Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “I’m fine. Stay down. I’ll be right back.”

  “What—?”

  Mercy scrambles to her feet and darts behind the next tree just as another arrow whistles past.

  “Mercy!” Tamriel hisses, but Dayna shushes him.

  “Keep your voice down. Mercy, get back here.”

  She ignores them. Behind her, the shouts of anger and the clashing of steel continues, interrupted by an occasion cry of pain. The fight seems to be drawing to an end. Mercy prays that Adriel and the guards are winning. She scans the underbrush for movement as she creeps forward. They’d kept well off the trail, and the vegetation here is lush and overgrown—rife with places to hide.

  An arrow flies past Mercy, grazing her arm. She spins, grinning maniacally. “Found you,” she snarls.

  Then she sees the archer, crouching fifteen feet away amidst a jumble of bushes.

  He’s aiming an arrow straight at her heart.

  “Get down!”

  Mercy drops. Someone jumps in front of her and looses an arrow. Nynev! The archer yelps. Mercy looks up in time to see the elf stand up and bolt, zigzagging between trees and bushes as he runs away. Nynev nocks another arrow and lets it fly. It misses by a hair.

  “Shit!” Nynev pulls another arrow from her quiver and starts forward. “Come on, he’s getting away.”

  Before they make it two feet, a woman’s scream halts them.

  Then, a different voice calls out, “Mo dhija!”

  “Niamh!” Nynev glances between the retreating archer and the patch of forest where the others remain, clearly conflicted. She lets out a growl of frustration, her shoulders slumping with defeat. “Let him go. We’ll be long gone by the time he reports to Firesse.”

  They return to a grisly scene: Adriel and the others stanching their wounds with bits of fabric as the bodies of the dead elves leak blood and gore onto the earth. Maceo’s and Silas’s bodies lie side-by-side in a patch of sunlight, their eyes closed and arms crossed over their chests. Master Oliver is kneeling beside them, murmuring a prayer. Tamriel and the guards hover around them, their heads bowed in mourning.

  A few yards away, Niamh, Dayna, and Adriel are crouched around Isolde, who holds a bandage to a rapidly bleeding gash in her leg. Niamh spots Nynev and Mercy and waves them over. “Th-The elf’s blade caught her—I-I don’t know how, it just— Nynev, it’s really bleeding—”

  Nynev wraps her sister in her arms, stroking her hair as she whispers, “Shhh. It’ll be okay. Isolde is strong. She’ll be fine.”

  “Keep pressure on the wound,” Adriel says to Mercy. He tears a long strip of fabric from his shirt and begins winding it around Isolde’s leg. Mercy suspects she’s the only one who notices his hands shaking; Nynev is too busy comforting Niamh, and all of Dayna’s attention is on keeping Isolde calm and quiet. Adriel tries to tie off the makeshift bandage, but his fingers tremble too violently and the knot slips.

  Mercy takes the fabric from him and ties it tightly. “How serious is it?”

  “The blade missed her artery, so she won’t bleed out, but it’s deep. It’s going to take a long time to heal, and I doubt she’ll be able to walk again without a limp.”

  Niamh begins to sob.

  Nynev shakes her sister roughly. “Stop crying. Don’t you see you’re only making this worse?”

  Niamh sniffles and nods, burying her face in her hands.

  “Am I going to die?” Isolde asks, her voice wobbling. Her face is pale and her gaze distant, a cold sheen sparkling on her brow.

  “No, you’re not going to die,” Dayna responds, stroking her hair. “You’ll be just fine, I promise.”

  “And Sandori? How are—When are we leaving? We have to go before the others come looking for us, don’t we?”

  Niamh gapes at her. “You can’t honestly be thinking about leaving now.”

  “She’s in shock,” Mercy responds. “Has she ever been injured this severely before?”

  “No. She was in training to become a fighter when she and I left the clan. She never actually fought, though.”

  “We need to clean and stitch the wound as soon as possible,” Adriel interrupts. “That means Dayna and I have to take her back to the healers at Ialathan. The longer we wait, the greater the chance of infection.”

  Niamh nods again, her lips pressed into a tight line. She kneels beside Isolde and kisses her forehead. “I’m so, so sorry, my love.”

