Soon, the gurgling of a stream sounds ahead, and Tamriel lets out a sigh of relief when he catches a glimpse of the water through the trees. He and the guards veer right and collapse beside the bank, drinking, slurping so quickly half of the water spills down the fronts of their shirts.
Tamriel stands, looking right, then left. “Let’s go,” he says between pants, nodding upstream. “I think I hear a waterfall. They might be there.”
In seconds, they’re on their feet, at the ready, following Tamriel along the tantalizingly clear stream. As they run, the rumbling of the waterfall grows until it’s right ahead of them, right beyond those trees and—
Tamriel’s foot catches in a tangle of undergrowth and he goes sprawling in the dirt, biting down hard on his tongue. Akiva scoops him up and sets him on his feet while Maceo skids to a stop. Then the three of them look up and freeze.
Mercy stands beside a clear blue pool, soaking wet, the waterfall tumbling down a sheer cliff face behind her. She holds a small knife straight out in front of her.
And she’s completely naked.
“W-W-We just— We— We, um—”
Tamriel clamps his mouth shut, his face flushing bright red. Something has disconnected between his brain and the rest of his body, and all he can do is stare.
And gawk.
And gape.
The most he’d ever seen of her body was when she’d worn her sheer Solari gown to the castle celebration, but most of her skin had been covered by the gold long-sleeved leotard underneath and the folds of the dress’s long skirt. Now, he realizes why she had seemed so uncomfortable in it, why she had always worn heavy dresses or long-sleeved tunics and pants despite Sandori’s intense summer heat:
Her skin is covered in scars.
Big and little, deep and shallow, straight and precise and crooked and puckered, intersecting each other like a map of every fight she’s ever had. Some are old, no more than faint lines across her torso and abdomen. Others are newer, deeper, painful to look at and no doubt painful to bear. They make the cut on his back look like a papercut. Her arms bear most of the scars, and the rest trail down her chest, stomach, and legs. His gaze lands on the long gash on the inside of her forearm and her voice comes back to him on a memory, harsh and cold. When I was nine, our tutor cut gashes into our arms and forced us to sew ourselves up.
And the last barrier he’d been holding up between them crumbles to dust.
She saved my life. She gave up everything for me. She endured this . . . this torture at the hands of the women who raised her. How can I punish her for becoming exactly what they had trained her to become?
It’s not because of the scars or what she’d told him of her hellish life in the Guild. It’s because of the what she does right now. She doesn’t turn away or try to cover herself. She doesn’t shriek or yell at him—she doesn’t even blush. She simply stands there, knife held out in front of her, and watches him watch her.
“Watch the perimeter,” Tamriel says to the guards without looking back. When their footsteps fade into the distance, he sucks in a breath and whispers, “You’re so beautiful.”
24
Mercy
“You’re so beautiful.”
Somehow the knife is tugged out of Mercy’s hands, tossed aside, and then Tamriel is smiling down at her, running his fingers up and down the ridges of her arms. The prince touches her hair, lets the ink-black strands—wet from washing in the pool—slip through his fingers, then lightly traces the point of her ear with his thumb.
“Mercy,” Tamriel whispers, cupping her cheek with a gentle hand. Then he says it again—You’re so beautiful.
When she meets his gaze, the intensity in his dark eyes takes her breath away. He doesn’t look at her like the Guild’s apprentices had when they trekked down to the river to swim or like Alyss had when she had scrubbed every last trace of the plague from Mercy’s skin: with scorn and disgust at the ropy, pale scars which mar her body. He looks at her like he truly believes she’s beautiful.
He reaches out and traces the crooked scar on the inside of her elbow, the one which makes it hard to straighten her arm all the way. His smile fades. “The Daughters of the Guild did this to you.”
It’s not a question, but Mercy nods anyway.
“Then how can I leave you to face them alone?”
Mercy sucks in a breath. “Does that mean you don’t hate me? You won’t send me away?”
“Yes.” Tamriel places his fingers under her chin and draws her close, until they’re forehead-to-forehead. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “I choose you, Mercy, just like you chose me. Now and always. To hell with what the guards or the nobles think.”
She lifts onto her toes and, when their mouths are a mere inch apart, she whispers, “I love you.”
When their lips meet, Tamriel’s arms slip around her waist, his hands warm on her wet skin. She shivers as his fingertips trail down her spine, his mouth moving firmly against hers, his teeth grazing her lower lip. She laughs, twining her fingers in his hair as he pulls away to press a line of kisses along her jaw and down her neck.
“Tamriel,” she murmurs. All she can feel are his lips on her skin, the desire burning within her, her toes curling in delight in the soft ground.
“Mmhmm,” he mumbles, pressing kisses along her collarbone. His lips continue down, down, down, over the small swell of her breast and along the jagged pink scar on the side of her ribcage, sending sparks of electricity through her body. When she can’t stand it any longer, Mercy curls her fists into his shirt and pulls him back to her, meeting his mouth so eagerly that their teeth knock together.
