Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  The old man’s smile widens. He turns to the man beside him, speaking Cirisian in his aged and gravelly voice. The half-dozen elves around her pay her no mind save to glance at her every once in a while, smiling, as if to tell her they haven’t forgotten her presence. As hostile as they had been to Tamriel and Calum, there is nothing but welcoming on their faces now. Mercy suspects they are well accustomed to strange elves arriving unannounced in their camp.

  Her last spoonful of soup is halfway to her mouth when someone walks up behind her. She tenses, thinking it’s Tamriel or Calum coming to talk, but it’s only Kaius. He perches on the log beside her and waves away a bowl the old man offers him. Mercy places the bowl on the ground at her feet and turns to face him.

  “I see you had no trouble finding your way to the tent, after all,” the archer says.

  “It was hard to miss the hunters you stationed to keep an eye on us.” She jerks her chin to the neighboring fire, where a young woman sits with her bow and quiver resting on the ground beside her.

  “One can never be too careful.” He stretches out his legs in front of him, nudging a clump of dirt with the heel of his sandal. “So,” he says with feigned nonchalance, “I understand why the prince and his men are here, but why are you?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  He barks a laugh. “What’s the real reason?”

  “I already told you, I’m helping the prince find the cure for the plague. I have experience working as a healer.”

  “A healer and an assassin. How very ironic—one protects life, the other takes it.”

  “I’m well aware of the irony, believe me. You heard what the Guildmaster named me, didn’t you?” she asks, her lips twisting into something reminiscent of a smile. “Mercy.”

  Kaius stares into the fire, pursing his lips in thought. “It doesn’t have to be your name, you know. If you stay, you can choose your own name—a Cirisian name. You can be whomever you wish.”

  Mercy pushes the bowl away with the toe of her shoe, caked in dirt and sand after the long trek to the camp. “I’m not staying.”

  “If it’s because of him, you’re a fool.”

  She frowns at him, not failing to notice the other elves around the fire watching her with curiosity. “What did you say?”

  “You think the prince is going to help you, don’t you? He may care for you now, but it will never last. You should leave him now and save yourself the pain.”

  She crosses her arms. “You think I should stay here instead? That I’d be better off with your people?”

  “Our people. You could learn Cirisian, have a job, get the tattoos. You’d have a purpose. You could be happy here.”

  “I’m happy exactly where I am.”

  The look he gives her in response is so full of pity it strikes her like a physical blow, sparking her temper once again. She turns on her heel and walks away, shoving aside the fabric flaps as she marches inside the tent the Cirisians had given them. Akiva yelps in protest when she nearly trips over him. She scowls, ignoring him, as she makes her way to the blanket someone had laid out for her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tamriel and Calum exchange bewildered looks. Tamriel opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Mercy lies down, turns her back to him, and squeezes her eyes shut, wishing she could force sleep to come through sheer willpower.

  Mercy awakens at the break of dawn after a thick, dreamless sleep. Pushing her tangled curls out of her face, she scans the room, blinking as her eyes adjust to the light. All the soldiers are still asleep—no doubt nursing whatever wounds the elves had inflicted the night before—but Tamriel’s and Calum’s bedrolls are empty. Immediately wary, Mercy bolts upright and looks to the tent flap, where a sliver of periwinkle sky is visible. As carefully and quietly as she can, Mercy stands and steps between the guards’ bodies until she emerges outside.

  Despite the early hour, dozens of elves are already up and about, some weaving cloth, others preparing the day’s meals. Kaius strides past without noticing her and calls to a group of hunters milling at the edge of the trees. After exchanging greetings, they melt into the shadows of the subtropical forest. Mercy quickly scans the clearing and her stomach knots when she sees neither Tamriel nor Calum anywhere. Damn him, she thinks. Calum will not kill Tamriel today.

  She steps into the path of a passing elf. “Have you seen the prince or his cousin? The humans?”

  He grumbles something in Cirisian and points across camp at a break in the trees.

