Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “How shall we begin?”

  Ruthless (Book 3)

  1

  Mercy

  The sound of a heavy book slamming shut shatters the silence of the infirmary, causing Mercy to jump. She is sitting atop Alyss’s worn desk, Tamriel slumped in the chair beside her. He leans back and rubs his tired eyes with the heels of his palms. “How long do you think it’ll take us to figure out the cure? We’ve been reading for hours, and we haven’t seen a single mention of Cedikra.”

  She shrugs. “There must be something here. You said it yourself—Alyss was the best healer in the city, possibly the country.” She folds the sheaf of Alyss’s notes—which she had been attempting to decipher for the past hour—and slips it into her pocket. The healer had worked obsessively on potential treatments until the day she’d become bedridden with Fieldings’ Plague, and it’s clear now how quickly the disease had ravaged her mind. The healer’s scrawl is nearly illegible, the words small and cramped, crisscrossing one another to the point where it’s impossible to tell where one sentence ends and the next begins. Still, Alyss had studied the plague longer than anyone. There must be something useful in the mess of ink—Mercy only has to find it. “Pilar saw the cure in a vision, and so did Cassius. We have to keep looking.”

  Tamriel frowns, but nods, trailing his fingers along the cracked leather cover of the book in his lap. Neither of them voices the worries which have been running rampant in their minds since their revelation the day before: visions don’t always come true. Cassius had sworn to Ghyslain that the prince would die on the journey back to Sandori, but Calum had altered that future when he had jumped in front of the arrow meant to end his cousin’s life. This realization means that everything they have done since leaving the castle two weeks ago might be for naught. All the guards who died in the Howling Mountains and in the Islands may have given their lives for nothing. They can labor over the cure for weeks, and thousands of people might still succumb to the plague.

  Mercy picks up the lantern beside her and hops off the desk. She traces the spines of the books stacked beside Tamriel, the gold lettering shining in the light of the lantern’s dancing flame. The pile stands taller than she and consists of every medicinal and herbalist manual they had found in the infirmary and the castle library. The stack beside the hearth is much smaller, but growing by the hour as they scour—and reject—more and more books. Not a single one has mentioned Cedikra or any plant remotely similar.

  Keep looking, nags the voice in Mercy’s head. It’s not the same voice she had heard before; it’s not Liselle. In fact, her sister has been worryingly absent since they left the Cirisor Islands. She’d claimed that Firesse was trying to banish her to the Beyond, and the possibility that the First may have succeeded causes Mercy’s stomach to clench.

  Desperate to take her mind off her troubled thoughts, she plucks the top book off the pile and hands it to Tamriel, then takes the next one for herself. “Your father sent for healers to help Niamh, didn’t he?”

  “The messengers left last night. Any healers who can be spared from the infirmaries will be here by tomorrow night.” He adds in a low voice, “For all our sakes, I hope they arrive soon.”

  “I do, too.” Mercy’s eyes drift to the nearest infirmary bed, guilt and grief washing over her at the sight. Alyss had lain there for Creator knows how long, waiting for Mercy to put her out of her misery as she had promised. Eventually, she had, but only after being released from the cell in which she’d been locked for nearly a week. If she had arrived a day or two later, she would have found a husk in Alyss’s place. The thought sends a shudder down her spine.

  She has seen enough death to last a lifetime. Simply riding down the streets yesterday morning had been painful. There had been so much curiosity and hope on the people’s faces when they had seen their prince return, but she knows the death toll will continue to climb in the days to come. To make matters worse, Firesse is planning to attack Sandori as retribution for the generations of slavery and genocide her people have endured.

  She’s insane. She dabbled in forbidden powers to pull Liselle from the Beyond to torment Ghyslain. She enabled Drake Zendais to possess Calum and murder Odomyr—a man who had been like a father to her—on the sacred night of Ialathan. She’s the reason why Calum could very well be dead right now.

  No, he can’t be dead yet—not until I see him pay for his crimes.

