Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “Good, good,” Sorin says distractedly. When Mercy glances over, she points to a jar on a nearby shelf. “Winter’s Lace can also be used as a substitute when Benza root is not readily available, but it’s not as effective at neutralizing the poison—it requires twice the quantity.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I have to go to Ellesmere for some supplies, and I want you to take over the infirmary while I’m gone.” Arabelle doubles over and begins retching again, and Sorin rubs her back with a hand. When the vomiting gives way to rough, dry coughs, Sorin eases the girl under the covers and presses a damp cloth to her forehead. “I want you to take care of her. I trust in your judgment and your skill in herbalism. Just . . . do your best not to scare her.”

  “But the training—”

  “Another Daughter can watch over her when you’re out with Trytain—just make sure she knows what to do if Arabelle needs another dose.”

  Mercy’s eyes flick to the blossoms. “She wasn’t supposed to find these.”

  “No,” Sorin agrees. “These flowers don’t grow here. Like you said, someone brought them.”

  “One of the Strykers, maybe? But who would they want to poison?”

  “I don’t know.” She places the damp cloth back in the bowl and moves to Mercy’s side, lowering her voice as the girl begins to snore softly. “Like you said, the blossoms could have belonged to one of the Daughters. Aelis and Tanni were in the north recently, it’s possible one of them brought some back.” She shrugs. “Whatever it is, keep an eye out for more. We don’t need anyone else getting sick.”

  “I will, Mistress Sorin.”

  “Thank you. Now, let’s give her the next dose. Be ready with the bucket.”

  4

  Hours later, Mercy stumbles up the stairs to the apprentices’ wing, the scent of Arabelle’s vomit stinging her nose. It had taken four doses before the girl had managed to stomach the cure, and Mercy’s hand aches from working the heavy mortar and pestle, then mopping up the mess. All she wants now is to collapse into bed.

  She pushes open the door to her bedroom, leaning heavily against the frame. A cool breeze sweeps in through the open shutters, a sliver of moonlight illuminating a patch of the floor.

  Hadn’t the window been closed when she had left?

  Mercy stalks forward cautiously. Her footsteps make no sound as she crosses the room and reaches out for the shutters’ latch, then—

  A hand closes over her mouth.

  “Mmph!” Mercy jerks against her attacker’s grip, but his arms tighten and he crushes her to his chest. She flails and kicks him in the shin, then bites down on his hand. He hisses in pain and pulls his hand away.

  “Creator’s sake, Mercy, it’s me!”

  “Calum!” The arms holding her hostage drop away and she immediately spins, pummeling him with her fists. “You ass. Don’t ever sneak up on me again!”

  Calum grins and takes the brunt of her punches, then reaches up and catches both of her wrists in one large hand. “Shhh. You’ll wake the others.”

  “They aren’t the ones I’d be worried about if I were you.” Mercy shoves him and sinks onto the edge of her bed, her exhaustion gone. “What do you want?” she snaps as she begins unlacing her boots.

  “What happened to your face?”

  She scowls. “Nothing of any concern to you.”

  He reaches out to trace the lines of the scratches, then pauses when she scowls. He shoves his hands into his pockets instead. “You didn’t come to the forge today.”

  Mercy looks away, cringing. After everything that had happened today, she had completely forgotten to visit him in the smithy. “I was busy. I’m here now.” One of her boots thumps to the floor.

  He rolls his eyes. “We can’t go now. Hewlin locks up the smithy at night—says he doesn’t want anyone to steal the weapon.”

  “Is that what you wanted to show me?”

  “That, and something else. Illynor has something special planned for this Trial, something no one is supposed to know about until the night before the competition.”

  She narrows her eyes. “But you’re going to tell me. Why?”

  “Because I think you’re going to win.”

  “I will win. I just need to figure out how to convince Mother Illynor to allow me to compete.”

  “That . . . may not be necessary,” he says. Mercy waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

  Her other boot thumps to the ground. “Why do you want to help me?”

