“If you’re looking for someone to punish, lock up the Assassin instead,” Pierce snaps. “She’s the one who attacked you and carved you up like a roast pig. Where is the little wretch, anyway? I know she’s in the city.”
Mercy reaches for the daggers sheathed at her hips, wishing she could show him how easy it would be to carve him up.
Tamriel whirls on him, seething. “Do not bring her into this.”
“Why didn’t you give her the hangman’s noose the day your guards found her standing over your son with his blood on her hands?” Pierce snarls at Ghyslain. “Do you still have a soft spot for her kind? Or have you simply gone so mad that you can no longer tell your friends from foes?”
“Father!” Elise gapes at Pierce. Mercy had never expected the mousy little man to be brave enough—or stupid enough—to speak to his king so brazenly.
“You know the law, Pierce,” Ghyslain says, ignoring the slight. “She’ll be held here while the council investigates. In a few days, you may attend her trial and watch her plead her innocence.” He waves a hand to the guards. “Take her away.”
“No!” the seren shouts.
The guards seize Elise’s arms and pull her to her feet. She shrieks and tries to jerk away, but their grips are too tight. Her tears leave dark streaks of makeup down her flushed cheeks as they drag Elise out of the room and let the doors bang shut behind them.
When her cries fade down the hall, Ghyslain runs a hand down his face. “Release him.”
The guards drop the seren’s arms. Pierce gives one enraged tug on his shirt and glowers at Ghyslain. When he takes a step toward the king, Tamriel stiffens and warns, “That’s close enough.”
“What do you think I’m going to do, boy?”
“Mind your tongue when you speak to me, Seren.”
“Or what? You’ll cut it out like you did that criminal they call Hero?” Tamriel stiffens almost imperceptibly at the mention of his partner-in-crime, but the seren continues, “I will not stand for this. My daughter is innocent. The Creator will see the truth come to light at her trial, I assure you.” Pierce shoots a withering glare at Tamriel. “The nobles have always wondered about you, Your Highness,” he sneers, the honorific dripping with contempt, “but it is now clear that you follow the same foolhardy path your father once walked. Bringing the Assassin back to the capital with you was a grave mistake—one you will soon regret.”
Mercy’s lip curls, her blood boiling. In the Guild, she would have answered such threats with violence, but doing so now would only prove the man’s point—even if he is asking for an arrow in his smug face.
Tamriel reaches to his side, where his sword would be sheathed had he worn it today. Luckily for the seren, he’s unarmed. He certainly wouldn’t survive to see his daughter’s trial if Tamriel weren’t. “Is that a threat?”
“Not a threat, Your Highness. A warning.”
Ghyslain glares at Pierce. “Your family has grown comfortable and rich from the power I granted you when I bestowed your title so many years ago. Lest you have forgotten, I gave you your place in the nobility. That does not mean I cannot—or will not—take it away.” Before the seren can respond, Ghyslain turns his back on him and says to the guards, “Escort him home. Pierce, your services will not be needed for a long while. Until the trial, you are not to set foot on the castle grounds.”
Pierce fumes as the guards lead him out of the castle.
Mercy steps out of the shadows the second they disappear through the massive double doors. “She’s lying, Your Majesty. She’s clearly guilty.”
“Of course she is. But you need more evidence of her involvement in Calum’s scheme if you are to convince the council and the rest of the court. You need proof that she voluntarily forged the document.”
She frowns. “You’re the king. Why the hell do you need the court to approve?”
“She’s a noble, and they will always side with one of their own over the crown. I need the court to agree with my ruling if we don’t want a riot on our hands when I sentence her to execution.” A shadow passes across Ghyslain’s face as he speaks. No doubt he’s remembering the aftermath of the last time the nobles had acted with such blatant disregard for the crown—when they’d murdered Liselle in cold blood. “Work with the guards on the investigation and see what you can find. The rest of the city will know of Elise’s arrest by supper, I’m sure, and we can’t afford any dissent among the nobility when I declare her guilty. We can’t fight Firesse if we’re fighting amongst ourselves.”
