading up to my deadline, I was suddenly out of time, in a pickle, and needing to choose one. Then I found out about James Patterson’s Maximum Ride series through my older sister.

Suddenly, the girl who shut down at the thought of reading had devoured a nine-book series in less than two weeks.

I was hooked.

All I wanted to do was read. I was connecting, imagining, and delving into fantastical worlds brought to life by words stamped on limp pages in little print. It was the first time that words weren’t just words. They grew and changed and exploded into lifelines, scenescapes, voices, and magical creatures.

The books that interested me most were those of other worlds, ones with science and fantasy blended together and the texts where the limits of reality and the imagination were tested. Some of my favorites were retellings of fairytales like Splintered by A. G. Howard and The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer. Others, like Glow by Amy Kathleen Ryan or The Uglies by Scott Westerfeld, leaned more into science and the human body. Finally, to name only a few of the hundreds, books such as The Chemical Garden Trilogy by Lauren DeStefano and The Selection Series by Kiera Cass explored dystopian societies and societal alteration.

I proceeded to read close to two hundred books before the start of seventh grade. And I didn’t stop there.

The more I consumed literary content, the more excited I became about creating. After months of reading and the sudden new habit of scribbling dialogue and scenes in the margins of class notes and on the backs of assignments, I had a stack of loose papers two inches thick with handwritten story ideas and hundreds of characters living in the crooks of my mind. These scraps existed because reading gave my mind permission to wander, to create my own worlds and plots. It ignited a creative spark in me that illuminated depths of myself I previously had no knowledge of. Before reading, I could not fathom the ability I contained. I did not know the capacity and power of my own mind.

I wrote my first and worst book at the age of fourteen. I cringe looking back at it now, but I am also proud of it. Starting and finishing that book was a stepping-stone to where I am today, and I would not be publishing Mercy without it. Like I said: growth.

Mercy is like nothing I have tackled before. I have written many stories over the past (nearly) decade, but never something surrounding magic and these themes. It’s been challenging, rewarding, and I am so proud to finally publish it.

This story is about change, the obstacles we’re trying to conquer, understanding that our biggest obstacle is ourselves, seeing that our history affects our present and our future but does not define it, and that it’s up to us to decide who we are and what we are going to be. I feel that Mercy was the story to approach these ideas because they resonate in her journey from a child to an adult so beautifully.

I think we’re all a little lost when we first start anything. I created the character Mercy and this story surrounding her because I am in a place in life that feels like wandering. I don’t know what I want; I am taking wrong turns; I am learning about myself and my needs; I am having to make decisions that are going to affect me and other people; I am meeting forever friends, etc.

I think Mercy embodies so many of these same feelings and stumbles through her emotions just like a real person. Growth is a journey, and it isn’t easy, and I wanted to create a character who resonates with people who are also on journeys of finding aspects of themselves.

I have used the characters in this story to build powerful relationships and prompt change or growth. The fantasy plot doesn’t take away from any of the lessons learned or challenges the characters face because at the end of the day they are still people.

Why witches though? Because witches are underrepresented in fantasy literature. I feel this aids the story because there is no set precedent for what I can or cannot do. I’ve been given complete control and no bounds.

I was compelled to write this story also because I want to represent different races and cultures, new types of magic, the underlying connection of all things, individuals with different backgrounds and experiences, unity, friendship, self-acceptance, and overcoming self-limitations. The flexibility of the genre allows this.

The characters are all individuals with different backgrounds and experiences. To name a few: Mercy, a witch raised by humans, struggling to understand her power and her place in the world. Ka’Soran, a warm-hearted knowledge-seeker with a loving family and strong beliefs. Repeat, a shapeshifter abandoned as an infant who lacks connection with people and his body. Each approaches life and conflict in contrasting ways, working through their problems (or ignoring them). Their particular personalities play off one another’s and make for interesting actions, dialogue, and situations.

Fans of fantasy fiction, fantasy landscapes and creatures, and adventure will love Mercy for its exploration of new worlds, magic, and unique characters.