  “Thank—Vareisa,” she calls over her shoulder, already running. Her body is stiff from sleeping on the ground, but when she hears the ringing of steel on steel, she pushes herself to a sprint.

  She rounds a bend in the forest and stops so quickly that she stumbles when she sees Tamriel and Calum standing with their swords locked, their teeth gritted and sweat pouring down their faces. It’s exactly like when she’d found them dueling in Sandori, except now Tamriel’s arms shake with the exertion of matching his older cousin’s strength. When he shifts his stance, Mercy spots a growing stain of blood on the back of his shirt.

  Her stomach drops.

  Calum’s blade inches closer to the prince’s chest.

  “Stop! Stop them!” Mercy calls, first to Tamriel and Calum, then to a couple nearby elves when the prince and Calum don’t respond. She reaches toward her hip before remembering she’s completely unarmed; the sword in Calum’s hand is the one Mercy had taken from the dead soldier, the one she’d laid beside her before she had fallen asleep the night before.

  Tamriel grunts and shoves Calum back, falling into a defensive position right before his cousin lunges, driving the point of his sword forward. The prince barely manages to knock the attack aside, breathing hard. He’s tiring quickly, grimacing as more blood darkens his shirt, and he won’t be able to fight much longer. Mercy’s heart hammers against her ribcage as Calum’s next swing sends the prince’s sword flying out of his hand.

  Calum grins and wipes sweat from his brow with one hand, the point of his sword hovering over Tamriel’s heart. They’re panting, their gazes locked. Slowly, Tamriel lifts his hands in surrender. Neither of them notice when Mercy crouches and picks Tamriel’s sword up off the ground.

  “Won again,” Calum says. He doesn’t lower his sword.

  Mercy steps forward and presses the point of her sword to the back of Calum’s neck, just close enough to prick. “Not quite.”

  16

  Mercy

  Calum drops his sword and jumps forward, clapping a hand to the back of his neck. “Damn!” he exclaims, scowling when his fingers come away shiny with blood. “Good morning to you, too, princess.”

  Mercy shoves him out of the way and marches over to Tamriel. “You’re hurt. Turn around.”

  “It’s barely a scratch—” Calum objects, but he shuts his mouth when Mercy whirls on him, her eyes blazing.

  “He’s bleeding, and it’s your fault. I’m going to take care of him, and then you and I are going to talk.”

  He holds up his hands as he backs away. “Fine. As long as your idea of talking doesn’t end with me skewered on your sword, all right?”

  Mercy glowers at him.

  “O-kay . . . I’m going to take that as a maybe.”

  “Get out of here.”

  He rolls his eyes and walks away, leaving Mercy and Tamriel alone in the small clearing. Tamriel sits on a nearby tree stump, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve.

  “Was that really necess—Oof,” he begins, grunting with pain and surprise when Mercy throws her arms around his neck and pulls him close. She lets out a shaky laugh as his arms close around her. A moment later, she leans back and pushes a strand of hair behind his ear, letting her fingers trail down his cheek and over the stubble peppering his jaw.

  “Don’t scare me like that again,” she murmurs.

  “It was harmless—”

  “Don’t,” she insists. “Please. Seeing you two fight . . .” I thought Calum was fin
ally going to finish the job. “It reminded me of the night the Daughters attacked,” she says instead.

  He searches her face for a moment, then nods. “Okay. We won’t spar anymore. At least, not while you’re around.” When she doesn’t laugh at his teasing tone, his smile slips. He reaches up and moves her hand from his face to his chest, splaying her fingers directly over where the point of Calum’s sword had rested. “Mercy. Feel my heartbeat? Because of you, it’s still pumping, and it’s going to be pumping for a long time to come, I promise.” His last word is barely more than a breath. He kisses her forehead gently.

  “Does that mean you’ve forgiven me?” Dangerous, dangerous hope blooms in Mercy’s chest. She had lied to him, betrayed him, but she had also killed and turned her back on the only life she has ever known to save him.

