Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  She turns onto her side, staring at the sleeping silhouette of Master Oliver. If she told him the truth about the contract . . . he would never believe her. It would be her word against Calum’s—an Assassin against a man who is a guard-commander in all but title, Tamriel’s cousin, his best friend.

  Mercy pushes off her blankets, swings her feet over the side of the bed, and hopes for a miracle.

  She stands. The wooden floorboards don’t creak or groan. She lets out a soft sigh of relief.

  She tests each plank before trusting it with her weight. It’s hardly five feet to the door, but in the dead of the night, it feels like a mile. She freezes at every hitch in Master Oliver’s snores, her bare toes curling against the cold wood. When she finally reaches the door, she grabs the handle and turns it, waiting until Master Oliver’s snore crackles through the room to unlatch the lock and open the door just wide enough to slip out.

  The hall is dark, lit only by the long, flickering flame of a candle ensconced on the far wall beside the stairs. Dried strings of wax hang from the tarnished sconce like miniature stalactites. Mercy tiptoes into the adjacent hallway and rolls her eyes when she sees Parson and Clyde slumped against the wall outside Tamriel and Calum’s room, sleeping soundly. Judging by their breath, their drinking had finally caught up to them.

  She holds up her fist to rap on the door, then thinks better of it. She’d wake the guards, and they’d simply drag her back to Master Oliver’s room. Instead, she sits cross-legged between them, her back against the door and her ear pressed to the wood. Faintly, she can hear two sets of sleeping breaths through the door. Good. Calum hasn’t attacked. He would have been a fool to do it, but she won’t take any chances. She had trusted him before, and it had nearly cost her her life.

  The next morning, Mercy starts the second the wooden door behind her back disappears. Suddenly off balance, she tumbles backward with a surprised cry then scrambles to her feet, her face flushing. Parson and Clyde start and jump up, their hands automatically going to their sheathed swords before they recognize Mercy.

  Tamriel stands in the doorway of his room, his brows furrowed. “What are you doing out here?”

  Parson steps forward before Mercy has a chance to answer. “Our apologies, Your Highness! We’ll return her to her room at once.”

  Tamriel ignores him. “Did you sit here all night?” When she nods, he asks, “Why?”

  She shakes her head, rubbing her tired eyes. “Master Oliver snores.”

  “Wha’appened?” Calum mumbles groggily from inside the room.

  Clyde reaches for Mercy’s arm, but she yanks it away and glares at him. “The Guild doesn’t leave any contracts incomplete. The prince needs guards who aren’t unconscious when he’s at his most vulnerable.”

  The guards flinch. “Your Highness—”

  “Stop. Just stop.” Tamriel pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “It’s much too early for arguing. Parson and Clyde, Master Oliver is going to have some choice words for you after he hears about your carelessness, but, in the meantime, escort Mercy to her room, then wake the rest of the guards. Since you two were able to catch up on so much sleep, I’ll assume you are rested enough to walk down to the stables and retrieve our horses. I want them saddled and waiting outside in an hour.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” they respond.

  “And Mercy—” Tamriel opens his eyes, then pauses, seeming to notice for the first time that she is standing in the middle of the hallway in nothing but her sleep tunic. For a split second, his gaze slips down to her bare legs before he looks away. Mercy fights back a grin as he awkwardly clears his throat and says, “Just stay in your room.”

  Then he shuts the door in her face.

  When Mercy steps into the hallway later—after enduring Master Oliver’s tirade for not staying in their room—Calum is waiting for her, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He scowls at her.

  “I know why you did that.”

  She blinks at him, then glances down at her tunic and pants. “Why I got dressed?” she asks, feigning ignorance for the sole purpose of irritating him. “I would assume that’s fairly obvious.”

  “I know why you sat outside our room all night.” At the other end of the hall, someone’s footsteps clomp up the stairs. Calum lowers his voice and leans close. “Did you really think I would hurt Tamriel?”

  “I don’t trust you. I think I’ve made that clear.”

