A ready-made killing machine.
Lylia shoves Mercy out of the way, pinching the point of her ear as she saunters toward the forest path. Mercy’s fingers twitch reflexively for the bow slung on her back, for an excuse to show Lylia just how merciless she can be.
“Don’t worry about her,” says Faye, Mercy’s best friend—or, more accurately, the one who least wants to see her killed. She’s eighteen, six months older than Mercy, but her porcelain skin and large hazel eyes give her a deceptive air of youthfulness. “Don’t let her jealousy affect you.”
“I don’t,” Mercy growls, and Faye clicks her tongue chidingly.
Rather than respond, Mercy tilts her head back and stares up at the familiar canopy of leaves, a sea of fire overhead. Kismoro Keep sits in the center of the Forest of Flames, nestled among tall redwoods which burn with leaves in every shade of red, orange, and gold imaginable. It’s beautiful, and probably would have been decimated by humans searching for trees to log and prey to hunt if there weren’t tales of travelers venturing into the woods to loot the mysterious castle hidden somewhere in its center, never to be heard from again.
Mostly.
Sometimes Mother Illynor lets the Daughters, mounted on agile steeds and armed with bows and arrows, chase men out of the woods. If they strike one down, it’s considered a successful day of training. If he escapes, he’ll stumble his way to the nearest town spouting ghost stories about the beautiful monsters who hunt men in the forest.
Allow just enough fear to escape to keep the rest away, Mother Illynor likes to say.
Mercy looks at Faye. “Is it true that some trees are green?”
“Most are.” Faye knows better than to laugh at Mercy’s ignorance of the outside world, instead having made it her duty to teach her. “They’re green like grass, except when autumn comes, the leaves turn red and orange—like these—and fall. They crunch underfoot and dance on the breeze and scrape against the stone of the streets. And when spring comes, the trees begin again, with little green buds. It’s breathtaking.”
“It’s pointless. Why not keep their leaves year-round, like these?”
“The why is not important. Because they do. Because the Creator willed it to be so—”
Mercy groans. “The Creator. How can you believe so wholeheartedly in the existence of something for which you have no proof?”
Faye rolls her eyes. “Someone. It’s called faith for a reason.”
“I call it foolishness.”
“You do not believe in anything you cannot kill with your sword.”
“Practicality.”
Faye snorts.
They walk in silence for a few minutes, listening to the birds and the tiny creatures scampering in the underbrush. The other apprentices have run ahead and disappeared around a bend in the path. Mistress Trytain walks behind them, out of earshot, but frowning nonetheless.
Faye glances sideways at Mercy. “Why did you ask about the trees? I’ve told you about them before.”
“I was trying to imagine what it looks like. I think I would like it.” Her lips twist as she says it; she detests admitting to liking anything other than what the Guild provides.
The trees suddenly part before them, and Kismoro Keep rises high from the wilderness. Ivy and moss grow along the sides of the walls and onto the rarely-used battlements, which have fallen into disrepair during the castle’s thousands of years of existence. Huge chunks of stone have fallen from the walls and crumbled on the ground, but Mother Illynor has never bothered to have them replaced; there is no one from whom the Guild must defend itself. A tall iron gate hangs over the entrance, permanently open since most of the chain suspending it is more rust than metal.
Mistress Trytain calls Mercy’s name as she and Faye pass under it, and Faye smiles and runs ahead to join Cianna and Xiomar as they return their weapons to the armory, diving straight into their conversation as if she’d been with them all along.
A flash of envy crosses Mercy’s face as she watches them; she’s never had Faye’s gift of charm or her talent with words. Every facet of Mercy is sharp.
“Don’t frown,” the tutor snaps as she passes, thumping Mercy’s back with a stern hand. “And this time, clean yourself up before coming down to dinner. The armorers are here.”
“Already? I thought they were coming next week.”