  Isolde’s face pinches in confusion. “I’m . . . not coming with you?”

  “No, you’re not. Dayna and Adriel are going to watch out for you, though. And I’ll be back before you know it.” Niamh’s voice cracks on the last sentence. She clutches Isolde’s hand and looks from Dayna to Adriel. “Take care of her. Please.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll do everything we can,” Adriel promises. He rises and lifts Isolde into his arms. “The coast is less than half an hour’s walk from here. Go west until you hit the shore, then north to the start of the trail. Do you remember where Firesse and her people left their canoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Dayna embraces Niamh, then Mercy. “Be careful.”

  “We will.”

  Her mother smiles. “I know you will, but saying it makes me feel better. You’ll come back and visit?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Dayna?” Adriel says, a warning in his voice. “We have to go now. It’s a long walk back to camp.” His gaze meets Mercy’s and holds it for a long moment, his eyes shining with pain, love, and pride. He nods.

  She returns it. Everything they’d had to say was said at Hadriana’s Bluff. Adriel smiles sadly, then turns and starts walking the way they’d come, Dayna falling into step beside him.

  Just like that, Mercy’s parents walk out of her life for the second—and possibly last—time.

  They don’t have the time or supplies to bury Silas and Maceo, so Master Oliver says one last prayer over their bodies and takes the few personal effects from their pockets to give to their families. While Akiva and Clyde collect the crates and the scattered Cedikra, Master Oliver picks up Silas’s and Maceo’s swords, wipes off the blood, and hands one to Niamh and the other to Nynev. “For your protection,” he says gruffly.

  “Thank you,” Nynev murmurs. Niamh merely nods, sniffling.

  Tamriel steps in front of Mercy, searching her up and down for injuries. “Are you hurt? Did you find the hunter? By the Creator, Mercy, why did you go after him? How could you be so rash?”

  She raises a brow. “I can take care of myself, remember? I’m not some helpless little noblewoman in need of your protection.”

  Tamriel huffs. “Right. How dare I worry about your wellbeing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Your Highness?” Akiva calls. “We’re ready to go whenever you wish.”

  Tamriel retrieves and sheathes his sword. He and Mercy each take one of the crates of Cedikra and start westward, Niamh, Nynev, and the guards falling into step behind them. They make slow progress across the uneven terrain, each heavy with grief and exhaustion, until they finally emerge onto the shore. The blue-green water of the Abraxas Sea sparkles under the sunlight, the salt-scented breeze cooling the sweat coating Mercy’s skin.

  As Adriel had instructed, they follow the shore north until they reach the small, hidden cove where Kaius and Firesse had left the canoes. Master Oliver and the guards fill one with the crates of Cedikra, then push it into the water and hop inside. Tamriel, Mercy, Nynev, and Niamh take another.

  We can do this, Mercy thinks, hopeful for the first time since leaving Ialathan. We found Niamh and the Cedikra. We’re going to cure the plague.

  39

  Calum

  Calum’s muscles are sore and aching when he and Kaius ride into Cyrna several days after their spontaneous horse thievery. He lets out a sigh of relief as the ground under their hooves shifts from dirt to cobblestone, the dark wood houses providing a welcome respite from the late
afternoon sun. They stop at the stables to board their horses for the night and continue into the town on foot. With any luck, Kaius had said earlier that day, they’ll send the letter to the Guild and start back to the Islands early the next morning.

  “Now,” Kaius says, pulling Calum aside on an empty street. “How will we get a letter all the way to the Keep?”

  “Messengers don’t go any farther south than Ellesmere, so we’ll have to send a raven. And the only place that will have a raven trained to fly to the Keep is . . .” Calum pauses, wracking his brain to remember where Mercy had seen the shop which acts as Illynor’s contact in Cyrna. “The fishmonger!”

  “The fishmonger?”

  “Yes! Mercy saw it when we first arrived. It’s on the other side of town, but if we hurry, we might make it before the shop closes.”

  “Excellent. We’ll have to stick to alleys and side streets to keep anyone we pass from noticing my tattoos. You know your way around?”

  “As well as one can hope. Come on.”

