Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  A tremor of excitement dances down Mercy’s spine. She tries not to focus on Tamriel’s knees straddling her hips and the way the moonlight turns his loose dark hair silver. “What will the others think of you spending the night in my room?”

  “Everyone except Master Oliver is asleep, and he won’t say a word.” Then Tamriel’s grin widens. “On second thought, some idle gossip wouldn’t hurt, would it? A bit of levity amidst all this darkness and angst?”

  Mercy snorts. “I think you drank too much at dinner.”

  “I think I didn’t drink enough.” His fingers trail down the side of her face, cupping her wine-flushed cheeks before tracing the curve of her lower lip. Mercy stares up at him, entranced by the movement. As she watches, his expression shifts, the look in his eyes morphing from fierce protectiveness to something softer, something fragile. Something intimate. It takes all Mercy’s strength not to look away; she’d never trained in the Guild for this. For a girl who had grown up with nothing—with no one—it’s too much, too fast. When Tamriel leans forward to kiss her again, Mercy presses a hand to his chest.

  “Stop,” she whispers, and he freezes.

  “Too much?”

  She nods. “Will you just lie here with me?”

  Tamriel doesn’t mock her for teasing him earlier that evening. He simply slips under the blankets and pulls her close, their arms and legs entangled as they stare at each other, illuminated with the slender lines of moonlight through the shutters. Tamriel’s warmth envelops her, chasing away the chill of the room, and his breath is sweet and soft on her face, scented with the spicy aroma of Hessa’s wine.

  Mercy is on the brink of sleep when she feels Tamriel’s hand drift down her bare back, tracing the lines of old scars. His voice is hoarse with emotion when he whispers, “I love you, Mercy.”

  “Love you, too,” she murmurs.

  Tamriel’s arms tighten around her and she hears his smile when he says, “You are my everything, my love. That will never, ever change.”

  Mercy mumbles something incoherent in response, too far past the brink of sleep to realize how much his words sound like a goodbye.

  41

  Mercy

  Hessa wakes everyone at dawn the next day, already dressed and with breakfast waiting in the kitchen. Like the night before, Tamriel and Mercy sit side-by-side at the large table, surrounded by the elves and the guards who either hadn’t noticed or, mercifully, choose not to remark upon their sharing a room. Not that anything had happened over which they could gossip, Mercy reminds herself, but Tamriel isn’t exactly subtle when he glances at her several times over the course of the meal, more often than he usually does. In fact, he seems nervous about something. He fidgets with the edge of his cloth napkin and pokes at more of his food than he eats.

  When breakfast is over, Niamh pulls Mercy aside as they help Hessa clear the table. “What is wrong with the prince?” Her eyes follow Tamriel, Nynev, and the guards as they head upstairs to get dressed and gather their few belongings.

  “I don’t know.” Mercy shrugs, but Tamriel’s strange behavior had already struck her as odd. Yesterday, he’d been concerned but consolable. Today, he’s all agitation and restlessness. Even Master Oliver had kept a more watchful eye on him than usual during breakfast.

  “Well, he should know I will do everything I can to heal his people. If this Seer of his linked me to the cure, I’m sure I’ll be able to help somehow.”

  “You sound a lot more confident than you were a few days ago.”

  “I just want what’s best for all of our people.”

  “Me, too. Now, I know you don’t have any knowledge of herbalism, but I worked in the Guild’s infirmary for years. We’ll have time on the road to Sandori for me to teach you what I know.”

  Niamh’s face lights up. “Oh, would you? Please? I want to learn as much as I can.”

  “Sure. And if you’d like, I’ll help you work on the cure when we reach the capital. There are plenty of herbalists and healers in the city, of course, but if you’d like the help . . .”

  “Yes, of course! Thank you!” Niamh drops the wooden plate she’d been cleaning and hugs Mercy. Then she pulls back, blushing. “Sorry.”

  They work quietly until Tamriel and the others return, dressed in more simple clothes left by Hessa’s family. While Mercy and Niamh change in their rooms, Tamriel and the others help Hessa load the crates and chests of Cedikra onto the horse and cart she had given them. The sun sits low in the east when Mercy and Niamh step outside with the bundle of food the farmwoman had packed for them for the road.

