Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Calum snorts. “You think we’d listen?”

  “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance to go back early. And I expect to be told the second something like this happens again, understood?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Calum says.

  Tamriel stands and moves to the opening of the tent, peering out into the camp. “When I’m king, you’ll have to listen to my orders,” he grumbles.

  “Then I’ll pray your coronation doesn’t come for a long time,” Calum responds as he stands. “I’m starving, and I smell food cooking. Coming?”

  “We’ll be right behind you,” Mercy answers for Tamriel. “Remember to stay away from the wine.”

  He makes a rude gesture and backs out of the tent.

  “Must you two always bicker—” Tamriel begins, but Mercy cuts him off with a kiss.

  “Yes,” she responds when she pulls back. “We must.”

  He sighs, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “I suppose I just hoped when you finally agreed on something, it wouldn’t be this.”

  “I’m full of surprises.”

  “Yes, you are.” Tamriel smiles. His free hand moves to her arm, his fingers tracing her scars through her sleeve. Then he stops. “There isn’t anything else I should know about your family, is there?”

  Only that Calum and I are half-siblings, she thinks, but he’s had enough revelations for today. That truth doesn’t change anything. “No.”

  Mercy and Tamriel don’t speak much that night, too emotionally drained from the day’s events to do much more than lounge around one of the fires and eat whatever food the Cirisians push into their hands. Calum sits beside the guards at the neighboring fire, casting wary glances every few minutes at the shadows hanging under the trees. Each time he does, Tamriel tenses, and Mercy leans into him until he relaxes once more. He doesn’t smile much, but she can tell he appreciates having her near.

  As the fires dim to embers, they bid each other good-night and retire to their tents—Maceo, Clyde, and Mercy to one, Tamriel, Calum, Akiva, and Silas to the other. Mercy stretches out on her bedroll and falls asleep almost immediately, the memory of standing beside the waterfall with Tamriel and the words You’re so beautiful replaying through her mind.

  Kaius wakes them at dawn and instructs them to pack all their belongings for Ialathan; they’ll be crossing to the next island with Firesse and the rest of the tribe. Myris and her fighters will remain here to protect the elders too frail for the journey in case the king sends another contingent of soldiers.

  “Aren’t you worried about whoever Calum saw in the forest yesterday?” Clyde asks the hunter, still ignorant of the true identity of the man Calum had seen by the battlefield.

  “If he’s still here—which is unlikely—Myris and her fighters will defend the camp. Should we encounter anyone dangerous on our journey, my hunters and I are more than enough to ensure our safe passage,” Kaius says. “Now that you have your weapons back, you are, too.”

  He leaves after barking one more order to pack. Mercy straps on the belt with her new dagger, rolls up her bedroll, then stands in the middle of the tent, staring down at her meager belongings—a few pieces of clothing and some coins. The guards finish gathering their things shortly after, and they all step outside to see half the camp already out and about, tearing down tents and gathering supplies. Calum and Tamriel stand beside Firesse, who simultaneously calls out commands in Cirisian and plays with the young children awakened by the commotion. When a battered and mud-stained cloth ball rolls across the dirt and stops at his feet, Tamriel bends down and picks it up, offering it to the nearest elven girl with a smile. She hesitates . . . then darts forward and snatches it out of his outstretched hand, grinning. He laughs.

  While Tamriel is distracted watching the children, Mercy stops beside Calum. “No sign of him recently?”

  “Drake? No, nothing. Thank the Creator.”

  “Good.”

  They watch the elves buzz around camp. Myris and her fighters strap on their weapons for their first patrol of the day, while the rest of the tribe ready their packs, carrying only what they will need for Ialathan and the trek back.

  Calum finally breaks the silence. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed whatever has changed between the two of you,” he murmurs under his breath, nodding to Tamriel. “I hope you know that if you hurt him, I’ll be forced to kick your ass.”

  “You know I won’t hurt him.” Mercy laughs. “Even if I did, you couldn’t kick my ass if you tried.”