  They dart through the nearest alley, taking care not to step in the many puddles of sewage. Calum quickens his pace and tries not to breathe too deeply; the stench is one thing he hadn’t missed about civilization. The shadows grow longer as they cross the city, and Calum prays they’ll arrive before the fishmonger closes shop. He wanders down more dank alleys and narrow cobbled roads, Kaius close on his heels, and desperately searches for a familiar landmark from the one—and only—other time he’d been here. They’d come from the western stables, having left their horses for the night, and walked—

  “There! Straight ahead!” Calum tosses the words over his shoulder the second he sees the sign hanging over the corner store’s door. A lantern sits on the sill of one of the open windows, still lit. It’s still open. We made it, he thinks, uncertain whether he should be relieved or disappointed at the fact. After everything which has happened, he’s not certain about anything except his need to keep Tamriel safe. If bargaining with the Daughters on Firesse’s behalf achieves that, by the Creator, he’ll do it.

  They slow as they near the store, and a wave of foreboding fills Calum when his eyes land on the teardrop-shaped stain in the corner of the shop’s sign—confirmation that it’s one of Mother Illynor’s contacts. He reaches into his pocket and runs his finger over Mercy’s gold Guild token, which he’d stolen from Ghyslain’s study weeks ago. He takes a deep breath and follows Kaius into the shop.

  The room is tiny, every inch crammed with iceboxes full of more types of fish than Calum knew existed. His skin crawls at the sight of so many cloudy, dead eyes staring up at him. A man stands behind the counter near the far wall, wrapping a bass for a pretty young woman. Calum and Kaius feign interest in several large catfish as the woman pays the fishmonger, turns around, and shrieks.

  “A-A C-C-Cirisian!” she stammers, eyes wide as saucers. She clutches her purchase to her chest, the blood draining from her face.

  The fishmonger darts from behind the counter and pushes the woman behind him. He holds out a sharp little knife. “I don’t serve your kind,” he snarls, his lip curling in disgust. “Get the hell out of my shop before I call the guards.”

  “I don’t take kindly to threats,” Kaius snaps, bristling.

  “You’ll leave now or you’ll be sorry.” The shopkeeper points at Calum. “You get that filth out of here, and don’t bother coming back! I don’t sell to knife-ear sympathizers.”

  Calum shoots him his most charming smile. “I’m not here to buy anything. I just need a favor.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Guild token, the gold teardrop shining in the lantern light. “I believe you recognize this?”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He hesitates, his eyes never straying from the coin, then says, “Roslyn, go on home, my dear.” He turns to the woman and smiles. “Your family must be waiting for you.”

  She runs to the door, giving a wide berth to Calum and Kaius, before pausing in the doorway. “Shall I fetch the guards?”

  “We’ll only take a moment of his time,” Kaius says, smiling without a hint of kindness. “Leave now.”

  “Close the door on your way out, please,” the fishmonger says. He steps behind the counter the second the door swings shut. “Where did you find that coin, boy?”

  “Not important,” Kaius says.

  Calum opens his mouth to speak, then remembers what Mercy had said as they left Sandori, that Faye and Lylia would never stop hunting her for killing Aelis. Perhaps the apprentices had tracked them to Cyrna. “We have reason to believe two Daughters passed through here recently. Did you speak with them or send a raven to the Keep for them?”

  “Why should I tell you? You don’t look like any sort of Daughter I’ve ever seen—not that I’ve seen any, of course. Those assassins are dangerous company, so I’ve heard.”

  “Just answer the question,” Kaius growls. He steps forward, reaching for the knife tucked into his waistband.

  “Stop right there,” the man snaps. “I meant what I said about not serving your kind. You’re lucky I don’t sic the guards on you for terrorizing my customer.”

  “You want us out of here, give us the information we need.”

  “We just need some details about the Daughters who stopped here,” Calum says, forcing his voice to remain calm. “And to send a raven to Mother Illynor.”

  The fishmonger shrugs. “Even if I could, why would I help you?”

  “Perhaps you wish to keep all your organs inside your body,” Kaius suggests.