  She smiles at them and pats Mercy on the cheek with a wrinkled hand, mumbling something about staying safe. Then, after one more set of garbled directions to the nearest farming town, they set off on the road once more.

  They arrive in Redscale Down around noon, the peaceful town rising like an oasis in the midst of the wild countryside and twisting, twining rivers. Like most of the fishing villages, the houses are small and unadorned, surrounded by lush gardens and irrigated fields. Despite its charming, quiet appearance, Tamriel stops a mile before they reach the outskirts of the village and sends Master Oliver and the guards to requisition horses. When Mercy questions why he has chosen to wait behind, he responds that the guards alone aren’t as noteworthy as if they were accompanied by a prince and three elves, two of whom are obviously Cirisian—which, Mercy admits, is a valid argument, but this, coupled with his strange behavior earlier, hints at something more than he’s letting on.

  When Master Oliver and the guards return with the horses, they start toward Sandori once again. Mercy rides in the middle of the group with Nynev and Niamh, describing everything she can remember from her days in the infirmary with Mistress Sorin. It’s difficult to dredge up those memories; Mistress Sorin had never been cruel to her. In fact, she and Faye had been Mercy’s closest family at the Keep. Still, she pushes past the unexpected wave of nostalgia and teaches Niamh everything she thinks might be applicable to the cure, including the treatments and tonics Alyss had tried on Owl and the other priestesses.

  The sun is just beginning to set when they reach Cazelle, silhouetting the town against a vivid pink sky, but Tamriel leads them straight through. Well, not straight through: the town is too large to go around like they did of Redscale Down, so Tamriel keeps them on narrow, empty side streets as they work their way through the village. Dressed in homespun tunics, sunburned, and windswept, they look like ordinary travelers, and no one they encounter pays them any heed, oblivious to the prince in their midst.

  As they continue westward, leaving Cazelle behind them, Mercy spurs her horse and rides to Tamriel’s side. “Why did we not stay in that town for the night?”

  “It’s not very late. We can make it to Xilor if we ride quickly,” Tamriel responds, his eyes glued on the horizon.

  “Tamriel, we’re hungry, tired, and sore. We have all day tomorrow to ride. Can’t we turn around and find an inn for the night?”

  “No,” Tamriel says sharply. He flinches and finally looks at Mercy, his expression softening. “I know we’re all exhausted, but it’s only a few hours to Xilor. If we make it there tonight, we won’t have as mush distance to cross tomorrow.”

  “You’re acting really strange. Are you all right?”

  “Of course, I am. Just anxious, that’s all.”

  Once the lights of Cazelle fade into the growing darkness, Tamriel spurs his horse, urging the others faster until the cart of Cedikra jolts and bounces on the dirt road, threatening to overturn whenever it hits a rut or stone. Thankfully, the moon is unobscured by clouds, casting the road and surrounding fields in silver light. The shallow rivers to which they ride parallel shimmer like liquid starlight.

  Finally, the city of Xilor appears in the distance before them, its buildings rising from the plains like inky, jagged teeth, blotting out more and more of the starry sky as they approach. A few spots of light glow from open windows, but the town is mostly dark, its people tucked a
way in their homes for the night. As in Cyrna, the dirt road turns to cobblestone as they near the city. The clacking of their horses’ hooves on the stone fractures the peaceful midnight quiet, the battered wooden wheels of the cart groaning with every turn. Tamriel leads them down the city’s main street, letting out a relieved sigh when he spots a tavern.

  Mercy dismounts as Master Oliver and Tamriel secure rooms inside, then helps Niamh and Nynev down from their mounts. Their faces are tight with pain and fatigue, their hands sore from holding the reins and legs quivering from the long day of riding. Mercy remembers belatedly that they’ve likely never ridden a horse for more than a few hours at a time. Mercy helps ease them into a seated position against the wall of the tavern and shows them how to massage the cramps in their legs, then she begins helping Akiva and Clyde unload the crates of Cedikra from the cart.

  Tamriel and Master Oliver return a few minutes later with a single key. “The only room left is a shared dormitory,” Tamriel says, frowning. “Ten beds, which means we’ll have company for the night.”

