Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Embarrassment creeps up Mercy’s neck, but she clenches her fists tighter, refusing to allow the blush to spread to her face. Perhaps it’s true. Most likely it’s true, and a fairly recent treatment, judging by Oren’s sallow skin and recent weight loss. Still, Arabelle had managed to find them, and had almost died because of it.

  She masks her embarrassment with a scowl. “You should keep them better hidden. If I hear of another apprentice finding them—”

  “You won’t.” Oren’s head bobs up and down. “I promise.”

  “Good.”

  Calum looks at Mercy and raises a brow.

  “And . . . I’m sorry,” she adds, and bolts out of the smithy.

  Mercy avoids everyone for the next couple days, holing up in the infirmary with Arabelle and planning her strategy for the Trial. Each participant will be armed with a dagger and wearing full armor, but will carry nothing else, which means none of the girls will expect what Mercy has up her sleeve. Calum has decided Xiomar’s armor will fit Mercy best out of the four sets, and has had Mercy try it on in secret so he can make the necessary adjustments and show her the most vulnerable points. Despite his occasional teasing, he is a good teacher.

  It feels good to have someone on her side for once.

  On the second day, Arabelle returns to her own room, having recovered enough from the poison to return to training. Before she had left, the little girl had gotten a kick out of Mercy’s story of barging into the smithy and threatening Oren. The infirmary feels a bit bleaker without her presence, Mercy admits, although she has little aptitude or affection for children.

  Now, she searches the infirmary shelves for Oil of Ienna. When she finds it, she rolls the jar between her fingers, watching as the gold liquid shimmers under the light. The description from Mistress Sorin’s textbook surfaces in her mind; she’s read it so many times over the past two days, she’s memorized it:

  Oil of Ienna: relieves headaches, migraines, and shortness of breath. May also be used to cure sleeplessness—causes drowsiness; best taken thirty minutes before resting.

  “Mercy?”

  Mother Illynor stands in the doorway, her forehead pinched in concern. “I had assumed you would be training,” she says. “Do you not feel well?”

  “I’m fine,” Mercy responds, pushing the bottle of Ienna oil away. “Just came to make sure we have enough bandages for the Trial, which we do. I’ve also double-checked the inventory. We’re well stocked for the fight.”

  Mother Illynor steps into the room, sympathy in her eyes. “I didn’t come to ask about bandages. I came to ask about you. You’ve been sulking.”

  “I have not,” Mercy objects, although this, too, is part of the plan she and Calum had created. Don’t let them see you preparing, Calum had said. Pout, like you’re angry Illynor won’t let you fight. She’d gone along with it, and Mother Illynor is playing right into her hands. “But I don’t have to pretend to be happy about it.”

  “The Trial is important to you, Mercy. It’s important to all of us, but so is tradition. So are rules. Obedience.” She places a hand on Mercy’s, her scaly skin like sandpaper. “It’s not about how long you’ve been here, it’s about being ready.”

  “How can you say that? Xiomar and Cianna are competing, and they’re not remotely ready. You know they don’t stand a chance against Faye and Lylia. I do.” Mercy leans close, her eyes begging Illynor to reconsider. “How can you say I’m not ready? This is my life—”

  Illynor sighs and pulls her hand away. “I have told you my answer, my dear.”

  “Tell me what to do to change your mind,” Mercy says, a note of pleading slipping into her voice. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” As Illynor turns away, Mercy catches a handful of her cloak and hangs on it. “Please.”

  Illynor peels Mercy’s hand away. “There is nothing you can do but wait.”

  7

  Later, Calum peers over her shoulder as Mercy kneels in front of the pot hanging over the infirmary’s fireplace, boiling Lusus blossoms in water. “If this works,” he says, “you’re a genius.”

  “I need to achieve the right toxicity for it to work as a contact poison. Too weak and it will take too long to be effective. I’ll dip my knife in it, and just a scratch will down the victim in a matter of minutes.”

  “That also means if you accidentally cut yourself or get a drop of that poison on an open wound, you’re as good as dead.”

