Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  She quirks a brow. “Cassius Baccha told you why.”

  Ghyslain’s face pales and he stands abruptly, knocking his chair to the ground behind him. Leon flinches when the wood cracks against the floor.

  “You! What is your name?”

  The guard behind Mercy straightens, puffing out his chest in imitation of a seasoned soldier. He can’t be more than seventeen years old, lanky and underweight for his height; his uniform pools around him. “Samuel Eldridge, Your Majesty.”

  “Have five men sent to each of the gates surrounding the End and seal them immediately. No one is to go in or out, and no one is to speak of what has happened until we have a plan to deal with it. Until then, the area is off-limits.”

  “Send a man for Murdock Brannaugh as well,” one of the councilmembers supplies. “He and his men can begin patching the holes in the walls where the filth have pried out the stones.”

  Ghyslain nods, and Eldridge promptly leaves. “How do you know that?” he asks Mercy.

  She shrugs. “I guessed. I saw Cassius Baccha speaking to you in the throne room, and he looked like he’d tip over with a strong wind, he was so affrighted. Unfortunately, it appears I was right.”

  “How can we contain this?” one of the councilmen asks.

  “No, the question is, once we contain it, how do we eliminate it?” another says.

  “We’ve been discussing that, actually,” Leon pipes up. Some of the color has left his face, but his stance still lacks its usual confidence. “Any planning we do is purely theoretical—we won’t know until His Highness returns how many are infected. It could be just the one woman, unlikely as it seems, but we are operating under the assumption that, as a priestess in the Church, she has unwittingly spread the infection to a significant portion of the public.

  “We can set up a makeshift infirmary in the fields outside the city’s walls, where they will live in isolated recovery until they are healthy enough to return to their homes. The only people who will have access to them will be the healers, who will be provided temporary living spaces beside the ward. The biggest danger will be in transporting the sick out of the city, during which time the disease could spread to other, healthy citizens. Carriages could work, but we have no idea how the disease spreads, and how long it can survive on inanimate objects. It’s possible the carriages would have to be destroyed.”

  “How many could be treated in the infirmary?” Ghyslain asks, and this time, Landers answers.

  “Two hundred in each, Your Majesty. Two-fifty if we are really pressed for space, but any more and conditions could quickly become squalid.”

  “And if there are more?”

  “The healers will have to be escorted into Beggars’ End to treat the infected, and watched carefully to ensure they do not spread the disease outside of the slums.”

  “Very well. When Tamriel returns with the report, we will decide what to do. In the meantime, I’d like you each to take up a task in the castle. Don’t go home yet. Jett, make sure the infirmary is stocked with everything it needs, and have a few helpers sent from the kitchens. Everyone else, speak to Landers if you need an assignment. I’ll . . . be in my study,” Ghyslain says, his voice suddenly weary. He excuses himself and leaves the room, the councilmembers bowing as he passes. Half of them follow him out, and the other half crowd around Landers and Leon, waiting to be given a task. Mercy turns and is halfway out the door when someone grabs her arm.

  Landers has broken free of the crowd and stands before her, no hint of contempt or suspicion lurking behind his eyes. “My lady Marieve, would you be so kind as to attend Alyss in the infirmary for the next few hours? Creator knows she’ll need the help if this is as serious as I suspect it to be, and Feyndaran medicine may be advanced in ways ours is not.”

  “Of course.” She returns his saccharine smile and leans in close, lowering her voice. “But next time, you should consider carefully what you say about me to the king. I take insults to my character very seriously, and I’d hate for there to be more animosity between our countries than there already is, my dear.” Landers gapes at her as she turns and walks out of the room.

  Instead of going to the infirmary, Mercy walks past the staircase and continues down the hall, turning right at the corner and slipping into the shadow of an archway. The room beyond is empty save a long dining table and chairs, each set with plates and silverware, all coated in a fine layer of dust. Tamriel is still out, walking the streets with the soldiers and counting any infected, which means his bedroom—now less than ten feet from her—is empty.