Tamriel stumbles back a step, a hand going to his mouth. “Ow,” he says, laughing.
Mercy smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” Tamriel folds her into an embrace, her head tucked into the hollow between his shoulder and his neck. All she can think about is him, all she can smell is him, all she can hear are his breaths and the rapid beating of his heart. His voice trembles a little when he murmurs, “By the Creator, I’m not.”
They stand in each other’s embrace for a few minutes, listening to the rumble of the waterfall and the soft sounds of the other’s breathing, until the flush leaves Mercy’s skin and she begins to shiver. She doesn’t ever want this moment to end, but Nynev won’t be gone much longer. The huntress had left Mercy to wash while she went out to find more prey, and Mercy had only been in the pool a few minutes before she’d heard the rustling in the underbrush by the stream. She’d just barely had time to wade out and grab the small knife she’d stolen from the butchers’ tent before Tamriel and his guards had come barreling into the clearing.
Before Tamriel had said those words—
When they reluctantly part, Mercy dresses quickly while Tamriel leaves to find the guards. She picks up the animals she and Nynev had already taken down—three hares and a pheasant—and wanders over to where the prince had disappeared around the bend.
“Tamriel?”
Suddenly he’s there, stepping out from between two impossibly tall palms, grinning at her. Akiva and Maceo stand behind him. Maceo’s face is still red with embarrassment; Akiva looks everywhere but at her.
“Why did you come here?”
“Hm?” Tamriel asks, still a bit dazed. Maceo murmurs something under his breath and Tamriel instantly transforms back into the prince, casting a long, cautious look around. “We need to get back to camp. Where is Nynev?”
“Checking snares that way,” Mercy says, waving a hand to the side. “What’s the problem?”
“There may be someone out here waiting to attack. We’re not sure if it’s a Feyndaran, a Cirisian, or a Daughter, but whoever it was practically scared Calum into a coma. Firesse too.”
“I haven’t seen anyone, but we should still find Nynev and return to camp. Follow me, the snares are over here.” Mercy starts walking, but Tamriel snags her arm before she can go more than a few steps.
&n
bsp; “Wait,” he says, and nods to Akiva. The guard unbuckles his belt and hands it to Mercy, one long dagger resting in the sheath. “It’s not as grand as the ones you had, but it’s better protection than that little kitchen knife. When we return to the capital, you’ll have full access to the armory. Whatever weapon you desire, you can have—and if we don’t have what you want, we’ll have it custom-made by the finest weaponsmiths in the country.”
“Thank you.” At that moment, Mercy’s heart swells more than if he had showered her with flowers, chocolates, and jewelry. She secures the belt around her hips and pulls the dagger from its sheath, admiring the way the sunlight glints off the cold steel. “Let’s go find Nynev.”
Nynev is perfectly fine when they reach the series of snares Mercy had helped her set earlier that morning, and she hadn’t seen anyone lurking around the forest. It’s not surprising, given how large the island is, but they all know it’s best to be cautious. Nynev grumbles about not having found any large game and having to cut her hunt short, but she agrees to return to the camp without a single genuine argument.
Tamriel scans the trees, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sunlight. He walks beside Mercy with a hand on the grip of his sword, the other pressed to the small of her back, urging her forward whenever she slows. When she glances over at him, his eyes meet hers, clouded with worry.
She reaches for his hand and twines her fingers in his. “We’ll be fine,” she murmurs.
“I hope so. You should have seen Calum today . . . I’ve never seen him so terrified. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.”
He says it jokingly, but Mercy squeezes his hand, brows raised in surprise. “You don’t think he saw . . .?”
“Liselle? No. She’s never appeared to him before, so why would she start now? It couldn’t have been a wraith, either. He was nowhere near the water,” he says with a troubled frown. “Ialathan is the day after tomorrow. Make it through that, and we’ll be home in no time.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
Tamriel chuckles darkly. “At least in Sandori we know who our enemies are.”
Mercy’s thoughts drift back to the night they left the capital, when Ghyslain had taken Tamriel into the throne room to speak in private, trying to convince his son not to leave. “What did your father tell you the night we left?”
The prince is quiet for a moment, then he says softly, “He tried to explain himself, but I refused to listen.” His expression hardens, and Mercy lets the subject drop.
The five of them walk in silence for a few minutes, until Mercy finally blurts, “My parents are still alive.”
Tamriel looks at her sharply, surprise etched across his face. “Your parents? How do you know?”
“Firesse told me. Apparently, they came here years ago, but left to join another clan.”
“I know you don’t want anything to do with them, but . . . maybe you should talk to them. See if you can find them at Ialathan.” When she opens her mouth to object, he continues, “I’ve lived with one parent all my life. I would give anything to know my mother, but all I’ll ever have is what I piece together from the stories people tell about her, what they write in the history books. You have two parents out here somewhere. You shouldn’t just throw away the chance to get to know them.”
“I think you’re forgetting the part where they bartered my life for theirs.”
“I’ll never forget that,” he says, a protective edge slipping into his tone, “but maybe that’s not the whole story.”
