Mercy’s eyelids grow heavy as her sleepless nights finally catch up to her. Her lids flutter shut, her grip on the reins slackening.
No!
She snaps awake and jerks upright in her saddle, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment when she notices Maceo riding beside her, a hand out to steady her.
“I’m fine,” she says.
The guard shakes his head and calls, “Your Highness, do you think we could stop for the night?”
“Just a little farther.”
“No, Tam.” Calum’s voice floats up from the back of the group. “We’ve ridden far enough.”
When Tamriel glances back, Maceo jerks his head to Mercy. She glares at the guard. “I said I’m fine—”
“No, Calum’s right.” Master Oliver stops his horse, and Tamriel reluctantly follows suit. Mercy grimaces at the soreness in her legs when she dismounts, but she cannot deny the relief of being out of her saddle. “Carson and Akiva, find suitable shelter for the night. Maceo, Conrad, and Silas, take the horses and find somewhere for them to drink.”
The soldiers depart immediately, leaving Clyde and Parson to watch over the small party. They keep their hands on the grips of their swords, scanning the darkness as if Rennox might ambush them at any moment.
Tamriel turns to Master Oliver. “How much further to the Islands?”
“Two days, if we leave at dawn tomorrow. I’ll take first watch tonight.”
When Carson and Akiva return, they lead everyone to the mouth of a small tunnel hidden behind an outcropping of rock. The passage is so narrow they must walk single file, the jagged stone walls catching on their clothes and scraping the guards’ metal armor. Mercy follows Tamriel, her fingers brushing the back of his tunic to guide her through the darkness. For a moment, she can pretend that they’re the only ones there, that he isn’t angry with her, that everything could go back to the way it was before she and Calum had made a mess of his life.
The tunnel opens into an enormous cavern. The white and gray limestone makes up three of the four walls—the other has eroded enough to allow a glimpse of the outside, like a window. Parson inches cautiously into the center of the room, then bounces on his toes.
“The ground is solid, Your Highness.”
“Good. We’ll make camp here.”
A goofy grin spreads across Calum’s face. “We won’t be able to build a fire, so we’ll have to huddle together to stay warm. You know what that means? Prepare for some serious cuddl—Ow!” He jumps back and frowns at Mercy, rubbing his arm where she had elbowed him. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”
She sticks her tongue out at him.
Tamriel shakes his head, a slight smile playing across his lips. “Grow up, you two. Let’s lay out the bedrolls. Creator knows we need all the sleep we can get.”
The guards disperse, laying out their blankets and packs a few feet from each other. Master Oliver settles himself against the far wall with his sword lying unsheathed across his lap, the cold steel glinting in what little moonlight streams in from outside. Mercy ignores Calum’s smirk as she spreads out her bedroll and wraps her cloak around herself. It doesn’t offer much protection against the chill of the wind, but it’s all she has, and she’s too exhausted to care. She lies down and falls asleep within seconds.
6
Tamriel
“Your Highness, we really should go—”
“Not yet.”
“But you said at dawn . . .” Akiva whispers. “It’s two hours past—”
“One more hour, then we’ll go. Just . . . let her sleep a little longer. And remind Master Oliver who is in charge here. I know he’s pacing outside.”
Akiva’s expression is doubtful, but he nods and bows before leaving the cave to join the others, the clanks of his armor echoing off the stone walls of the tunnel.
Tamriel stares out the hole in the back of the cavern, the faint outline of Sandori visible on the horizon. From here, his home is nothing more than a gray stain on the bank of Lake Myrella. He wonders what the nobles think of his sudden disappearance, how his father had explained his absence without revealing the cure he had tried so hard to hide. Ghyslain’s secrecy still stings, but the ache of Tamriel’s pain and confusion has dulled with distance and time.
He recalls the night he left the castle, the desperation in his father’s eyes as he had begged Tamriel not to go to Cirisor. Against his wishes, he wonders if his father will forgive him for leaving . . . because, as much as he tries to deny it, he cares for the broken, grieving fool.
