“Don’t move,” Firesse murmurs, and gently peels away the last of the bandages. The sleeve of Master Oliver’s uniform is tattered, offering a glimpse of shredded skin and muscle through the blood-crusted fabric. A foul odor rises from the wound. She presses a hand to Master Oliver’s forehead and lets out an oath. “He’s running a dangerous fever. The wound is infected, but only recently; the corruption hasn’t had time to spread to the rest of his body.” She pokes at the wound, a hole the size of her fist gaping in Master Oliver’s shoulder. “I’m amazed he was able to survive for so long.”
“I’m hurt, I’m not deaf,” Oliver mutters through clenched teeth. “I’m well aware how miraculous this all seems, but for the Creator’s sake, find me a damn healer.”
She nods and touches Mercy’s arm lightly. “Accompany me, won’t you? It’s awfully crowded in here.” She nods to Tamriel, Calum, and the guards, all of whom are still gaping at Master Oliver. Honestly, they would probably have been less shocked if the Creator himself had strolled into Ialathan. “I think it best we leave the men to their happy reunion.”
28
Calum
Fifteen minutes later, Calum paces outside Firesse’s tent, rubbing the back of his neck in agitation while the healer works on Master Oliver’s arm. The second Firesse and Mercy had returned, the healer had dismissed everyone from the room, only allowing Mercy and Tamriel to remain to assist and glean what information they can about Oliver’s miraculous survival. He’d claimed Calum and the guards would do nothing more than get in his way—and he’d been right, of course—but it had still taken all of Calum’s willpower not to argue when the healer had kicked them out.
Firesse slips out of her tent after her fourth checkup on Master Oliver—all of them at Calum’s request—and offers him a weary smile. “Quidris just applied a healing salve which should cleanse the wound of corruption. Gods be good, he may recover from this.”
He sags in relief. “Thank you for your help, Firesse.”
“De renna. It is nothing.” She eyes the guards, sitting in a circle talking a few yards away, then edges closer to Calum. “What do you think of Master Oliver’s return?”
“It’s a miracle he survived the attack—”
“But?”
He frowns at her, puzzled. “But what?”
“You know that means you won’t become Master of the Guard when you return to Sandori. You look surprised. Do you really think I don’t have eyes and ears all over these islands? Do I know about the prince’s offer because I have people listening to your every word, or because your guards like to talk?” She dismisses the questions with a wave of her hand. “No matter. What does matter is when you return to the capital, you won’t have a title or land of your own. You won’t be free to marry your love. Everything will return to the way it was before, and you’ll be right back where you were before your business with the Guild began—a commoner, the prince’s lowborn cousin. Isn’t that what you were thinking?”
“No!” Calum objects, horrified. “Not at all! Master Oliver nearly died!”
“But he didn’t. He survived with the help of the elf. She was supposed to be our savior, but when she came back, she chose the wrong side. She chose family over duty.” Across the valley, someone throws a handful of herbs into the bonfire, the flames bursting into a column as tall as the trees covering the hills. When the reddish-pink light illuminates Firesse’s face, she scowls, something cruel and dark flickering in her eyes.
“The elf? You mean Mercy?”
“Not Mercy. Liselle. She was supposed to change the world, give elves better lives in Beltharos, but she got herself killed before she could finish. And now that she’s back from the Beyond, she chose blood over us.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Calum glances nervously at the tents around them, then over his shoulder at the guards. Why is Firesse acting so strange? What does she mean, ‘back from the Beyond?’ He takes a step back, raising his hands in front of him. “Look, Firesse, I have no idea what any of that means. Let’s just . . . make it through tonight. Tomorrow morning—bright and early—we’ll take the Cedikra and go home. We’ll be hundreds of miles away before you know it.”
Firesse smiles, but there’s nothing kind about it. “No, Calum. Liselle chose blood, so I’ll answer her with blood.” She murmurs something under her breath, a word gruffer and more guttural than Cirisian.
“What—?” Calum begins, but he stops when she raises her hands and twirls them through the air as if casting a spell.
