Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

“Excuse me,” Mercy says to Emrie, already moving toward the front of the room. She keeps her eyes trained on Tamriel’s black hair as she weaves through the crowd, determined not to lose him in the sea of bodies. As she nears, she snags a glass of wine from a slave’s tray and drains it to the dregs, leaving only droplets visible through the crystal.

  “Who was that?” Mercy asks Tamriel, who she finds standing perfectly still at the edge of the mass of revelers, watching a musician pluck the strings of a lute. The melody is happy and upbeat, yet a shadow flits from his face when he turns to her, replaced with a not-quite-there smile.

  “An old friend of my father’s. He mentioned he’d met you yesterday.”

  “Yes, we met at a dinner party. He seemed worried. Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing we can solve right now. Relax, enjoy the festivities.” He waves to the table laden with food behind them, where several people cluster and nosh on fancy pastries and desserts. “Have you tried the fruit caviar?”

  Mercy blinks. “I don’t even know what that is.” She gracelessly tries to drain the last of the wine from her glass and frowns when it comes up empty. Then, for fear of being too subtle, she pretends to stumble.

  Tamriel reaches out to steady her. “How many of those have you consumed?”

  “Not nearly enough.” She pastes a lazy grin on her face, feigning tipsiness as she sidles closer to the prince. She lightly traces her fingers down his arm, then pauses. “Are you alright? You don’t seem nearly as happy as one might expect on a national holiday.”

  He glances at the lute player, whose head is bent over his instrument, his eyes closed. “My mother used to play the lute,” Tamriel admits. “I’ve always wished I’d been able to listen—I’ve been told she was quite talented.”

  “Do you know much about her?”

  “I know what others have told me about her, but it’s not the same as knowing her. I don’t care how fairly she ruled or how much she inspired the masses. Those are the actions of a queen, the things they write in history books. That’s not my mother.” His expression turns bitter. “Hindsight turns everyone into a saint. If I wanted to hear some idyllic fairytale, I’d go to the Church.”

  Mercy laughs, and the sound seems to startle him. “Be careful, Your Highness, or you might inspire a religious uprising.”

  “Any action would be better than these noblemen’s masquerading, don’t you think? I hate how they hide behind their petty niceties and their false promises. You do, too.” He smirks at her surprise and continues before she can object. “Don’t you think I noticed? The day I met you, you watched me walk in here with a screaming, bawling traitor being dragged at my heels. You simply watched.”

  “What would you have had me do? Faint?”

  “Maybe you do things differently in Feyndara—maybe you can see through their charade,” he says. “Whatever it is, it’s refreshing.”

  “I’m glad I’m such a great source of entertainment to you, then. That was my real reason for coming to the capital, after all.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.” They fall into silence, until Tamriel haltingly says, “You . . . look very nice tonight, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. I suppose you understand why I had to run off yesterday, then?” Mercy runs her hands over her skirt, relishing the lightweight fabric. The dress is floor-length and made of sheer champagne-colored chiffon, embroidered along the bust and sleeves with white lace and tiny crystals and pearls. It looks like a robe, held closed with a line of satin laces down the front from the neckline to just below her hips, so a single tug on the string or a strong breeze might send it fluttering away. Under it, she wears a long-sleeved gold leotard, which hides both her knife and the majority of the scars on her upper body but leaves her legs completely visible through the skirt. As strange as it feels to be so exposed, she cannot deny its beauty.

  “I do. You look—”

  “It’s starting!” a voice cries. People gasp and there’s a loud splintering sound as a wine glass shatters on the stone floor. “Look! Look up there!”

  There’s a collective intake of breath as everyone turns to the wall of windows. The sun blazes over the lake, a tiny black shadow over its top right side. The music slows and turns to a low, mournful lullaby. Slaves run from wall to wall and extinguish the torches until the room is bathed in shadow, the only light shining from the sun, dimming as they watch the moon crawl past one-quarter, one-half, three-quarters of the sun. They watch in the lake’s reflection, stealing glances every few minutes to stare in awe of the moon’s passage.