  “Most people prefer them there,” Calum agrees. “The two Daughters are named Lylia and Faye. One has black hair, the other auburn, both intimidatingly beautiful. We just need to know if they’re here.” He nods as he speaks, willing the shopkeeper to see how desperately they need help. If he can’t secure the Guild’s aid for Firesse, Tamriel is as good as dead.

  The man glares at them for a long moment before he finally concedes. “Yes, they contacted me. They’re staying in a tavern two blocks north of here, awaiting instructions from Mother Illynor. Apparently they’re hunting an Assassin who went rogue.”

  “You’re sure they’re still in town?”

  “They’ve been coming in twice a day to check for a response.”

  “Thank you.” Calum pulls a wrinkled paper from his other pocket, some of the words smudged from wear. “Will you send this to Illynor immediately? It’s extremely important.”

  The fishmonger takes the paper, pinching the corner between his index finger and thumb. “If it means you’ll keep your mouths shut about my dealings, I’ll do it. Check back in a week or so for a response.”

  “No response necessary,” Kaius says. They’d included that in the letter along with the details of Firesse’s plan to bolster her troops with the Guild’s highly-trained fighters. If Mother Illynor agrees to fight, she is to arrive in the Cirisor Islands in two weeks’ time with every Daughter and apprentice in tow. In exchange, they’ll be paid handsomely with money from Drake’s many overseas accounts, Firesse had happily informed Calum before he and Kaius had left.

  The fishmonger nods. “Then I believe our business here is done. See yourselves out.”

  Later, Calum stops Kaius as they near the tavern. “Maybe you should wait outside,” he suggests. “I’ll talk to the Assassins alone, and you can sneak in afterward to avoid making a scene.”

  “I suppose that would be wise. Is that it?” The hunter points to a wide, squat building on the corner, its windows open and lanterns ablaze. Music and voices pour through the open double doors.

  “Looks like it. Wait here.”

  Calum smooths the front of his shirt—which doesn’t help, really, since he’s been wearing it for four days straight—and saunters into the tavern, breathing in the scents of wood-burning stoves and strong liquor. Two long tables stretch across the center of the room, platters of food being passed from person to person. There are fish filets and r
ipe, colorful fruits and baskets of hard, grainy rolls. The food is cheap—a commoner’s meal—but the sight makes Calum’s mouth water. Stress and strange circumstances have caused him to lose a lot of weight over the past few weeks, and he can feel the weakness in his body constantly. His normally perfectly tailored clothes now hang from his frame.

  One of the women pouring ale notices Calum standing in the doorway and calls, “Four aurums for a plate, two for a pint, and twenty for a room. What’ll it be?”

  “None. I’m meeting someone.”

  The woman turns away, immediately losing interest. Calum scans the room. A bar lines one wall, several drunken patrons shouting over one another as the barmaid frantically fills the empty mugs thrust at her. Most of the customers there are men, and none of the women are beautiful or striking enough to be Faye or Lylia. Smaller tables are crammed in the back of the room beside the kitchen, partially hidden behind the wooden columns which support the second floor. Calum’s gaze travels over the patrons’ faces, pausing when he reaches the table shoved into the corner between the wall and the stairs.

  Two women are staring straight at him—one red-headed, the other black.

  Lylia’s unsettling ice-blue eyes follow him as he crosses the room. Faye raises a brow. “What brings you here?” she asks when he stops before them.

  “You.”

  “Me? I’m flattered.” She kicks out the stool nearest him. “Sit. We’ll order you a plate and a pint. You look like you could use it.”

  “You have no idea. But I can’t pay you back for it.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We still have the money you gave us at Blackbriar. So, in a way, this meal is on you.” She stands and calls an order to the nearest server. As the woman hurries back to the kitchen, Faye plunks back down on her stool and rests her elbow on the table, dropping her chin into her palm. “How did you find us?”

  Calum holds up the Guild coin. “I met the fishmonger a few minutes ago. He’s not very friendly.”

  “Neither are we, unless we choose to be.” Faye glances sidelong at Lylia, her expression suggesting she is less than thrilled at being paired with Mercy’s longtime tormentor. “If you’re here about the contract, you needn’t be concerned. You can tell the king we are doing everything in our power to find Tamriel. The contract will be completed.”