The morning after he had been attacked in his mother’s house, Tamriel had awoken to find the king slumped beside his bed, disheveled and anxious. H-Have you been sitting here this whole time? he had asked.
Ghyslain’s response had come without hesitation: You’re all I have left. What else am I supposed to do when the person I love most in the world is on his deathbed?
The person I love most in this world.
Tamriel’s eyes flick to Mercy, sound asleep and shivering in the middle of the cave, before he tears them away.
She’s an Assassin. A Daughter. An instrument of death.
That’s all she can ever be to him.
“You mustn’t send her away.”
Tamriel jumps. He spins around to see Liselle standing in the mouth of the cave, regarding her sister with a sorrowful gaze.
“She’s an Assassin.”
“She’s a girl, Tamriel. She did not choose to be raised in the Guild, just as you did not choose to kill your mother when she bore you. We must make the best of the lives the Creator provides us. You cannot fault her for surviving that terrible place.”
He flinches at the mention of his mother, the never-quite-healed wound still tender after all these years. “Mercy tried to kill me. She says she never hurt me, but how can I believe her when everything I thought I knew about her turned out to be a lie? Even if I wanted her to return to Sandori with me, it’s not possible. She’s an elf.”
“Why does that matter?”
He shoots her a look. “You know better than anyone what the nobles will do if she returns to court: they’ll string her up and butcher her the same as they did to you because they know my father is too cowardly to stop them. You may think times have changed since you were killed, but she was a spectacle even when she was masquerading as a royal. Without a royal surname to protect her, she’ll end up with the same fate as you.” Tamriel shudders. The first time he had seen a drawing of Liselle’s defiled and filthy body strung up on the castle gate, he had had nightmares for months. Imagining Mercy in her place is too much to bear.
Liselle’s eyes flash with anger. Unsurprisingly, her premature death at the hands of Ghyslain’s advisors and courtiers is still a sore subject. “If the nobles are so willing to murder someone because of the shape of her ears, perhaps they are not worthy of your loyalty and protection,” she hisses.
“All of my people—elven and human—are worthy of protection. Why do you think I’ve been helping Hero and Ketojan all this time if not to give the elves in my country a better lot in life? I’ve done what I can, but prejudices don’t disappear in eighteen years.”
“She can help you change that.” Liselle nods to Mercy. “Give her a chance.”
Tamriel buries his face in his hands, his frustration giving way to weariness. “She lied to me and she tried to kill me. By the Creator, the guards found her standing over me with my blood on her hands! I can’t trust her, but I owe her a debt for saving my life. I have promised her my protection until we figure out the cure. After that, she may board a ship and go wherever she wants.”
Liselle kneels beside her sister, grief and love mingling on her face, and gently tucks one of Mercy’s curls behind her ear. “You say you owe her a life debt, but you’re condemning her to an early grave if you send her away. You might buy her a few months of running, constantly looking over her shoulder, but one day the Daughters will kill her.” She rises and moves to Tamriel’s side, h
er eyes imploring him. “If you care for her at all, keep her close.”
“But the nobles—”
“—are ants compared to the Guild. Once you have treated the plague, you must meet with Mother Illynor, strike up a deal, pay her off, whatever you must do to annul the contracts on your lives. You and Mercy will never be safe until the debt to the Guild is repaid.”
Tamriel shakes his head, his defenses crumbling around him. His stomach clenches at the thought of Mercy—beautiful, tough, snarky Mercy—running for her life, counting down the days until her Sisters catch up to her. “What they did to you . . . I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if they hurt her. If I bring her back— If I can’t protect her—”
“I know you better than you think, my prince. I’ve been watching you. You will do anything to help those you cherish. Last year, you granted Calum permission to study with the Strykers when your father refused. You’ve broken the law time and time again to liberate slaves. You’re braving the Cirisor Islands for your people, for the Creator’s sake!” She nods at Mercy. “So what will you do for her?”
