Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Calum notes with interest that Mercy is nowhere to be found—probably out with Nynev and the other hunters. If her newfound friendship with the elves bothers Tamriel, he hides it well.

  “The southern side of the island is out of the way for forces coming from Beltharos,” Myris is explaining when Calum approaches, “but the ground is more even and easy to fight on. You don’t have cavalry or cannons, so your foot soldiers would have been able to fight here, up north, but my warriors kept them from wandering too close to the camp. After a while, they learned to give us a wide berth.”

  Firesse steps out of her tent, her hair braided and gleaming. She passes Calum an embroidered bag filled with strips of dried meat, berries, and tubers which look vaguely like potatoes. “Eat. If you must vomit, try to do it outside the camp or you’ll be the one cleaning it up.”

  “Thanks,” Calum grumbles, pouring out a handful of berries. As he eats, he eyes the leather canteen strapped to her belt. “There’d better be nothing but water in there.”

  She holds it out to him. “For you. Try to keep pace.”

  They start out of the camp, immediately trekking up a sloping trail so overgrown with vegetation that Calum would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it. The trail twists and turns back on itself as it skirts large vine-covered rock formations and fallen trees. Calum would’ve thought Firesse was leading them blindly if not for how sure she is about every turn and every patch of uneven ground she directs them to avoid. With such a large group, it’s slow going. In no time at all, Calum is drenched in sweat, scowling as gnats buzz in his face.

  After half an hour, he quickens his pace to match his cousin’s strides, keeping his voice low so only Tamriel can hear. “Do you really trust her not to lead us into some sort of trap?”

  “Firesse wants the soldiers off her land for good. I may not trust her word, but I trust in her desire to keep her people safe. She may be young, but she’s smart enough not to kill us on Cirisian land.”

  “Brave words from the only human here wearing a sword.”

  Tamriel laughs quietly, patting the sword strapped to his hip. “Even so, there are eight of them and six of us. Not great odds, but I doubt any of us are going down without a fight.”

  “Hold on. There are six of us and an entire archipelago of Cirisians who enjoy nothing more than watching humans be ripped limb from limb.” Then, just to see what Tamriel’s response will be, he adds, “Plus, if they kill us, they get to keep Mercy.”

  “Like I said, you’re being overdramatic. And they won’t ‘keep’ Mercy.”

  “Sure, they will. She’s one of them.”

  “She is not one of them—”

  “In their eyes, she is,” Calum insists, noting with interest the hint of fear which had slipped into Tamriel’s voice. “I get it, Tam, really. She saved you, but she also lied to you—you’re conflicted. She’ll fight for you—she’ll fight like hell for you—but if you’re not alive to protect her from the Guild, she’ll stay with people who are.”

  “You’re striking me as exceptionally paranoid today, Calum. Something in the wine?”

  “Don’t change the subject. My point is, you should be wary walking into situations like this. You can’t take everyone at their word, or you’ll end up with a knife in your back the second you take the throne.” Calum doesn’t realize his poor word choice until he sees Tamriel flinch. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . Anyway, I advise you take precaution, especially with the festival in a couple days. Until Firesse lays hundreds of pounds of Cedikra at our feet, we have no idea how trustworthy the Cirisians really are. Just be cautious. You haven’t had the best judgment of late.”

  Tamriel snorts. “Oh, do go on. Tell me exactly how I’ve failed you as a prince.”

  “You let your father bully you into cutting out Hero’s tongue. You trusted Mercy—you fell for her, for the Creator’s sake. Because of you, we were ambushed in the Howling Mountains.” You trusted me, a traitorous voice in his head whispers. “We lost good men in the Rennox attack.”

  Tamriel is quiet for a long time and, at first, Calum isn’t sure whether it’s because of what he’d said or the ground’s sudden sharp incline. They wind around a hill covered with tall palms, the clean scent of the salt water hinting that they’re nearing the shore. Firesse and the fighters are barely winded, but Tamriel and the others are gasping for breath by the time the trail begins to slope downward. Calum feels like he might tip over with a strong breeze, a latent effect of the wine still wreaking havoc on his body.

