Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “She would’ve died if they’d been a mile farther from camp.” Nynev continues where her sister leaves off, squeezing Niamh’s shoulders. “Myris barely made it back in time—Niamh was beyond the point of healing. But Firesse . . . had already begun experimenting with Myrbellanar’s power. I didn’t know it at the time; I knew only that Firesse swore she could save her. When she asked if I wanted her help, I said yes.”

  Niamh nods. “I was unconscious, but somehow I could feel myself slipping into the Beyond, drifting away. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Like a shackle clamping down on my soul. Firesse used the power of the Gatekeeper to lock me out of the Beyond.”

  “When she woke up that night, Niamh asked me to sneak her out of camp, to tell everyone she had died of her wounds,” Nynev murmurs. “She could sense that something unnatural had occurred.”

  “Firesse was too late. My soul straddles the line between life and death. The wound stopped bleeding, but it has never healed or scarred. My heart beats, but I don’t age.” Niamh meets Tamriel’s and Mercy’s eyes, then quickly looks away. “Firesse was playing with powers beyond our world, beyond the laws of nature. She turned me into an abomination. I chose to leave the tribe. I don’t . . . I don’t belong with them anymore.”

  “But I couldn’t let her leave without me,” Isolde says, nuzzling her face into Niamh’s neck. Niamh smiles a little, but it quickly disappears. “I pestered Nynev about the details of Niamh’s ‘death’ until she admitted the truth.”

  “Firesse doesn’t know where we are, but she knows I’m alive. As long as she keeps me locked out of the Beyond, I can’t die.” Niamh tugs the blanket back up and around herself, hiding her horrific wound. “So,” she says expectantly, clearly eager to change the subject, “what’s the plan to get your cousin back?”

  31

  Calum

  “Ugggghhhh.”

  Calum groans, fighting against the pull of unconsciousness. His eyes flutter open and shut before he can catch anything more than a glimpse of the darkened room in which he sits, illuminated by a lone candle. His head throbs. Something sticky coats his hair and the side of his face. He groans again, his chin drooping forward to rest on his chest, and slips into unconsciousness.

  When he wakes again, his eyes open slowly. He’s inside Firesse’s tent—of that much, he is certain—slumped with his back against one of the canvas walls and his legs stretched out before him. But . . . where are Tamriel and Mercy? And Master Oliver? The healer? He looks around sluggishly, his mind feeling like it’s wrapped in a thick layer of cotton. If only the pounding would stop, then he could—

  He shifts and a sharp pain shoots up his arms. His wrists are tied behind his back so tightly the rope has begun to cut into his skin.

  Panic consumes him. He pushes to his knees and tries to stand, but the world tilts and the ground slips out from under him. He falls flat on his face, clenching his teeth when a jolt of agony pierces the haze within his brain.

  There’s a whisper of fabric as someone slips into the tent. Soft footsteps pad across the floor and stop just before Calum’s head. The visitor clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Look what a mess you’ve made,” she chides.

  Calum rolls onto his back. Firesse stares down at him, pity and faint amusement in her eyes. “Where’s Tamriel?”

  “That’s your first question? He’d be touched, if he were here. Alas, he is not. But not to worry—there is no shortage of volunteers eager to join the search parties after you killed Odomyr. You’ll see your cousin soon enough.”

  “After I—?” Then the memories come flooding back: the ice-water rushing through his veins, his father’s cruel laughter, the blood pouring out of Odomyr’s chest. Calum stares up at Firesse in horror, Drake’s words ringing in his ears:

  Embrace the chaos we’re about to unleash.

  Firesse drags him into the center of the room and helps him into a sitting position. The last time Calum was here, the healer had been treating Master Oliver’s injury. Now there’s not so much as a bandage in sight. Does that mean Master Oliver is okay? That he had escaped with Mercy and Tamriel, that they’re all safe? He prays so.

  “What did you force me to do?” he growls.

  “What was necessary. Killing Odomyr was the only way to convince the other clans to fight the humans.”

  “What are you talking about? You murdered one of your people for revenge?” He can’t keep the disgust out of his voice. “What kind of a leader are you?”

  “The kind who will do what I must to protect my people. His sacrifice will save the thousands of elves living in these islands.” Firesse’s eyes are wide—wide with equal parts honesty and madness. By the Creator, she truly thinks she’s doing the right thing. “My clan serves as the guardians of the western islands. We do our best to keep the human soldiers from encroaching too close to our camp, picking them off one by one before they do the same to us. But if the Cirisians create a united force, cross to the mainland and attack the humans, maybe they’ll finally learn how strong we really are. They’ll realize the folly of this war with Feyndara and finally leave us in peace.”

  Calum scoffs. “Do you know how many men are in the Beltharan military? The numbers in Sandori alone could overpower you. We have better weapons, armor, and training. You won’t be preventing your people’s slaughter, you’ll be leading them straight to it.”

  She smirks, then raises her hand, twirling her fingers through the air the same way she had before Drake had . . . possessed him. “Are you so sure about that?”

  Calum shrinks back. He can’t help it—he feels like he’s truly seeing her for the first time. She’s not a child thrust into power, she’s an anguished young woman who had fostered her rage until the time came to take revenge. And now, he and Tamriel had brought that opportunity right to her.