  “Why do you think you’re here? Make sure that doesn’t happen. Besides, we have plenty of herbs for the antidote. I wrote down the recipe, so anyone can make it.” She removes the pot from the fire, taking care not to burn her hands, and pours the contents into a stone bowl. Steam rises when it hits the cold stone, smelling deceptively sweet, like honey. As it cools, the poison forms a dark film over the surface of the water. “Hand me that, won’t you?”

  Calum passes her the dagger, and the metal hisses when she slides it into the poison, little bubbles forming along the blade. “You’re ready for tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  “I heard from a servant there’s a special contract in Mother Illynor’s room,” he says. “It bears the royal seal. I think she’s going to give it to the winner of the Trial.”

  “The royal seal? What use would the king have for the Guild? He has an army.”

  Calum shakes his head. “I don’t know who the target is, but it makes sense if he’s high-profile. Ghyslain would want someone no one could trace back to him, and an Assassin could slip in and out without being noticed.”

  “Okay, but why not give the contract to an older Daughter, someone more experienced for such an important job?”

  “I don’t know,” he says again, running a hand over his forehead, “but it’s going to be dangerous. I thought you should know before going into the Trial. Consider if this is something you want to do.”

  “Of course I’ll do it,” she scoffs. “I’m the best for the job.”

  Calum grins. “I thought you’d say that.” He extends his arm to Mercy, who slips her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Since that will take a while”—he nods to the dagger—“shall we go to dinner?”

  She passes him the bottle of Ienna oil, which he tucks in the pocket of his jacket. “We shall.”

  If the night the Strykers arrived had been a party, tonight is a festival. The tables are piled high with food, the chatter of the Daughters echoing off the high ceiling as they weave from conversation to conversation. A couple of girls play a pair of ancient-looking instruments they had found in the castle’s storage rooms, filling the hall with a quick, upbeat melody.

  Across the room, Calum stands with a group of Daughters, listening as Nerran and Amir describe a tale which elicits loud laughs from the gathered crowd. He leans down and murmurs something in Xiomar’s ear, and she blushes. He touches her shoulder lightly, his eyes alight and a smile on his face, and she leans into the gentle touch.

  Faye is sitting on a bench, talking to Oren. He flinches when Mercy sits down beside Faye and stammers something reminiscent of an excuse, nearly knocking over his goblet of wine in his haste to leave.

  “What was that?” Faye asks, lifting a brow.

  “A couple days ago I accused him of trying to murder one of the apprentices.” Mercy shrugs.

  Faye’s eyes widen. “You didn’t!”

  She nods, grinning.

  “Oh, if he didn’t have to change his trousers after that, sweet Oren,” Faye says. “He looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

  “Just me.”

  “I don’t know which one is more terrifying.”

  Her smile grows, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Me.”

  At the front of the room, Mother Illynor stands, and all eyes turn to her. “Tomorrow morning, we shall meet in the courtyard for the Trial,” she says. “Tomorrow will be the Guild’s three hundredth Trial, and to commemorate the anniversary, the Strykers have crafted something special for the participants. Hewlin, will you do the honor?�
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  He stands, hands his glass to Calum, and disappears through a doorway. A moment later, he returns, followed by four servants, each one wheeling a mannequin bearing the armor of a participant. The name of the wearer is inscribed on a piece of thick paper which hangs from the neck: black for Lylia, gold for Faye, silver for Xiomar, and bronze for Cianna.

  “She expects us to fight in those?” Faye whispers, but Mercy’s eyes are glued to the silver set of armor, praying no one notices that the leg pieces are a couple inches too short for Xiomar, the breastplate too narrow through the ribs.

  “The apprentices will be fighting in full armor,” Mother Illynor announces. “It is a challenge which befits a Daughter of the highest degree—the one who shall carry this weapon upon winning.” She extends a hand, and Oren walks into the center of the room, a bundle of cloth in his arms. When he stops, the fabric falls away to reveal the gleaming blades of a double-sided dagger. He holds the grip in two hands and spins the dagger like a staff, the razor-sharp metal flashing as it cleaves the air. It’s even more glorious than it had appeared in the drawing. The blades curve like a scythe on each end, giving the entire weapon an S shape, and the handguards are sculpted like interlocking branches, a nod to the forest where the Guild makes its home.