  Two soldiers stand in front of the door in full armor. The other two must be helping clear the premises, and should be back any minute, which means now or never. Mercy swipes two knives from the table and examines their blades. Not terribly sharp, but better than nothing. She holds one in each hand and is about to step into the hallway when heavy footfalls outside the room halt her.

  Mercy slinks back into the archway, the stone cold and rough under her fingers as she leans against it. Peering out, she watches as the two soldiers lurch past, their feet dragging on the carpet runner before coming down in loud clomps. The lines of their shoulders are slack and their arms hang at their sides. The way they move reminds Mercy of the stories of hordes of undead monsters Lylia used to tell to scare the younger apprentices. Back then, they had fascinated Mercy. Now, she shivers as fear runs light, tickling fingers down her spine. When the guards step into a spot of light from one of the ensconced candles, she sees their eyes are unblinking as they stare straight ahead, pupils dilated to huge black orbs. They stumble forward as though beckoned by an unheard voice, and a minute later, their clomping footsteps fade down the stairs.

  Another minute passes before Mercy peels herself away from the wall and releases a shuddering breath. She nearly drops the knives when she adjusts her grip, the handles slick with perspiration. Something is really wrong in this pristine palace, and it’s nothing to do with the noblemen’s concerns or a spoiled prince’s melancholy. Goosebumps erupt over Mercy’s flesh, and she absently rubs one arm as she steps into the hall. On her left, the hallway turns sharply toward the library and the stairs. On her right, ten feet away, is Tamriel’s unguarded door.

  She walks three paces before glancing behind her, imagining the guards stepping silently out of the shadows to seize her, but—of course—no one is there. The hall—the entire floor—is silent save Mercy’s breathing and her light footsteps. Fingering the key she had tucked under the collar of her dress, Mercy grasps the metal doorknob and turns it, surprised when the latch releases with a soft click.

  She opens the door and, knives in hand, steps into Tamriel’s bedroom.

  It’s empty, of course.

  The room is bathed in heavy shadow, a sliver of moonlight cutting a gash across the rug and massive, pristinely-made bed. Across from Mercy, two doors stand open to a balcony; a breeze sweeps in and sends the silk curtains flapping and the skirt of Mercy’s dress twisting around her ankles. She waits on the threshold for her eyes to adjust before moving forward, a shiver of excitement jolting through her veins. Her first contract, completed tonight.

  Several silk cushions surround a gold-embroidered ottoman, a platter with a bottle of wine and two empty goblets resting on top. A candle and a vase with a single rose sit beside the bottle. Mercy pinches the candle’s wick as she passes. It’s cold, and the seal on the wine has yet to be broken. Whatever plans the prince had made for the evening had been gracelessly broken by Pilar, but it’s clear he had meant it to be an intimate affair: the cushions and ottoman are only feet from the bed, where soft, fluffy pillows are piled high atop the silken sheets, and the fragrant ashes of incense still smolder on the bedside table.

  Wind whips around Mercy as she emerges onto the balcony, sending her hair flying around her face. She holds it back with one hand as she leans over the balcony railing, peering into the lake’s waves three stories below. They shimmer with the reflections of the stars, foaming when they
crash against the large algae-covered boulders. A fall into them would certainly be fatal.

  Mercy considers the railing. It’s not terribly high—not even waist-height—and intended more for decoration than anything. It would not be difficult to lift a body over it, and there is little chance the prince’s body would be discovered, provided Mercy can find something to weigh it down enough that it won’t be dragged to shore by the current.

  An image of Ghyslain sobbing into his hands in his study fills Mercy’s mind, but this time, he’s not crying for his lost love. He’s crying for Tamriel.

  She shakes her head, and in her mind’s eye, the king lifts his head slowly, lowering his hands to his sides. His eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in red, but no tears slip from between his lashes. His lips do not quiver. Slowly, ever so slowly, they lift into a knowing smile.

  His son—and the threat to his reign—are gone.