Tamriel frowns, but nods. “And Calum? When are you going to tell the rest of the council about his betrayal?”
Ghyslain sighs, pain flickering in and out of his eyes so quickly Mercy isn’t sure whether she had imagined it. Has he ever cared for Calum? Or had he simply taken the orphaned boy into his home out of guilt for having his father killed? “Tomorrow morning, when we meet to discuss Elise’s arrest.”
“Your Majesty?” Master Adan’s voice precedes him into the great hall. It’s still a shock to see the man who now holds Master Oliver’s position, to look up from the shining metal armor and not see Master Oliver’s stern face or his broken mess of a nose. “Two healers have arrived.”
“Excellent. Escort them to their workroom and introduce them to Niamh and Nynev.” When he leaves, Ghyslain turns back to Tamriel and Mercy. “Have you gotten any closer to figuring out the cure?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mercy nearly bursts out laughing. He hadn’t had any qualms with hiding the cure from everyone when he thought it would keep Tamriel from being killed. He would have let thousands of his people die if it meant saving his son’s life. Then again, if she had known about Cassius’s vision before they had left for Cirisor, she would have begged Tamriel to stay behind as desperately as Ghyslain had.
After the king excuses himself to attend his duties, Tamriel turns to her. “Now do you see why I didn’t want you to witness that? You heard what Pierce said about you. Compared to what the nobles say about Liselle, that was tame—but it’s only going to escalate the longer you’re here. I’m terrified they’re going to hurt you. What if they do the same thing to you as they did to your sister?”
“They can try.” She sidles closer to him and purrs, “But you’re not ridding yourself of me that easily, Your Highness.”
“You’re tough, Mercy, but you can’t keep your defenses up all the time. The nobles—”
“—sit on their asses all day, drinking wine and growing fat. I’m not my sister. I know how to fight, how to defend myself. Firesse, Lylia, Kaius, and Faye couldn’t tear me away from you. Do you think I’m going to let some silk-swathed noble do it?”
She smiles, and some of the worry on Tamriel’s face disappears. He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her close. “I think you’re more likely to run them through with your precious daggers than let them tell you what to do.”
“Exactly.” Mercy nods. “Now, come on. I’m starving, and we need to eat if we’re going to save the world.”
3
Calum
Every minute Calum spends trapped within the prison of his mind, watching through eyes he can’t control, drags on for an eternity. Ice-water still floods his veins, the sensation as foreign and numbing as it had been when Firesse had first allowed Drake to possess him. The tentacles which accompany Drake’s presence still poke and prod Calum’s mind, tasting his memories, his thoughts, his desires. Sometimes, when Calum remembers the feeling of his dagger puncturing Odomyr’s heart—when the First’s warm, slick blood had poured out, coating his hands—he hears his father’s laughter rumbling through him.
This is the Creator’s punishment for his sins, he has decided—for betraying Tamriel, for agreeing to trade Mercy to the Guild. Perhaps he really had died from that arrow wound in Xilor. Perhaps this is the Creator’s cruel idea of a joke. Perhaps his wound is still infected and this is nothing but a terrible dream, a mirage created by his fevered
mind.
Don’t be melodramatic, Drake whispers. This is real—it’s all real—and when we return to the capital, we’re going to show that elf-loving fool of a king what a grievous error he made when he destroyed our family.
You have no one to blame for your death but yourself, Calum shoots back. You’re a monster, a despicable—
Careful, son. Drake’s sharp-as-steel voice is thick with warning. I’m the only reason you’re alive right now. Without me to relay the information trapped inside your head, Firesse would have no use for you. So how about a little gratitude for the man who sired you?
Go to hell.
“Keep practicing!” Drake yells with Calum’s lips, Calum’s tongue, Calum’s voice. He rises from the tree stump atop which he’d been sitting and scans the Cirisians around him. They’re clustered in groups of twos and threes across the clearing, sparring with swords they’d stolen from the Beltharan and Feyndaran forces and had later blunted for practice. They’re working through drills Drake had demonstrated for piercing the gaps in the Beltharan soldiers’ plate mail, as only high-ranking soldiers and royal guards wear full suits of armor.
