Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “Let’s go.”

  Maceo and Silas immediately take the lead, the rest of the guards taking up a protective formation as they leave the clearing.

  “I don’t know who attacked me in my mother’s house that night,” Tamriel murmurs a few minutes later, low enough so only she can hear, “but you saved my life the night you killed that Daughter—”

  “Aelis.”

  “—and I saved you from the Rennox. It will not happen again, you understand? My debt to you is paid.”

  Mercy frowns. “I didn’t save you so you’d owe me a debt.”

  Tamriel’s eyes are focused on the woods around them as he repeats, “Do you understand?”

  She hesitates, then nods, turning forward so he cannot see the hurt on her face. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I do.”

  9

  Calum

  Parson—dead. Conrad—dead. Florian—dead.

  Master Oliver.

  Dead.

  Calum watches the guards before him ride across the plain, their spines straight in their shining armor. They’re far enough from the Mountains that the Rennox likely won’t attack again, but they still follow Master Oliver’s plan of avoiding the main roads to keep the prince from being seen by travelers or merchants. With luck, they’ll reach the Cirisian archipelago tomorrow evening.

  With luck, they’ll find the cure tomorrow.

  They haven’t seen any sign that Leitha Cain has traveled through the area, and none of the people they had questioned in Cyrna knew of royal guards visiting the city since Leitha and her men had passed through on their way to Cirisor. At this point, if they’re to encounter her at all, it’ll be on the westernmost island, and she’d better have found the cure. Calum has no desire to spend any more time in the land of the Cirisian elves than he must. Growing up in the castle, the children of the king’s advisors had liked to scare him with tales of the elves’ brutality. It was rumored that innocent Cirisians struck down by human soldiers returned from the Beyond as bloodthirsty ghouls, waiting to torment and torture every human who sets foot upon the island.

  He doesn’t believe the stories now, of course, but they had left him with many sleepless nights in his childhood, and a lingering unease he now finds himself unable to shake.

  Mercy and Tamriel ride in stubborn silence a few paces behind him. He can feel their discomfort from here, and it makes him want to roll his eyes. Whatever issues they have with each other are nothing compared to the problems at hand. It’s stupid—it had been beyond stupid of Tamriel to save Mercy from the Rennox. He could have been hurt—he could have been killed!—simply because he was too softhearted to let the Assassin die.

  Parson, Conrad, Florian, Master Oliver. Although Calum isn’t officially a member of the guard, their deaths carve gashes into his heart deeper than any blade could. He had never known his parents; the guards are the family he had chosen. They hadn’t taken him in out of guilt or a sense of responsibility, like the king had. They had accepted him based on his merits, his loyalty. Even so, if they learn about his treachery, they’ll kill him without hesitation.

  He can imagine what his father would say about the guards who had perished in the Rennox attack—although he had only been two years old when Drake Zendais was murdered, he has heard enough stories to know his father wasn’t the kindest person in Beltharos—Their deaths are a necessary sacrifice. They’ve already pledged their lives in service to the crown, now let them prove their loyalty. Better them than us.

  Calum’s horse chuffs as it clomps through the long grass, its hide shining with sweat under the midday sun’s relentless rays. He looks back at Tamriel, guilt gnawing at him. He had made the biggest mistake of his life when he had bought the contract on the prince, but perhaps helping to find the cure for the plague and saving the lives of thousands of people will be his repentance. It’s a start, at least.

  But if anyone finds out what you did . . . whispers a doubting voice. What do you think the prince will do to you? How many people will show up to watch your execution? What will they write in the history books about you, the half-elven bastard who tried to destroy the royal line?