“Don’t you want to know how your father came back from the dead?”
She repeats the word, louder this time, and he recognizes the movement of her hands as the same one she had done in the graveyard yesterday, right before—
Shit.
He turns to bolt and makes it two steps before the familiar feeling of ice-water rushes over him, unfurling as it creeps down his spine, sending little tendrils poking and prodding through his mind. He stumbles to a stop, gaping at his feet in horror as they plant themselves on the ground against his will.
Miss me? his father whispers in his mind.
Shit, shit, shit!
Firesse steps in front of him, narrowing her eyes like he’s a specimen for her examination. Terror floods through Calum, pouring off him in waves. His heart begins to race when her lips curl into a knowing smile. “Liselle chose not to help us. She chose to turn her back on Myrbellanar in his hour of need. Let’s see if your father is any better at following commands.”
“Why—” Calum gasps, struggling to force the words through lips which do not want to obey. “Why would you . . . want—”
“You’ll understand why soon enough, my puppet. For now . . .” She moves to his side and lifts onto her tiptoes until her mouth is an inch from his ear. “You see Odomyr over there, right beside the bonfire?”
He scans the sea of elves until he spots the First’s balding head in the crowd. He swallows painfully and nods.
“Kill him,” she whispers, and presses a wicked little blade into his hand.
What?! Calum’s heart shoots into his throat as he starts toward Odomyr, his feet moving of their own accord. The ice flooding his veins becomes colder, agony flashing through him with every pump of his heart. Calum is a slave inside his own body as he weaves between tents and around dancers. He wants to scream, wants to yell at Tamriel and Mercy to run as far as they can, as quickly as they can, but his mouth doesn’t move. Instead, he makes his way calmly through the camp, his face betraying no emotion. None of the elves he passes notice the terror in his eyes.
Don’t be afraid, my son, Drake says, his laughter rumbling inside Calum’s mind. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Your time to avenge me will soon come. In the meantime, embrace the chaos we’re about to unleash.
Get out! Get out of me! I don’t want to— Calum shoots back, but his father shoves his panicked thoughts away.
Sure, you do. If you didn’t, you’d be a coward, and I didn’t rape that knife-ear to make me a coward son.
You’re a monster. How could I have ever felt any pity for you?
Quite easily, it seems.
You’re disgusting.
I’m a part of you, like you are a part of me. It’s always been us against everyone else, always us working to make our family name strong. After we kill that elf and the boy-prince, the throne will be yours for the taking. It’ll be easy. Ghyslain will fall on his blade in grief, then you won’t be left to grovel for the hand of a silly little seren’s daughter. You’ll marry some Rivosi princess and raise children worthy of the Zendais name.
I’d sooner have our family name struck from the history books than help you.
Ah, but you have so little say in the matter, child.
Calum pushes through a group of children playing with a little cloth ball; several of whom he recognizes from Firesse’s tribe. He ignores their glares and objections, his eyes trained on the First’s back. Odomyr stands beside the fire, facing
away from Calum as he watches a woman play the flute.
No! Calum thinks frantically. You will not do this! He fights with all his willpower against his father’s presence, but his footsteps don’t slow. In response to his struggling, the ice-water floods through him again.
“Excuse me,” Calum hears himself say as he approaches Odomyr. The elf turns, and Calum watches his hand land on the First’s shoulder, drawing him close. To anyone else, it would appear that Calum is simply trying to speak to him over the music and chatter. His other hand frees Firesse’s knife from his sleeve. His fingers tighten around the worn leather grip.
You will not do this!
His father’s voice is cool and smug when he says, Watch me.
Calum lunges.
No!
He slashes out with the knife, the blade flashing in the light of the fire. Odomyr’s eyes widen in fear, Calum’s in horror when the ice-water feeling suddenly disappears. His father is gone, but it’s too late. The dagger plunges into Odomyr’s heart before Calum can do anything to stop it. The First lets out a terrible shocked gasp, then he collapses, dead before he hits the ground.
