Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “Is that why you continue to push Tamriel away? He reminds you too much of her? Are you that much of a coward?”

  “I loved my wife,” he says slowly, ignoring her insult. “Can you blame me for mourning her death?”

  “People die every day.”

  He shakes his head. “Not like her. People like her don’t just die—they don’t just stop existing, like their lives meant nothing at all. The day she died, it was like the Creator had reached inside of me and ripped the heart out of my chest. Do you know what it’s like to lose someone whose mere presence lit up the room when she entered? Do you know what it’s like to hold your newborn son in your arms as you listen to the doctor explain why the bedsheets are soaked in blood and your wife’s heart no longer beats?” He stares straight at Mercy, but his eyes are unfocused, staring through her as the words tumble from his lips of their own volition. “When he told me, it was all I could do not to drop the baby. I wasn’t sad, or angry, or anything at all—I was numb.

  “Seeing her face in his, I resented him for it. I resented him for killing her. I know it’s unfair, but I couldn’t control it. He was a constant reminder—he had lived and she had not. By the time I realized how wrong I was, Tamriel was almost grown and I had long been unworthy of being called his father.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that anymore,” Mercy says. “He’s still here. He grieves for a father who still lives. You still have time.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I do. The boy needs his mother.”

  “His mother isn’t here. You are.” How did I become so entangled in these people’s lives? Mercy thinks sullenly.

  “The die has been cast; the damage done. The boy holds a grudge which won’t easily be healed. At least in that way, he takes after me.” Ghyslain chuckles darkly, more out of self-loathing than humor. “But what was your question? Whether he will make a good king?”

  “That was my question, yes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think if you want him to become a great king, he should not be running around completing meaningless tasks and pointless errands. He should be at your side, learning how to run a kingdom.”

  “His presence is good for the public. He has their hearts, much more than I ever have. In due time, he will learn what must be done to rule a kingdom. For now, you mustn’t worry. He will not be inheriting the throne for many years to come.”

  “You could die tomorrow. You could die five minutes from now.”

  “I do not think so, unless your real intention for meeting me here was to murder me.”

  Mercy smiles. “No. Simply making a point.”

  “Well, consider your point taken.” He stands, staring down at Mercy. In the candlelight, she notices a faint shadow of a beard across his face. She wishes he would grow it out, she realizes, because then he wouldn’t look so much like Tamriel . . . not that it would help much. As much as the prince hates to admit it, he and his father have a lot more in common than looks—from their manner of speech to their stances, to the way they watch her with the same mixture of amusement and curiosity.

  Ghyslain pushes his chair back under the table. “Now, if we’ve nothing more to discuss, I’m sure this can wait until after the sun rises, don’t you think?” He turns and moves to the door—a brave decision considering she had mentioned the possibility of his impending death not two minutes earlier. Perhaps he does not think she would do it.

  “I know about the cure.”

  He pauses, his hand hovering over the door handle. Without turning around, he says, “What do you think you know about it?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  Silence.

  “How long have you known?” she asks him. “How did you find out?”

  No response.

  “When are you going to tell them?”

  Suddenly he’s looming over her, having turned and crossed the room faster than she had thought him capable. He splays his hands on the tabletop and leans forward, scowling, the candlelight casting long, sinister shadows across his face. “My Lady Marieve, it seems you have had no trouble inserting yourself into every problem you’ve managed to find since your arrival. Now I’ll admit I haven’t a clue how foreign royalty is treated in Feyndara—your grandmother made certain of that—but I am not so much a fool that I would willingly oversee the actions of someone as influential as yourself within my kingdom without a degree of suspicion, particularly when it concerns my son. This, at least, I can do for him. So, I’ll ask you again: why are you really here?”

  She stands, mirroring his stance with her hands pressed into fists on the table. The flame from the candle flickers and she can feel its heat warming her cheek as she stares back at him with an equally hard expression. His eyes, dark as chips of obsidian, bore into hers. “And I’ll say again,” she says through clenched teeth, enunciating each word, “I am here for nothing more than Cirisor.”

