Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “The king?” he repeats, confused. Right, he realizes belatedly, they still think Ghyslain bought the contract. “Yes, well, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, it’s a bit complicated, but, um—”

  “Spit it out,” Lylia snaps.

  Calum glances around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. What he’s about to say isn’t part of Firesse’s plot, but it will certainly allow him to return to Sandori without being arrested for treason. “You two are looking for Mercy, right? You tracked her here, then lost the trail?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been traveling with Mercy since she and the prince left Sandori. I know what she did to that Daughter, and I know where she is right now. I’ll trade that information for a promise.”

  Faye leans forward in her seat. “You know—?”

  “What promise?” Lylia interrupts. In the low light, Calum can see the murderous hunger glittering in her eyes at the thought of hurting Mercy.

  “You must accompany me and my friend back to our camp in the Islands. Firesse, their First, plans to invade Beltharos. When Firesse and her clanmembers attack Sandori, you will aid her ranks.”

  “We’re not soldiers,” Faye objects.

  “Neither are the Cirisians. They’ll need all the help they can get. Firesse will pay for your aid—she’ll give you more money than you will ever make from a contract. Plus,” he says, “the Strykers will be there. We could craft you weapons which will make Mercy’s daggers look like butter knives.”

  Lylia and Faye exchange a look as the server sets down a heaping plate of fish and vegetables and a pint of ale before Calum. When the woman leaves, Lylia stands. “We need a moment to discuss this in private. Faye, get over here.”

  They disappear up the stairs as Calum scarfs down his dinner, not realizing how hungry he’d been until the food had been placed before him. In fact, he is so absorbed in filling his empty stomach that he doesn’t notice the noise rising at the tables behind him until the sharp sound of shattering glass cuts through the voices. When he turns and sees the cause of the cacophony, he nearly chokes on a chunk of potato.

  Kaius is standing beside one of the long tables, a pitcher in his hand as he pours ale into an obnoxiously drunk fisherman’s mug. A shiny white slave sash lies diagonally across his chest—he must have stolen it while he was waiting outside, but where he found it is beyond Calum. The fisherman shouts something to his friends, throws his head back and laughs, then stumbles. Half of his drink sloshes onto the front of his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  Kaius helps the man onto his seat and refills his glass, patting him on the back before he smiles and walks away. He meets Calum’s gaze and grins triumphantly as he approaches.

  “What happened to waiting outside?”

  “I came up with a plan to get us a room for the night.” He sets the pitcher down with a thunk and holds out a shiny iron key. “I stole it from the fisherman when he fell. Where are the Daughters?”

  “Upstairs, discussing our proposal. Now get out of here before someone realizes you’re not a slave.”

  “Fine. I’ll go find our room. When you’re done, bring up whatever’s left of that food. I’m starving.” He trudges up the stairs. A few minutes later, Faye and Lylia return.

  Calum jumps out of his chair the second they reach the bottom of the stairs. “Well?”

  “These circumstances are . . . unusual, to say the least,” Faye begins. “We’ve been waiting here for two weeks without a clue where Mercy could have gone and no instructions from Mother Illynor. Mercy’s dangerous, and it’s imperative we return her to the Guild immediately.”

  Hope blossoms in Calum’s chest. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

  “We . . . will.” In her millisecond of hesitation, regret flashes across Faye’s face, a hint of pain and sympathy for her former friend. Then her expression hardens. “Where is Mercy?”

  “Last I saw her, she’s in Cirisor. She was hiding a few islands in from the border. Kaius—my friend—and I can help you find her.” He yawns. “We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Very well.” Lylia stands and starts toward the stairs, but Faye lingers behind.

  “Is Mercy with the prince?” she blurts.

  “Yes.”

  “Does . . . Does she love him?”