  Oren’s awkwardness fades as he twirls the dagger, his entire being moving with the graceful slashes and arcs of the weapon. In the blink of an eye, he twists the center of the grip apart, and the simple-looking ring of silver becomes the pommels of two separate daggers. They curve menacingly, like the fangs of a serpent, slicing through the open space with the ease of a hot knife through butter, moving like a natural extension of Oren’s arm.

  Mercy tears her eyes from the amazing sight, and they land on Calum, taking full advantage of everyone’s distraction. While Xiomar watches Oren in rapt attention, Calum breaks the wax seal of the bottle of Ienna oil and dumps the contents into Xiomar’s drink, forgotten on the table behind her. He tucks the empty bottle into his pocket, then leans forward and nuzzles Xiomar’s neck, making her giggle. He hands her the goblet and she takes a sip, laughing when Calum kisses a droplet which escapes from the corner of her mouth. His free hand slips around her waist.

  Oren lunges forward one last time, twisting the daggers back into one, and bows to Mother Illynor. She nods and he hurries to the corner, grateful to be out of the spotlight. Wild applause follows him and a blush creeps up his ears.

  “I am going to win that weapon,” Faye breathes, a thought Mercy can’t help but second. I am going to win that weapon.

  “So, friends, enjoy the feast while the night is young,” Mother Illynor says, “and Lylia, Faye, Xiomar, and Cianna—take care to remember every moment of this night. For one of you, it will be your last as an apprentice.” She raises her glass once more and sits as the conversations swell around her.

  “Can you believe it, Mercy?” Faye asks, squirming with excitement.

  “Can you believe it, Mercy? Can you?” a cruel voice mocks.

  Lylia’s beautiful face is sour as she stalks up to the two girls. She is clad in all black, her eyes ringed with a haze of kohl smudged in striking contrast to the blue of her irises. A dark bruise peeks out above the neck of her tunic from where Mercy had choked her.

  Faye sighs, but Mercy notices her friend’s grip on her wine glass tighten almost imperceptibly.

  “What do you want, Lylia?” Mercy asks.

  “Nothing from you, elfie.” Lylia’s eyes narrow and she cocks her head, studying Faye. “My business concerns your friend.” She leans forward and wraps an arm around Faye’s tense shoulders. Lylia jerks her chin to where Cianna is sitting a little way down the table. “Since this one couldn’t find the pointy end of a sword if it ran her through and this one”—pointing to Xiomar—“is too focused on the first man to show interest in her to think twice about accepting that third glass of wine, I bet you’re thinking your chances of winning are pretty good, aren’t you?”

  She waits until Faye nods to continue.

  “I wanted to stop by and tell you how foolish you are to think that. Because, you see,” Lylia says, her voice dropping to a purr, “I remember all the times you stopped our fun to help your pet here.” She catches Mercy’s chin and tilts it up, smiling patronizingly. “You know the one’s I’m talking about: when we threw her stuff into the river, when we burned her clothes in the hearth, when we hid poison ivy in her mattress . . . You’re going to regret ruining our games.”

  She strides away, laughing, and Faye bristles. “The one rule—the one rule—of the Trial is that we can’t kill. I’d almost like to throw all this away for the chance to wipe the smirk off that psychopath’s face.”

  “We’re assassins, Faye. We’re all psychopaths.”

  “I’m not joking, and you shouldn’t be, either. You’re the one she’s been terrorizing all these years—you heard her! She doesn’t hate you. She does this all because she can, because she thinks it’s fun, like it’s some kind of game.” Faye slams her cup down on the table, earning a few curious glances from the girls around them. “Why doesn’t this bother you? I know you; you should be fuming!”

  “She’s just saying it to distract you. See? It’s working. Focus on the Trial, and you can take all of your anger out on her then.”

  Mercy doesn’t say the real reason why she isn’t worrying about Lylia: while Lylia had been busy intimidating Faye, Mercy had watched over her shoulder as Calum, an arm around Xiomar’s shoulders, had led her out of the dining hall. To anyone who might’ve seen them, it would appear that they were seeking somewhere more private, but Mercy knows Calum had cleared the last obstacle barring her way into the fight tomorrow morning. A dose as large as he had given her will knock her out long enough for Mercy to take her place in the Trial.