  Mercy pushes away from the railing and returns to the room. She perches on the corner of the bed and places the knives on her lap, trying and failing not to admire the downy texture of the pillows and the way the silken sheets slip between her fingers when she runs a hand over them. What will become of this room once Tamriel is gone? she wonders, but the answer is obvious: the fineries will be torn out and placed on trading ships and the furniture too large to move will be hidden under dust cloths, the room sealed like a tomb. In a few years, Tamriel Myrellis will be nothing more than a name in a history book.

  Something heavy thumps.

  Mercy grabs her knives and jumps up, her eyes flicking to the door. It’s closed, as she had left it, and the line of light under the doorway is uninterrupted. Still, she crosses the room and makes certain the latch is in place. It’s possible the guards have returned, but not likely; even on the hall’s rug, their steps would have been loud enough for her to hear their approach.

  She scans the room and spots something shiny on the floor in front of the desk. It’s a crystal paperweight, no larger than her fist, cold when she picks it up. Mercy examines it, confused. The face of the desk had been empty when she’d come in, which is why she had ignored it. It’s still bare now. There’s no way the paperweight could have jumped out of the—

  Out of the open drawer.

  Mercy sets the knives and the paperweight down on the desk. She couldn’t have missed the drawer before; it sticks out five inches, crammed with papers, quills, and a handful of half-empty jars of ink.

  She must have overlooked it. Inanimate objects don’t move on their own. Still, she shudders when she remembers the guards’ slow, bumbling movements and the glazed looks in their eyes, that unease she had felt when they had passed.

  Mercy kneels and begins digging through the papers. They’re all legal documents, private ledgers and pages of finances from banks both foreign and domestic—some Feyndaran. It’s odd—what dealings would Tamriel have with Feyndara? The two countries barely communicate, and financial matters are almost always handled by the king or treasurer—at least, matters with as many zeroes as these accounts hold.

  Mercy pulls them out of the drawer and sits back on her heels, her brows furrowed in confusion. The pages don’t list the accounts for the Myrellis line—no, it’s for Drake Zendais, a relative of the queen, but Mercy doesn’t know the exact lineage.

  She flips the page and her breath catches.

  The Assassins’ Guild teardrop sigil is stamped across the top of the creamy white paper, and lines of slanting cursive detail the contract for the murder of—

  Of Tamriel Myrellis.

  Mercy drops the papers and scrambles back, her pulse pounding in her ears.

  He knows.

  She crawls forward, shuffling the papers into her arms from where they’d fallen, rereading the contract and rereading it again. Each time, she wishes for another name, and each time, it remains: Tamriel Myrellis. And at the bottom, in a slightly smudged, hurried hand, is signed His Majesty Ghyslain Myrellis.

  Only two copies of a contract exist at a time—Mother Illynor keeps the original, and a copy is given to the purchasing party to do with what he chooses; most destroy them, some frame and hang them above their mantles. Where Tamriel found this isn’t important. He knows an assassin is coming for him. He may not have realized the assassin is Mercy, but it won’t take him long; he’s not stupid. The possibility must have crossed his mind. A visiting dignitary from an estranged and enemy country is hardly an everyday occurrence, and could not have been noted without a degree of suspicion.

  If he knows, why hasn’t he done anything?

  Suddenly the acrid scent of smoke fills Mercy’s nostrils, strong enough to send a wave of nausea rolling over her. She shoves the papers into the drawer and kicks it closed with one foot, but it doesn’t move more than three inches before catching on something and sticking. She crawls forward and reaches up to push the drawer closed with both hands, but not before the sounds of men’s voices alert her to life in the hall. Under the door, two dark lines interrupt the light between the wood and the floor, and—perhaps it’s the darkness playing tricks on her—the doorknob rattles slightly, grasped by a large hand. Mercy clamps a hand over her mouth, resisting the urge to gag at the smoke, as the door opens behind her. She bites her lower lip so hard she tastes the copper tang of blood. Desperate, she shoves the drawer closed with one hand while scrabbling blindly with the other across the desk’s surface for one of her knives.