In the few days since Calum, Kaius, and Faye returned from Xilor, the land has been transformed into a military training ground. Half of the fires throughout the camp are now being used to heat and sharpen the Cirisians’ swords and forge new arrowheads. Drake had even pitched in for some of the work, tapping into Calum’s memories of his apprenticeship in Myrellis Plaza and his travels with the Strykers to copy the weaponsmiths’ techniques. He’s clumsier and more careless than Calum is, but his repairs will be sufficient until the Strykers arrive—if they arrive.
The day of Odomyr’s death, Firesse had sent messengers to the other clans announcing her intent to declare war on Beltharos. In the week since Ialathan, her ranks have swollen considerably. Lysander, Ivani, and Amyris have already pledged their fighting-aged clansmembers, and the elves from Odomyr’s former clan are more than ready to take their revenge against Ghyslain and his citizens. There are nearly a thousand elves spread across the land surrounding Firesse’s camp, and more Cirisians arrive each day. Calum had had no idea there are so many elves in the Islands; every report Master Oliver had received had estimated their population to be in the low hundreds. Ghyslain has no idea the true size of the force coming to destroy his capital.
When Firesse finally attacks, she might just have a chance at winning.
Calum struggles against the invisible bonds keeping him locked inside his mental prison, a stranger to his own body. Simply wiggling his pinky toe or twitching a finger would be good enough. All he needs is a sign that he still has some modicum of control over himself. If he can do that, maybe one day he’ll be strong enough to overpower Drake’s iron grip on his body.
It won’t work, Drake croons, sensing Calum’s fight for control.
He keeps focusing on pushing those mind-tentacles back.
Nothing.
Drake marches across camp and strides into Firesse’s tent without asking permission, blinking until his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. The First is seated beside Kaius on the cushions littering the floor. They’re bent over a weathered map of Beltharos, notes scribbled in meaningless Cirisian along the margins.
“He’s trying to take control again. Fourth time this week,” Drake says in lieu of a greeting. Without waiting for an invitation, he plants himself on one of the threadbare cushions. He folds his hands in his lap, his lips spreading in a sly, very un-Calum-like smile. “There’s no doubt he’s my son. It’s comforting to know that my blood instilled in him a little bit of a spine, because the worthless whore who bore him certainly didn’t.”
Don’t say a word about her, Calum snaps. He has never met his real mother—he hadn’t worked up the courage to approach Dayna when he’d caught a glimpse of her speaking to Mercy and Tamriel at Ialathan, right before everything had gone to shit—but he’ll be damned if he lets the monster who forced her to bear his child speak ill of her.
Firesse studies him, her frown tinged with unease. “Nothing too bothersome, I hope?” she finally asks.
He flashes her another grin. “Of course not.”
Kaius murmurs something to her in Cirisian, glancing first at Drake, then at the map.
“Right,” Firesse says, nodding. “We were about to call you in, actually. Calum and Kaius sent several letters on the ride to Xilor—one to the Guild, and a few to the Strykers. Provided they received the letters in time, the Strykers should arrive two days from now. You will ride out to meet them.”
“Very well. Have you news of the Assassins?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s highly unlikely that the Guildmaster would risk a letter being intercepted by one of the king’s men,” Kaius interjects. “We must merely wait for the Daughters to arrive.”
“She won’t cast aside the opportunity to complete the contract on the prince and retrieve her wayward Assassin,” Firesse says, fingering one of the clay and gold beads in her hair. “Plus, with the substantial payment you’ve offered her . . .” she trails off, gesturing to Drake.
Calum feels his father’s sudden flash of annoyance at her words. His grandfather had toiled all his life for that money, day in and day out, to keep their family among the nobility. After his father’s death, Drake had done the same. Together, they had built the Zendais name into the noble, respectable house it had remained until its collapse. He will not let that effort go to waste—for his hard-earned money to fill the coffers of the Assassins who killed him. Alas, he had been brought here from the Beyond by the First, and he remains at her disposal until she sees fit to release him.
