Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Mercy snorts. Three weeks ago, she’d had no one. Now, she has a pain-in-the-ass half-brother and the ghost of a sister who was murdered eighteen years ago. Not quite the family reunion for which she had once longed.

  She glances at the front of the group, where Tamriel rides tall and proud beside Master Oliver. A week ago, she had tasted his lips on hers, had smiled and laughed with him. Later, she had counted every agonizing minute she had endured in the pitch-black castle dungeon, not knowing whether he had survived Calum’s attack, for which she had been framed.

  “Brave words from a man who paid to have his cousin murdered,” she murmurs, low enough so only he can hear. When Calum flinches, she smiles. “How many of your plans failed? Two? Three?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t go through with it. I thank the Creator every day that you were able to stop the Daughters before they killed him. If you hadn’t gone back, he’d be dead. I never would have made it in time to save him. I know you don’t trust me, but I swear I will do everything I can to protect Tamriel. I will give my life for him, if necessary.”

  “What about revenge for your father?”

  Calum hesitates, and in that moment, she knows where his loyalties really lie. He still wants to avenge his father’s death. Perhaps he no longer wishes to kill Tamriel, but he hasn’t completely given up on hurting Ghyslain. Then he shakes his head. “My father has been dead for a long time. Nothing I do will change that.”

  Liar. Instead, she says, “I’m glad you see it that way, because if you ever lay a hand on Tamriel, I’ll rip off your arm and beat you to death with it.”

  Calum laughs. “I’m beginning to suspect one of your favorite pastimes is thinking up colorful ways to kill me.”

  “Well, we’ve been riding for days. What else am I supposed to do?”

  Mercy spurs her mare forward; not wishing their conversation to be overheard, they’ve begun to fall behind. Calum’s easygoing charm has fooled her before—she won’t allow it to happen again. Hunger for revenge doesn’t fade to remorse in a week. Vengeance doesn’t give way to devotion. But you can so easily turn your back on the people who raised you? a doubting voice in her head asks. Where is your loyalty to the Guild?

  Mercy’s gaze drifts to Tamriel once again. He has traded his finery for the light clothing favored by the people of the fishing sector, and the bandages wrapped around his torso are visible through his linen shirt. The memory of his bloodstained tunic after the fight with the Daughters is seared into Mercy’s mind. She has seen far too much of his blood spilled. Tamriel pretends that the wound is nothing, but she can tell by the way he moves that it still causes him pain. The damaged muscles continue to heal, but he’ll bear the scar for the rest of his life.

  “You know I don’t approve of this,” Calum calls as he rides after her, gesturing between her and Tamriel. “You and him. But I don’t suppose you and Tam could quit arguing for the sake of making this journey more enjoyable for the rest of us.”

  “I have told him what truth I can afford, and the prince has made his opinion of me abundantly clear.”

  Calum raises a brow. “You’re not giving up, though.”

  “Of course not.”

  He scoffs. “You two are like a damn tragedy. He has never looked at anyone the way he looks at you.”

  “Calum?”

  “What?”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  2

  Tamriel

  Tamriel’s gaze is trained on the dark mass on the horizon: the Howling Mountains. Before they’d left the castle, Ghyslain had taken him aside and asked that they try to avoid their subjects’ notice as much as possible—We don’t know if this cure will work, or if it’s even real, his father had said—so Master Oliver had elected to take the remote route to the Islands. They’ll ride to Cyrna and restock their supplies, then ride east along the Howling Mountains until they reach Cirisor.

  Behind him, Calum’s laugh startles a nearby flock of birds into flight, and Tamriel grits his teeth at the sound. He can picture all too well the irritated half-smirk on Mercy’s face, imagining her turning away to hide the reluctant amusement in her eyes. He takes a deep breath, pulling the bandages on his back tight, and forces himself to focus on the road ahead.

  “How much farther to Cyrna?” he asks Master Oliver.

  “At this pace, we could ride all night and reach it by dawn. It’s not far, but we have to find places to cross the rivers. Some are still flooded from summer storms and we don’t want to lose anything in the currents.”