“I’m beginning to regret telling you about them.”
He smiles, nuzzling his face in her neck. “Too bad. You’re going to have to put up with listening to my advice once in a while.”
They continue through the forest until the camp appears before them, campfires burning brightly even though it’s only early evening, the sun still shining overhead. Nynev runs to the butchering tent with the animals they’d hunted, while Tamriel, Mercy, and the guards continue toward the tents they share. Calum stumbles out before they reach it, a crazed look in his eyes.
“We need to leave. Now.”
25
Mercy
“What are you talking about? Calum!” Mercy objects as Calum steps behind her and Tamriel and pushes them into one of the tents.
“Stay there. Don’t come inside,” he calls to Akiva and Maceo, who exchange confused looks. “Silas and Clyde are over there”—he points somewhere across camp—“go talk to them.” He pulls the tent flap shut behind him, running his hands down his shirt like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He turns to Tamriel. “I saw him again.”
The blood drains from the prince’s face. “Saw—? Where?”
“Here. Well, in here, I think.” Calum points to his head. Then he drops to the ground, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’m going insane. I must be. It must’ve been that drink Firesse gave me—it’s making me see things.”
“Slow down.” Tamriel kneels beside Calum. “Who did you see? The man in the valley?”
Calum nods. “My father. Drake.”
His father? Mercy frowns. “But Tamriel said you weren’t anywhere close to the water when you saw . . . whoever you saw.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Maybe he is going insane,” she mutters.
Tamriel scowls at her and mouths, You’re not helping.
She shrugs.
“Okay,” Tamriel says, prying Calum’s hands away from his face. “Talk us through everything that happened. Firesse was with you, but she didn’t see anything, right?”
He shakes his head. “She was facing the other way. I saw someone moving in the trees and something just felt off. Like I recognized him. Then he moved again and I knew: it was Drake.” He holds up a hand. “Don’t ask me to explain how. I don’t have a damn clue how any of this works.
“Anyway, I followed him because, well, what else could I do? Firesse ran after me, but Drake kept calling me forward, farther and farther, and then he—” He clamps his mouth shut, his face turning slightly green.
Mercy narrows her eyes. “He what?”
“He somehow got . . . inside me.”
“Inside you?” she says skeptically, arching a brow.
Calum’s head bobs up and down. “That’s the only way I can explain it. At first, I could hear him like he was talking to me, but after I followed him, his voice was in my head. And there was this feeling like . . . like he was digging through my memories, like I was disconnected from myself. When Firesse finally caught up to me, when she touched me, th-this black rage just swept over me . . .” He sucks in a breath, then meets Mercy’s gaze and mumbles, “He really hated elves.”
Tamriel sits back on his heels, absorbing everything. Mercy can’t read the expression on his face. For once, the prince is completely at a loss for words.
“You said you saw him again, just now?” Mercy asks, still skeptical but growing more uneasy by the second.
Calum nods. “I was asleep. It was like he was walking around me, whispering in my ear, but I couldn’t decipher the words no matter how hard I concentrated. They all sort of blurred together. By the time I’d fully woken up, he was gone.”
Mercy paces across the tent. It’s only a few feet wide, so it doesn’t do much in the way of soothing her nerves, but at least it’s something to do. She turns back. If Calum is right, if Drake is somehow here . . . “We should leave.”
“What?” Tamriel asks.
“Exactly,” Calum says at the same time.
“Back to Sandori. Find some other way to cure the plague.” As she speaks, she knows Tamriel will never agree, but it’s worth a shot. “Firesse can send the Cedikra to the capital after Ialathan.”
“We can’t stay here,” Calum agrees, nodding to Tamriel. “Half of Firesse’s clan is ready to use you and me as target practice, and the other half wouldn’t bother to stop them if they tried.”
“We’re not leaving until we have the Cedikra. I’m not lett
ing more of my people die. And Mercy, will you stop pacing?”
She stops, crossing her arms. “There has to be another way. They’ll have to ship the Cedikra, take the chance of having to defend themselves on the road. There are other soldier outposts throughout the archipelago, right? What if you have the guards escort the Cirisians to the capital?”
“You think they’d last a week without killing each other?”
“We’ve survived this long.”
“We’ve been here three days,” Tamriel says, exasperated. Then his eyes light up with an idea. “But you two could go back to Sandori. You’ll leave tomorrow morning, when you’ll have plenty of daylight, and Silas and Clyde will accompany you. I’ll stay here with Firesse’s clan, with Akiva and Maceo to guard me, and we’ll arrive in Sandori a few days after you, with Cedikra in tow.”
“No.”
“Not a chance,” Calum says. “You think we’re leaving you here on your own?”
Tamriel lets out a frustrated breath. “I don’t need you two watching over me all the time, you know.”
“Too bad. You don’t have to like it, but I’m staying with you,” Mercy says. “Now and always.”
Calum agrees.
The three of them lock glares for a long, charged moment, until Tamriel finally relents. “I’m your prince,” he says dejectedly, “I could order you to leave.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 61