  “I’d sleep in that disgusting alley across the street if it meant I’d have a break from riding for a few hours,” Nynev mutters, grimacing as she kneads one of her calves. Her other hand clutches her bow and quiver, which she hasn’t let out of her sight since they left the Islands.

  “We also paid for them to send leftovers from dinner to our room, so you don’t have to go to bed hungry,” Master Oliver adds. “We couldn’t afford much—Firesse didn’t leave us with much money to spare—but we’ll have enough to make it to Sandori.”

  Mercy and Tamriel help the guards carry in the crates of Cedikra. Niamh and Nynev trail behind, shambling with exhaustion, and Master Oliver takes up the rear after tying off their horses. Nynev snorts when Tamriel opens the door to their dormitory.

  “Somehow I thought traveling with royalty would be more luxurious than this.”

  Tamriel shushes her. “You’re welcome to sleep in the alley if this isn’t good enough for you.”

  Mercy peers over his shoulder into the room. Five beds line the left and right walls, with small wooden footlockers beside each. As Mercy steps more fully into the room, she realizes ‘bed’ isn’t quite the proper term for the worn furniture; they’re merely hay-stuffed mattresses laid atop wooden pallets. Each is no more than six inches off the ground, musty and faded blankets folded at the foot of each mattress. The three farthest beds are occupied by slumbering travelers.

  “Well, they don’t look comfortable . . . or warm . . . or clean,” Mercy begins, “but . . . at least they’re something?”

  “Shut yer damn mouths,” someone in the back of the room mumbles. “I’m tryin’ to sleep here.”

  “Well,” Tamriel quips, looking from the guards to Nynev, Mercy, and Niamh, daring them to complain. “That settles that, I think.”

  They stack the crates of Cedikra against the far wall and retreat to their respective beds, Tamriel, Master Oliver, and the guards on one side of the room, Mercy, Nynev, and Niamh on the other. A barmaid brings them platters of cold chicken and dry rolls of bread, which they devour in a matter of minutes in the light of a short, flickering candle. Without bothering to change out of her sweat-stained, ill-fitting clothes, Mercy falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Niamh shakes her awake early the next morning, faint lines of sunlight seeping through the slatted window of the dormitory’s exterior wall. Mercy sits up and rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. Across from her, Tamriel rises from his bed, his dark wavy hair mussed from sleep. Master Oliver and the guards are already awake and dressed, carrying the Cedikra from the room to load onto Hessa’s cart. Mercy flops back with a groan.

  “You couldn’t let us sleep in a little?”

  “There’ll be plenty of time to sleep in when we return to the capital,” Tamriel responds, although they all know it’s a lie. Their work will have just begun when they return to Sandori. “And I don’t think I have to remind you what happened last time I let you sleep in.”

  Mercy runs a hand through her tangle of curls, frizzy like a lion’s mane. “I highly doubt Rennox are going to swoop down from the rafters and attack.”

  “You never know.”

  Niamh takes Mercy’s hand and pulls her upright, grinning. “We’re not far from Cyrna, and Master Oliver tells me it’s only a few days’ ride to Sandori after that.”

  “Fine, fine, let’s go.” Mercy stands and slips into a clean tunic, too exhausted to care about modesty. A flash of jealousy goes through her when she sees that the three people sharing their room are still sound asleep.

  Niamh’s smile slips as she fidgets with the sleeve of her shirt, an inch too short to hide the bottom of her garish scar. She catches Mercy watching and straightens.

  “Does it hurt?” Mercy asks.

  “It always throbs, but I’ve gotten used to it.” Her fingers hover over the broken skin, as if she can’t bear to touch it. “I just don’t like people seeing it. It’s a reminder of how unnatural I am. It’s why I hid from my clan for so long.”

  “Well, when we return, you won’t have to hide any longer. Firesse will be long gone.” Nynev’s voice precedes her into the room. She carries two baskets, one of fruit and one of small pastries. “Eat quickly. I think the merchant from whose table I stole these followed me.”

  “You stole them?” Tamriel’s brows shoot up. “Nynev!”

