Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Not an outright denial. She turns to Dayna. “What happened back there? Did one of the elves threaten him? Calum would never pull a dagger if he could talk his way out of a situation instead.”

  Her mother shakes her head. “Adriel and I . . . have our suspicions.”

  She raises a brow. “Care to share them?”

  “We must be wrong. It—”

  A sudden gust of wind cuts Dayna off, whining as it weaves through the trees. It tugs at their clothes and sends Mercy’s hair flying in front of her face. One word floats to them:

  “Drake.”

  Liselle’s voice.

  “Did you hear—” Mercy begins, but one look at Tamriel’s face confirms it. “What could he possibly have to do with this?”

  Dayna lifts a trembling hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. “Drake Zendais?” she asks in a high-pitched squeak. When the blood drains from her mother’s face, Mercy remembers that Drake had been her master in Sandori, had raped her to conceive his illegitimate heir. Has she realized yet that Calum is the bastard child she had been forced to bear?

  Tamriel nods, his mouth set in a grim line. “Calum has been seeing and hearing him since yesterday morning. We thought it may have been a wraith, but he was nowhere near the water.”

  Dayna lets out a string of oaths so foul they would make a sailor blush. “Adriel was right: Firesse finally managed it. What do you know of Myrbellanar?”

  Mercy recounts what little Pilar had told her about the Old God and the Great War: he and several other Gods had kidnapped the Creator’s bride, Osha, in an attempt to curb the Creator’s ever-growing power. The Creator had hunted down the traitors and slaughtered them until only Myrbellanar remained standing. Blinded by his rage, he had disfigured the God by carving his ears into points and shattering his soul into millions of pieces—each of which became one of the first elves, sentenced to serve humanity for the rest of time. When Mercy reaches the part about Myrbellanar one day returning to exact justice against the humans and the Creator, Tamriel pales.

  “So the Cirisians think their souls return to Myrbellanar when they die? And when enough pieces of him have been recovered, he’ll avenge them?”

  Dayna nods. “But you don’t know the most important detail: Myrbellanar’s power. Each of the Old Gods had a power over this world. He was the Gatekeeper between this realm and the Beyond, meaning—”

  “He had the power to shift spirits between planes,” Mercy finishes, apprehension flooding her. “But what does that have to do with Firesse and Drake?”

  “She and some of the other young, brash elves think we shouldn’t wait for Myrbellanar to return. They want to take revenge themselves and they’ve been trying for years to harness his power. I never thought Firesse would actually figure it out, though . . .” she trails off. “You’ve seen the wraiths around her island. Those poor souls must be the spirits she’d been practicing summoning from the Beyond.”

  “What about Li— um, Drake?” Tamriel asks, catching himself before he blurts Liselle’s name. Mercy shoots him a grateful look. Dayna had been too preoccupied by the thought of Drake’s return to have recognized her long-dead daughter’s voice. Creator only knows how she would react to learning that Firesse must have brought her murdered daughter back from the Beyond.

  The only question is: Why?

  “How could he have made it past the protective charms on the island?” Mercy asks.

  “Perhaps he is stronger than Firesse anticipated, or perhaps she gave him permission to step through the boundary. Somehow, his presence here caused my First’s death.” Dayna sinks into a crouch, burying her face in her hands. “Honestly, I haven’t the slightest clue how all this works. I’m just speculating from what I know of the Book of the Creator and Cirisian folk stories. But if Adriel and I are right, Firesse, not Calum, orchestrated Odomyr’s murder.”

  “She’s going to blame Calum,” Tamriel murmurs in disbelief. “She’s going to let them kill him.”

  Mercy begins to pace. Overhead, the silver moon slips behind a cloud, blanketing them in a darkness which seems to grow thicker and heavier with every passing second. Where are Adriel and the others? Even with Master Oliver in tow, they shouldn’t have been this far behind us. She bites her lower lip as she paces. “What reason would Firesse have to kill Odomyr?”

  “Aside from the fact that she’s a two-faced psychopath with otherworldly powers?” Tamriel asks dryly. “Beside the fact that she can do whatever she wants to us and the elves won’t raise a finger to help us? Or perhaps because there are four hundred of them and eight of us? Shall I go on?”

  “I don’t know why,” Dayna admits. “I wish I did.”