  Beyond the glass, the sky grows darker, first blue, then violet. A line of pale pink divides the horizon, the outline of the Howling Mountains like sharp black teeth against the warmth of the light. The last note of the musicians’ song is low, resonant, and holds for what feels like an eternity as they watch the moon completely eclipse the sun, the sky turning dark as twilight. Stars twinkle in the distance. A ring of fire surrounds the moon like a halo, and Mercy can still see its outline when she looks away.

  Glancing behind her, Mercy is shocked by the reaction of the revelers. Some of them stand in awed silence, their jaws hanging open and the plates of food in their hands forgotten. Some have their eyes closed, heads bowed, mouthing words of silent prayers. Others have opened their arms to the sky, tears flowing freely down their faces.

  Ghyslain is a few feet behind Mercy and Tamriel, kneeling on one of the steps leading up to the dais. His head hangs forward and he has removed his ceremonial gold diadem. He stares down at it in his hands, murmuring what Mercy assumes is a prayer. Hidden in the shadows along the wall, Elvira sobs into her hands; her shoulders shake with quiet, hiccupping gasps.

  Beside her, Tamriel’s eyes are locked on the sun’s reflection, his posture rigid and shoulders set. A muscle in his jaw works. After a moment, he looks away, blinking, and tugs on one end of the ribbon holding his hair in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He frowns, and Mercy wonders if he’s thinking about his mother.

  Quietly—so quietly Mercy almost doesn’t hear—he whispers, “Forgive me.”

  A flare of sunlight bursts from the upper right side of the sun as the moon continues its path, and a cheer rises from the watching crowd. It echoes throughout the city; a distant cry so loud Mercy can hear its rumble through the stone and glass of the castle. Beside her, Tamriel wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. As the sun returns bit by bit, the music swells, turning into a jaunty, happy tune, and with it, the people frozen in prayer begin to thaw. In front of the crowd, Ghyslain stands and returns the diadem to his head, smiling as several young women—each dragging a dashing nobleman behind her—spread out across the floor and begin to dance, their sheer skirts billowing as they twist and turn.

  “Well? What did you think?” Tamriel asks.

  “It was— It was—” Mercy pauses, searching for a word to do it justice. In the end, she settles for, “It was incredible.” And it had been—she doesn’t have to believe in the Creator to know that this . . . this thing which had occurred isn’t normal. The hush which had fallen over the room had been so complete, so deferential, it was unlike anything she had ever experienced. But she did not come for celebration. She grimaces and presses a hand to her forehead, and Tamriel’s face shifts to worry.

  “Do you feel alright, my lady?” he asks.

  She frowns at the wine glass in her hand. “Perhaps I have had too much, after all. Is there somewhere I could just . . . lie down for a bit?”

  “Of course.” Tamriel takes her hand in his, and she feels like a cat toying with its prey when he offers her a concerned look and leads her down the steps of the dais. She catches Elvira’s gaze and winks.

  Hardly anyone notices as they weave through the throngs of people caught up in celebration. The music continues to play, and slaves slip through the crowd carrying their platters, moving like phantoms, invisible until they pass right in front of Mercy. Tamriel leads her out the door and through the mostly-empty great hall
.

  Two hallways later, Mercy can still hear the waning notes of music from the throne room as the band finishes its song. For a moment, it’s Tamriel and her; the only sounds are their breaths and their muffled footsteps against the red and gold rug, then the melody lifts once more into a dizzying flourish of masterfully played notes.

  Tamriel escorts her to a room slightly larger than her bedroom at Blackbriar, furnished with two expensive-looking velvet couches and a low wooden table between them, bookshelves and paintings lining the walls. Without a word, Tamriel guides her to the couch, then crosses to the window, setting his hands on the stone sill as he stares outside and lets out a long, deep sigh. As he watches the sun dip behind the Howling Mountains, Mercy silently stands and walks to the open double doors, closing them until only an inch-wide gap remains so Tamriel won’t hear the click of the latch.

  She turns to him with a predatory smile and pulls the dagger out of her sleeve.