  The expression on Faye’s face is so full of desperate hope—that Mercy somehow made a mistake, that she didn’t turn her back on the Guild and everyone she knew—that it breaks Calum’s heart. Faye isn’t Lylia; she doesn’t hate Mercy. She doesn’t revel in the thought of her friend being punished for killing that Daughter. But, for once, Calum can’t find it within himself to lie. “She does, and he loves her—he loves her more than anything in the world.”

  Calum looks away as Faye’s face crumples, guilt washing over him at betraying Mercy. He knows how much she means to Tamriel. He knows how much losing her is going to cost him, but once she’s out of the way, Calum will be free to negotiate the annulment of Tamriel’s contract with the Guild without fearing that Mercy will reveal his treason to the king’s court. No one will ever know the depth of his betrayal. Since he came up with the idea for the contract, his life has been one deceit after another. He will spend whatever time he has left trying to make it right.

  Faye quickly composes herself. She tosses two aurums onto the table. “If you’d like another pint, it’s on us. We’ll be upstairs.”

  He merely nods. After the apprentices leave—Faye quiet and forlorn and Lylia looking unabashedly smug—Calum turns his attention to the half-empty mug of ale before him. He refills his cup with the pitcher Kaius had left, eyeing the two aurums Faye had given him. He’d sworn off drinking after that night with Firesse’s so-called wine, but now seems as fitting a time as any to drown his troubles in alcohol.

  Maybe I’ll get lucky and drink myself to death, Calum thinks sullenly. Then I won’t have to live with what I’ve just done. He raises his mug in a silent toast, then throws his head back and takes a long, deep drink.

  40

  Mercy

  We’re moving too slowly. We’re never going to make it back to Sandori in time.

  Contrary to the king’s wishes, they’re taking the direct route back—along the king’s highway, through every city along the way. It doesn’t matter who sees. Firesse and her band of would-be soldiers are too important to waste time riding along the Mountains.

  Tamriel doesn’t voice his concerns, but Mercy knows what he’s thinking as he paces before the stone fireplace, the worn wooden floorboards creaking under every other step. The flames cast him in warm golden light as he frowns and rubs his temples for the hundredth time since they’d left the Islands three days ago. After endless hours of walking along the only road to the capital, they’d finally stumbled upon a rambling farmhouse nestled between two rivers. The owner, Hessa, had spotted them from her fields, taken one look at their gaunt faces and ratty clothes, and insisted they join her for dinner and spend the night. Mercy isn’t even sure if Hessa knows she’s hosting the prince in her home—with her lack of teeth and thick Rivosi accent, only one in every five or six words out of her mouth is intelligible.

  Mercy sighs and rises from the ratty sofa, watching as Tamriel crosses the room once, then again, lost in thought. The third time he passes her, she reaches out and snags the back of the homespun tunic Hessa had given him from her late husband’s wardrobe. “You’re going to wear through the floorboards if you keep pacing like that.”

  He immediately turns, his furrowed brow relaxing when he looks at her. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop thinking about all the people we left behind, and what my father might have done since we left, and how bad the outbreak must have become these past few weeks. We’ve already been gone two weeks. I’m afraid we’ll—”

  Mercy cuts him off with a kiss. His hands settle into the curve of her waist, tugging her close. Then he pulls back and frowns.

  “You really can’t ju
st kiss me to shut me up. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “It doesn’t?” Mercy bites her lower lip—something she’d seen the apprentices and Daughters do to get the Strykers’ attention. Although she feels foolish, she grins triumphantly when Tamriel’s gaze drops to her mouth.

  “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “You know what.” He rolls his eyes. “Teasing me, batting your lashes.”

  “I have never batted my lashes in my life,” Mercy snarls, feigning offense. She tries to step back, but Tamriel’s grip tightens on her waist, holding her in place. He shoots her a roguish smile.

  “Oh, no? You never copied the young noblewomen in the castle? Never stood in front of a mirror and practiced swooning gracefully onto a divan? How did you ever hope to pass as nobility without that crucial knowledge?”

  “I have other skills at my disposal.” Mercy intertwines her fingers behind Tamriel’s neck and pulls him close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispers, “You’ve seen me naked once. It’s only fair you return the favor.”