  “I told you, I think you can win.”

  “No.” Mercy shakes her head. “You stated an opinion. Why are you, Calum Vanos, interested in helping some random apprentice? What’s in it for you?”

  “Yesterday you said everybody wants something, right?” Calum asks, and Mercy nods. “Well, this is going to help me get what I want.”

  Again, Mercy waits for an explanation, and—again—he provides none.

  “Come to the smithy tomorrow while everyone is eating dinner. Find a reason to come down. I’ll wait for you there.” He grins, then pivots on his heel and walks out of the room. “Goodnight, Mercy,” he calls over his shoulder.

  The next day, Mercy creeps down the stairs to the smithy. The armorers’ workroom is deep below the castle, and the heat from the forge steadily intensifies the further Mercy descends, as do the scents of leather and sweat. She passes many doors which she assumes are the Strykers’ bedrooms, then the hallway ends with an iron door. She knocks. The handle clanks as it twists and the door swings open. Calum stands before her, his sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. A blast of heat slaps Mercy across the face.

  Calum grimaces. “I know—building a forge underground wasn’t the architect’s best idea. Sorry about the heat.” He moves aside and Mercy follows him into the room, surveying the expensive tools and scrap metal lying around. There’s a stand of weapons against the wall, and the blades’ beauty leaves her speechless.

  “Here,” Mercy says belatedly, remembering the plate of food in her hands, heaped high with colorful fruit, wild game, and bread. She shoves it at him. “Dinner. I told the kitchen staff you were working, and I’d bring it down to you.”

  “Diabolical. Put it there, I want to show you something first.” He waves Mercy over to a workstation, where a notebook lies open. “This is the weapon we’re crafting.”

  The drawing depicts a double-sided staff with a sharp, wicked blade on each end. The grip is wide enough to be used with two hands or one, and the notes scrawled below say the staff will twist apart in the middle to create twin daggers. “Wow,” Mercy breathes. “Calum, this is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  It will be mine.

  “Hewlin designed it—you saw how excited he was yesterday. Come here, that’s not the only thing I wanted to show you.” He leads her to the opposite wall, this one hidden behind a stained curtain. “Mother Illynor’s trick,” he announces as he pulls the curtain down.

  Mercy gasps. Four identical suits of armor hang on the wall, differing only in color; they gleam black, gold, silver, and bronze. The shining metal is smooth, simply designed, elegant. A wicked grin spreads on Mercy’s face. “Close-range combat . . . wearing armor.”

  She should have guessed it. Combat in armor is one of the hardest Trials, and a favorite of the girls. They’ll never have to fight in full armor as a sworn Assassin—even the king’s royal guards only wear plate mail—but it serves to prove their prowess in battle. Piercing the gaps between the thick steel plates is challenging for the most seasoned of Daughters, and watching the apprentices scramble for the upper hand in the Trial is infinitely entertaining for the onlookers. If they’re skilled enough to disable an opponent in full armor, they’re ready to take the Guild’s vows.

  “Exactly. And look”—he holds up a gleaming helmet—“at the visor. It’s attached by a hinge, but as long as it doesn’t get knocked off, it’ll hide your face.”

  Dangerous hope blooms in Mercy’
s chest for the first time since she had spoken to Mother Illynor, and her smile widens. “No one will know it’s me until after I win.”

  “Exactly.” He moves closer to the armor, fingering the strap of a breastplate. “They were made for humans, so they’ll be a little big, but I can pad the inside so it’ll fit better. You’ll be more protected, too.”

  He grins at her, and excitement flutters in her stomach. After all these years of training, she’ll finally become who she was meant to be. “Thank you,” she says, moving toward the stairs. She needs to work off the sudden burst of energy pounding through her veins.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Calum calls.

  Mercy pauses, her foot on the first stair. When she glances back, he raises a brow and nods to the plate.

  “Let’s go for a ride.”

  Half an hour later, Mercy and Calum are riding along the bank of the Alynthi River, just within the tree line.