“Would you like me to tell them to come back later? They don’t work around your schedule, elf.” Trytain frowns. “Change your clothes and, for the Creator’s sake, brush your hair for once. I won’t have the Strykers thinking we take in strays, you hear me?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. I knew those damnable ears were useful for something.” She squeezes Mercy’s shoulder once, then strides into the castle, her cloak swishing behind her. Mercy shakes her head, smirking, and follows her into the main hall.
If the Strykers are here, it only means one thing:
By the end of the week, one apprentice will become an Assassin.
2
In her bedroom, Mercy runs her comb through her thick hair, growling when the teeth catch on a snarl. The closed shutters block out most of the sunlight, but she doesn’t care. Unlike the other girls, she has never put much stock into her appearance, preferring to let her skills speak for themselves. When they were younger and Faye dragged her to the river to wash her hair, Mercy practiced swordplay on the bank nearby. When Aelis brought makeup and perfumes from the capital, Mercy used the lipsticks to diagram battle stratagems she’d read about in the Guild’s books.
That, and Mercy doesn’t have much to offer in the way of looks.
She isn’t ugly . . . just plain, with dark eyes and unruly black hair which prefers to knot rather than curl, but somehow never manages to hide the telltale points of her ears. Her body has the naturally lithe build all elves share, but years of fighting and swordplay have built her muscles, so her thighs are too wide, her shoulders too broad, and her chest practically flat.
“Creator’s ass!” Mercy snarls when the comb tears at yet another knot. She drops it and ties her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, huffing with frustration when three strands immediately spring out and fall into her face. She contemplates cutting them off a moment too long before shaking her head.
The Strykers await.
She doesn’t bother to change her tunic; this one is clean enough, and she has three identical ones folded in her wardrobe, all of them scratchy and threadbare after years of scrubbing on a metal washboard. Nothing in the Guild is wasted; when a Daughter is killed, her belongings are scavenged, sorted, and distributed among those remaining. The knees of Mercy’s riding pants have patches sewn over patches, and her cracked leather boots bear the imprints of someone else’s feet.
Mercy leaves her room in the apprentices’ wing and descends the spiral staircase to the main floor of the castle. The hallways are dimly lit by the torches which sit in wall sconces every few yards, the faint scent of their smoke mingling with the divine aroma wafting from the dining hall.
When Mercy cracks open the door, the chatter of voices and the clinking of forks and knives on plates sweeps over her. Two long tables divide the room, one for the Daughters—the Assassins who have already taken their vows—and one for the apprentices. Mistress Trytain and the other tutors flit about, snapping orders to servants and arguing amongst themselves about the plating of food and other mundanities. There are fewer than thirty Assassins, apprentices, and tutors, with a fleet of servants, stablehands, cooks, and maids who have all made the Keep their home.
Right now, every person’s attention is focused on the four men lounging on the cushions in front of the head table.
They laugh and converse jovially with the young women who hang around them, lapping up every word they deign to utter. Oren has lost weight in the year since he was last here. His cheeks are pockmarked and sallow from a recent illness, and his chest rattles with a cough when he laughs. Even so, Cianna kneels on the floor at his side
, eyes wide and innocent, and Lahrenn giggles at something he says.
The sight fills Mercy with equal parts mirth and disappointment that her fellow Guildmembers so easily forget themselves in the presence of men.
Faye sits beside a handsome blond man named Nerran, each holding a goblet. He says something which makes her eyes light up. When she throws her head back and laughs, he takes the opportunity to slide closer and rest a hand on her thigh. Her head snaps forward and her mouth opens to object, then her face relaxes into a flirty smile. Her eyes lift and she catches sight of Mercy. She waves her over.
Mercy shakes her head.
Come here! Faye mouths while Nerran leans over to nuzzle her neck. Mercy huffs but obliges, and Faye giggles when Nerran’s beard tickles her skin. “Mercy! You remember Nerran, don’t you?”
“Of course. How could I forget?” Last spring, Nerran had spent the entire night flirting with all the apprentices, including Mercy, but she doesn’t mention that now. He probably doesn’t remember it after all the wine he had consumed. “How have your travels been?”