  “Does that mean you’re going to explain how you did all this?” Calum asks, desperate to keep her talking.

  “When your precious Creator destroyed Myrbellanar and formed the first elves, he didn’t realize that crafting them with pieces of Myrbellanar’s soul would imbue each with a fraction of his powers. Naturally, some were more powerful than others, and they began to craft spells and rituals which strengthened their connection to our Fallen Father. Over the thousands of years of our existence, that connection has diluted and diminished as we were forced into servitude and slavery, raped and made to bear half-breed children,” she says, her voice quivering with anger. She lets out a deep breath. “The knowledge is old and well hidden, but the rituals still exist. And . . . there are methods of strengthening the link between us and Myrbellanar.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  He closes his eyes, shaking his head to clear the last of the cobwebs from his mind. If she’s telling the truth—and how can he doubt her, after she had forced him to murder Odomyr?—then there’s no telling how much power she holds.

  His eyes snap open. “What were you talking about earlier? You said Liselle was supposed to help you, but she chose blood.”

  “Nearly eighteen years ago, she worked beside the king to give elves a proper place in Beltharos. She was so close to starting a revolution, but the nobles killed her before anything came of it. They made an example of her and all the elves who were brave enough to oppose them, and any hope of rebellion died with her. I grew up hearing stories about her—how strong and brave and clever she was—and I knew she’d have done great things if she’d been given a chance. So I gave that chance back to her. I ripped through the fabric of this plane and pulled her from the Beyond. But she didn’t want to help. She said the same things you did, that I’d only be spilling more blood, killing more of my people. She disappeared one month ago. No matter how strongly I tried to pull her back, she resisted. She’d found someone who needed her more. She’d found family.”

  “Who?”

  Firesse’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “You should know. You’ve been traveling with her.”

/>   Calum’s mouth drops open before he can stop it. “Mercy?”

  “They’re sisters.”

  He gapes at her. Liselle is Mercy’s sister? His half-sister? “You’re lying.”

  “You never saw her, then? I believed she remained close to Mercy while you were riding here.”

  “I don’t believe you.” His head is beginning to swim, the pounding in his head returning with a vengeance.

  “You don’t have to. I’ll show you.”

  Firesse repeats the guttural, ancient words she’d said earlier, what Calum assumes is some sort of incantation. Beside him, the candle’s flame flickers and pops, flaring into a column twice its height.

  A flash of gray flits past in Calum’s peripheral vision, but when he turns his head, nothing is there.

  Firesse makes an annoyed sound and says the incantation again, louder this time, enunciating the words clearly. Their power thrums through the air with a strangely melodic quality, a physical vibration which seeps into Calum’s skin.

  Someone gasps.

  A smoky figure stands beside Firesse, her form half-visible as she struggles against the power of the ancient chant. Liselle. Her eyes are shut, squeezed tightly against the pull, tendons standing out in her neck. Firesse continues the incantation with her fists clenched at her sides, straining to keep the spirit here.

  Liselle’s eyes fly open. “Calum! You’re alive! Don’t—” She gasps again and disappears.

  Firesse staggers, her brow shining with a thin layer of perspiration. She smiles at Calum, who stares at her, aghast. “Was that proof enough? I’m afraid she can be quite stubborn, just like her sister.”

  Calum swallows painfully. He works at the rope around his wrists, desperate to escape, but it’s no use. The movement only brings more pain, more blood welling on his raw wrists. He stills. “How does my father fit into this, then? Did you not have enough psychotic, sadistic murderers in your ranks?”

  “I felt him nearby when you arrived in the Islands, so I sent Kaius and his hunters to collect you. Let’s say I was curious. I knew it was risky to bring an elf-hater into the In-Between—especially one as powerful as Drake—but his desires align with mine, for the moment. His eagerness to avenge his murder overrides his hatred of the elves, and he knows I’ll shove him right back to the Beyond if he hurts my people. Odomyr was . . . a necessary sacrifice,” she says, genuine grief on her face. The sight surprises Calum. Given Odomyr’s age, he must have been something of a father figure to her.

  “You’re a monster,” he growls. “You forced me to kill him—”

  “Yet you bear none of the guilt for his death. You are no more to blame than the dagger is—you were merely a weapon, a tool—”

  “But you’re going to let them kill me for it,” he guesses, knowing he’s right. These elves don’t bat an eye when they strike down human soldiers. They’ll kill him—and Mercy, Tamriel, and the guards, he predicts—before Ialathan ends. He’ll be lucky to last the night.

  Firesse doesn’t deny it.

  Calum closes his eyes and hangs his head, too physically and emotionally exhausted to fight. He’d been right all along: they never should have trusted the Cirisians. If he ever sees Tamriel again, the first thing he’ll say is I told you so.

  Then he hears a quiet “No.”

  His heart stutters. “What?”

  Firesse crosses the tent and kneels before him, her hair falling into her face as she leans forward. “They’re not going to kill you. Many wish to, but I won’t let them. You’re my prisoner.”

  “Why?” he asks cautiously.