  Tamriel’s brows shoot up. “Mercy! I can’t— We can’t just— Here?”

  Mercy kisses him again, shifting until he’s flush against her. She lifts the hem of his shirt and brushes her fingers lightly along his sides, making him shiver.

  She pulls back and shoots him a teasing grin. “That time I kissed you to shut you up.”

  He blushes. “Well, to suggest—”

  “Do you honestly think I’d suggest we sleep together in a strange old woman’s house?” Mercy glances at the doorway. “Where are the guards, by the way? I haven’t seen them since we arrived.”

  “Resting upstairs. Master Oliver didn’t like it, but I insisted I can watch out for myself.”

  “Everyone else is asleep, huh? I guess my plan worked: earn back your trust, then kill you when we’re alone to get back in the Guild’s good graces.”

  Tamriel’s face scrunches as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Don’t joke about that.”

  “Sorry. All I meant by this”—she waves a hand between them—“was to take your mind off Firesse, even if it was only for a little while.”

  “Well, it worked. I’m officially distracted.” He falls back onto the couch and tugs her down beside him, pressing a kiss to her temple. His gaze flits to her lips and he grins. “Feel free to distract me more often.”

  Mercy laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She relaxes against his chest, and his arm slips over her shoulders. “Try not to worry too much. We’re moving slowly, but we’re working our way to Sandori. It’s better than being trapped on the Cirisor Islands.” She doesn’t voice her own concerns: the longer it takes them to reach the capital, the more people are going to be infected by the plague. There’s no telling how far the outbreak has spread since they left two weeks ago, and they still have to figure out the cure. The Cedikra won’t last forever—eventually the fruit is going to ripen and rot, and there is no way they are returning to the Islands for more while Firesse is a threat.

  “You’re right. Believe me, I’m doing the best I can, but I can’t stop thinking about what Pilar said at the Solari festival: the north and the plague are connected. We know she meant the Islands, but I think there’s more to the north than just the cure. What if—What if Firesse did something to cause this plague?”

  “That can’t be possible, can it?”

  “She forced Calum to kill another First and trapped Niamh between our world and the Beyond. It’s safe to assume we have no idea what she is capable of.”

  Mercy sits up, letting Tamriel’s arm fall off her shoulders. “Regardless, there’s nothing we can do now except return to the capital as quickly as possible. Niamh and I will work with the herbalists and healers on the cure. You and Master Oliver can prepare the guards for Firesse’s attack. We’ll make it work.”

  “I spoke to Hessa earlier and she agreed to give us her horse and cart to carry the Cedikra the rest of the way. She only has one horse, but there’s a farming town a half-day’s walk from here where we can requisition more.”

  “She told you all that, and you understood her?”

  “More or less.”

  Mercy raises a brow, unconvinced. “I’m guessing she had to repeat herself until you understood?”

  “Only about a dozen times.”

  The front door swings open and Hessa enters with an armful of potatoes, carrots, celery, and a thick slab of ham. She smiles at Tamriel and Mercy, kicks the door shut behind her, then unceremoniously dumps the food onto the kitchen counter, mumbling something unintelligible about supper. Tamriel and Mercy glance at each other, uncertain whether she’s talking to them or herself. Hessa begins to peel a carrot, then pauses and gestures to Mercy and Tamriel.

  “I think she wants us to help,” Tamriel murmurs. “I’ll stay here. Do you mind waking everyone up? Just watch out for Master Oliver. He can be downright terrifying when he’s tired.”

  “I think I can handle him.”

  Tamriel smiles, then leans over and kisses her quickly. “I know you can, my love.” He rises and moves to the kitchen, oblivious to the effect his words have on Mercy. When she was in the Guild, she never could have imagined her first contract changing her this much, changing her into someone as happy—as loving—as she is now. When she’d been imprisoned in the castle dungeon, she’d thought she’d irrevocably lost Tamriel’s trust, but here he is, protecting her, confiding in her, supporting her. Nothing in the Guild’s training could have prepared her for this—in fact, if the apprentice she’d been before could see her now, she’d be disgusted by the woman she has become.