  Get out! a stranger’s voice screams in her head. Now!

  She’s too slow.

  A hand twines in her hair and yanks her head back, and she finds herself staring into familiar eyes. His mouth draws back into a sneer, and a terrified, cowardly noise escapes Mercy’s lips. Her fingers close around the handle of one of the knives and she swings her arm back, the blade pointed where she expects her attacker’s chest to be. He blocks the attack, but not before she feels the knife slice through soft flesh. He grunts in pain and grabs the paperweight from the desk. It disappears from her view and she struggles against his grip before the hard crystal cracks against the back of her skull. Stars swim in her vision and the knife slips from her slackened grasp. Only then does he let go.

  Still on her knees, she falls onto her side, clutching her head and the last strains of consciousness. Her hair hangs over her face and eyes, and through it, she can see her attacker step over her and open the drawer. He shuffles idly through the papers, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. Mercy’s vision wavers and her ears feel like they are stuffed with cotton. Warm blood trickles slowly down the back of her head. Despite every fiber of her being fighting against it, her eyelids drift shut.

  The last thing Mercy hears before falling unconscious is his long, weary sigh, and the smirk in his voice when he says, “Look what an awful mess you’ve made, love.”

  30

  Something tickles Mercy’s nose.

  It’s soft, the scent cloyingly sweet. A rose. Her eyes closed, she scrunches her nose and turns her face away. The rose bumps her nose again, and when she reaches up to swat it away, her arm only moves a few inches before the tether around her wrist pulls taut. Her eyes snap open and she realizes with a jolt of terror she is spread-eagled on the bed, her wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts with strips of cloth torn from the sheets, which have been removed. Her head rests on a pillow; the rest have been discarded somewhere in the room. Outside, the pale pink of dawn paints the sky.

  Kneeling on the mattress between her legs, Calum smiles at her. Rage burns like bile in Mercy’s throat. “You’re going to have to give me more than flowers if you want me to forgive you for hitting me with a paperweight,” she groans. She glares at Calum, but it’s not very intimidating considering her vulnerable position.

  Calum brings the rose to his nose and inhales deeply. He shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’re misinterpreting my actions, love,” he says, “but I’m not surprised after the hit you took. Quite a blow—although, to be honest, I hadn’t meant to hit you so hard. And since I’m woefully short of
smelling salts, I figured this might work just as well.” He stands on the mattress and steps over Mercy’s leg, then hops onto the floor. He drops the rose on the bedside table, then leans his elbows on the mattress beside Mercy’s pillow. He brushes a hair off Mercy’s face. She does not blink as she stares at him with loathing in her eyes. “You really frightened me, you know, holing up here in the middle of the night.”

  “Sorry for the trouble,” she spits. She notes with satisfaction a bloodstained strip of bandages wrapped around his forearm where her knife had cut him earlier. He follows her gaze and nods.

  “Cut me pretty badly, considering you were using a dinner knife. It won’t need stitches, but I’ve got to applaud your initiative, if not your creativity.”

  “Where is the prince?”

  “I should ask you the same question, Mercy. Where is he?” Calum’s eyes narrow, the crooked grin fading. “Because I can tell you where he’s not, and that’s rotting six feet underground, or bobbing along at the bottom of the lake, or whatever you’d planned to do with his body. No, last time I saw him, he was still the same living, breathing, melodramatic pain in the ass he’s always been.”

  “Tying me up isn’t going to kill him any quicker. What if he walked in right now? What do you think he’d do if he found you holding me hostage in his bedroom?”

  Calum barks a laugh, the volume sending waves of pain through Mercy’s head. “Oh, Mercy,” he says. He leans back and grins. “That explains everything. You thought my room was his? Simple enough mistake, I guess, but I thought you were better than that, O Great Daughter of the Guild.”

  Mercy clenches her hands into fists, her blood boiling with anger. “What the hell do you mean, your room?”

  Calum looks offended. “I’m the king’s nephew. I’ve lived here for eighteen years, since my father was brutally murdered by one of your Sisters.”