For a second, no one realizes what has happened. Then a scream rings through the valley. Then another. Then another. The sound is deafening, a mixture of fear, grief, disbelief, anger, and shock. Some of the elves run for their tents, dragging scared, sobbing children behind them. Others simply stand wherever they had stopped dancing, too numb to move. When Firesse shoves her way through the bodies, shouting, “Seize the human! He’s my prisoner!” the words hardly register in Calum’s mind.
He drops the dagger, gaping down at his blood-coated hands in disbelief.
Two men grab his arms and force them behind his back. He doesn’t fight them. They kick his legs out from under him as Kaius and his hunters surround them, arrows drawn. Calum doesn’t even register their presence. Before him, Odomyr lies in a growing pool of blood, his sightless eyes staring up at the starry sky. Semris steps forward and lifts Calum’s crossbow high. There’s a loud crack when the butt slams against Calum’s skull. He slumps to the ground.
He’s still staring at Odomyr’s face when his vision goes black.
29
Mercy
Mercy sits cross-legged on the floor in Firesse’s tent, watching as Quibris ties off the ends of the new bandages on Master Oliver’s shoulder. “Remember to get plenty of rest,” the healer says, “and try not to move your arm too much.” He searches through his canvas sack, pulling out a roll of fabric and a vial of pale blue liquid. “Change the bandages twice daily. Apply this cleansing salve each morning. Do as I say and, with luck, the wound will fully heal.”
“Thank you,” Tamriel sighs. He is seated between Mercy and Master Oliver, his hands in fists around the fabric of his tunic.
“Yes, well, if you’re all right on your own, I’ll get back to the celebration.” Quibris strides out of the tent without waiting for a response.
“Lovely people, the Cirisians,” Master Oliver says, frowning as he gingerly shifts his injured arm. “About as hospitable as a rabid dog. I’m amazed they didn’t kill me on sight.”
“How did you make it here?” Tamriel asks. “You said you had help?”
“Liselle—”
Screams echoing through the camp cut him off. Mercy bolts upright, exchanging a worried look with Tamriel. “What’s happening?”
“I have no idea. Hold on,” he says, already running toward the entrance of the tent. He sticks his head out and shouts for the guards. They exchange quick words, then Tamriel looks back at Mercy, panic-stricken. “It’s Calum. They saw him wander off toward the bonfire but lost sight of him. I think someone’s hurt. Oliver, stay here. Akiva, Silas, stand guard until we return.”
When they emerge from the tent, they find the camp in complete chaos. There’s no more music. Instead, the air is full of screams and wailing cries. In the distance, Mercy can hear Firesse yelling something about a prisoner.
Women and children huddle in the entrances to their tents, peering out with wide, terrified eyes. Some of the elves—overwhelmingly ones with Odomyr’s sun-and-stars tattoos—sob into their hands in big, wracking heaves. The only people who run toward the bonfire—aside from Mercy, Tamriel, and the guards—are the Firsts and the hunters and fighters from their clans. Every one of them holds a weapon.
What could you have possibly done now, Calum? Mercy thinks.
Tamriel stops short and she does, too, following his gaze to—
Oh, no.
Calum lies unconscious beside the bonfire, his hair damp with blood from a gash behind his temple. A circle of hunters surrounds him, arrows nocked in their bows. When they shift, Mercy glimpses a body lying in a dark red pool much too large for the man to still be alive.
“What the hell?” Maceo cries. “That’s Odomyr.”
Clyde lets out a string of curses.
Firesse kneels beside the fallen First and lowers her head in prayer. Then she looks up at Kaius and nods. The hunter lifts Calum and throws him over his shoulder like a ragdoll, starting toward the opposite end of the camp.
“Wait, Firesse!” Tamriel yells. “Where are you taking him?”
If Firesse and Kaius hear him, they don’t acknowledge him. A couple hunters turn from the circle and start toward them, murder on their tattooed faces.
“Don’t let them get away!” one of the elves cries, pointing an accusatory finger at Mercy and Tamriel. “They planned this all along!”
“Tamriel,” Mercy murmurs, backing into him. Her fingers inch toward her dagger. “We should go.”