  “Hey,” Tamriel murmurs. When she turns to him, he stands and pulls her into an embrace. She buries her face in his chest, breathing in the scents of old books and woodsmoke which have seeped into his clothes after so many hours spent in the infirmary. He leans back and peers down at her, brows furrowed in concern. “What are you worrying about now?”

  “Nothing.” Calum, she doesn’t say, but he reads the truth on her face.

  “Wherever he is, I hope he is suffering for his treachery,” he growls. “When this is over, we will find him, and he will face justice for his crimes.” His voice softens as he pulls one of Mercy’s hands from the book she’s holding—she had been absently worrying the corner of the cover—and interlocks their fingers. “Let’s not think about him now, alright?”

  “Okay.”

  A knock at the door startles them. The hinges squeak when the door swings open, and Niamh and Nynev appear at the end of the row of shelves a second later.

  “Find anything?” Niamh asks, her words lilted with her slight Cirisian accent. When Tamriel shakes his head, she narrows her eyes at the books discarded beside the hearth and their rumpled clothes. “How long have you been down here?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Eight in the morning.”

  “Oh. About four hours,” he responds with a shrug.

  “You should have woken us. We’d have helped you.” Niamh slips past her sister, grabs the top book from the pile, and starts toward the nearest cot. When she notices the stains on the sheets, she scrunches her nose and sits cross-legged on the floor before the hearth.

  “After all that riding, you deserve rest,” Tamriel says. “Truly, I appreciate what you are doing for my people. You’re risking your lives by leaving your home, and I swear that I will make it up to you.”

  Niamh grins. “It’s easy to risk one’s life when one is unable to die.”

  Nynev snorts. “Just remember that I’m here to watch out for her,” she grumbles, pointing to her sister, “and not to help you. We’re leaving the second this plague business is finished.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  She bristles, glaring at Tamriel. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Simply that I don’t blame you for wanting to leave. Our problems are not your concern. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for your aid.”

  Niamh shoots her sister a warning look, and Nynev thaws. “Helping us rid the Islands of Firesse’s evil will be repayment enough,” the huntress says. “She is too young and angry to realize that nothing good will come of drowning the world in more blood.”

  Niamh nods, then turns to Mercy. “So, back to the plague. What treatments have you tried already?”

  “Lots of tinctures and poultices—none of which had any effect. Tabris has already figured out that most parts of the Cedikra is poisonous, so it’s a matter of figuring out which plant can neutralize the toxins. Oh! The Pryyam salt.” She crosses the room and searches the shelves until she finds the right bottle. When she holds it up for Tamriel and the others to see, the lavender crystals sparkle in the light. “Alyss ground this into the priestess’ skin after they washed. It wasn’t pretty, but it seemed to draw out the infection from the blisters—at least for a little while. Perhaps mixing it with Cedikra could help.”

  “Maybe,” Niamh agrees, but her expression is doubtful. She’s not a healer by any stretch of the term; all she knows about healing and medicine is what she’d needed to survive in the Islands and what little Mercy had taught her along the ride to the capital. Even so, her name was the one Cassius had Seen in
relation to the cure. “We won’t find the answers we need simply by talking about it. There must be some mention of the Cedikra or Fieldings’ Plague in the books.” Her lips part into a crooked grin as she opens the book in her lap, the leather spine cracking. “Five aurums to whoever finds it first.”

  Three hours and a dozen books later, the wager still isn’t settled.

  Niamh sighs and sets aside the tome she’d been reading. She picks up a poker and begins to stoke the dying fire in the hearth. “Well, I’ve found a fat lot of nothing. You?”

  “No.”

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing.”

  She frowns, the vine tattoos swirling around her forehead and cheeks creasing. “That’s . . . not ideal.”

  “You think?” Nynev shuts her book and grimaces as she massages a crick in her neck. She scowls at Tamriel. “I don’t know why you think my sister can help with this cure—vision or no. Neither of us has any experience healing. In fact, the only one of us who can heal is—ironically—the Assassin.”