  “This is incredible,” Calum says, staring up at the canopy of leaves over their heads. The rushing rapids of the river hum in the background, and—aside from Mercy’s murmured directions—the two of them have remained silent until now.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen better in your travels with the Strykers.”

  “Not really.” He shrugs. “I only joined last summer, and I’ve never been outside of Beltharos. Hadn’t even really been around Beltharos much until a few years ago.”

  “You lived in the capital.”

  “You could tell from my clothes, I bet.”

  “And your manner of speaking. You were tutored as a child, I’m guessing.” She raises a brow. “I suppose you think you’re clever, too.”

  Calum laughs, leading his horse around a thick patch of undergrowth. “Only compared to some. My father worked in the castle, but he died when I was very young. Still, his connections allowed me to be tutored by some of Sandori’s finest.” He turns to her. “You said you’ve been training for seventeen years, but you’ve not yet taken your vows. How old were you when you were brought here?”

  “Does the past really matter? I’m here now,” Mercy says. She has little reason to be cautious speaking to Calum—not after the help he’s already given her—but he is a stranger.

  “If you don’t tell me, I will be forced to speculate why you were brought here.” He grins, tapping his chin in pretend thoughtfulness. “Let’s see . . . You’re the bastard child of King Ghyslain and Feyndaran Queen Cerelia, hidden away in the forest where no one will discover your true lineage.” He bows theatrically, as gracefully as he can manage while sitting in a saddle. “Your power could topple kingdoms, Your Highness.”

  Mercy spurs her horse forward, head high, smirking despite herself. “Speculate all you like.”

  “No? Hmmm, I must guess again, then . . . Your father was the leader of an elven resistance group in the capital, your mother a noble lady in the Sapphire Quarter. They fell in love and fled to the forest to raise their child in peace.”

  “You have quite a wild imagination.”

  Calum clicks his tongue to his horse, and his leg brushes Mercy’s as he pulls ahead. “You can trust me, Mercy,” he says, his face suddenly serious. “After all, who am I to tell? It’s the past. Who cares?”

  “You seem to care a lot.”

  “I’m curious.”

  Mercy sighs, rolling her eyes. “One of the Daughters, Llorin, was working on a contract in Sandori. Her target was some nobleman who worked closely with the king. She tracked him to his estate and murdered him in his study, but one of his slaves discovered her standing over the body. That slave was my father,” she says flatly. “She was going to kill him—the Guild doesn’t leave witnesses—but he offered me in exchange for his life. Llorin accepted. She brought me here, and my father fled the capital that night.”

  “He just handed you over?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She went with him. Or she’s dead.” Mercy shrugs.

  “Don’t you ever wonder about them?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because they’re your parents!” Calum gapes at her, dumbfounded.

  “And?”

  “And? You don’t care about them at all?”

  “I don’t know them. I don’t remember them. I was brought here when I was a week old because my father decided his life was worth more than mine. For all he knows, the Daughters killed me the moment I arrived.” Mercy’s brow creases as she frowns. “He made his choice. The Guild is my home—it’s where I am meant to be. I would pledge myself in Illynor’s service this minute if I could.”

  Calum slows his horse, and after a few steps, Mercy does the same. “Let’s stop here,” he says, already dismounting. He sits down against the thick trunk of a tree and gestures to Mercy to do the same, pulling out the bundle of food she had brought him earlier. He holds it out to her. “Have some.”

  She sits beside him, stretching her legs out in front of her. She accepts a roll and leaves the rest for him; he’s probably starving. The Strykers work hard from dawn to dusk every day, either travelling, forging weapons, or selling their wares in markets in Beltharos and abroad. Any food which hasn’t been dried or jarred is a delicacy to those living on the road.

  “Tell me about the Strykers.”

  Calum snorts. “You’ve been here a long time, you probably know more about them than I do.”