  They leave the camp an hour later, walking in a long line behind Firesse. Kaius takes up the rear with a cautious hand on his bow, scanning the trees for the mysterious intruder. Anyone without a weapon carries either a pack or a child. The children who are old enough to walk on their own carry the folded, sun-bleached tents, giggling when one of them trips and spills the white canvas in the dirt. Semris half-heartedly chastises the boy. He seems too excited about Ialathan to put much bite behind the reprimand.

  Mercy, Tamriel, Calum, and the guards walk in the middle of the group, carrying their few belongings and packs full of presents for the Firsts of the other clans—jewelry, clothing, weapons, bits and baubles seized from the soldiers’ outpost and the battlefield. With Mercy, Tamriel, and Calum bestowing the gifts, the other Firsts will be more welcoming of the humans into their celebration, according to Firesse. Calum had joked behind her back that she’d made all that up simply to force them to carry everything. Mercy begrudgingly admits that it’s good to see Calum’s sense of humor returning. She wants him to revert to his usual self, the smart-mouthed, charming young man he’d been at Kismoro Keep, not the terrified boy she had come to pity.

  It makes it so much harder to hate him.

  When they reach the eastern border of the island, a half-dozen wooden canoes wait for them on the shore. Beyond them, the next island sits across the water, a mess of tall trees and hanging vines and exposed roots. Halfway across the beach, gaping at them like an open mouth, the vegetation has been cut away to form a trail to what Mercy assumes is the heart of the island, where Ialathan will be held tonight.

  Tamriel sits beside Mercy in the canoe, gripping her hand tightly. His expression is a mix of eagerness and caution, anxiousness and curiosity. His foot taps on the bottom of the canoe until one of the Cirisians shoots him an annoyed look. He stills.

  When their canoe strikes the sandy shore of the next island, Tamriel’s eyes meet Mercy’s, bright with hope. He mouths, So close, and grins.

  Firesse leads them along the trail at a quick pace. The ground here is mostly dirt, the grass worn away by use, and the trail is nearly as wide as a road. They walk for a few hours under the hot sun, stopping once in a while to pass around canteens of water, dried fruits, and strips of meat. Then they trek some more, until the forest falls away and they emerge into a huge valley, white canvas tents dotting the landscape. Everywhere Mercy looks, there are elves—tall, short, young, old. They cluster together and talk or sing songs in their ancient language, greeting each other with hugs and cries of joy. Based on the patterns of their tattoos, there must be four or five different clans gathered here, hundreds of elves milling about in celebration. In the center of the valley, surrounded by concentric circles of tents, a huge bonfire crackles, the flames turning shades of blue, pink, and red as an old woman feeds it strange herbs.

  The children of Firesse’s clan let out whoops and cries of excitement as they swarm the valley. Mercy, Tamriel, and Calum stop on the edge of the trail, identical expressions of awe on their faces. Calum recovers first, saying, “There must be three hundred elves here.”

  “Four hundred,” one of the Cirisians corrects. “Not including our tribe.”

  Firesse turns around and grins, spreading her hands out to the valley. “Welcome to Ialathan.”

  26

  Tamriel

  While Firesse, Kaius, and the rest of the elves wander into the valley, Tamriel catches Calum’s sleeve, gesturing for Mercy and the guards
to continue. As soon as they’re out of earshot, he turns to Calum and blurts, “I’ve been thinking about what will happen once we return. After we’ve cured the plague, I mean. I want you to take up the position of Master of the Guard.”

  Calum’s eyes go wide. “But Master Oliver—”

  “—is dead, and it’s my fault, I know. I can’t pretend it isn’t or I’ll end up like my father—and I will never become my father. I won’t cling to ghosts of people I love.” He steps closer to his cousin, willing him to see how sincere he is, how serious he is. “My father robbed you of your family, but you were able to do something I never was: you crafted your own. These men are your family”—he nods toward the guards descending into the valley—“and I admire you for not letting my father destroy that—for not letting him destroy you.

  “I cannot think of anyone more fit to become Master of the Guard. Help me dethrone my father when we return to Sandori, and the position is yours.”