  “Calum? Mercy?” Akiva calls. He pokes his head around the corner and frowns at them. “Master Oliver sent me to find you. Your breakfast is getting cold.”

  “We’ll be there in a moment,” Calum says.

  “Tamriel wants to leave—”

  “I said we’ll be right there,” he snaps. “Give us a minute.”

  Akiva nods and bolts. Mercy waits until his footsteps fade down the hall to hiss, “I don’t know what your plan is, but I won’t let you manipulate Tamriel like you did me. He and the others might lower their guard around you but—”

  “No, listen to me, Mercy.” Calum pushes off the wall and stalks close to her, forcing her back until she’s pressed against the door to her room, the rough wood catching on her shirt and hair. She reaches for her hip before remembering that she’s unarmed, that Master Oliver still has her daggers. “The only person you should be concerned about is yourself. You’re the only one who knows the truth. You’re the only person standing between me and the executioner’s block, so if it comes down to letting you live or keeping my secret, you know what I’ll pick.”

  Mercy’s voice comes out as a growl when she says, “You should know better than to threaten a Daughter.”

  Calum’s eyes widen. “A Daughter? Where?” He makes an exaggerated show of searching up and down the hallway. “You’re nothing but an imposter, Mercy. You always have been. Training so hard at the Guild, sneaking into the Trial, tagging along on this ridiculous mission—aren’t you tired of constantly trying to fit in where you don’t belong?”

  She shoves him, hard. “You’re one to talk. When Tamriel finds out—”

  Calum’s hand closes around her throat, cutting off her words. “Tamriel won’t find out.” His fingers are cold on her neck, gripping her not tightly enough to bruise, but enough to send a warning. “I haven’t objected to your presence here because I know Tam cares for you. He cares, but he’s wiser than his father. He knows what will happen if he brings an elf back to the capital, so he’ll send you away before long. In the meantime, you do what you must to keep Tamriel in the dark about the contract. Tell him you don’t know who bought it, make up a name, I don’t care. But if you ever pull another stunt like you just did, you’re gone.” His face contorts in anger, his already severe features sharpening. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Calum?” Someone calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you and Mercy still up there? It’s almost time to go.”

  “I’ll kill you,” Mercy whispers. “I swear to the Creator, you will not lay a hand on Tamriel—”

  “I don’t intend to. Nor do I intend to see my family name sullied by an Assassin.” He lets go of Mercy, straightens his shirt, and starts down the hall. “We’re on our way, Silas,” he calls.

  Mercy watches him go, trembling with fury. How dare he claim to care for Tamriel? How dare he demand her silence?

  She kicks the door, letting out a string of expletives, calling Calum every foul name she can think of . . . because he’s right. Telling Tamriel the truth only places him in more danger. He’ll remain ignorant for now, but only until Mercy can be certain Calum will pay for what he has done.

  4

  Calum

  The last thing they do before they leave Cyrna is stop in a warehouse-turned-quarantine-facility on the edge of town. Calum watches from the rear of the group as his cousin stops on the sidewalk outside the massive four-story building, his face blanching. Beside the prince, Florian and Clyde shift their weight from one foot to the ot
her, eyeing the building uneasily. Despite the heat, the shutters are closed and latched from the outside with thick metal bars and heavy padlocks. Two city guards stand watch at every door, kerchiefs tied around their faces and gloves covering their hands.

  “You don’t have to do this, Your Highness,” Master Oliver says to Tamriel. “You won’t accomplish anything except putting yourself more at risk of infection.”

  “I’m immune to the plague.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I haven’t gotten sick yet.”

  “Your Highness—”

  “I wish to see them,” Tamriel interrupts. “I want them to know we haven’t abandoned them. I want them to know we’re working on a cure.”

  Master Oliver sighs. “Keep in mind that your father will have my head if you don’t return in one piece. Parson and Clyde, accompany him.”

  “W-What?”

  “In there?” Clyde pales. The poor man looks like he might piss himself with fear. Clearly Master Oliver isn’t finished punishing them for their negligence the night before.