  “Because you know Beltharos better than anyone in the Islands. You worked with the guards, you know their numbers, their skill. You’ll know any tricks they have up their sleeve. You’re going to keep us safe as we march to Sandori.”

  “I’ll never help you,” he spits.

  “You will. If you won’t obey, I’ll summon your father and have him search through your memories again. He had quite a bit of fun last time. Or maybe I’ll let him possess you again, let you watch, helpless, as we destroy the people you love.”

  “I’ll kill myself before I let you imprison me again.”

  “Then I’ll drag your spirit back from the Beyond. Maybe I’ll lock you inside your cousin’s rotting body after I slaughter him and the king. You can see how well you enjoy being a slave.”

  Cold terror fills Calum. She can do whatever she wants to him, but he will do anything to keep her from Tamriel. Anything. He lets out a deep breath, sending a prayer up to the Creator that he’s not about to make the biggest mistake of his life. “If you want me to help you—voluntarily—you must promise that the prince will not come to harm. You won’t kill him. If you’re victorious, you’ll allow him to live. He can live the rest of his life in exile, far from Beltharos.”

  Firesse laughs. “Why would I promise that if I can force you to do whatever I wish?”

  “I know people who can help you. The Daughters are the finest fighters in the entire country—each one is worth four soldiers, at least. And the Strykers can build you weapons—real, proper weapons, the likes of which you’ve never seen. You may be outnumbered, but they’ll even the odds. You’ll actually have a chance to be victorious.” He’s rambling, but he can’t help it. He desires nothing less than to help her, but if it keeps him alive to possibly escape to find Tamriel and Mercy, to warn them of what’s coming, he’ll do it. “My father left bank accounts overseas—They’re in my name now. I’ll use the money to pay them. I’ll write to them, and in two weeks, they’ll be here, ready to work for you.”

  “None of that is information your father wouldn’t be able to find in your memory.”

  “I spent a year traveling with the Strykers. You let Drake possess me, and they’ll know something’s wrong. I won’t be the same,” he insists. “Plus, you never know when my father will tire of obeying your commands. He’ll do whatever he thinks will get his revenge, and if he’s as powerful as I think he is, you won’t be able to control him for long. Better to leave him on the other side of the In-Between until you need him, right?”

  For the first time, doubt flickers across Firesse’s face. Then she nods. “Very well, you have a deal. The prince shall not be harmed. Now, there’s something I want to show you—something I think will send any thought of betraying me out of your head.”

  She stands and pulls him to his feet, then makes him turn around so she can tighten the knot on the rope binding his wrists together. “Follow me,” she says when she’s satisfied, and starts toward the door of the tent.

  When she turns, Calum notices something bulky hidden under her shirt. A dagger. It must be a dagger. If he could grab it, cut through the rope . . .

  An idea begins to form in his mind—a stupid, idiotic, suicidal idea—but if it works, he’ll be free.

  Creator damn him, he’s desperate enough to try.

  He charges.

  32

  Calum

  They collide with a sickening crunch. Firesse lets out a cry of alarm and pain when Calum knocks her off her feet, and they land hard on the ground in a tangle of limbs. Calum wheezes, his ribs aching from the impact, as he scrambles to his knees, searching for Firesse’s dagger.

  There.

  It lies a few feet away on the floor, knocked free when Firesse had fallen. Calum waddles forward, doing his best to keep his balance without the use of his arms, but Firesse has already recovered from her shock. She jumps up and kicks him hard in the side. “Bad Calum,” she snarls.

  “Crazy bitch,” he mutters through clenched teeth. He falls into his side and stretches his arms out behind him, groping blindly for the knife. Where the hell is it?!

  His fingers brush its grip.

  Yes!

  He flips it over in his hand, slipping the blade under the binding around his wrists, and begins to saw. The rope is so tight the blade nicks his skin a few times, but he hardly feels the pain.

  Firesse lifts her leg to kick h
im again, then her eyes widen in understanding. “Nice try.” She leaps over him and wrenches the knife from his hand, returning it to the sheath in her waistband. She loops one of her fingers under the rope—Calum hadn’t even managed to make the slightest cut—and yanks his arms back so quickly and so suddenly that one of his shoulders pops. He howls in agony. Half an inch farther, and she’d tear them from the sockets. Tears of pain stream down his face.

  Kaius and a hunter burst into the tent, weapons drawn. Behind them, Semris guards the doorway, loading a bolt into Calum’s crossbow. They glare at him in cold rage.

  “Are you hurt, Firesse?” Kaius asks. “Are you sure you don’t want me to kill him?”

  “I’m fine. He is of more use to us alive than dead . . . as long as he is obedient, that is.” She narrows her eyes at Calum, then turns her attention back to the archer. “Have you found Mercy and the prince?”

  “Not yet.”

  Firesse frowns. “Very well. Semris, remain here and wait for the search parties to return. When they bring Tamriel and Mercy back, tie them up and gag them. Kill the guards. Kaius, you and the prisoner are going to accompany me on a midnight stroll. There’s something I’d like him to see.” She strides out of the tent, Semris falling into step behind her. Kaius yanks Calum to his feet by the front of his shirt.