  “I can sew wounds and treat minor ailments. Diseases are entirely different.” As she speaks, Mercy runs her fingers along the long, puckered scar on the inside of her forearm, a reminder of the day Mistress Trytain had carved open her flesh and forced her to sew herself up.

  “Okay, so none of us has any idea what the hell we’re doing,” the huntress responds. “That bodes well for the people of this city.”

  It had taken them three days to ride from Xilor to Sandori. Each day, more people fall sick, the Cedikra grows closer to ripening and rotting, and the threat of Firesse’s attack looms nearer. Mercy wishes Mistress Sorin were here. Perhaps she would know what to do. The Guild’s healer had been one of the few good people in Mercy’s childhood; the infirmary had offered a welcome respite from the glares and bullying of the other apprentices.

  “Stop,” Tamriel murmurs, laying a hand on Mercy’s to still her. Under her sleeve, her old scar has begun to ache. Without meaning to, she’d rubbed it raw. The prince turns to Nynev. “We’ll keep looking—”

  “Admit it,” Niamh suddenly snaps. “We’re not remotely suited to cure anything.” She tosses the iron poker aside. It clatters loudly on the stone floor, leaving a streak of black soot in its wake.

  “Mo dhija?” Nynev asks. Sister? She appears as surprised by her sister’s outburst as Mercy and Tamriel are; Niamh had barely said ten words over the course of their ride to Sandori.

  “How can this be anything but a waste of time? I don’t understand half the words I read in these gods-damned books. How—How—can you expect me to save all your people? How can you put that on me?” she implores Tamriel, her eyes wide.

  He crosses the room and crouches before her, the hearth’s flames limning him in gold. He waits until she meets his steady gaze to say, “I know you can do this. You can. We’re all here to help you.” In his voice is none of the uncertainty, none of the fear, from before. He’ll be strong for her, Mercy knows, just as he has been strong for his people, for his father, for years—because she needs to see it. She needs to know he believes in her.

  “He’s right,” Mercy adds. “We’ll figure it out. It’s all a part of Cassius’s vision, remember?” They have not yet told either of the sisters that the visions can no longer be trusted. Perhaps they never will. Niamh doesn’t need any more stress than she already bears. “The healers will be here soon to work with you on the cure.”

  “But what if—” The sudden rumble of Niamh’s stomach cuts her off, and she shoots them a sheepish grin when they all laugh.

  “The cooks must be preparing lunch,” Tamriel says. He helps her to her feet and looks to Nynev. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and see what you can find? Mercy and I will meet you there in a few minutes.”

  Niamh opens her mouth to speak, then hesitates.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She blushes. “The elves. The . . . slaves. They stare at me.”

  Nynev rolls her eyes and tosses her book aside. “We’re Cirisian. Of course they’re going to gawk.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “I don’t let it bother me. Come on, let’s go.” Nynev grabs her sister’s arm and drags her out of the room. The door softly clicks shut behind them.

  “Why did you want to stay behind?” Mercy asks as she rolls her neck, stiff from so many hours bent over a book.

  Tamriel offers her a devilish grin, crosses the room, and kisses her. One of his hands cups the back of her head, tangling in her wild curls. His other hand slips around her waist and tugs her close. “Must I have a reason beyond wanting to steal a little time alone with you?” he murmurs when he pulls away.

  “I suppose not.” She follows the curve of his lower lip with her thumb. Tamriel reaches up and catches her fingers, splaying her hand against his chest, right over his heart.

  “I love you,” he says, and the emotion in his voice makes Mercy’s heart swell. His dark eyes are full of desire—it’s hard to believe that less than two weeks ago, he’d been glaring at her with hatred.

  “I love you, too.” She links her fingers behind Tamriel’s neck and guides his mouth down to hers. “I love you,” she repeats between kisses, “more than I ever thought myself capable of loving anyone.”