  Calum appears—for possibly the first time in his life—speechless. Since the Rennox attack, Tamriel had been trying to push away the grief Master Oliver’s death had left in his heart, trying to deny the knowledge that it was all his fault. Now, with Ialathan looming before him, the prospect of finding the Cedikra and completing their mission hanging like a ripe fruit just out of reach, he cannot deny it any longer. Calum deserves this. He deserves every bit of honor Ghyslain has denied him.

  “Th-Thank you,” he stutters, visibly stunned. “But—”

  “You’ll be given an office in the castle and an estate within the city where your family will live comfortably. I predict Elise will have no qualms with marrying the most senior officer of the Beltharan military.” Tamriel grins when Calum chokes.

  “How—how do you know about Elise?”

  “Please. I’ve known her almost as long as I’ve known you. I’d have to be a complete and utter moron not to see there’s something beyond friendship between you two. Once you’re Master of the Guard, you’ll be able to station him far outside of Beggars’ End. When we return, I’ll have Master Oliver’s office cleared out so you can—”

  “No!” he interrupts, snapping out of his shock. “I’ll do it. I’ll clean it out.”

  Tamriel beams. “So you accept?”

  “I accept.”

  “Then giving you the position will be my first deed as king.” He gestures to the valley before them. “Lead on, Master Calum.”

  Calum shoots him a grin which doesn’t quite meet his eyes, his grief and guilt over this promotion practically palpable. Still, he straightens as he starts toward the valley, his head held high with pride.

  Tamriel trails after his cousin with a crooked half-smile. As they near the bottom of the valley, he glances up at the moon, peeking out of the pale blue, mid-afternoon sky, imagining Master Oliver peering down at them from the Beyond. I don’t know if I can ever make right what I did to you, he thinks, but maybe, with this, I can try.

  The soft sounds of Cirisian swell and flow like music around Tamriel as he helps two elves set up a tent in the middle of the valley, in an open patch of ground Firesse had claimed for her tribe. Mercy, Calum, and the guards work with some of her clansmembers to set up their First’s massive, ornately decorated tent, twice as large as her tent back home. The pure white canvas glows a pale orange in the light of the bonfire, which burns even brighter now that night has begun to fall. Embroidered around the entrance is a pattern of coiling green vines, identical to the tattoos which distinguish Firesse’s clan from the rest. Four more massive tents stand out across the valley: those of the other Firsts.

  Throughout the hour Tamriel and the others set up everything for the celebration, elves from the other clans wander over and greet Firesse and her people. Kaius introduces them one by one to Tamriel, Mercy, and Calum, and although mistrust and caution shine in the Cirisians’ eyes, those who speak the common tongue politely welcome them to Ialathan. Tamriel tries to remember all their names, but they’re so different from Beltharan names that half of them don’t sound real: Lydris, Hycanthin, Ijitum, and Quidris among some of the most outlandish.

  When the sun dips below the horizon, a steady drum beat begins to pulse from one of the First’s tents—Lysander’s. Then Amyris’s follows. Then Firesse’s, Ivani’s, and Odomyr’s. It echoes through the valley, sure and persistent, growing as the elves begin stomping their feet to the rhythm. The beat is palpable, vibrating the air, pounding through the earth, a living being. It twines among each body, linking them together, their hearts pumping in time to every pulse. Tamriel spots Mercy by Firesse’s tent, her face slack with awe. Calum is standing beside him, watching the elves stomp their feet to the rhythm.

  Suddenly, every single elf—all four-hundred-and-something of them—rush straight for the bonfire in the center of the camp. Their footsteps and whoops of excitement nearly drown out the drum beat. Tamriel watches in horror as the elves reach the center of camp and nearly run straight into the fire. At the last second, they turn and circle the bonfire as one, a swell of bodies, a flash of faces illuminated with firelight, contorted in pure exhilaration. The flames dancing in the sky twist and turn in the whirlwind created by so many bodies, the colored smoke temporarily blotting out the stars.