  “I’ll go,” Mercy says. “I’m immune.”

  Oliver shakes his head. “Not a chance. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

  “I’ll go, too.” The words escape before Calum realizes what he has said. He swallows. “I’ll watch her.”

  “No.” Tamriel pushes past his soldiers and grabs Calum’s arm. “Don’t be a fool. You have had no exposure to the disease.”

  Calum forces a grin as he pries off his cousin’s hand. “You’re not the only one who gets to pointlessly risk his life.” His eyes dart to Mercy, who hasn’t stopped glaring at him since their earlier argument. Is this enough? Do you believe I’m here to help him? Do you believe that I regret what I’ve done?

  “It’s not pointless—”

  “Annnnnndddd we’re wasting daylight arguing. Let’s go.”

  Calum leads Tamriel and Mercy to the entrance and accepts the kerchief one of the guards hands him. He ties it over his mouth and nose, and Tamriel and Mercy follow suit. When the other guard opens the door, Master Oliver mutters a curse and jogs over, trailing the three of them into the building.

  The air inside is hot and putrid, thick with the stench of filth and hundreds of unwashed bodies. They can hear moans of pain and dry, crackling coughs through the wooden boards above their heads. Calum pauses inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the rows of cots and the people lying on stained bedrolls between them. Not an inch of the floor is visible through the mass of bodies and blankets and overflowing chamber pots. Four priestesses move slowly through the room, nursing the sick. None of them so much as glance at the strangers gaping at them from the doorway—no one seems to notice them at all.

  A young man lies on the cot before them. His face is red and splotchy with a rash, his glazed eyes fixed on the dark stains seeping through the floor above. Tamriel reaches out with a comforting hand, but a nurse hurries over and catches the prince’s arm before he can touch the patient. They exchange quiet words. The nurse shakes her head solemnly, then pulls back the blanket covering the man’s legs.

  Calum nearly retches when the stench hits him.

  The man’s skin hangs off his bones, once strong muscles now nothing more than strings of sinew. The red rash of the plague paints stripes across his legs and feet like lashes, shiny blisters oozing pus onto the blankets. Even from yards away, the scent of the man’s decaying flesh makes Calum’s eyes water.

  “By the Creator,” Tamriel mumbles. He takes a deep breath and leans close to the patient as the nurse tucks the blanket around his legs. “We’ll have a cure for you soon, my friend. I swear to you, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that you will live to see your family again.” The man makes no indication of having heard, yet something within Tamriel still seems to break when he says it. They have no guarantee they will find the cure in the Islands—that this mission is anything other than foolhardy—but the least Tamriel can do is give these people hope.

  Calum’s stomach clenches. A few cots to his left, a gaunt priestess bandages the blisters on a child’s arm. Her face is as thin and sallow as those of the people she treats. When was the last time she had a full meal or a decent night’s sleep?

  He digs in his pockets and pulls out a handful of coins, so many that a few slip through his fingers and are immediately lost in the rancid blankets at his feet. He steps over outstretched limbs and tangled sheets until he’s close enough to tap the priestess on the shoulder. She jumps, and her eyes widen when he pushes the coins into her hands.

  “For you,” he whispers, “and the other healers here. If you wish to help these people, you must also take care of yourselves. Use this money to buy a hot dinner at the inn.”

  Tears well in her eyes as she throws her arms around his neck. Her body is so thin he can feel her ribs through her dress. “Thank you, sir. Creator bless you.”

  He nods and steps out of the embrace. The healer finishes bandaging her patient, then whispers to another priestess, pointing at Calum. He pretends he doesn’t see the gratitude in their eyes. That money will ease their work for an evening, but it can’t mask the ugly truth he has seen here today:

  Most of these people will die within the fortnight.

  When Calum moves back to the door, more than ready to leave this wretched place, Master Oliver’s eyes are shining with pride. He throws an arm over Calum’s shoulders. “That was good of you, kid.”