  Tamriel lies back on the grass, staring up at stars twinkling through the gray clouds. He lets out a long breath. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

  Mercy stretches out beside him. “We’ll figure something out,” she promises, as much for her sake as for his.

  She really, really hopes she’s right.

  30

  Mercy

  With nothing else to do but wait, Mercy counts the seconds as they lie atop the bluff in silence, each absorbed in their own worries. Exactly seventeen minutes and twenty-three seconds later, Adriel and the guards emerge from the dark forest, lugging chests of Cedikra between them. Dayna shoots to her feet with a relieved laugh and kisses her husband while, behind them, Akiva and Master Oliver totter out of the woods, the Master of the Guard’s arm slung over Akiva’s shoulders. A young woman trails behind them. When she glances up and a sliver of moonlight strikes her face, Mercy silently scolds herself for not recognizing her sooner.

  “Nynev? What are you doing here?”

  She hooks a thumb at Adriel. “Ask him. He insisted I come along when I should be with my clan.” She directs the last few words at Adriel, but Dayna dismisses them with a flap of her hand.

  “That’s not important. What is important is we figured out why Calum killed Odomyr. Well, we sort of figured it out,” Dayna says. “He didn’t.”

  “What?”

  She quickly explains what they had discussed while they’d waited. When she finishes, the guards and Master Oliver gape first at her, then at Mercy and Tamriel. None of them had known about Drake or the wraiths, and Mercy can imagine how unbelievable everything must sound. Nynev’s gaze goes somewhere far away; for a moment, Mercy thinks the huntress might faint. She looks absolutely appalled by her First’s behavior.

  “But we can’t figure out why she did it,” Dayna finishes. “What purpose could Firesse have for murdering one of her own?”

  “I don’t . . .” Adriel trails off, raking a hand through his hair. He takes a step toward the forest, as if wishing he could return to the camp and confront Firesse himself. Then he whirls around, anger sparking in his eyes. “Oh, I know why. She chose to do it at Ialathan to be a spectacle, something the elves wouldn’t be able to ignore. She believes we should have a more offensive approach against the human soldiers who invade our land. She’s been trying to unite the clans for months, but the Firsts never get along long enough for them to stage an attack.”

  “She gave them a reason to fight,” Tamriel says.

  “Exactly. She treated you like honored guests, and look how Calum repaid her—by murdering our leader. There were only five clans in attendance tonight, but word of his betrayal will spread like wildfire across the islands. Those who can fight will join Firesse’s clan near the Beltharan border. When their numbers are high enough, they’ll attack.”

  “Then we have to go back.” Tamriel jumps to his feet and starts toward the forest. “We must stop this. We can’t leave Calum with her.”

  “Tamriel!” Mercy objects. She jumps in front of him and he stills, looking down at her with pain in his eyes.

  “You know I can’t just leave him there on his own. By the Creator, he’s unconscious! Now that Firesse is done with him, now that she has what she wants, what’s to stop her from killing him?”

&
nbsp; Adriel places a hand on Tamriel’s chest. “You can’t go back there—not yet. Kaius knows you ran. He has already sent his hunters out looking for you two. Even if it were safe, your guards can’t lug those chests around forever, and you have one man who can barely stand.” He gestures to Master Oliver, who attempts not to appear winded. The sheen of perspiration on his brow betrays him.

  Tamriel glances around the group, clearly looking for support. He focuses on Mercy’s face last. “And what if they kill him while we’re out here, arguing? He’s my cousin, the only real family I’ve ever had.”

  “Tamriel,” Mercy says softly. She feels awful knowing how much pain he’s in, but he must realize they can’t venture anywhere near Ialathan, not with the Cirisians thirsting for blood. If Firesse truly wants a war, handing her the prince on a silver platter is the last thing they should do. “Master Oliver needs to rest. We need somewhere to stash the Cedikra and we need time to plan our next steps.”

  He stares at her for a long time, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Then he deflates. “Fine,” he mumbles. “You win. Where are we going?”

  Adriel nods, satisfied, and turns to Nynev. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “Me? Why—?” Realization dawns on the huntress’s face. She shakes her head vehemently. “No. Not a chance. I won’t take you to her.”

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  “Seeing as I’m the only one who knows where she is, I think I do have a choice. We’re not going there.”

  Adriel crosses his arms. “Then where do you suggest we go?”