  “I . . . want to,” he admits. “I’m trying.”

  Mercy closes her eyes. Creator, if only I could tell him the truth. She stands and moves to the opposite side of the tree stump upon which he is sitting. “Take off your shirt.”

  He glances at her over his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you how bossy you are?”

  “No one who has lived to tell about it. Take it off.”

  Sighing, he pulls it over his head. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  Although he can’t see it, Mercy frowns. The crescent-shaped gash—the gift given to him by Calum in Sandori—spans most of his upper back and, although it has been nearly two weeks since he was wounded, the constant riding, fighting, and moving has kept it from healing as it should have. His skin is pink and inflamed where the stitches have pulled and dark blood oozes from places where the wound has yet to close.

  “You’re lucky it’s not infected,” she says, examining the line of stitches crisscrossing his otherwise flawless olive skin. He’s lean, like his father, but his muscles are pronounced from years of swordplay. Mercy tries—and fails—not to gawk as she plants herself in front of Tamriel again. “It wouldn’t be so bad if you rested and let it heal, you know. If you continue like this, you’ll have one hell of a scar when it’s finished.”

  “Who cares about a measly scar?” He slips his shirt over his head. Then he grins, looping a finger in the waistband of Mercy’s pants. “Good thing I don’t have to worry about impressing any other girls.”

  “Oh, yeah? Was that a big worry for you before I came along? I seem to recall several young women in the court swooning when you walked in wearing your armor.”

  He snorts. “I don’t think swooning is the right word—”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “Fine. Let’s say that’s true. I didn’t notice any of them. I noticed you.”

  Mercy is about to respond when a flash of red hair across camp catches her eye. “Have you seen Firesse yet? I’m eager to hear if she’s decided to help us search for the Cedikra.” As she speaks, she walks over to the circle where Calum and Tamriel had been dueling and picks up the swords.

  “No, I haven’t. What did she want to discuss last night?”

  “She just wanted to know more about me, about why I’m here with you.” She starts back toward the center of camp, the prince trailing behind. They find Firesse outside her tent, watching a group of young children play with colorful hand-carved toys.

  “Tanasheida,” she says, nodding to Mercy as Tamriel slips into their tent to change. “Good morning. Have you considered my offer?”

  “I have considered it, but I cannot accept. Not now. I’ve promised to help the prince fight the plague, and that is the most immediate threat at the moment. Vareisa, Firesse. Your offer was very kind,” she says carefully, aware of the armed elves surrounding her.

  “A shame. Our language sounds beautiful on your lips—much better than this one. I bet you’d be speaking fluently in less than a year. Know you always have a place with us, if you desire it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tamriel emerges from their tent in a clean shirt and returns to her side. “Good morning, Firesse. Have you decided whether to help us yet?” he asks.

  “I have consulted with our healer, and—as I suspected—he knows of no medicinal use for Cedikra. But if you still insist on studying it, I will help you.” Tamriel’s shoulders sag with relief, and Mercy feels some of the tension drain from her body, as well. “Omri has sent some of the gatherers to collect as much of the fruit as they can find, but I’m afraid it doesn’t grow well on this island. I had him send messengers to the tribes on the neighboring islands, instructing them to bring as much as they can carry to Ialathan, the gathering of the tribes. In three days, you shall have more than enough Cedikra to cure all the sick in Beltharos.”

  Tamriel looks more hopeful than he has since before they’d left the castle. “Thank you, Firesse. Thank you—”

  “You must promise me something in return,” she interrupts. “You must promise me that upon your return to Sandori, you will convince your father to withdraw every Beltharan soldier from these islands.”

  “But then Feyndara—”

  “We will not allow Feyndara to win the war. Our land must remain ours. You must swear to me, right now, that as long as a Myrellis holds the throne, his forces will never touch Cirisian territory. In addition, any elves wishing to flee to Cirisor must be granted safe transfer to the Islands. Promise me this, and you will have my help.”

  “I don’t have the authority to make such promises.”