  Calum’s shoulders slump. The Daughters are still after Tamriel, still working to complete the contract. If they kill him and take Mercy back to the Keep to face Mother Illynor’s punishment, Calum could continue his and Elise’s original plan: after Tamriel dies, Calum will reveal the contract with Ghyslain’s signature to the nobility, claiming the king had had his son murdered to secure his hold on the throne. It’s not entirely unbelievable—Tamriel had planned to meet with the nobility to convince them to support his ascension to the throne. Several of the nobles Calum had contacted about the meeting would corroborate the story. Once Calum tells them his fictionalized story about the contract, the citizens will be clamoring to dethrone Ghyslain—and who better to replace him than his own nephew?

  Calum would be king. He’d be free to marry Elise. He’d be rid of the broken, grieving shadow of a man who had haunted his and Tamriel’s childhoods. His father’s death would finally be avenged. His family name would be restored to the greatness and esteem it once held.

  And all he would have to do is live with himself.

  10

  Tamriel

  The next day, Calum leads the group as they finally near the northeastern border of Beltharos. They slow to a stop before a wide wooden bridge that spans the thirty-foot channel between Beltharos and the first of the Cirisor Islands. Across the water, the small island looks deceptively like a paradise—it’s ringed with mangroves and tall palms, brightly-colored flowers bobbing in the sea-salt scented air—but Tamriel will not allow its beauty to distract him from the dangers of this strange land.

  “Silas, ride ahead and alert the officers at the outpost of our arrival,” Calum commands. “Keep an eye out for patrols. You have the map?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shall I accompany him?” Maceo asks, scanning the shadows cast by the dense trees with a wary eye.

  “No, the rest of you stay with the prince and me. We can’t be too careful here. Go now, Silas—we’ll be right behind you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Silas rides across the bridge, the clomping of his horse’s hooves against the weathered boards punctuating his crossing. Within seconds, he disappears into the tree line.

  Calum turns to Tamriel. “Ready, Your Highness?”

  “Yes, of course. Let’s go.” They’re so close to finding Cassius’s strange plant, he is practically bouncing in his saddle with impatience.

  Calum nods and starts across the bridge, the rest of the group falling in line behind him.

  “Are you afraid?” Mercy asks as Tamriel spurs their horse forward. “I know what people say about the Cirisians—that they’re all brutal, sadistic monsters. It can’t possibly be true, you know. They’re people, same as you and me.”

  “No, I’m not afraid, but I know their reputation for dealing with trespassers. I’m not eager to lead my men into another ambush.”

  She’s quiet for a few moments, then she adds, “The one time I ran away from the Guild, I was planning to join the Cirisian elves. I thought—”

  “You tried to run away?” Tamriel can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. After seeing how fiercely she had fought at the castle, how easy it had been for her to kill, he had never suspected she had been anything but loyal to the Guild her whole life.

  “Of course I did,” Mercy scoffs. “I was eight and just beginning to understand that the tutors were raising us to murder people for money, dozens of girls who were more comfortable with daggers in their hands than dolls. They certainly hadn’t hidden the fact, but I suppose it hadn’t really sunk in until then.”

  “Why then? What changed?”

  She takes a deep breath, steeling herself before she says, “A Daughter named Emmalyn had been sent on a contract to Feyndara but was discovered by a rival company of assassins. They captured her, tortured her, and murdered her. The leader of the compan
y had Emmalyn’s body parts sent back to the Keep in boxes, one at a time, each more disfigured than the last.”

  Mercy keeps her voice low as Akiva and Maceo finish crossing the bridge behind them. They begin riding at a slow, cautious pace through the trees, the branches casting dappled shadows on the soft earth and twisting roots of the mangroves. Above their heads, colorful birds flit from tree to tree and squawk to one another.

  “They had slit Emmalyn open from throat to belly and left her body exposed so she would attract flies. When Mother Illynor opened the boxes, there were maggots in her stomach and eyes and her skin was purple with bruises where they had beaten her. The stench was sickening. That afternoon, I ran, and only a few hours later the Daughters found me huddled in the hollow of a fallen tree, sheltering myself from a sudden rainstorm.” She pauses, then says in a wry voice, “You know what the worst part was?”

  “What?”

  “That whole time, I had been running in the wrong direction.”