With warm regards, the author.

Maxine Smith

Prologue

Magic is all-consuming. It burns and rages in each nerve of the body: winding, twisting, tunneling, and devouring you in a vibrant, fiery heat.

Magic demands attention, wanting to be the forefront of all thought: the definition of a witch’s existence. It desires to control and must be obliged to remain stable and harmonious within each witch.

Magic is alive in its own way, requiring tending and care. If you ignore or misuse it, it will feed on you: your will and your sanity.

Magic will overwhelm a witch when suppressed. It will become wild.

I know this.

I know this because I lost control.

I lost my control, but it was the outburst that saved the world.

Chapter One:

A Storm is Coming

The sky has been gray for the past two days: swirling, churning, preparing for a downpour. Everyone in our small town is ready. Laundry has been taken in from lines, the outdoor stands in the market have been closed—produce and goods safely tucked indoors where the weather can cause no damage—children play in the areas near home instead of the forest and creek, and all the shutters have been secured.

We all wait in anticipation.

Shivering against the wind, I pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. The farm where I work followed the rest of the town’s lead today, and I head for home early. Most days I take my time from destination to destination. This is not one of those days. The threat of being caught in this season’s freezing rain is enough to propel me quickly toward shelter.

Get home. Get warm. Get home. Get warm.

It isn’t a long walk, a half hour most days when taken at a leisurely pace. It feels longer in this wind and weather, though. My unruly dark curls choose this moment to blow into my eyes and, frustrated, I force them out of the way—it’s been one of those days where each small inconvenience worsens my mood.

This morning I woke to my grandmother barging into my room, demanding I bathe before leaving for the farm. She followed this demand with another to leave my hair down and natural. Neither makes sense for my work, but that isn’t what has me spiraling internally. No, it is her willingness to speak to me.

On a good day, she does her best to ignore me, and I comply by staying out of her way.

We usually have good days.

Father has always assured me that his mother loves me, somewhere deep down—deep, deep down.

Truly, I have come to not care. Years of dismissal from her have made me indifferent to her whims and quirks. At this point, the only common thing we have between us is our love for my father.

Father is a quiet man, creative and warm. He works as a potter and has created most of the crockery used and traded by the town. I believe he would know the entire town even if they were not already his client base, as he is one of the friendliest people I know.

Despite being raised solely by my father, I inherited none of his social or artistic talents. Instead, I gained my mother’s looks and mysterious magical gifts. As a child, many people assumed I would take after her—on account of my pointed ears—but it wasn’t until puberty that the gravity of what I am was realized.

I am a witch in a territory whose dislike of witches is fueled by bloody history and war.

My pace is quick over the dry dirt path as the air under the canopy grows thicker, raising the hairs on my arms. The first crack of lightning flashes overhead and the thunder joins in moments later.

I look up to check how far I have left to go and falter, not because I see anything in my path or wrong with my home, but because my grandmother waits on the porch, arms crossed, her white-blond hair piled neatly on top of her head.

Something must be amiss for her to wait for me—and in this weather. I rush the final distance.

There you are, child, come along. We haven’t much time, she says as she steps off the porch.

Time for what? I ask as she takes my arm and drags me around the side of the house nearest father’s pottery studio. What are we doing? The storm is nearly here—

I am well aware, child. The sky has been darkening all afternoon. Now stop fussing and come with me. You need to get cleaned up again as you’ve failed to stay presentable. I am pulled through the back entrance of our home and immediately directed to my room. I’ve laid a dress on your bed. Put it on, I am told as she grabs a pitcher of water from the vanity and pours it into the washbowl.

Wondering what on earth is going on, I untie my shawl and remove my tunic and dusty pants. My grandmother waves her hand to rush me as I pull my second-best dress over my head and tie the waist. Why all this fuss—

Never mind that. Come here and clean yourself up while I fix this hair of yours. She pushes me to the washbowl and takes up the position behind me as she begins to tug my hair this way and that, attempting to tame it. I told you to leave it down, didn’t I?