  “We’re moving too slowly.” Every day, more of his people die. The plague which has taken over the capital is spreading, sending his citizens to early graves. He doesn’t dare imagine how many have become infected since he left. Certainly thousands. Suddenly awash with reckless abandon, he spurs his horse into a gallop. Master Oliver cries out in alarm as the group scrambles to follow.

  The wound in Tamriel’s back throbs with each powerful pump of his horse’s legs, but he doesn’t slow. Even as his horse’s mouth begins to lather and its sides darken with sweat, he doesn’t slow.

  “Your Highness, stop!” Master Oliver calls. “You’ll wear out the horses!”

  Tamriel pays him no heed. The sooner they reach the Cirisor Islands, the sooner they’ll find the cure.

  Midnight nears as they arrive at Cyrna’s stables, their horses panting and dripping with sweat. The bottom half of Tamriel’s pants are wet from the rivers they had crossed. His boots squelch as he dismounts, and he can’t stifle a groan at the soreness in his legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Mercy climb down from her gray mare and grimace as she massages a cramp in her thigh.

  “Gonna go over there and help her?”

  Calum has stopped at Tamriel’s side on his way into the stable, his enormous saddle in his arms. He raises a brow, his eyes sparkling teasingly. Tamriel’s face flushes as he fiddles with one of the buckles on his stallion’s saddle. Is his preoccupation with Mercy really that obvious?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Calum snorts. “Sure, you don’t. Just like she didn’t when I asked her about you.”

  Tamriel shoves him and Calum chuckles as he walks away. Several of the guards chatter amicably as they unsaddle their horses and lead them into the stable, but Tamriel remains by his stallion’s side until everyone else is finished, hoping the night is dark enough to hide his blush. He quickly unsaddles his horse and leads it into its stall beside the others. He drops a few coins into the stablemaster’s hand, then joins Calum and the others on the cobblestone road which leads into town.

  As they stride along the winding street, Tamriel marvels at how different Cyrna is from Sandori. No walls surround the town, no arches or gates divide the neighborhoods, no labyrinthine alleys weave between tall stone buildings. Here, the houses are made of dark wood, and most are alight with candles or lanterns, the windows open to allow a nighttime breeze to flow through. Music, laughter, and conversation spill from several homes they pass. The sounds of life buoy Tamriel’s step a little. At least these people have not yet fallen prey to the plague.

  Tamriel glances to his right and cannot suppress a grin at the awe on Mercy’s face. Her hazel eyes are wide, flitting from one detail to the next like a hummingbird. He remembers that she has seen less of Beltharos than any of them; she’s never been this far north. It reminds him of how fascinated she had been by Lake Myrella, how she had taken off her priceless silk slippers and stepped into the water, laughing when the cold waves lapped over her toes. That was the first time he had ever seen her so open and unguarded, and the genuine joy on her face had plagued his thoughts for days afterward. Now, she turns and catches him watching her before he thinks to look away.

  “This place is beautiful,” she says. “I’ve never been anywhere like it.” Then she laughs. “Well, I’ve never been anywhere, really.”

  “I don’t think there is anywhere quite like this town,” he responds. He fi
xes his gaze on Calum’s back, wishing his glare were sharp enough to maim. Because his cousin is right—it takes all Tamriel’s self-control to not forgive her, to remember that she’s a killer at heart.

  Mercy’s pace falters as the street corner comes into view. A fishmonger’s shop occupies the tiny wooden building, its open windows offering them glimpses of iceboxes of fresh fish scattered about the store. When they pass under the sign, she stiffens and quickens her step.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks, and she jumps at the sound of his voice.

  “No.”

  He raises a brow.

  “That place,” she murmurs, so quietly he must lean down to hear, “works with the Guild. Look at the teardrop mark hidden on the sign. If Illynor has sent word of my betrayal to her contacts and the shop owner recognizes me, I’m as good as dead.”