  Despite the horror of her story, Tamriel snorts. She looks back at him with a small smile which makes his traitorous stomach do a little flip.

  “Of course, they brought me back,” she continues. “I had to march through the dining hall and stand in front of everyone while Mistress Trytain told Illynor what I had done. I realized they were never going to let me go; I’d never be able to escape, so I decided to become the best Assassin they had ever trained. I practiced as hard as I could so if the day ever came that I stood face-to-face with the people who killed Emmalyn, I wouldn’t end up like her. I’d be able to repay them for what they did.”

  The words fall emotionlessly from her lips as if she is reciting a story she had read. Tamriel gapes at her, speechless. The way she had described Emmalyn’s body . . . The things she must have seen to allow her to live with such a haunting memory are beyond Tamriel’s imagination. He has been plagued by the memory of cutting through Hero’s tongue for weeks, but those five gut-wrenching minutes are nothing compared to her lifetime of violence.

  She had only been eight . . .

  How can he fault her for betraying him when she had been raised in as brutal a place as the Guild? His knowledge of Illynor’s Guild of Assassins is limited at best, but all noble children grow up fearing the vicious monsters who lurk in the shadows and strike in the dead of night. They’re infamous for being the deadliest women in Beltharos—possibly the world—and they’re ruthless in a fight. Above all else, they do not forsake the Guild to save their targets.

  The only exception to their rule is sitting right in front of him, and she will be killed for it.

  11

  Mercy

  “There’s nothing at the outpost, sir. It’s completely deserted.”

  “Nothing?”

  “A few crates of supplies and discarded weapons. No men.”

  “Are there bodies?”

  “No bodies either, sir.” Silas’s horse shifts underneath him, neighing nervously. After crossing the bridge, Calum had led the group inland for the better part of an hour, following the twisting, uneven path to the outpost until Silas had come galloping back to them in a panic. “It’s like they were never there.”

  “The soldiers must have advanced to the next island, then,” Calum says. “They couldn’t have simply disappeared.”

  Tamriel spurs his horse to the front of the group. “Did you see the flower? The scaly one with four leaves?” His voice is tight, desperate. Mercy hopes that Liselle is right about the cure being in the Islands, yet she cannot help but remember Pilar’s relentless insistence that the cure is only temporary—that there may be some darker, more sinister cause for this plague.

  If only Liselle would return. Mercy hasn’t seen her in days.

  “No, Your Highness. I didn’t see any flowers like that.”

  Tamriel slumps in defeat. “Should’ve known it wouldn’t be so easy.”

  “We’ll find it,” Calum promises. Then he turns to his guards. “Let’s do a sweep of the outpost. Maybe they left a note or something for the next group of soldiers, some way to locate them.”

  Silas nods and leads them along the path at a brisk pace. The trail winds and weaves over ridges and around huge outcroppings of rock, the vegetation growing so thickly in some areas that they are forced to ride single-file. Several times, Mercy could swear they’re heading back the way they had come. On either side of her, Akiva and Maceo look equally disoriented, scanning the landscape with cautious, watchful eyes. Soon, though, the thick foliage begins to fall away as they near the Beltharan outpost.

  The ground is flatter here than elsewhere on the island, the grass trampled by the footprints of the hundreds of soldiers who had been stationed here over the course of the seemingly endless string of Cirisian Wars. White tents dot the clearing, tall and sturdy, the fabric doors flapping gently in the breeze. The trees and land are unscarred by battle; this outpost was safe from the fighting, merely a place to store shipments of weapons and supplies on their way to the troops stationed farther along the archipelago.

  “The camp stretches another mile that way,” Silas says, pointing to their right, “and it looks like it was recently abandoned. There are enough intact tents for us to rest comfortably tonight.” He dismounts and pulls Master Oliver’s map from his pocket, spreading it open on a tree stump as the rest of them follow. “According to the map, the next camp isn’t far, but the trail will certainly be treacherous in the dark. Wouldn’t want to risk one of the horses stepping in the wrong place and breaking a leg.”