  Then the beat changes into something more like music, rising then falling, swelling then softening, and the elves break apart. They shift to an undulating dance, the children laughing when their feet tangle and they fall. The adults hardly miss a step, as if the dance is ingrained in their blood.

  “It’s . . .” Calum begins, blinking, at a loss for words again.

  “Beautiful,” Tamriel finishes. As strange as it is—so different from Beltharan celebrations—the way the elves move as one, their peals of laughter spilling over the valley, is beautiful.

  Tamriel and the others linger on the outskirts of the celebration, outsiders watching a sacred ceremony. Slowly, the drum beat stops and the elves finish their dance, swirling in a big circle around the fire one final time. Firesse and the other Firsts step out of their tents, their drumming—the signal of the start of the celebration—finished. To fill the silence, a few elders pick up wooden flutes and a strange instrument which looks like a cross between a lute and a harp, jumping straight into a flowing, soulful melody. Tamriel finds himself smiling.

  How can Father allow this culture to be destroyed? he thinks incredulously. How can he be so willing to obliterate these lives?

  As he watches Firesse and Mercy converse a few yards away, then disappear into Firesse’s tent, he knows that he will never become a king like his father. He will never bow to the whims of the nobles simply because it’s easy, because it’s easier than standing up to them. He won’t let the ghosts of his past rule his future.

  “I’ve decided on my second deed as king.”

  “Hm?” Calum asks, distracted by a group of elven children running past, their faces painted in bright pinks and yellows. “What’s that?”

  Tamriel glances at the guards surrounding him, then lowers his voice so it’s barely audible over the music and shouts of the revelers. “I’m going to send a messenger to Feyndara offering the terms of our peace treaty.”

  “Our what?”

  “And then I’m going to abolish slavery.” A sliver of fear shoots through Tamriel when he says it. He has spent so long hiding his sympathy for the elves, it goes against every instinct his father has instilled in him to admit his plans.

  He tenses when Calum opens his mouth, steeling himself for his cousin’s argument, but Calum seems to think better of whatever he had been about to say. He presses his lips into a tight line and nods. “If that’s what you wish to do, I’ll support you every step of the way.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  Calum lets out a sharp laugh. He throws an arm around Tamriel’s shoulders and squeezes. “No, it damn well won’t be. But that’s not going to stop us, is it?”

  Tamriel beams, shocked by Calum’s agreement. A rush of love for his cousin
fills him and he laughs. When a group of elves rush by, he muses, “So these are the savage Cirisians we’ve heard so many stories about. Do you ever think it’s a miracle we’ve survived this long in the Islands?”

  “Every day.” Calum squeezes Tamriel’s shoulders again. Behind him, Mercy emerges from Firesse’s tent. Tamriel’s jaw drops when he sees her.

  She must have asked Firesse for new clothes; she’s dressed in a cropped top made of hundreds and hundreds of knotted strips of fabric, strands of every color of the rainbow. A pair of brown trousers hangs low on her hips, cinched with her belt, her dagger sheathed at her hip. All the scars on her arms are on full display, the puckered skin shiny in the light of the bonfire. Her hair is still—will always be—a wild mess of curls, but the strands around her face have been braided and pulled back so her pointed ears are completely visible. She had been beautiful at the pool earlier, but now she’s downright gorgeous—strong and fierce and wild.

  She notices Tamriel gawking at her and winks.

  Calum gives him a little shove. “Go on, you lovesick fool.”

  Tamriel crosses the camp and takes Mercy’s hand. “You look incredible.”

  “I figured it was time I had some clean clothes,” she responds, grinning.

  “They suit you.”

  At Mercy’s side, Firesse beams. “I’ll leave you two to talk—Calum looks a little lonely over there with just the guards to keep him company. We still have to exchange gifts with the other Firsts, so don’t wander too far.”

  “Of course not,” Mercy says. “Vareisa, Firesse.”

  “Vareisa.” Firesse offers them a little bow and strides away.

  “You really do look amazing,” Tamriel says. He loops one of her curls around his finger and tugs gently. “Is this another one of Firesse’s tricks to convince you to stay?”