I did leave it down.

A white lie. I did leave it loose until arriving at the farm this morning but tied it up and let it down again on my way home. I expect if I had left it as she asked that it would be even wilder than it is at the moment.

Her fingers tug at the black coils of curls roughly, catching a snarl, and I push her deceptively soft hands away. Stop it. What is going on?

We have company, Mercy. Now, for the love of the suns and moon, do as I say.

She turns me back around and begins to pull at my hair again. I wince as I begin to scrub my fingernails in the washbasin, using a damp washcloth draped on the edge to wipe my face and arms.

Houseguests? In a storm? Something about this feels wrong.

Grandmother grabs two hairpins from the vanity and clips my hair back from my face. This will have to do. You should have returned sooner.

I am home sooner than I would be on a regular—

It does not matter, child. Go join your father and the guests. She pushes me toward the door, and I stumble gently, throwing an annoyed glance over my shoulder as I go. Before I leave, she calls out, And none of that unnatural trouble from you.

I venture cautiously down the thin, dark hallway to the front entrance. Father and two other men speak politely with their backs to me near the hearth, resting in our relocated dining chairs. My entrance pulls Father’s attention to me, and he perks up, standing in greeting, Mercy, there you are.

I’ve just returned from the farm. I nod as the two visitors stand and turn to me. I am surprised to find one of the older boys I knew as I child. He is very clearly no longer a boy, shoulders broad and height towering like his father beside him. It startles me even though most elves share this build—even the women. Karim.

Mercy. A pleasure to see you again. He nods politely and looks at the man with him. This is my father, Giles.

They are nearly identical, sharing the same sandy blond hair, brown eyes, and long pointy ears.

Uh, hello, I reply, tucking my hands behind my back as I wait for something to happen.

Please, join us. There is another seat. Karim motions to the chair beside him and I nod, walking over. We all sit together, and I look at my father expectantly, not understanding what is happening.

Giles, I believe you were interested in my workshop, should we visit it? Father addresses the older elf.

Baba, the storm, I remind him, hoping he will not leave me here alone.

I do not hear the rain just yet. He brushes me off. I want to object to their leaving again as I am still without an explanation of what is happening but know I cannot politely do so. They stand and leave through the front door, chatting together.

I look at Karim to see if he is feeling as out of place as me. If his relaxed demeanor is any indication of his feelings, he is unaffected.

So, Mercy, please tell me about yourself. He smiles charmingly.

Hesitating only a moment, I offer a polite smile. Karim, I’m not sure what this is.

He adjusts himself, seeming too large for the wooden chair now that I sit across from him. Well, we were children when we last spoke. I think we should become more familiar—

No, I meant that I’m not sure what is going on. When he does not react, I prompt further, Why are you here?

His smile falters for a moment but returns. Our fathers arranged for us to spend time together.

I recoil at the news, surprised. But why?

They hope we will get along.

Realization hits me, and I look at him, surprised. Are you suggesting— Are you meaning we’ll be settled?

Of course. Why else? he asks as I stand from my seat, looking for an escape route.

How could we be married? We hardly know one another. We’re hardly ready for marriage. I am young. I am young and…I can’t be married.

My grandmother walks into the entryway at this moment carrying a tray with a pot of tea and cups, making her way to us.

Grandmother, keep Karim company for a moment, I tell her as I weave my way through the chairs to the front door, going to find my father.

Mercy— she calls after me, but the door closing behind me cuts her off and I stalk around the side of the house, the sky overhead swirling with angry gray clouds.

As I get close to the workshop, Father spots me from inside and his brows furrow. I tip my head for him to join me outside and he excuses himself from his visitor.

Mercy, what is it? he asks in a soft tone to keep the man in the building oblivious to our conversation. One of his strong hands gently wraps around my bicep, guiding me out of earshot. Why aren’t you with Karim?

Baba, why are you attempting to settle me down with a stranger? I ask him, anger boiling up inside of me. Nothing is making sense.