Tamriel opens his mouth, then closes it.
She’s an Assassin. A Daughter. An instrument of death.
But she saved my life.
Finally, he whispers, “I loved Marieve, not Mercy.”
“The two are more similar than you know.” The sadness on Liselle’s face as she smiles at her sister breaks Tamriel’s heart. “Listen to me, my prince. You will be king one day. You will have the power to change everything.”
For a second, he is tempted to give in. Then he remembers his father wandering alone in his huge, empty castle, tormented by the memories of those he had loved and lost.
I will not become my father.
Tamriel turns his back to Liselle and starts toward the entrance of the cave. The guards are waiting outside, ready to leave. When he reaches the tunnel, he pauses. “No one has that power, Liselle. You of all people should know that.”
7
Mercy
When Mercy awakens, she squints against the bright sunlight streaming in through the hole in the cave wall, blinking as her eyes adjust. Someone—
Wait.
Sunlight?
She jerks upright, the cloak she’d used as a blanket falling into her lap. Tamriel had said they’d leave at dawn. Unless they had left without her—
“We let you sleep. You looked like you needed it.”
Tamriel’s voice startles her. He is seated cross-legged against the wall, Calum lounging beside him with amusement glittering in his eyes. He grins at her confusion, and it makes her want to rip his throat out.
“You should have woken me,” she says as she stands. She balls up the cloak and shoves it into her bag, then runs a hand through the curls which had flattened in her sleep.
“And invoke the wrath of Overtired Mercy again?” Calum says. “No, thank you. I still have a bruise where you elbowed me last night.”
“I didn’t hit you that hard.” She rolls her eyes and turns to Tamriel. “What time is it?”
“Best guess is a little after seven.”
“Seven?” Her jaw drops. “You said we’d leave at dawn!”
“And then he said we’d only wait an hour longer,” Calum adds.
They look accusingly at Tamriel, who shrugs, unfazed by their glares. “You needed the sleep,” is all he says.
“Well, while you were getting your beauty sleep, the rest of us washed, saddled the horses, and packed up our supplies.” Calum stands, then turns to Tamriel. “We’re ready to go at your command, Your Highness.”
“All right. Mercy, Parson and Akiva will escort you to the lake. You have ten minutes to wash and change, then we’re leaving.”
Mercy hurriedly folds her bedroll and shoves it into her pack as she follows Tamriel out of the cave. Calum falls into step behind her, whistling a tune they’d heard in the tavern back in Cyrna. When they emerge outside, a piercing scream rings through the mountains, causing her to jump.
“Don’t be afraid, princess,” Calum says, smirking. “It’s only the wind.”
“I’m not afraid—”
“Ready to go?” Akiva asks and he and Parson meet them at the edge of the mountain range. They hand their horses’ reins to Silas, then strap their sheathed swords to their hips before starting down the line of the karst, beckoning Mercy forth. Behind them, Tamriel and Calum begin discussing the plan for the day’s ride with Master Oliver.
“Shouldn’t the Assassin be in cuffs?” Parson hisses to Akiva as they walk, scanning the openings of the caves and tunnels with a wary gaze. “The prince trusts her too much.”
“A little hard to wash while wearing cuffs, don’t you think?” Mercy smarts, but they ignore her.
“There are two of us and one of her,” Akiva says. “Besides, she’s unarmed. If she tries anything, I think we’ll be able to handle—”
“Did you see that?” Parson stops abruptly, his eyes latching onto a cave above them. He unsheathes his sword, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turn white.
“See what?” Akiva grabs Mercy’s arm, his free hand going to his sword. They stiffen as wind whistles through the mountains, then Parson shakes his head sharply.
“. . . Nothing. It’s nothing, I’m sure. A trick of the light.” Although his voice is uncertain, he sheathes his sword and waves them along. “Best not to keep the prince waiting. The lake is here, just up ahead.”