  Dayna offers the huntress a disarmingly sincere smile. “Nynev, I know you’re protective of her, but we wouldn’t ask if it weren’t absolutely necessary. They need somewhere to hide, somewhere Firesse can’t find them. It’s only for a few hours.”

  “They shouldn’t . . .”

  “Please, Nynev. No harm will come to her, I promise.”

  “Who are we discussing?” Mercy asks with a sneaking suspicion that she’s not going to like the answer.

  The huntress sighs, hanging her head in defeat. “My sister. Niamh.”

  “Who?” Akiva says, still looking woefully lost.

  “She’s alive?” Tamriel asks.

  “Yes, but only a few people know that, so you will guard that secret to the grave, you understand?”

  “Understood. But, um, why?”

  “You’ll see soon enough. Follow me.”

  Nynev leads them along Hadriana’s Bluff for about a quarter-mile before she stops and points to a narrow path carved into the side of the cliff. If she weren’t looking for it, Mercy would have thought it was the natural cut of the rock. It’s smooth enough to walk on, not terribly steep, but they still descend slowly, mostly for Master Oliver’s sake—he’s still unsteady on his feet. Nynev is in front, carrying the largest chest of Cedikra since she’s the most sure-footed. Behind her, Mercy and Tamriel follow Master Oliver, ready to catch him should he stumble. After them are Adriel and Dayna, each carrying a chest, then the guards, carrying the last two crates between them.

  When they reach the bottom, they give Master Oliver a few minutes to catch his breath before they set off again, this time at a brisk pace. Tamriel stays by Mercy’s side, frustration and fear pouring off him in waves. They walk like that for a long time, each of them lost in his or her own thoughts.

  A short while later, another short cliff juts out of the rock before them. Master Oliver groans. “How do you expect us to get over that?”

  “I don’t.” Nynev stops in front of a cascade of vines and pulls them aside, revealing the entrance to a hidden cavern. “We’re going in.” She yells something in Cirisian down the tunnel, where a faint light flickers from deep within the rock. There’s a sudden, sharp intake of breath and a murmur of voices.

  Then, “Nynev?”

  “M’iza, Niamh.”

  “Nynev!” The voice shifts from confused to excited. As Niamh chatters on in Cirisian, Nynev gestures for them to follow her. “Na wen izzum-to, mo dhija,” she calls. She lets the curtain of vines fall shut behind them and leads them toward the distant light.

  They emerge into a large cavern, lit candles flickering from every crevice in the walls. A slender woman, a few years younger than Nynev but otherwise identical, sits upright in a pile of blankets, blinking sleepily. She clutches her blankets to her chest with her right hand.

  Niamh stops in the middle of her sentence when she notices the strangers behind her sister, her eyes widening in alarm. “Who are you?” She nudges the woman lying beside her. The elf instantly snaps awake. Her blonde hair is messy and tangled from sleep, but her eyes are instantly alert.

  “They’re with me.” Nynev crosses the cavern and presses a kiss to Niamh’s forehead. “Tamriel and Mercy, from Beltharos. Their guards—Akiva, Silas, Clyde, Maceo, and Master Oliver—and you already know Adriel and Dayna.”

  “It’s been many years since we last saw each other,” Dayna says. “It is good to see you again.”

  Niamh nods hesitantly, still studying her sister with a puzzled expression. She shifts uncomfortably in the bed and tugs the blankets closer, slipping them over her shoulders so only her face and neck are visible. “Why have you brought them? You swore you’d never tell anyone I’m here—you barely tolerated Isolde staying. To bring humans into my home . . .” she trails off. “What changed?”

  “Firesse changed,” Adriel says. “She’s been dabbling in the forbidden powers of Myrbellanar. She murdered our First in order to rally the clans to fight the Beltharans.” He pauses when Niamh’s and Isolde’s expressions shift to horror. “It’s . . . a long story, one I will try to explain later. For now, all you need to know is Firesse has Tamriel’s cousin and we must get him back.”

  “The other elves in Odomyr’s tribe are looking for them, mo dhija,” Nynev adds. “This was the only place I could take them where they’d be safe.”

  “If you give us a few hours’ shelter—just until they stop searching for us—I’ll be in your debt for the rest of my life. I’ll do whatever I can to pay you back,” Tamriel pleads. “We just need enough time to come up with a plan, then we’ll leave.”