  “Let’s search the area and see what we can find,” Tamriel says. “Gather papers and anything else which might give us a clue to where the soldiers went. If we don’t have any ideas in an hour, we’ll stay the night.”

  Calum nods. “You heard the man. Pair up. Stay within shouting distance and keep your eyes peeled for strangers. Mercy, you’re with me.” When she groans, he flashes her a grin. “Problem, princess?”

  Mercy glances at Tamriel. Don’t give him any reason to be suspicious of Calum, she reminds herself, and shoots Calum a saccharine smile. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Good. Akiva and Maceo, stay with the prince. Silas and Clyde, take the opposite end of the camp and work toward the center. Meet back here in forty-five minutes.” Without waiting for Mercy, Calum strides across the clearing, toward another cluster of tents nestled in a copse of trees. Twigs snap under his heavy boots. Mercy rolls her eyes as she hurries after him.

  “You’ll attract the attention of every creature on the island if you walk like that,” she says, grabbing his arm to stop him. “Tread lightly and watch where you step.” She points to a broken twig and a flower he had crushed a few paces back. “If I were hunting you, you’d already be dead.”

  “If you were armed, you mean,” Calum teases. His lips spread into a smug grin. “You know, you sound like Mistress Trytain when you say things like that.”

  “No, I don’t.” Mercy shoves him. “Now let’s go. Stop wasting time.”

  They pick their way through the underbrush until they reach the next circle of tents, the largest of which stands open. Mercy glimpses a wide wooden table inside, covered with papers weighed down with stones. This tent must have belonged to the commander.

  Calum walks right past it.

  “Didn’t you say to—?”

  “Tam and the others can take this area,” Calum calls over his shoulder, swinging his enormous crossbow as he continues walking. “I need to stretch my legs, and there’s another cluster over here.”

  Mercy huffs and follows him to the next grouping of tents. Calum opens one and steps inside. A moment later, she hears him shuffling through papers, followed by a soft curse.

  “Nothing here,” he calls. “You?”

  “Nothing.”

  Across from her, several overturned crates spill short, well-used swords in the dirt, their blades nicked and dull. Mercy picks one up, imagining how many fights this sword must have seen, how many men it had killed. She rubs away t
he dirt caked in the pommel with her thumb, revealing the Myrellis family crest engraved into the metal.

  Behind her, something clicks—a sound she remembers all too well from the night after the Trial, when Lylia had nearly pushed her off the battlements:

  Calum’s crossbow.

  Slowly, she turns to find him aiming a razor-sharp bolt straight at her heart. She sucks in a breath and lifts the sword, immediately scanning his body for weakness. It’s no use—he’s too far away. He’d loose the bolt before she could so much as take a step.

  “You’re going to kill me?”

  The metal point of the bolt glints in the fading sunlight. “I might.”

  She lifts her chin, glaring at him. He’s a coward. He doesn’t have the courage to kill me. “Try it.”

  He smiles then, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. He lowers the crossbow. “Fine. You called my bluff. I’m not going to kill you. I just want you to run.”

  “So you can shoot me in the back? I don’t think so.”

  “I won’t shoot. I’d promise, but I don’t think my word means much to you. Just go. Run to the Cirisian elves if you wish, I don’t care.”

  “Why?” she asks, immediately wary. “If you’re so worried about me telling Tamriel about your loyalties, why not kill me?”

  “Do you think Tamriel would ever forgive me if he found your body with one of my arrows in your heart? No, I’d prefer him to think you left of your own volition. Don’t pretend you haven’t considered it—I know you better than that.”

  “I already agreed not to tell him about the contract. Why do you care if I’m here?”

  He sputters a bewildered laugh. “Are you serious? Really? Do you not see what you do to him? You’re destroying Tamriel, and you’re not even doing it on purpose—I can’t believe how oblivious you are. You’re his weakness.”