He leads them through a gap in the rocks to a sheltered clearing, then into a large, open cave. The lake sparkles in the sunlight streaming through an opening in the ceiling, from which little droplets of water plop onto the lake’s still surface. The walls shine with flecks of eudorite. Rich humans would pay hundreds, if not thousands, of aurums for a blade crafted from the ebony metal—rumored to be strong enough to cut through stone and steel without the slightest nick.
“Go on, then,” Akiva says, pushing Mercy toward the lake. She stumbles and catches herself at the water’s edge. It’s such a deep blue that she can’t see more than a few feet down; for all she knows, the lake could be hundreds of feet deep.
The guards move to opposite sides of the cavern as Mercy quickly undresses and places her clothes on the ground beside her. She ignores the way Akiva’s brows rise as he studies the myriad of scars marring her skin and steps into the shallows, shivering at the cold, crisp water. As she wades in, the stone floor quickly drops out from under her. Mercy has no soap, so she treads water while she scrubs her skin with her fingers, relishing the sensation of finally removing the days’ worth of dirt she had picked up traveling.
Mercy dips her head under the water and opens her eyes, watching the little bubbles rise past her face and burst on the surface. She runs her fingers through the tangles in her hair, then breaks the surface, blinking away the droplets which bead on her lashes.
Steel whispers against leather as someone draws his sword.
She turns to see Parson standing with his weapon raised, his brows furrowed as he peers down the tunnel which adjoins this cavern to another. “Did you see that?” he asks, inching forward. “I thought I saw . . . something . . .”
“Careful, friend.” Akiva is leaning against the wall by the entrance. When Parson makes no indication of having heard and continues into the tunnel, Akiva pushes away from the wall and reaches for his sword, exchanging a confused look with Mercy. “Parson, come on—”
A loud crackling, like the breaking of a thousand bones, interrupts him. A scream echoes from the adjacent cave before sharply breaking off.
“Parson!”
Akiva bolts into the tunnel. Mercy wades out of the lake and sprints after him, not bothering to dress. Akiva rounds a sharp turn in the tunnel and dips out of her view for a second. She plows into his back when she catches up, and he scrabbles for a hold on the wall to keep from pitching into the enormous sinkhole which gapes before them.
Mercy gasps.
It’s over twenty feet wide and double tha
t in depth, jagged, broken boulders littering the bottom like sharp teeth. Dust hangs in the air from the collapse. Mercy coughs and covers her mouth with her hand, while Akiva stares down in horror, the blood draining from his face.
“Sweet Creator,” he breathes. When Mercy lifts onto her toes to peer over his shoulder, he tries to block her view. “No, you shouldn’t—”
He’s too slow. Parson’s body lies at the bottom of the sinkhole, his limbs broken and bent, his neck set at an awkward angle. His lifeless eyes stare blankly at the ceiling as bits of blood and gore seep out of the back of his head. His sword lies a few feet away, the blade dented and crumpled.
Mercy tears her gaze away and freezes. “Akiva, look.”
Across the chasm, three pairs of glittering obsidian eyes leer at them. The vaguely humanoid creatures stand nearly seven feet tall, composed of the same smooth limestone as the mountains surrounding them. The tips of the eudorite spears in their hands are crooked and clearly handmade, but terrifyingly sharp. One peers down at Parson’s body and says something in a strange tongue to the other two, his voice rasping like the scraping of a blade on a whetstone.
The realization of what these creatures are hits Mercy and Akiva simultaneously.
“Rennox,” she whispers.
“Go to the prince now,” Akiva murmurs, not taking his eyes off the strange creatures. “Get Master Oliver. Run. Hurry.”
“But how—”
“RUN!” he roars. Akiva pulls his sword from its sheath and forces her back with a threatening slash. His eyes are wide and terrified, his sword trembling in his hand. Mercy scrambles back and sprints out of the tunnel and past the lake, pausing only to pull her cloak from her pack and wrap it around herself. The uneven stone floor cuts her bare feet as she runs, but she doesn’t slow. She doesn’t slow until she sees the prince and his guards waiting beside their horses.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 49