  “You will not tell anyone I’m alive?”

  Tamriel pauses, clearly uncertain why Niamh’s existence is such a big secret, then he nods. “Not a soul.”

  Niamh turns to Nynev. They speak in Cirisian, with a few interjections from Isolde, Dayna, and Adriel. Finally, Niamh turns back to them. “Very well. You may stay here until dawn, but no longer.”

  “Thank you.” Tamriel’s relief is palpable. He turns to Adriel. “So what should we—”

  “Why are you hiding here?” Mercy asks.

  Everyone stops and looks at her. Isolde narrows her eyes.

  “Mercy—” Tamriel murmurs.

  “What? You don’t want to know? We need her for the cure.”

  “What cure?” Niamh asks.

  Mercy ignores her. “Cassius Bacha’s vision was right about Beggars’ End and Cedikra. He must be right about this. We need her.”

  “What cure?” Niamh asks again.

  “And you!” Mercy snaps, turning on Nynev. “You told me she was dead! I warned you not to lie to me.”

  “Everyone thinks she’s dead.”

  “We need her—”

  “WHAT CURE?” Niamh yells so loudly it startles them into silence. She looks from face to face. “I swear to the gods I will send you straight back to Firesse’s clan if you don’t tell me exactly what you’re talking about and why you think you need me.”

  Tamriel shoots Mercy a sarcastic Thanks look, then sighs and begins explaining, Mercy adding details when necessary. He describes Cassius Bacha’s dream, then Mercy repeats what Pilar had seen in her corrupted visions. As the story unfolds, the guards glance at each other in alarm and whisper amongst themselves. This is the first time they’re hearing the exact details behind their journey.

  “You think that I know how to make th
is cure?” Niamh says when they finish. “I’m not a healer.”

  “Do you have any idea why Cassius thought you could help?” Tamriel asks.

  She shakes her head.

  “Great,” Akiva mutters.

  “That still doesn’t answer my question,” Mercy adds. “Why are you hiding here?”

  Niamh looks questioningly at her sister. Nynev lifts a shoulder in a shrug, her voice flat and defeated when she says, “Your choice.”

  Isolde’s eyes narrow. “It’s none of your business. You shouldn’t even be here—”

  “Send your guards outside, and I’ll show you.”

  Niamh speaks quietly, but Isolde stops immediately, snapping her head around so quickly she winces. “No.”

  “It’s not your decision.” Niamh gestures to the guards. “If you would—”

  “Go on,” Tamriel says, nodding. The guards quickly file out of the cavern. Niamh waits until their footsteps fade down the tunnel before she drops the blanket wrapped around her.

  “By the Creator,” Dayna gasps.

  A huge gash spans half of Niamh’s chest and upper arm, so deep Mercy can see the white of her bone when she shifts. It’s a gaping chasm, a yawning fissure in the place of muscle and fat, like someone had tried to cut her in half. The once-pink flesh around the wound has festered into an inky purple-black, shadowy lines of corruption snaking under her skin and down her side.

  Nynev sits beside her sister, tucking her close to her side. Isolde glares at Mercy. No one speaks for a long time.

  Then, Tamriel says softly, “What happened?”

  Niamh takes in a shaky breath. “When I lived in Firesse’s tribe, I was one of Myris’s fighters. I wasn’t the strongest or fastest, but after our mother died . . . I was angry—angry enough that Myris knew it wouldn’t do me any good to be trapped in camp all day as a cook or forager. Instead, whenever she wasn’t out patrolling or tracking human soldiers, she trained me to fight. Eventually I became skilled enough to accompany her and the others to the battlefields. We’d wait in the shadows until the battle was over, then pick off any wounded or fleeing humans we found in the woods. I’d thought it would quiet the anger within me, but my rage only grew. I was angry at the Creator for taking our mother from us, and I wanted to make him feel the pain of watching his creations suffer. I was . . . becoming cocky, cruel. Whenever we came across a group of soldiers, I’d fight the biggest, strongest one, like it was a challenge, a game. But the last time . . . I was careless. I overestimated my strength, my talent, the seriousness of his injuries.” She pauses, and Isolde lays a comforting hand on her uninjured arm. “We don’t have metal armor, so when his blade struck me . . .”