“Bareea!”
Dayna and Adriel emerge from the sea of confused and bewildered elves. They herd Mercy and the prince behind Lysander’s massive tent. Once they’re out of sight of the hunters, Dayna throws her arms around Mercy’s neck. “Are you hurt?”
“No, what’s—”
“You need to run.” She backs out of the embrace and grips Mercy’s shoulders so tightly her nails dig into Mercy’s flesh. “Run and don’t look back,” she says as she begins to drag Mercy and Tamriel toward the far side of the valley, away from Calum and Firesse.
“No.” Tamriel digs his heels into the ground, ignoring Dayna’s imploring look. “We’re not going anywhere until you explain what’s happening. Where are they taking Calum?”
“There’s no time.”
“Then explain quickly,” he snaps.
She shoots a helpless look at Adriel, who murmurs something in Cirisian and gestures to hurry up. She nods. “Your friend committed an act of war against the tribes. He murdered our First.”
“That’s impossible,” Tamriel says, although his face turns a sickly shade of green. They’d all seen the body. “Firesse—”
“Is playing with forces she knows nothing about. It’s chaos now, but our tribe won’t take long to regroup, and they’ll be hungry for revenge. It isn’t safe for any human—or anyone loyal to humans,” she says, glancing at Mercy, “to be here.”
“We’ll take you somewhere safe, but you must trust us. Will you?” Adriel asks.
Mercy looks to Tamriel, but he’s still staring after Kaius, Calum’s unconscious form slung over the hunter’s shoulder. She turns back to the valley, taking in the sobbing elves gathered around Odomyr’s body, the hunters and fighters unsheathing their weapons and muttering Calum’s name like a curse. “Will they kill Calum?”
“Almost certainly.”
She isn’t sure whether to be relieved or saddened by the answer. Calum is a pain in her ass, but does she really want him dead? She should, after all he has done to her, but there must be more to the story. Calum can be an idiot sometimes, but he’s not stupid enough to kill one of the Firsts in the middle of Ialathan, in full sight of four hundred elves.
Tamriel’s eyes flash with defiance. “We’re not leaving Calum behind.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Dayna responds. “He’s Firesse’s prisoner. Stay any longer and you’ll join him. W
e’ll do all we can to save him, but you won’t be able to help him if you’re in chains as well.”
“So?” Adriel waves his hand impatiently. “Shall we?”
Finally, reluctantly, the prince nods. “Only if you swear that we will get him back.”
“I will do everything in my power to free him. That is all I can promise, Your Highness.”
“Very well, but Master Oliver, Akiva, and Silas are waiting in Firesse’s tent. So is the Cedikra. We have to go back for them.”
“I’ll get them,” Mercy’s father says. “Dayna, take them to Hadriana’s Bluff. We’ll meet you there.”
“You’ll need help carrying the crates. Guards, go with him.”
“But, Your Highness—” Clyde begins.
“We’ll protect him,” Dayna snaps, nervously eyeing the well-armed Cirisians gathering near the bonfire. “If we’re to get away, we must go now!”
And so they run—Adriel and the guards toward Firesse’s tent, Mercy, Tamriel, and Dayna away from the camp. They slip into a narrow gorge between two hills, using the shadows from the trees as cover. Mercy moves slowly at first, trying to hide the evidence of their escape, but Dayna pushes her forward with a stern thump on her back.
“Their voices will cover the sound of your footsteps. Just run!”
Dayna trails behind them the whole time, urging them faster when they slow, barking orders when they have to change direction. They crash through the underbrush, moving as quickly as they can in the darkness. Suddenly, the ground drops away in front of them. They scramble to a stop at the top of the fifty-foot cliff, falling to their knees to catch their breath.
“Hadriana’s Bluff,” Mercy says between gulps of air, for no other reason than to fill the silence. When Tamriel looks at her, the moonlight illuminates the terror, worry, and regret on his face. She reads him too easily. “You’d better not be thinking about going back for Calum.”
“I don’t have a death wish.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 64