  “You’re right,” the prince finally admits, his voice soft between puffs of breath. “Mercy makes me weak. She makes me do stupid things and make stupid choices. I know I should hate her, I really do, but I can’t. She betrayed everyone in her life to save mine. She sees my father for the broken man he is and doesn’t shy away from opposing him. It’s more than I’ve ever done, and she had only been in the capital for two weeks. Imagine what she could do with a lifetime,” he says, his lips twisting into a crooked smile. “But more than that, she’s just . . . amazing. She could cleave the world in two if she so desired.”

  Sudden, crushing sorrow pierces Calum. It floods every fiber of his being at the lovesick look on Tamriel’s face. If by some miracle they survive the Cirisian Islands and the Daughters hunting Mercy, they’ll still have to face the nobles. They’ll be lucky if they last a month among the silk-swathed predators, the monsters hiding behind smiles. They’ll brand Mercy a revolutionary like Liselle and tear her apart; they’ll deem the prince a madman like his father for supporting her. They’ll destroy them.

  Ashamed of his thoughts and unable to stand Tamriel’s starry-eyed expression any longer, Calum pretends to stumble, pressing a hand to his forehead where his headache still pounds. “So tell me,” he says as he straightens, “exactly how much of a fool did I make of myself last night?”

  “At one point you tripped and nearly fell face-first into the fire.” Tamriel grins. “You have Mercy to thank for catching you. If she hadn’t been standing right there, half of your face would’ve melted onto the logs.”

  “And then where would I be without my stunning good looks?”

  “So what do you remember?”

  “Bits and pieces.” Calum shudders, remembering wisps of the nightmare he has had nightly since they found that soldier hanging beside the stream. He’d been standing beside the body, listening to the creak of the branch as the corpse had swayed, watching its bloated fingers drag in the dirt. Last night it had been worse: there had been dozens of him. Everywhere Calum had turned, he’d found himself staring into the bloody and bloated face of someone he knows in the capital—guards, noblemen, courtiers. One had worn Elise’s face, and the sight of her dead, bulging eyes had fractured something inside of him. He’d woken to find his cheeks wet with tears and his throat raw from crying. “That stuff is stronger than I’d realized,” he says, fighting to keep his voice light.

  Tamriel chuckles. “Then I am very, very glad I did not partake.”

  A few minutes later, the trail widens and they emerge at the top of a short hill overlooking a battle-scarred valley. Calum scans the area as they slow to a stop. It’s not the best place to fight, but the attacks between Feyndarans and Beltharans are typically small, not full-fledged battles, and it’s much better than the wild, uneven ground near Firesse’s camp. Hills line either side of the valley, the trees and underbrush providing natural cover for tending injured men. Broken arrows stick out of the ground every few feet, feather fletchings torn or missing entirely. Some of the pale gray feathers are stained the dark brown-red of dried blood. In the distance, barely visible between hill peaks, sparkles the blue-green water of the Abraxas Sea.

  “Your men have been fighting and dying here for generations,” Firesse says softly. “Yours and Feyndara’s. All for a war no one will win, over a place whose people do not want you here.”

  “Your men come from the western end,” Myris adds, pointing to the mouth of the
valley, “and Feyndara’s come from there.” She points to the opposite side. “The battles never last long, maybe forty-five minutes. That is why you cannot win—each country is sending small forces hoping the other will finally decide to cut the protracted war short. You’re trying to wait each other out, funneling money and lives into something you cannot possibly win.”

  Beside Calum, Tamriel’s shoulders slump. Everyone knows how ill-advised the war between the two countries is, but each has invested too much time and money to let it go to naught. Calum and Tamriel have seen the figures, listened to the advisors and guard-commanders argue over strategy, but it’s nothing compared to standing in the place where so many people lost their lives for a pointless cause. Calum’s already sour mood plummets, the familiar ache of grief weighing him down.