  “I’ve never thanked you for . . . everything.” He pulls back enough to meet her eyes and shoots her a smile which takes her breath away. “For protecting me. For standing up to my father. For being the amazing, stubborn, fiercely loyal fighter you are. And . . . for not killing me, of course.”

  She laughs. “I’m especially grateful for that last one—even if killing you would have made my life a hell of a lot easier.”

  “We’re going to make it through this, aren’t we?”

  “We are.” She hugs him tightly, her eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of his body seeps into hers. After so many years of training in the Guild, of trying to fit in where she did not belong and was not wanted, she has finally found home—with him. This is where I belong. No one—not Firesse, not Calum, not any of the Daughters—will take him from me, she vows. I will not give up this life for anything. “We’ve made it through worse,” she says, her words muffled by the soft silk of his tunic.

  Tamriel’s breath tickles the tip of her ear when he whispers, “That we have, my love.”

  2

  Mercy

  Mercy and Tamriel are halfway to the kitchen when shouts echo down the hall. They’re distant, the words distorted and indecipherable, but the panic and anger in them is nearly palpable. They freeze midstep as another wail fills the corridor.

  “What’s happening?” Mercy asks. “Who is that?”

  Tamriel curses under his breath. “I have an idea. Go on to the kitchen—I’ll be right there.”

  He starts toward the source of the cry—somewhere near the great hall—and, of course, Mercy follows. She makes it all the way around the corner and halfway down the next hall before the prince glances back and catches her walking soundlessly a few strides behind him. He lets out a huff of exasperation. “Fine, then. Come if you like, but stay out of sight.”

  She grins at him. He rolls his eyes.

  “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

  “You like that about me.” She trails him down the next few halls, until the large doors to the great hall appear before them. The shouts drifting from within rise again, followed by the soft whump of flesh striking flesh and a grunt of pain.

  “I like it when it’s not directed at me.” He smooths his tunic and straightens his shoulders, lifting his chin. A mask of cool detachment slips over his face. In those few tiny adjustments, he transforms into the distant, closed-off prince she had met so many weeks ago. He brushes a bit of dust off his sleeve, then strides into the great hall.

  Before the massive doors swing shut, Mercy slips into the room behind him, her new, supple leather boots silent as she slinks to one of the ill-lit corners of the room.

  The king is standing in the cen
ter, clad in an exquisite brocade doublet and flanked by guards. It takes her a moment to realize that the sobbing lump of fabric crumpled before Ghyslain’s feet is Elise. The serenna is kneeling on the floor, surrounded by three guards in full, gleaming suits of armor. Her cheek is red and swollen; one of the guards must have hit her to stop her wailing. Mercy watches Tamriel step around Elise, ignoring her completely, and exchange quiet words with his father.

  The doors on the opposite end of the hall fly open so hard they crack against the wall. Seren Pierce storms through the doorway, his face splotchy with rage.

  “How dare you?” he roars when he sees his daughter cradling her face. “I demand to know the meaning of this!”

  “Calum tried to murder my son,” Ghyslain responds evenly, not bothering to look at his advisor. “Your daughter helped him forge the assassination contract, and she will be kept in the dungeon until the council’s investigation into her guilt is concluded.”

  “Her guilt?” Pierce stomps toward the king, but, at a flick of Ghyslain’s hand, two of the guards leap forward and restrain the seren. A vein throbs in Pierce’s forehead as they force his arms behind his back. “My daughter is guilty of nothing.”

  Elise looks up at the prince, then the king, with wide, terrified eyes, her head bobbing up and down—rather chicken-like, Mercy thinks with a wry smirk. “It’s true! I have no business with the Guild! I wouldn’t even know how to contact them if I wanted to. Please, Your Highness, Your Majesty, you must believe me!” she wails. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Mercy’s lip curls in disgust. Pathetic coward. No wonder she and Calum had fallen for each other.

  Tamriel leans forward, his features contorted in anger. “I know Calum bought the contract. I’ve seen it. I know that you helped him fake it.”