Nerran shrugs, looking slightly annoyed at this interruption, but he’s too polite to say anything. Either that, or he’s afraid of offending someone in this room of highly-trained, soon-to-be Assassins. “Traveling with the Strykers keeps me busy, as always, but it’s good pay for an honest day’s work.”
“They’re planning to sail to Feyndara after the Trial,” Faye croons. “How exciting is that?”
“The land of forests?” Mercy asks, unable to hide her curiosity. “What is it like? Is it true that elves rule there?”
“It is,” someone adds. Hewlin, the leader of this band of Strykers, watches Mercy with interest from his seat beside them. “Not only is it ruled by elves, but it’s rumored the royal family is planning another attack on the Cirisor Islands.”
“A bunch of damned fools they are,” Nerran says, draining the last of his wine. “They’ve been trying to claim the Islands for years, but all they’ve succeeded in doing is getting soldiers killed on both sides. No, not killed—the soldiers vanished.”
“Vanished?”
Nerran leans forward and his voice drops to a whisper, eyes sparkling with the charisma of a natural storyteller. “Nearly two decades ago, Queen Cerelia of Feyndara requested aid in scouting the Cirisor Islands. Our king sent a company of men to join her forces and contact the fabled Cirisian elves. We don’t know if they did because every single man on that mission disappeared. Fifty men.”
“More likely those Feyndaran dogs slaughtered them at the first disagreement,” Hewlin says.
“No bodies?” Mercy asks.
“Not a one.”
“How many times are you going to tell this story, man?” Hewlin says, ruffling Nerran’s hair. “Last week it was only forty men.”
Nerran dodges a teasing punch from Faye. “Liar!”
He catches her wrists, grinning. “Believe me or not, the moral’s the same. Whatever riches the sovereigns think those islands hold, leave it to the heathens. Queen Cerelia is in love with a fantasy, and our own dear king is simply mad.”
“Be glad he’s not around to hear you call him that,” Hewlin warns, “or he’d relieve you of your head.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“Oh, no? Let’s see if you say the same next time we’re in the capital.”
Mercy leaves them to their friendly bickering, her attention drawn to the woman who has just entered the room. She wears a high-necked, long-sleeved black blouse under a gleaming silver breastplate, her trousers tucked into the legs of her boots. Under the light of the torches, her green scales reflect gold, and her head is bald except for two rows of horns which start at her temples and meet in a V at the base of her neck.
Mother Illynor turns when Mercy approaches, her black slitted pupils wide in the low light. “How are you enjoying the feast?”
“It’s fine. Mother, the Trial—”
“We have discussed this before, Mercy. At length.”
“You are going to announce the girls who are competing tonight, are you not? The girls who will fight to become Assassins? Allow me to try. I’m ready—”
“Mercy—”
“I’m the best. You’ve seen me in action, you know I’m right. Ask Mistress Trytain. Today, out on the field—”
“That’s enough.”
“I’ve been practicing. Allow me to compete in the Trial. You know how dedicated I am to the Guild—”
“That’s enough, Mercy!” Illynor’s face is pinched, annoyed. “I do not doubt your ability, nor do I doubt your dedication. It gives me no pleasure to deny you this, but you know our rule: you must be eighteen to compete in the Trial.”
“Two months, Mother! You would have me wait until next year’s Trial because I was born two months too late?”
“It is the rule.”
Mercy clenches her fists, anger flushing her cheeks. “You say the others are ready. Lylia and Faye have been here for ten years. Cianna has been here for five. I have been here for seventeen years. You shoved a sword in my hands the day I learned to walk.”
“Don’t be dramatic, Mercy, and lower your voice. You shame yourself.”
She opens her mouth to retort, then her gaze lands on a stranger lingering in the doorway, his eyes glittering with amusement. Five Strykers have come, then, although this is someone she doesn’t recognize. She scowls and leans forward, lowering her voice. “You raised me to fight for the Guild. That is what I intend to do.”