  Calum nods, distracted. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Mercy carefully pick her way around the patients as she moves to Tamriel’s side. She touches his arm, then reaches up and gently wipes a tear from his cheek, her fingers lingering on his skin for a moment longer than necessary. Tamriel stiffens. He holds her gaze—clearly torn, clearly in agony—then turns to the next patient, breaking their contact. For a split second—so quickly Calum isn’t certain whether he imagined it—hurt flashes across Mercy’s face.

  Guilt leaves a bitter taste in Calum’s mouth as he watches them. In another world, one where Tamriel wasn’t a prince and Mercy wasn’t an Assassin, they could have been good for each other. Whatever their connection, it’s more than the casual dalliances Tamriel had had with some of the court girls when he was younger and cockier. Calum aches to see his cousin in so much pain, but he cannot forget his mission. Drake is still dead, assassinated on a contract from the king. Ghyslain had brought Calum’s once proud family their downfall, and he will not go unpunished much longer.

  5

  Mercy

  Mercy is more grateful than she can express when they finally mount their horses and leave the city of Cyrna behind them. As they thunder along the dirt road, the memory of Tamriel’s pain as he had stood in the middle of the sea of death and disease keeps replaying in her mind. In his eyes, she had seen a terror she understands all too well: What if they reach the Cirisor Islands and find no trace of the flower from Cassius’s vision? What if they are attacked by vicious Cirisian elves before they find their only hope for the cure?

  Before they left the castle, Master Oliver had sent Commander Leitha Cain with six soldiers to find the strange flower . . . but he hasn’t heard a word since. Leitha’s entire group had simply vanished. Although Master Oliver constantly reassures Tamriel that Leitha is an able-bodied soldier with a good mind for strategy, each night, his voice loses a little more conviction. Mercy wonders if she is the only one who has noticed.

  She wonders when he will stop saying it altogether.

  That evening, Tamriel slows the group to a trot as they near the Howling Mountains. From the throne room in Sandori, they had looked like nothing more than a mountain range, no different from any other. Up close, however, Mercy realizes that the mountains are pitted with caves and tunnels. The wind whistles through the holes in the stone, shifting from a low moan to a high shriek which makes her hair stand on end. Calum stops his horse beside hers as she rubs the goosebumps on her arms.

  “Now you understand wh
y they’re called the ‘Howling’ Mountains,” he says, nervously eyeing a nearby cave.

  “Oh, is my big, strong Calum afraid?” she teases, but the joke falls flat when he looks at her sharply.

  “Yes, I am, and you should be, too,” he snaps. “Master Oliver insists these mountains are empty because no Rennox has been sighted here in decades. Even so, there are twisting tunnels, sinkholes, underground lakes . . . If it were up to me, we’d be miles from here, sleeping in the nice warm beds of some inn or tavern.

  “I think the Rennox still live here. They used to trade with some of the northern cities, but one day they just cut off all communication with us. Could be they’re just messing with us for the hell of it.” He pats his horse’s neck as it shifts beneath him, ears twitching as the wind screams again. “You’d better pray we don’t see any, princess, because if we do, it’ll be a second before they take our heads from our shoulders.”

  “If it’s so dangerous, why is Oliver allowing the prince to stay here?”

  Calum’s face pinches as if he had bitten into a lemon. “He insists we’ll be fine because we’re only spending the night in one of the outermost caverns, not venturing far into the mountains. Since the king doesn’t want Tamriel spotted on the road to Cirisor, we’ve abandoned the road altogether. We’ll be riding along the mountains for the rest of this trip.”

  Akiva rides past and grins at Calum. “Stop trying to scare her. Some of us are braver than skittish kittens, you know.”

  “Then I won’t feel bad about pushing you into the line of fire when we’re attacked, since you’re so brave.”

  At the front of the group, Tamriel picks up the pace and leads them along the edge of the mountains as the evening sky turns dark around them, inky clouds obscuring the moonlight. Perhaps it’s simply the influence from Calum’s story, but the air around the mountains feels ominous, sinister, the entrances of the caves gaping at them like a monster’s open maw.