  He lets out a sharp laugh and his sudden whoosh of breath causes the flame to sputter and dim, obscuring them in darkness for a few seconds. When it swells again, his head hangs forward and his shoulders shake with quiet laughter at her expense. “You know I can’t give you that. Your grandmother should have known that before she sent you.”

  “Maybe I’m an optimist.”

  He smirks. “Very well.” He turns and opens the doors, then waves the guard over. As he approaches, Ghyslain continues, “Until you choose to reveal your true purpose for being here, Ser Morrison will escort you to and from the castle, and on any other promenades around the city, as well—for your own protection, of course.”

  Mercy’s answering smile is razor-sharp. “Well, thank you for your concern, Your Majesty.”

  He nods. “My pleasure. Now, I must bid you goodnight, my lady. Ser Morrison, see her out.” He offers her a small bow—more out of courtesy than sincerity—and leaves the room, the double doors swinging shut behind him.

  41

  The next morning, a curious sight greets Mercy when she crosses the castle gardens and arrives in the rear of the castle: a dozen slaves are crowded in a circle a few yards from the lake’s edge, two soldiers hovering nearby with worried expressions. The ring of steel on steel echoes off the castle’s stone façade, then a sudden Oof! elicits a burst of excited cries from the people watching. As Mercy nears, Elvira and Ser Morrison in tow, a man flies from the circle, crashing through the crowd and landing hard on his back in the grass. The point of his sword quivers in the air, still clenched in his fist. Elvira jumps back, squeaking in surprise, but Mercy merely frowns at the man staring up at her, his head mere inches from the toes of her flats.

  Calum grins at her. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  “Quite.”

  He smiles again when Tamriel steps forward and lowers the point of his sword to Calum’s throat. “I told you to try to stay in the circle this time,” the prince complains. “What’s the point if you can’t follow the simplest instructions?”

  “Aside from the fact I’m funnier, smarter, and a hell of a lot better at swordplay than you?”

  Tamriel smirks. “Brave words from the man on the wrong side of the sword.” He glances up at Mercy and grins. “Hello, Marieve.”

  Calum knocks Tamriel’s blade aside and catches the prince’s ankle with his foot, pulling hard enough to unbalance him, but not topple him. Tamriel catches his balance easily and snorts. “Is that the best you can do?” He lifts his sword and sends it whistling downward, and Calum rolls out of the way just before the point pierces the ground where his heart had been seconds before. He jumps to his feet and slashes at Tamriel, who parries his swing with ease. They exchange several blows, their swords clashing loudly amid the enthusiastic chatter of the onlookers. An elven woman standing across from Mercy watches with awe, clapping excitedly as the two men shuffle back into the center of the circle, their gazes locked.

  “Dear Creator,” Elvira gasps quie
tly, hovering behind Mercy. She hides her face behind her hands, watching through her fingers as Tamriel narrowly misses being slashed across the arm. “You’d think they wouldn’t use real swords for practice.”

  “They’ve been doing this since they learned to hold a sword,” Ser Morrison says. “Don’t worry. They’ve had the finest tutors in Beltharos.” His voice is even, but Mercy sees his Adam’s apple bob when he finishes speaking.

  Tamriel lunges forward, his blade aimed at Calum’s chest. Calum deflects it and it glances to the side, slicing a thin cut through his shoulder. The man next to Mercy titters with worry as the sleeve of Calum’s shirt darkens with blood, but Mercy knows he won’t realize he’s been cut until after their fight. As it is, the cousins’ teasing smiles have slipped and given way to concentration, their brows drawn low and eyes narrowed against the sunlight reflected from the lake’s waves. Perspiration glimmers on their foreheads and darkens the collars of their tunics.

  Mercy can’t help but smirk as she watches, imagining them fighting someone trained the way she had in the Guild. Tamriel and Calum have undoubtedly been taught well—and put in many hours of training—but they fight with manners and sportsmanship; it’s not the biting, raking, hair-pulling dirty fighting style Mistress Trytain had taught the apprentices. To Mercy, fighting any other way is ineffective. If one is fighting to the death, why bother making it look pretty?