  Tamriel frowns. “It took us three days to ride here from Sandori. I doubt she’d be able to send a message all the way from the Forest of Flames in that time.”

  “Assumptions like that are why you royals are so easy to kill. She’s had decades to perfect her system.”

  “‘So easy to kill?’ I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  “Thanks to me and a dead girl. In fact, I remember you doing a fair amount of cowering when I arrived in your bedroom the night the Daughters attacked.”

  “Cowering!” he objects. “You are sorely mistaken.”

  Although she fights it, a smile breaks out across her face. She finally slows when they turn the corner, shaking her head. “You don’t understand. Mother Illynor has ravens. She has people in every major town in the country, partners all around the world. If she wants something—or someone—she will get it.”

  “I told you, I’ll protect you while you’re with me.”

  “And after we figure out the cure? After you cast me out? What then? I’ll be living on the run for the rest of my life. I refuse to quietly fade into the shadows, scurrying about like a rat. You’re not ridding yourself of me that easily.”

  Tamriel sighs, rubbing his temples. When she had faced off against his father time after time in the castle, he had admired her stubbornness. Now it’s annoying. “Do you have any idea what people will think if I return to Sandori with the woman who tried to kill me?”

  “I didn’t try to kill you!” she hisses. “I—”

  Mercy stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, the blood draining from her face. Oblivious, Calum, Master Oliver, and four of the guards continue ahead. The rest, taking up the rear, pause when Tamriel and Mercy do.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Mercy’s next word escapes on a single breath. “Lylia. She’s here.”

  3

  Mercy

  Tamriel’s eyes widen and he ducks his head, gripping Mercy’s arm tightly. “Where?”

  Behind them, the guards reach instinctively for their swords.

  She shakes her head, carefully extricating herself from his grasp as a group of workers passes. They chatter quietly, pausing for a glimpse of the prince and his armored guards. Under the light of the lantern hanging over a house’s front door, a redheaded woman’s hair glows like fire. “Nevermind. I was mistaken. Sorry.”

  She pushes past him, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back as she walks away. She takes a deep breath, pretending her legs don’t shake and her stomach doesn’t clench at the thought of Lylia being here, so close to finding her.

  Not yet. Please, not yet.

  With a huff of exasperation, Tamriel jogs after her and snags her sleeve. “What do you mean, nevermind?”

  “I was wrong. I didn’t see her.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Tamriel, I’m hungry, wet, sore, and I haven’t slept properly in days. I’m allowed to make one mistake, aren’t I?” She tugs her sleeve away and hurries after Calum and Master Oliver. “How much farther to the inn?”

  “One more block, I think,” Master Oliver says. “Then we’ll be able to change, eat a hot meal, and sleep in a nice warm bed.”

  “Thank the Creator,” a guard named Maceo says.

  “Don’t forget to check the mattress for fleas.”

  “I’ll take fleas over the cold, hard ground any day.”

  They round another corner, and the inn looms before them. It’s a huge building which dominates the block, twice as tall as every surrounding house and three times as wide. The slurred shouts of patrons leak through the doorway when a drunk man stumbles out and retches into a bush. Calum steers Mercy away from the man, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and holds the door open for her.

  The air inside is warm and reeks of alcohol, but Mercy can’t focus on anything other than the aroma drifting from the kitchen. Her mouth immediately begins to water. She is certain the quality is far from the fine food she had seen in the castle on the night of the Solari festival, but after days on the road, anything will taste good to her. A cheery fire burns in a hearth in the center of the room, logs crackling. Two long rows of tables stretch down the center of the room and several wooden booths line the walls.

  Master Oliver shoulders past Mercy and the guards to speak to the owner at the bar. He pays for their rooms, then gestures for them to follow him up the rickety wooden staircase.

  “Room assignments are: Maceo, Akiva, Parson, Conrad in one. Silas, Clyde, Florian in the next. His Highness and Calum in there.” He nods to each door in the short hallway, and the guards split up as he calls their names, retreating to their rooms to change. Then he turns to Mercy. “You’re with me, so I can keep an eye on you.”