  They make their way into the valley, Firesse in the lead, and spread out when they reach the center. The guards are uncharacteristically quiet as they follow Tamriel, each only a foot or two away from the prince. They’re unarmed, but Calum appreciates their commitment to the prince’s protection nonetheless.

  Calum wanders toward the mouth of the valley, long grass swaying around him. Every few yards he finds another broken arrow or the dented and bloodstained tip of a longsword. The battlefield is riddled with them. The sunlight reflects off something shiny, and Calum realizes it’s a golden button from a commander’s uniform. He picks it up and slips it into his pocket beside the dead soldier’s patch. A few paces away, a flash of bright white from the middle of a clump of weeds catches his eye. He crouches to examine it and—

  Dear Creator. It’s a hand.

  The bones are bright and sun-bleached, a few of the fingers broken or missing. It had been cut off just above the wrist by a dull blade; the wound is jagged and splintered. Calum scrambles away, a hand over his mouth, as he struggles—and fails—not to retch.

  22

  Calum

  A shadow falls over Calum as he kneels on the ground, throwing up the meager breakfast Firesse had provided. His fingers dig into the soft earth.

  A gentle hand touches his shoulder. “Here.” Firesse holds her canteen out to him, and he accepts, gasping for breath. The water is warm, but it soothes Calum’s aching throat and pounding headache. After a few long gulps, he remembers who had given it to him and sheepishly hands it back, only a few inches of water left inside.

  “Sorry.”

  Firesse pushes it into his hands, shaking her head. “You need to stay hydrated.”

  Calum doesn’t bother to protest. He chugs the last of the water, then slips the canteen’s strap over his shoulder as he stands. “I understand that you don’t like humans, Firesse, but taking us here is cruel. This war isn’t Tamriel’s fault.” He casts another glance at the severed hand and bites his lip, wincing when his teeth graze the tender cut from Mercy’s punch.

  “I know, but he needed to see the damage the fighting has done to this land and his people. It’s not the same as reading names on a list or numbers on a report. Those aren’t people. He must learn to bear the loss of his people as we bear ours—by living it.”

  Calum laughs humorlessly. “His father chases the ghosts of his wife and his mistress every night in the castle. Tamriel is accustomed to loss, I assure you.”

  Firesse fingers one of the blue clay beads in her hair as she scans the valley, her eyes wandering from one Cirisian to the next. “You know, this clan didn’t exist until my parents came here from Xilor. They founded it as a gateway to the rest of the archipelago: runaway slaves could rest here before continuing east to the larger clans. I’m one of the lucky Cirisians,” she says with a wry twist of her lips, “because my parents died of a wasting sickness before I could watch them be butchered by soldiers. The Islands need defending, so that’s what my people and I do. I take the fiercest fighters and channel their anger against humans into something useful. Some clans don’t have fighters at all. Most elves simply want to live freely among their people, yet humans think we’re nothing more than sadistic savages.”

  Calum doesn’t say anything. How could he, when he had thought—thinks—the same? All he’d ever heard growing up had been stories of the brutal, human-murdering elves, no better than feral dogs. Yet as he watches Firesse gaze around the valley, twisting a lock of hair around her finger, he remembers that she is only fourteen years old. She’s strong and fierce, but she’s not much different from the noblemen’s children he knows in the capital. She’s only a child, after all. He wonders if she has ever had the luxury of acting like one.

  “I want to show you something.”

  Firesse starts toward the mouth of the valley, leaving Calum scrambling to catch up. He glances over his shoulder at Tamriel, searching for an excuse not to follow, but finding none; the guards trail dutifully after their prince, their eyes not on the battlefield where their brothers-in-arms died, but on the elven fighters around them. Tamriel is safe—at least for the moment.

  At the edge of the valley, Firesse leads him along the side of a long, low hill until the grass gives way to a jagged cliff face. Partially sheltered by an outcropping of moss-covered stone is a small plain dotted with mounds of soil, each about the length of a man. Each is marked with a smooth gray stone, the Creator’s Holy Eye painted on its face.