  Tamriel and Calum’s swords lock, each of them grunting with the effort of holding their blades even. With his free hand, Calum pulls a dagger from his waistband and slashes with it, catching Tamriel across the face. The prince exclaims and jumps back—more out of surprise than pain—and his hand flies up to the narrow gash above his eyebrow. A shadow passes behind his eyes and he swings at Calum with both hands on the grip of his sword, allowing his cousin only enough time to lift his sword and absorb the brunt of the force before Tamriel slams into him, knocking him backward with his momentum. Calum stumbles and loses his grip on his dagger, and Tamriel quickly scoops it up, leveling both his sword and the dagger at his cousin’s throat.

  Calum smiles and lowers his sword. “An excellent fight, Your Highness.”

  “I wish I could say the same for you, but it seems you’ve been neglecting your training. You’re a bit rusty.” Tamriel drops his weapons and pulls Calum up, clapping his cousin on his uninjured shoulder. “But I must admit you had few good strikes there.” He swipes with his sleeve at the trail of blood which had dripped from his brow down his temple, streaking some of it across his forehead.

  “You as well.” Calum fingers the hole in his shirtsleeve, dark with blood. “Nothing a bandage or a few stitches can’t fix, though.” He grins, then extends his arms to the slaves gathered around them. His grin turns lopsided as he gives them a flourishing bow. Several clap politely, while others return to their chores.

  Mercy glances over her shoulder—sure enough, Ser Morrison still stands two feet behind her—and then walks over to where Tamriel stands on the grass, watching Calum with an amused and bewildered expression.

  “Has he always been like this?” Mercy asks, rolling her eyes when Calum stoops to kiss the hand of a pretty slave.

  “Overly dramatic and starved for attention? Yes.”

  “And, fortunately, not yet hard of hearing,” Calum adds, turning back to them. “But what is life without a bit of theatrics?”

  Mercy ignores him and gestures to the swords. “Friendly skirmish or settling an argument?”

  “Nothing of either sort. We simply hadn’t practiced in a while, what with Calum traveling for the past few months.”

  “You travelled?” Mercy asks, feigning surprise. As far as Tamriel knows, she and Calum had only met a few days ago. “Where did you go?”

  He shrugs. “Here and there. Blacksmithing has always interested me, so I travelled with the Strykers for a while, learning the craft.”

  “The Strykers? I’ve heard a lot about them—recently, in fact.”

  Calum’s smile turns cold. “I’m sure you have.”

  “Yes, I heard they were planning to visit Feyndara soon, actually. It’s a shame you had to return here rather than go with them.”

  “I would have liked to see your country, my lady. Perhaps someday. For now, my place is here, at His Highness’s side.” Although his expression is neutral, mischief sparkles in his eyes. “Until such time as I am no longer needed, my duty is to the people of Sandori, first and foremost.”

  “They’re lucky you value your loyalty so highly.”

  “As are we,” Tamriel says, oblivious to the dark look Calum shoots Mercy. “But I won’t have you standing around, bleeding on everything. Go inside and find Master Oliver or one of his men to patch you up.”

  “Of course.” Calum bends down to pick up his sword, then reaches for his dagger, but Mercy scoops it up before he grabs it.

  “Here you go,” she says cheerily. Then, their heads bent close together, she lowers her voice to a whisper only he can hear. “The soldier standing behind me—I need you to get rid of him. Have him reassigned or something.”

  He nods once. “Done.” He straightens and smiles at her. “Thank you,” he says, tucking the dagger back into his waistband. “I must return to work, unfortunately, but I will see you soon, Your Highness. My lady.” He bows to Tamriel and Mercy, then offers a goodbye to Elvira and Ser Morrison as he leaves. He whistles as he rounds the corner of the castle, seemingly unperturbed by his still-bleeding arm.