  “But—” she objects, glancing between Tamriel and Calum as they head to their room. The last thing she wants is to leave them alone together, but she hopes that Calum isn’t stupid enough to kill his cousin with his guards in the next room.

  “No buts. Count yourself lucky I didn’t clap you in chains after you snuck away last night.”

  Mercy scowls. Of course Tamriel had told him about that. It explains the suspicious looks Oliver and the other guards had been shooting her all day.

  “After you,” Master Oliver says, holding the door to their room open. The hinges squeak as he closes it behind her.

  The room is furnished sparsely: two hay-filled mattresses sit atop scratched wooden frames against opposite walls, a small lockbox (ironically, missing the lock) at the foot of each, and a dented chamber pot in the corner. Mercy tosses her knapsack onto one of the mattresses and changes out of her wet clothes. Her dry trousers and light tunic feel like a blessing on her chilled skin. She shoves her soaked boots under the bed and exchanges them for a pair of woven slip-ons, frowning at her pruned toes. When she returns to the hall, Master Oliver leaves her under Silas’s watch before disappearing into the room to change.

  “Come on. That’s not true!” Calum’s laughter booms from the floor below. Mercy and Silas wander downstairs to find Calum seated at one of the booths, surrounded by the rest of the guards. He grins at some story one of them is telling. Tamriel is seated beside him, shaking his head as he chuckles.

  “You’re saying you never went streaking through the throne room? Wasn’t there an incident a few years ago that had all the young noblewomen talking for weeks?” Akiva says, elbowing Calum teasingly.

  “Maybe once. On a dare.”

  “Riiiiigggghhhttt.”

  Calum turns and pins his cousin with a look. “What about you, my prince? Regale us: what’s the worst thing you’ve done in the castle?”

  “If I told you, you wouldn’t respect me any longer.”

  “Go on, tell us. I already don’t respect you.”

  Tamriel shoves Calum as one of the barmaids walks over with an armful of mugs and platters. On each plate, a grilled fish lies in a pool of citrus juice and grains, garnished with dark herbs. She places one chipped ceramic mug in front of each person, then brings over pitchers of wine, spiced rum, and ale.

  Calum pushes Akiva off the bench, then gestures for Mercy to sit beside him. “Don’t think we’d forget ab
out you, princess.”

  On Calum’s other side, Tamriel frowns at the nickname. “Calum, that’s not appro—”

  “Quit acting like a child. Eat.”

  Tamriel shakes his head and glares at his plate. Mercy smirks and focuses on her food as Master Oliver slips into the booth across from her. The guards’ conversation quiets as they dig into their meal, then swells again as the evening drags on, their faces flushing with alcohol and merriment. Mercy nurses the same cup of spiced rum all night, drinking only enough for a warmth to bud in her stomach, and Tamriel doesn’t drink anything. Twice, she catches him staring at her, but he looks away before she can decipher his expression.

  Late that night, after Tamriel, Calum, and the guards retire, Mercy follows Master Oliver down the hall to their room. Parson and Clyde are standing watch outside the prince’s room in the adjacent hallway.

  If only they knew that the real threat to Tamriel’s life is inside his room, not outside.

  Mercy lies awake on her bed as the hours drag on, watching the stars through the sliver of a window on the far wall. Hay pokes her back through the threadbare sheets covering the mattress, and Master Oliver’s snores fill the room, rumbling through his massive, crooked mess of a nose. He’s a remarkably light sleeper—he stirs with every creak of the old building and every moan of the wind outside.

  Tamriel is alone with Calum.

  Mercy blinks up at the ceiling, trying to push her worries away. Tamriel will be fine. Calum isn’t stupid enough to attack with the guards right outside their door.

  But if he were to attack, the guards would be too late, and Calum is clever enough to come up with an explanation for whatever tragedy would befall the prince—a thief broke into their room, Tamriel had wanted a late night drink, had fallen down . . .