  “Graves,” Calum whispers. There aren’t many here, perhaps a few dozen, but he’s glad the men who died here were buried, not left behind to rot under the hot sun.

  Firesse nods. “When my parents formed my clan, they gifted your people this land to bury dead soldiers. It’s not very big, but there are more scattered throughout the hills, Feyndaran and Beltharan alike.” She waves a hand at the grave markers, many of them decorated with lines from the Book of the Creator in flowing script. “I thought you’d like to see this one, though. Most of the men who were buried here were commanders in the king’s army.”

  “Why would you think that? I’m not a commander.”

  “You command the guard all the same,” she says, raising a brow. “You are not one of them, yet you long to be. Do you expect to do this forever? Wanting, waiting, wishing to be given the same respect as the soldiers around you? The respect Master Oliver had? Or do you think if you do as you are told long enough, Ghyslain will wake up one day and realize how truly important you are to Beltharos, how much he has overlooked you over the years?”

  “How do you know that?”

  Firesse waves dismissively. “Guards talk. Is it true?”

  Calum crouches beside one of the graves, pretending to examine the gravestone so she cannot see how true her words rang. “Of course not,” he says, his voice a little too gruff. Coming from a child’s lips, even a child as smart as Firesse, it sounds foolish—mad, even. Before he’d learned the truth of his father’s death, Calum had hungered for the king’s affection. The memory sends a twinge of shame through him. He’s not the child he had once been, sneaking into the king’s private meetings and slipping into the crowd at public gatherings, wishing the king would grace him with the same love in his eyes as when he looked at Tamriel. He had been desperate for attention from the man who’d taken him in and raised him.

  Firesse frowns, disbelief etched on her face. “You could be as great as these men,” she says, gesturing to the graves. “All you have to do is stop waiting. Do something.”

  Calum stands and wanders to the back of the plain, where the graves are so old only the faint outlines of the paint remain on the markers. He had done something, and Tamriel bears the scars to prove it. So far, his scheming has only blown up in his face.

  “You don’t have to be ashamed,” Firesse says, as if reading his mind.

  He whirls on her, quickly crossing the grass. “How do you know so much about me?”

  “I sent an offering to my gods, and they sent me visions of you while I dreamt.” She lifts a hand, moving her fingers through the air as if casting a spell. She intones some strange Cirisian words in a low, melodious voice.

  Calum’s face pales. “Yo
u—”

  “Kidding,” she says, laughing. “It was the wine. However, you seem quite fond of talking about yourself when sober, as well.”

  Calum rolls his eyes, then casts one last glance at the graves behind him. “Let’s go back. Any longer and Tamriel might send out a search party.”

  Something moving behind Firesse catches his eye—someone darting from shadow to shadow in the trees behind her—and he stills. “Did you see that?”

  “What?” Firesse turns, frowning, and peers into the trees. “What did you see?”

  “Someone’s out there. I couldn’t really tell, but I don’t think it’s an elf. Not one of yours, at least.” It had been a man—of that much he’s certain—but he hadn’t seen anything else, no flash of clothing or defining feature. He hadn’t even seen a weapon, but he finds it hard to believe anyone alone in the Islands would be unarmed.

  Firesse’s eyes immediately turn to slits, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

  “Who could it be?” Calum asks.

  She swats the question away. “Feyndarans, Beltharans, or someone from one of the other clans. Take your pick.”

  Calum pushes Firesse behind him, ignoring her eyeroll. He’s unarmed, true, but she’s only a child.

  “How noble of you to put your life on the line for a little knife-ear,” a condescending voice whispers in his ear, and Calum freezes, his blood turning to ice-water. He has heard his father’s goading voice before—warped from the memories Calum has of his early childhood, before Drake had been killed by one of Illynor’s Daughters—but this hadn’t been a product of Calum’s imagination. The voice had been beside him.

  Father? he thinks, unwilling to let the word slip through his lips.