  Come dawn, she will no longer be an apprentice.

  8

  Mercy stands in the hall just inside the castle, a time-warped wooden door the only thing between her and the courtyard where the Trial is about to begin. Her stolen silver armor is on; last night, Calum had delivered it to Mercy’s room after Xiomar succumbed to the sleep-inducing effects of the Ienna oil. The visor of the helmet obscures her vision somewhat, but it hides her face, especially in the predawn darkness.

  The helmet sits low on Mercy’s head, her hair braided back and tucked under the collar of her shirt so none of her telltale curls pop out. The armor, although heavy, fits snugly to her body after Calum’s adjustments. The metal has a surprising amount of strength in it, considering the simple, unadorned design. Strapped to her hip is a simple seven-inch-long dagger, sharp but not too sharp, the blade straight and well-used.

  I am invincible.

  It’s time to go.

  Mistress Trytain places a hand on Mercy’s back, propelling her forward, and she realizes she hasn’t seen Calum since last night.

  He’s too late.

  The iron knuckles around Mercy’s fingers flex and curl around the handle of the door. She’s about to pull it open when a voice down the hall cries out, “Wait!”

  She and Trytain turn, and Calum flies around the corner, frantic and unkempt, his jacket and shirt open to his bare torso. He sighs when he sees her, his face breaking into a beaming smile. “Wanted to wish you luck. I thought I’d missed you.”

  Mercy squeals and runs to him, and he catches her in his arms, spinning her so his back blocks Trytain’s view of her. “Not quite,” she purrs in a low voice, and Calum lifts the visor of her helmet, pulling her into a desperate kiss. His arm goes around her waist and tugs her close, and Mercy slides her hands along his hips, his skin warm under her palms.

  “That’s quite enough!” Trytain huffs, pulling at Calum’s jacket. Mercy backs away in time for the visor to fall back over her face. Even though Calum can’t see it, she grins.

  “Fine, fine! I’m leaving!” Calum backs away, holding his hands up. “I’ll see you later, Xiomar.”

  “Come now, you’ve wasted enough time already.” Tr
ytain clamps her hand around the gauntlet on Mercy’s wrist, dragging her to the door. “We’ll discuss this later,” she calls to Calum.

  Mercy glances back to see Calum slowly and theatrically buttoning his shirt. A spot of silver flashes from inside his jacket and he whistles three short, sharp bursts—their signal. The feeling of invincibility swells again as the door swings shut behind her and Mercy and Trytain emerge into the courtyard. Calum’s kiss had distracted the tutor long enough for him to switch out the plain dagger Mercy had worn at her waist with the poisoned one they had prepared the day before.

  There is no way she won’t win.

  Mistress Trytain pushes Mercy forward. A wide circle has been drawn in the center of the yard, and people push in on every side, craning their necks to see above the heads in front of them. Someone notices Mercy and Trytain’s arrival and an opening forms in the crowd. Mercy steps through, and it closes behind her.

  Mother Illynor is seated atop a large platform overlooking the ring, a dark silhouette against the gray of the predawn sky. Mistress Trytain takes her place at Illynor’s right, and the other tutors are scattered among the crowd of Daughters, apprentices, and Strykers. In her peripheral vision, Mercy sees Calum slip into the group, watching her with interest.

  Each girl stands on an opposite side of the circle: Lylia across from Mercy, Faye on her right and Cianna on her left. Mercy can’t see their faces, but the colors of their armors help the participants and onlookers keep track of each girl. Cianna stands tall, staring straight ahead. Faye cracks her knuckles and adjusts the strap of one gauntlet. Lylia has her dagger unsheathed and a flick of her wrist sends it twirling through the air, catching the hilt every time.

  A rush of adrenaline shoots through Mercy.

  Mother Illynor nods, signaling the beginning of the Trial. When Faye lunges toward Cianna, Lylia charges straight for Mercy. They collide in a crash of steel, daggers slashing, blades grating when they meet armor. Behind her visor, Lylia’s eyes are bright with excitement. Psychopath, Mercy thinks. Despite what she’d said to Faye the day before, Lylia truly is the worst of them.