  27

  She tightens her fingers around the grip of her dagger, already crossing the room as she locks in on the exposed vein in his neck. Tamriel is clearly absorbed in his thoughts, and Mercy lifts the knife as she lessens the gap between them by four feet, three feet, two, and—

  A vice clamps around her waist.

  She doubles over, stifling a cry as her face contorts in pain. She squeezes her eyes shut and hugs her arms around her stomach, the dagger falling out of her grasp. It hits the carpet with a soft whump, and Mercy immediately stoops to retrieve it, only to be halted by another wave of nausea-inducing pain. She jumps back and the vice disappears as quickly as it had come.

  No, a stranger’s voice whispers.

  Mercy’s eyes fly open and scan the ground for the knife, but it is nowhere in sight; she must have accidentally kicked it under the couch in her distraction. Her blood pounds in her ears and she blinks away watering eyes, focusing on Tamriel’s wavering form until her vision stops dancing. She straightens, taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

  Tamriel suddenly turns toward the couch, then starts when he realizes Mercy stands directly behind him. He shoots her a puzzled glance before he sighs, letting his head fall forward into his hands. “Go home to Feyndara, Marieve. I can’t give you what you want—no one can. Every day you spend in the capital, you’re less likely to make it home alive.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic—”

  “I’m not,” he snaps, lifting his head. “I’m being honest. Call me rude, pessimistic, cynical—how many elves did you see in there today? A couple dozen? They’re all slaves. Do you think the nobles see you any differently?”

  “I’m not a slave. I’m Marieve Aasa of Feyndara, and Creator help any man who dares to treat me differently because of the shape of my ears.”

  Tamriel almost smiles. “You attended court the other day—you saw how we treat people who aid elves. Do you really think your family name is going to protect you if the nobles turn on you?”

  “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not leaving.” Anger, white-hot and feral, burns inside Mercy—not at him, but at her failure to kill him. How good it feels to let it out. It distracts her from her fear of the strange, disembodied voice which had spoken to her moments ago. “You don’t care about elves. None of you do. Why should my safety mean anything to you?”

  He ignores her razor-sharp glare and stalks forward until they’re face-to-face, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not stupid. You know my father will never give you Cirisor. So what do you really want from us?”

  Mercy stares at him. Bluntly. Tamriel’s brows rise.

  “I can assure you any sort of alliance is out of the question,” he says, crossing his arms. He shoulders past her and starts toward the doors.

  “They’re pressuring you to choose a queen,” Mercy blurts, and he stops. “You’ll be able to ascend the throne on your eighteenth birthday. Jovi and Henna are third and fourth in line for the throne. There’s also my cousin Alistair, if you’d like, although I don’t know how pleased the nobility would be if you chose him. They don’t strike me as a particularly progressive people.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised this was Her Majesty’s real reason for sending you.” Tamriel laughs, but the sound holds no humor. “My father has an iron grip on the throne and will not give it up for anything, least of all his son.”

  “An alliance through marriage would end the fighting. Feyndara and Beltharos would be forced to find a way to end the war.” Mercy steps closer, then places a hand on his chest, feeling his strong heartbeat under her fingers. Each pulse is one too many, a cruel reminder of her failure to kill him. “No more boys would have to die needlessly. You’d be a hero.”

  Tamriel sidesteps her and opens the doors, and when he turns back, his expression and posture are formal. Rigid. “No. Consider this matter closed. For good.”

  Mercy nods, her lips spreading into a wide grin. “As you desire, dear prince,” she purrs.

  She saunters past him and into the hall, and he follows at a distance, closing the doors behind them. When they return to the great hall, an ear-splitting scream shatters the hum of celebration drifting from the throne room. Shrieks follow and the music cuts off abruptly.

  Tamriel doesn’t waste a second. He grabs Mercy’s hand and pulls her behind him as they run toward the throne room. Their shoes slap on the floor as they pass under the archway and burst into the chaos of the throne room.

  “Stay back!” Master Oliver yells, arms out as he herds people away from the dais, but the effort is unnecessary; people trip over themselves and one another as they retreat. Several plates lie shattered on the floor, dropped in the panic. Tamriel elbows people out of his way, Mercy following in his wake.