Before Mother Illynor has a chance to respond, Mercy brushes past her and strides out to the balcony, shooting a dirty look at the man who watches her as she passes. Mother Illynor lets out a long sigh and shakes her head as Mercy stomps away, turning her attention to the rest of the apprentices.
Outside, Mercy leans on the railing of the balcony which overlooks the courtyard. She shivers, pulling her arms in close around her body. The springtime cold has not yet given way to summer, and the crisp wind which rustles the trees shoots straight through the thin fabric of her tunic. She glances back at the grand dining hall, the flickering flames of the fireplace casting a dancing light over the gray stone walls. She would welcome the warmth, but the flush of anger has not yet left her cheeks.
How could Mother Illynor, knowing Mercy as well as she does, deny her the chance to prove herself to the Guild, to become a true Assassin? Every Spring’s-end for as long as she can remember, the arrival of the Strykers has signified the start of a competition to determine that year’s Daughter; a week of hard training, celebrations of the Guild’s anniversary, the Trial, and the swearing of the Guild’s vow by the newest apprentice-turned-Assassin. On that day, she kneels before Mother Illynor and swears her loyalty, renounces her family’s name, and commits her life to the service of the Guild.
This year, that apprentice will be Mercy.
Footsteps sound behind her, too heavy to be one of the girls. The man takes a deep breath and Mercy rolls her eyes. Most people, even when trying to be silent, have noise-making habits of which they aren’t even aware. It’s what makes them such easy targets.
“Out with it,” Mercy says, not looking back.
“Forgive me, I could not help but overhear your conversation—”
“You could have, but you listened anyway.” She turns and frowns at the man who is standing behind her, his hands in his pockets. He fixes her with a lazy grin. “What do you want?”
“Must I want something? Perhaps I came out for a bit of fresh air.”
“Everyone wants something.”
The man moves to her side and leans his elbows on the railing, leaving a careful distance between them. “I want to help you.”
“The only help I need is not something you can give.”
“You want to fight in the Trial.”
She studies him. He is only a few years older than she, perhaps twenty or twenty-one. A few strands of his brown hair have fallen from the ponytail he wears at the nape of his neck, softe
ning his otherwise severe features. His coat is fitted up to the collar, which sits loose and open around his neck—a capital city fashion. A gleaming dagger is sheathed at his side, one so beautiful Mercy nearly salivates at the sight.
He notices her admiring it and pulls the weapon out, laying it flat across his palm. “Would you like to try it?” When she nods, he flips it over and places the grip in her hand. “Go ahead.”
She weighs the dagger in her hand, feigning hesitation as she stares down at the blade. The man steps forward, his hand outstretched as if to help her, and Mercy leaps forward, slashing in a wide arc. He jumps back and blocks her next swing with his forearm, letting out a startled laugh. She slashes and he steps back, again and again, until he is pinned between the railing and Mercy, the tip of the knife an inch from his neck.
“Very good,” he says, not looking the least bit intimidated by the blade at his throat. “You have been well taught. I will help you.”
Mercy hands him the dagger. “There is nothing you could do or say that would make Mother Illynor change her mind. I’ve tried.”
“I’m sure I could think of something,” he says. “My name is Calum Vanos.”
“Mercy.”
His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “Strange name for an assassin.”
Mercy shrugs. Behind them, a chorus of cheers erupts from the dining hall.
“What’s happening in there?”
“Mother Illynor is preparing to announce the names of the girls who will be competing in the Trial.”
“Well, we shouldn’t miss that.” Calum starts toward the door, then pauses when he realizes Mercy is not following. “Don’t you wish to hear?”
She shakes her head. “I already know. It’s Faye, Lylia, Cianna, and Xiomar.”
Calum’s face turns sympathetic.
“I don’t want your pity,” Mercy growls.
At once, his expression shifts, and he returns to her side. “Then perhaps you can answer something for me, seeing as I am new to the Strykers. Why do you call her ‘Mother?’”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 8