  “The king is not here,” she says sharply, “and you are the prince. Someday, you will find yourself the most powerful man in Beltharos. You have whatever authority you grant yourself.”

  Tamriel exchanges a glance with Mercy. “. . . Very well,” he finally concedes. “I swear it on my life.”

  “Wonderful.” She smiles. “I am delighted to hear it. Now, if you will excuse me, I will speak to Aeson about providing you more comfortable sleeping arrangements. You and your men will need more room if you are to stay with us these next few days.”

  “Thank you,” Mercy says, and Tamriel echoes her sentiment as Firesse walks away. Then something occurs to Mercy. “Cassius Bacha had drawn a picture of Cedikra on the map I found in Seren Pierce’s study, but he’d written the word ‘Niamh’ above it. If he saw it in a vision, like your father said, wouldn’t he have known its real name?”

  Tamriel shrugs, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe Cedikra is the Cirisian name for it. We could ask Firesse or Kaius about it.”

  “Not until you see a healer for your back. I think it has finished bleeding, but I don’t want it to swell. Ask the healer if he has anything that will reduce the inflammation. Nightwing berries will help with the pain.” An elf—Semris—walks past carrying Calum’s crossbow, and Mercy’s expression darkens as she remembers Calum holding his sword to Tamriel’s chest. Her anger sparks anew. “We’ll talk later,” she says over her shoulder, already striding away. “I have to go kick Calum’s ass.”

  17

  Calum

  Calum perches on a boulder just inside the perimeter of the Cirisian camp, trying to ignore the suspicious looks the Cirisians shoot him as they pass. Most do nothing more than sneer at him and mumble something crude in their alien tongue—at this particular moment, he’s very, very glad he doesn’t understand a word of Cirisian—but he jerks back in surprise when a woman with a basket of fruit propped on her hip walks by and spits at his feet.

  “Classy,” he calls after her. She shoots him a rude gesture and ducks into a tent.

  He props his foot on his knee, his fingers drumming along his thigh, and stares up at the lightening sky through the canopy of palm leaves. Unsurprisingly, the guards are still asleep, sporting goose-egg-sized bumps on the backs of their heads where the elves had knocked them out. He supposes he should be grateful that the elf who had taken him hostage hadn’t knocked him out, but instead, it only makes him feel inept. By now, Master Oliver would have woken all the men and chastised them for their lack of attention the evening before. He would have buried that poor dead soldier
in half the time it had taken them. He wouldn’t have left the prince and Mercy alone, assuming they could look out for themselves.

  In his absence, Calum feels like a child playing pretend.

  Their horses are nowhere to be found—left on the other island near the soldier’s outpost, he assumes—but Firesse had had their packs and the contents of their saddlebags returned to Calum early this morning. Almost everything they’d brought is still there, minus their armor, weapons, and a few small trinkets: shining gold buttons from one of Tamriel’s shirts, leather laces and cords from the men’s shoes, and only the shiniest aurums out of the pouch each man carries. Calum shouldn’t be surprised by what they had taken; he had seen from the baubles in Firesse’s tent how strange the Cirisians’ tastes are. He knows from Master Oliver’s reports that they have no system of currency, so he suspects they had taken things simply because they were pretty or useful.

  Calum tears his eyes from the tree line just in time to see Mercy glowering as she stomps toward him, somehow managing to loom despite her small stature. He jumps up when she approaches, holding his hands out in surrender.

  “Before you do anything rash—”

  “You idiot. You absolute ass—” She doesn’t slow as she descends upon him, her face twisted in anger. For a moment, all he can see is the rage in her eyes, and it reminds him of the remorseless, bloodthirsty apprentice he had met so many weeks ago at Kismoro Keep. Whatever softness she had developed over the previous few weeks is gone, replaced with the perfect weapon Mother Illynor had spent seventeen years crafting. She balls the front of his shirt in her fists and pulls him close, their faces an inch apart. “Did you think you’d finally be able to kill him? Did you think I’d let you get away with it?”