  “Probably,” she concedes, “but it’s different when you are a Stryker.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Let’s see . . . We’re an ancient order of blacksmiths created by the late king Alyxander to service the crown and provide weapons and armor to the Beltharan army. For three hundred years, the Strykers worked in the Sandori royal smithies, mastering the techniques of our warrior ancestors.” Calum smiles wistfully. “Metal bent to their will; steel folded in their hands like silk.”

  “Then came Auric.”

  He nods. “The man wasn’t satisfied selling swords to stuffy, overfed nobles who were content hanging their blades over the mantles in their salons, nor did he enjoy fitting the scarcely-trained farm boys who had been conscripted into the king’s army with weapons they would only mishandle or lose on the battlefield. The art of crafting armor and weapons had been lost over the years, and he wished to return to the techniques of the ancient masters: the spears and crossbows of Rivosa, the poisoned daggers and traps of Feyndara, the mauls and cudgels of Gyr’malr—”

  “—so he left, along with most of his brethren,” Mercy cuts in. “Alyxander begged them to stay, promised a mightier smithy with forges to craft the fiercest blades known to man. He promised them riches beyond their dreams.”

  “But they stayed true to their craft instead of their purses.” Calum grins. “You know your history. I’ll admit, I’m impressed.”

  “Seventeen years in the Guild provides a lot of time for reading.”

  Calum takes out his dagger and twirls it in his palm, watching as the sunlight reflects off the blade. “When the Strykers left, they split into smaller bands to more easily travel the land and sea, and that’s what we’ve been doing since. There must be . . . I don’t know, fifty of us around the world.”

  “It’s amazing. No wonder Illynor continues to welcome you all here; no one in the world crafts anything as wonderfully as you do.”

  Calum doesn’t respond, just sits there, searching her face.

  Mercy’s smile drops. “What?”

  He leans his head back, staring straight up at the sea of leaves and the sky turning purple with the sunset beyond. “Nothing,” he murmurs. Then he glances back at her and the strange look in his eyes is gone. He nudges her foot with his. “Help me finish this, won’t you?” He holds out the bundle of food. “It’ll be dark soon, and they’ll wonder to where we have sneaked off.”

  When they finish the meal, Calum stands and extends a hand to help Mercy up. They walk their horses to the river to drink, then mount them there, riding side-by-side to the Keep at a leisurely pace.
The stars have just begun to twinkle overheard when they return to the courtyard and dismount.

  “We should meet tomorrow to discuss the Trial,” Calum says as they lead their horses to the stable.

  “I can’t—training at dawn and I’m working in the infirmary all afternoon and evening.”

  “You can’t escape for one moment?”

  Mercy shakes her head and Calum frowns, moving past her to return his saddle to the far wall. “Do not worry,” she says. “They do not see it because they do not wish to, but I am ready for this Trial. I will win.”

  His eyes soften, although his form remains rigid. “Of that, I have no doubt, love,” he adds with a teasing wink. Mercy pushes him away with a sound of disgust.

  “Good night,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks out of the stable.

  “Creator bless your sleep with good dreams.”

  She snorts. “I was raised in a house of assassins. My bedtime stories alone would send your god running.”

  5

  Irella, the stablewoman and groundskeeper, starts when Trytain and the apprentices approach the stables the next morning, glancing over from where she stands next to a tall mare. “Didn’t think you were coming today,” she says. “I haven’t finished brushing all the horses, and a few of them need new—”

  Trytain cuts her off with a wave of her hand. “They’ll be fine.” She enters the stable and returns a moment later with a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. She plucks out an arrow and purses her lips, weighing it in her hand. The apprentices watch as she twirls it between her fingers and, in a matter of seconds, nocks it and aims it straight at Mercy’s heart.

  “We’re going to play a game,” she croons.

  “Mistress Trytain!” Irella cries.

  A corner of Trytain’s mouth twitches upward as she lowers the bow. “You have ten minutes to ride to the Alynthi River without being struck by one of my arrows. Ride fast, ride hard, and—by the Great Creator—do not ride in a straight line. I expect you to saddle your horse and be out of my sight in two minutes."