Karim is hardly a stranger. You’ve known him since childhood—

"Knowing of someone and knowing someone are completely different things, Baba."

The two of you do not get along? he asks, suddenly concerned.

That is not the point. I shake my head. Why are you doing this? Why have you arranged our meeting?

Mercy, not now. Please, just go back inside and enjoy yourself—

I will not. Not until you tell me what this scheme is, I tell him firmly, crossing my arms.

He sighs and looks back at the workshop before meeting my glare. Mercy, you are twenty-two years old. It is time for you to think about starting your own family.

Stepping back in surprise, I shake my head. You didn’t settle down with Mother until you were nearly thirty.

Your mother and I… Mercy, I understand this is abrupt, but I thought you would be happy.

Happy? About what? I ask, scoffing, anger building inside of me—burning like a fire in my chest. Should I be happy about the fact that you are trying to rid yourself of me onto strangers?

Not rid myself—Mercy, all I want is for you to be happy. To live a good life.

Desperate for understanding, I step toward him, grabbing hold of his golden-colored arm. Then why would you do this? I am completely happy now, just as I am.

Karim is young, handsome, and ready for marriage—

Baba!

He is building a home on land he owns in another town—

Baba, stop, I plead, not quite believing the words coming from him. Please. I can’t hear this from you.

He sought us out. He offered this arrangement. He knows of your powers and—

Father— A feeling grips my chest, crushing it prematurely so that his inevitable words do not hurt as badly. I know where this is going now, and he continues despite my attempts to stop him.

Please don’t say it. Not that.

Being with an elf will hide what you are. Everyone will assume you’re half elf. You’ll be able to have normal children—

Stop! I shout, shaking, my gut twisting at my father’s words. The betrayal sinks in, and I can barely stand to look at him.

His dark eyes focus on me. Mercy—

You always told me there is nothing wrong with what I am. So why can’t I just be how I am? I try to defend myself with his empty words. Where is this coming from? Does he really think so little of me?

You’re all alone. He says it like it isn’t my doing—my choice to stay away. I don’t want you to go through this life without anyone.

I have you—

Mercy, enough! His voice carries.

My mouth snaps shut, and I watch him with wide eyes. Father never yells.

Hurt seeps deeper into every fiber of my body, embedding itself in my very composition. I feel sick to my stomach, my skin prickling, and my mouth suddenly dry.

How can he say all these things to me? How can he be so heartless? He has always, always supported me and protected me. I grew up being told to love on my own, be my own person, make my own decisions, find my own path… Was it all lie? Is this the truth?

I turn to go without a word and see him flinch out of the corner of my eye.

The power I have spent my whole life hiding begins to seep into my limbs in hot cords, like snakes slithering from a dark hole. Fear greets my anger and I take a deep breath, trying to concentrate.

Mercy, I didn’t mean to—

Father’s hand bounces off my shoulder as he sets it there, and my rage flies out of my physical body in a wave.

The trees around us groan and shake, the wind rising around us in a whirlwind. Father staggers back, holding up his arms to shield his face from the dust and small rocks picked up by the wind. The cracking of branches joins the magical outburst, and I see them flying above us through my slitted eyes as I grip the sides of my face tightly.

No. Stop!

I vibrate with the powers inside me, struggling to draw them back and stamp them down. I need to keep my hold—I always need to have control.

I can’t hurt someone again. I can’t be responsible for another accident.

Get it together, Mercy. Breathe. Breathe.

My head spins with the effort, but the magic refuses to be put back inside—intense feelings of anger and betrayal and fear still hold the forefront of my attention. My magic forces itself skyward, and it feels like something is being ripped from inside me. I scream in agony.

The sky suddenly opens, rain flooding the thick air around us, and a bolt of lightning careens down from the clouds, striking the tree behind my father.

I turn away to shield my eyes from the blinding flash and horrible splintering sound. Shocked from my outburst, my magic disperses, most of it escaping into the