  Supper that night is a hearty stew, a thick broth with chunks of the vegetables and ham which Hessa had brought in earlier that evening. Thick, grainy rolls a few days past their prime and bottles of sour wine accompany the meal. Mercy, Tamriel, and the others are crowded around the large farmer’s table in the center of the kitchen, chattering over one another as they pass bowls and baskets of bread around. Tamriel is seated beside Mercy, their joined hands resting on the table between them. Niamh and Nynev are quiet, but Master Oliver and the guards keep up a constant dialogue with Hessa, their stories and smiles not quite masking their grief.

  They remain at the table long after the sun has set, the stars twinkling through the open windows. Hessa smiles toothlessly, obviously delighted at having guests, and shuffles around the table refilling glasses with her homemade wine. Mercy’s eyelids begin to droop as the night wears on. She forces herself to stay awake, ignoring Tamriel’s chuckles at her attempts not to drift off.

  Only when they have eaten their fill and drunk their way through too many bottles of wine do they retire to their bedrooms. Nynev and Niamh stay behind to help Hessa clean up the dishes as Tamriel, Mercy, and the guards make their way upstairs.

  “G’night,” Akiva murmurs as he slips into his room. He offers Tamriel a lazy salute, then shuts the door behind himself.

  “Your Highness.” Clyde bows to Mercy and Tamriel, then disappears into his room, leaving them alone with Master Oliver.

  “Your Highness, I’ll keep watch outside your room tonight,” Oliver says. “I doubt we have to worry about an eighty-year-old woman trying to harm you, but I’d still prefer to take precautions.”

  “Whatever you think is best. How is your shoulder?”

  “Still painful, but I can manage. Thankfully it’s not my sword arm.”

  Tamriel frowns. “You shouldn’t have fought those elves when we were leaving the Islands. Let the—”

  “What, let the other, younger guards fight for me? Is that what you were going to say, Your Highness?” Oliver crosses his arms, staring down at Tamriel in mock disapproval.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll not have anyone doubting my ability as Master of the Guard—not even a prince.”

  “Understood. Goodnight, sir.”

  “Goodnight, son.”

  Tamriel squeezes Mercy’s hand once before stepping i
nto his bedroom and closing the door. Master Oliver positions himself at the end of the hall, one hand resting on the grip of his sword.

  “He’s lucky to have you, you know,” Master Oliver says, quietly enough no one would be able to hear his words through the walls.

  “I can think of a lot of people who would disagree,” Mercy responds, although her heart swells with pride at having earned the tough old guard’s approval. “Are you going to stay out here all night?”

  “Just until those two fools sleep off their drinks.”

  She nods and slips into her room, shivering when a gust of cool wind snakes through the open window. She closes the shutters, shucks off all but her underclothes, then climbs into the huge bed in the middle of the room. The mattress is stuffed with hay, the blankets thick, warm, scratchy wool.

  Mercy is nearly asleep when she hears a door open somewhere down the hall, followed by a murmur of voices. There’s a long, quiet pause, then the doorknob turns and a sliver of light cuts through the darkness of her room. Mercy bolts upright.

  “What are—?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Tamriel whispers. “May I come in?”

  “Sure, but—”

  He creeps in, quietly closing and latching the door. Before Mercy can finish her sentence, Tamriel crosses the room and kisses her, one hand tangling in her thick curls. He’s leaning over the side of the bed, propping himself up with his other hand. When his tongue darts out and teases hers, Mercy moans and wraps a fist in the front of his sleep tunic, pulling him close. He loses his balance and falls on top of her, letting out a soft laugh when they break apart.

  “Sorry, my love, but I couldn’t bear to think of you lying in here all alone,” Tamriel whispers, his grin a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “May I stay with you?”