Drake simply smiles and says, “Of course, the payment. Most of my money is overseas, but my son keeps an account in a bank in the shipping district in the capital. When Sandori falls, Firesse, the money’s yours.”
He leans forward and peers at the map of Beltharos. “Where shall we attack first?” Then he points to a dot on the map, answering his own question. “There. Fishers’ Cross. It’s hidden on two sides by a bluff, so it’ll be easy to ambush. Two dozen men could take it in an hour.”
She studies the map, tugging on a strand of flame-colored hair which had slipped free of her braids. “I don’t know . . . For many of the people in this camp, this is their first time holding a sword. Do you think they’re ready?”
“We’ve not gathered them here only to lead them to a slaughter,” the archer adds.
“Your soldiers will learn more about combat by actually fighting than they will running drills. Not to mention, Tamriel and Mercy know you intend to attack. The king likely has soldiers marching for these Islands as we speak. Strike now, while the easternmost villages are still unprepared.” He points to the little squiggly line which represents the bluff. “Place a handful of men north of the bluff, and another few south to catch any stragglers trying to flee. Then send in your warriors in the dead of night. I guarantee you, it’ll be over by dawn.”
Firesse and Kaius exchange wary glances.
“You’ll have to move inland quickly—you won’t be able to house all your troops in the eight buildings in town, but the rest can share tents until then. You can resupply in Fishers’ Cross before you march on the larger towns.”
The words sound wrong rolling off Calum’s tongue. He wishes he could push Drake away, that he could scrub away every last hint of his father’s corrupting influence on his body and mind. Even if he somehow manages to free himself, though, he knows the memory of being trapped within his own body—unable to move, to speak, to do anything—will never fade.
The worst part is, Drake doesn’t care about the elves. He couldn’t care less about whether they win the war, aside from the fact that he’s now leashed to them. Where Firesse goes, he goes—and she’ll lead him straight to the capital, if he plays his cards right. All he wants is to make Ghyslain pay for what the king did to him.
Revenge.
Just like Calum had wanted when he
’d bought the contract on Tamriel’s life. He’d been a fool for trying to kill Tamriel, he now knows. He’d been a fool for thinking he could avenge his father’s murder. He’d been a fool for wanting to avenge his father.
“Well?” Drake asks, looking expectantly from Kaius to Firesse. “What do you say?”
“My hunters and Myris’s fighters could accompany the recruits,” Kaius suggests. “The archers can stand atop the bluff and pick off anyone who tries to flee to the docks.”
“Once the Strykers arrive, we’ll attack,” Firesse finally says. “They’ll be a valuable asset in the coming battles. Kaius, I want you and Myris to help Drake train the soldiers. Don’t hold back. Have Lysander and Ivani do a full count of our troops. Amyris can do a full inventory of weapons and armor, then help the foragers gather healing supplies.”
She stands and leads them out of the tent. A breeze sweeps across the clearing—a breeze Calum should have been able to feel kiss his skin—sending the leaves of the palms and mangrove trees dancing. Across from them, the elves Drake had been training spar in partial suits of plate mail—what limited pieces they’d managed to pilfer from the Beltharan and Feyndaran soldiers. They’ve done their best to adjust the armor to fit their thinner, lither bodies. The sight reminds Calum of when he’d helped Mercy cheat the Trial so many weeks ago, working in the stifling underground smithy at Kismoro Keep. Even then, he had known they share a mother, but he had not chosen to help her out of a sense of familial obligation. He had chosen her because she was emotionless, ruthless, merciless. She was fueled by spite and rage at the world around her. He had been envious of her strength from the moment he met her.
So he had chosen her out of all the Assassins.
Look how well that has turned out.
Firesse surveys the fighters as they train, her tattooed lips spreading into a grin. “You’ve taught them well, Drake.” Her smile grows, something dark and hungry glinting in her eyes. “Keep the soldiers working this hard, and they’ll be ready for battle before we know it. By week’s end, we’ll invade Beltharos.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 77