  When Mercy turns back to the prince, he is watching her with a strange expression which vanishes a second later, replaced with a worried frown. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the infirmary by now, haven’t you? My father put it on lockdown this morning.” He pauses, then adds, “Pilar’s dead.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “You were—? Oh. How did . . . how did she look?”

  She grimaces. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Oh.” His face falls. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Marieve. We’ve—” He stops and glances at Elvira and Ser Morrison, then takes Mercy by the elbow and leads her a few paces away, out of earshot of them and a couple passing slaves. Mercy tries to ignore the warmth of his hand on her arm, and the fact that he does not let go as he speaks. “We’ve already transported two dozen people from the castle to the tents outside the city. It just—It makes no sense. I’ve had the commanders search for any sign of infection among the guards and slaves, and it’s been fine, but two days ago it came out of nowhere. Two dozen people. It’s possible one of them contracted it in the market and spread it to the others, but we should have been able to root it out immediately, before anyone else was infected.” He glances away with a troubled expression and drops Mercy’s arm, rubbing a weary hand across his forehead. He hisses in pain when one of his fingers brushes his cut and he lowers his hand, staring at the blood on his fingertips as if he had forgotten about it.

  “Here, let me,” Mercy says, then pulls her sleeve over her hand and dabs gently at the blood streaked across his forehead. The cut is long, but not deep, and oozes a few fat red droplets Mercy catches with her sleeve. “Luckily, you won’t need stitches. Just make sure you keep it clean.”

  He grins. “Thanks, Healer Marieve.”

  She makes a face and pulls her hand back, looking away from the eyes which watch her with amusement. She ignores the fluttering in her stomach when he looks at her. “About the plague . . . Is there anything . . . odd about the way it infects people?”

  “Odd?”

  “I mean, is it random, or does it seem like it’s, um, choosing people?” When he does nothing but stare blankly at her, she sighs again and explains what Lethandris had said, and Alyss’s certainty that the disease is preying on people. “It’s ridiculous, I know, but . . . it’s starting to sound like they might be right. The priestesses, Beggars’ End, and now the castle? It keeps cropping up out of nowhere.”

  “You . . . might have a point,” he says slowly, the blood drainin
g from his face. “The castle and the Church are the two most powerful institutions in the city, and Beggars’ End . . . Well, it’s not powerful, but it’s one of the most highly populated areas in the city, and now that everyone’s locked inside and unable to work . . .” he trails off. “But that’s impossible. A disease can’t pick and choose.”

  “Maybe there’s something more to it. Maybe it’s something new.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ser Morrison shift forward a few feet, frowning at them. Clearly her time with Tamriel is almost at an end. “You must speak to your father. He knows something, I’m certain.”

  “Let’s ask him now.” He grabs Mercy’s hand and leads her a few steps away, then she stops. “Is something the matter?”

  “No.”

  He raises a brow and squeezes her hand once. “Don’t lie.”

  “Fine. It’s just—Do you trust Calum?”

  He blinks, then shrugs. “As much as I trust any of my father’s advisors. He’s my cousin—we grew up almost as brothers—but sometimes I think he resents the fact I am of royal blood and he is not. When we were younger, while I was being praised and paraded around to all my father’s social events and holiday celebrations, he sulked in the background and made a game of trying to steal food off people’s plates when they weren’t looking. Any time someone did pay attention to him, he took it as pity. After a while, he refused to go to formal functions altogether, until my father threatened to throw him out if he didn’t take up a position in the castle.”

  “And since then he’s been no trouble?”

  “Not at all. That was some time ago. I think he’s grown up and realized his place is that of a commoner, not a prince,” he says, then shoots her a smile which makes her heart stop beating. “Sometimes I think he forgets not everyone goes home to a castle every night.”

  Mercy frowns. “I would just . . . keep an eye on him, if I were you. Something about him gives me a bad feeling.”

  His grin widens. “You scowl too much,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about me. I think I proved I can handle myself.”