  At the front of the room, a woman wearing robes of the Church of the Creator stands, outlined in the fading light of the setting sun. The hood has fallen off her head and her hair hangs freely around her shoulders. She stumbles forward, arms outstretched, and a group of noblewomen recoil, clinging to each other and shrieking in fear. Oliver guides them away and turns to the woman, speaking to her in a low voice she doesn’t seem to hear. He turns his head and spots Tamriel approaching.

  “Don’t go near her, Your Highness!” he calls, genuine fear in his eyes. “She’s sick!”

  Everyone’s eyes turn to Tamriel and Mercy as they break the line of the crowd, standing alone in the half-circle of open space before the dais. The woman shivers as she looks down at them, and she whimpers.

  The entire left side of the woman’s face is red and covered in fluid-filled blisters. The skin around the rash peels where it meets healthy skin, and thick scabs pockmark her cheek to her temple, continuing down her neck and disappearing under her robe. One of her eyes is cloudy—blind, bloodshot, and swollen to the point of bulging out.

  “Help them,” she rasps. “Help them, please.”

  “Stay here,” Tamriel whispers. He steps forward, but before he makes it more than two feet, Master Oliver catches him by the arm, an act which causes the prince’s face to flush with anger. “Unhand me.”

  “Absolutely not, Your Highness. Step away while we await the healers.”

  “Help them, please,” the priestess begs.

  “Tamriel!” Ghyslain barks, and the prince stops struggling. The king stands on the far side of the dais, leaning against the wall a safe distance from the priestess. His crown is askew. He watches his son with pain in his eyes. “There is nothing to be done.”

  “It’s coming for you!” the priestess cries, and begins to sob into her hands.

  Pity washes over Mercy. As fatal as this woman’s sickness must be, everyone watching is allowing her to suffer. Even in the Guild, the Daughters are taught to kill as quickly and painlessly as possible.

  Mercy darts past Tamriel and Oliver as they glare at each other, neither willing to back down. Oliver shouts and lunges for her, but she’s smaller and faster, and his fingers close around nothing but air. Mercy runs to the woman, who lets out a choked sound halfway
between a sob and a laugh, then sways and collapses in Mercy’s arms. She lowers the priestess to the floor, the weight of everyone’s gaze on her—Ghyslain’s most intensely.

  The woman hiccups as she cries and buries her fingers in Mercy’s dress, pulling her close. Waves of feverish heat roll off her body. “Help them, friend.”

  “What is happening to you? Help who?”

  “In the end, he will come to you. Soon.”

  Soft footsteps approach, and Tamriel sinks to his knees opposite Mercy. He hesitates, then brushes the hair off the woman’s face with a tender hand, careful not to touch her skin. Everyone in the room sucks in their breath. Ghyslain shouts a warning, which his son ignores. “What is your name, Sister?”

  “Pilar.”

  “Pilar, who is going to come?”

  Her swollen lids flutter open, and her eyes flick back and forth as they struggle to focus on something. When her cracked lips part, her voice is deeper, rougher—a man’s voice. “In that golden village I watched the Creator rise and craft the sun, the moon, the mountains, and the valleys from the flesh of the family he had butchered. Now he will watch as I destroy his dearest creations, and he will weep as I build my dominion over the bones of his precious pets.” Pilar rolls onto her side and draws her knees into her stomach. When she speaks again, her voice has returned to normal. “Stop him. Go north.”

  Mercy and Tamriel exchange glances, their earlier argument forgotten. “Pilar,” Tamriel says quietly, “do you have the Sight?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Who spoke to you? Can you describe him?”

  She shakes her head and looks at Mercy. “Find the cure in the north. Cure Fieldings’ Plague.” She coughs, a dry, rattling sound in her lungs.

  Four elves carrying a stretcher run up to the priestess’s side, careful to touch her only with gloved hands. They lift her onto the stretcher, but Pilar objects before they can carry her away. She reaches out and searches the air until Mercy steps forward and grasps Pilar’s warm hand in hers. Her palm is hot and bumpy with blisters, moist where the blisters have popped. She smiles, making the bright red skin on her face pull tight.