  “I saved us a few coins! You’re welcome.” She scowls at him. “If you don’t want to eat, don’t take any.”

  Tamriel rolls his eyes, but begrudgingly accepts an apple.

  They eat then mount their horses quickly. The roads are busy now, bustling with carriages, horses pulling carts of produce and fish, and townspeople wandering from shop to shop, trailed by slaves carrying their purchases. As usual, Tamriel and Master Oliver lead the group, expertly navigating their way through the crowds. Although they wear none of the finery with which they’d started the journey, several people stop and watch as they pass. Mercy can’t help but watch Tamriel as well. He rides with a regal set to his shoulders, his chin held high in a way which must have been engrained in him since childhood. Despite his ordinary clothing, it’s obvious he’s not a commoner.

  The current of people around them slows to a crawl as they near a large market set up in the town square. Merchants standing at rickety tables or sitting on colorful blankets hawk their wares to the passing shoppers, gesturing to their handcrafted toys or overflowing platters of fruit, vegetables, and dried meat. Tamriel stops his horse and calls to the rest of the group to dismount.

  They’re halfway through the market when Tamriel stops dead, so quickly Master Oliver trips on his heels. Mercy is behind him, between Nynev and Niamh, and she watches as the blood drains from the back of the prince’s neck.

  “Your Highness?” Master Oliver asks, immediately suspicious. He grips the handle of his sword but doesn’t unsheathe it for fear of causing a panic.

  “Tamriel? What’s wrong?” Mercy lays a hand on Tamriel’s shoulder, shocked to find him trembling.

  His wide eyes meet hers a moment later, his face white as a sheet.

  Mercy’s heart stops momentarily, her stomach dropping. “What is it?”

  He points to a man down the street, the sharp cheekbones and dark, neat ponytail unmistakable. “Calum.”

  42

  Calum

  The morning after finding the Daughters, Calum takes his time rising, lazing about on one of the two uncomfortable beds in the room Kaius had found them. The hunter is still asleep on the bed opposite his, an arm thrown over his eyes to ward off the slivers of sunlight streaming through the cracked and broken shutters. Calum sighs. The barkeep must’ve watered down the ale, because Calum hadn’t gotten nearly as drunk as he’d intended. Aside from a general sluggishness tugging at his limbs and a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, he’s perfectly fine. He grimaces and closes his eyes, longing to extend the peaceful morning a few minutes longer.

  Unf
ortunately, Kaius awakens shortly thereafter and immediately springs into action, rousing Calum and dragging him down the hall to meet Lylia and Faye outside their room. They’re already dressed and packed, their few belongings contained in the two canvas knapsacks in their hands. Lylia’s tall, ornamental longbow is slung over her shoulder and her daggers are sheathed at her hips. Faye wears a belt outfitted with six menacingly sharp throwing knives.

  “Kaius, this is Lylia and Faye, apprentices of the Guild.”

  Lylia’s nose scrunches. “Your friend is a Cirisian?” she asks Calum, her lip curling. She spits the word like a curse.

  “Yes, and you’ll be in the company of many more when we return my clan, so I suggest you keep your opinions about my people to yourself,” Kaius snaps.

  Lylia blinks, the disgust on her face slowly shifting to respect, impressed with his sharp tongue. “Very well,” she responds slowly. “So long as our working together is mutually beneficial, I’ll be civil.”

  “You’ll find the Daughter you seek,” he promises.

  “You’re sure Mercy is in the Islands?” Faye asks Calum yet again.

  “Quite positive. Tamriel still thinks I’m with Kaius’s clan, and there’s no way he’d leave without me. And Mercy would never leave him.”

  Again, sadness flickers across Faye’s face before she rearranges her expression into resigned determination. “Then let’s go get her.”

  The next town on the road to the Islands is Xilor, a little less than a day’s ride away. Calum, Kaius, and the Daughters eat a quick breakfast at the inn before retrieving their horses from the stables and starting on the road. Occasionally, they pass merchants or travelers who wave or call out a greeting, but the majority of the ride is excruciatingly quiet. Lylia and Kaius seem determined not to exchange any more words than necessary, and Faye doesn’t seem very pleased with her company, either.