He steps back, and his suspicion is confirmed when he realizes that the painting is slightly crooked, one side dipping almost imperceptibly to the right. “Take down that painting.”
One of the guards jumps up and takes hold of the frame. When he pulls it down and flips the painting over, Tamriel’s heart skips a beat. A sheaf of folded papers is adhered to the back. He jumps forward and gently peels them off, then begins reading the first page, dated several months into Calum’s year-long excursion with the Strykers.
My love,
These last few months away from you have been bleak, but I cannot deny being pleased with what I have learned in the Strykers’ company. We work from sunup to sundown over scorching forges, and Nerran sometimes likes to sing along with the beats of our hammers. I must say, I envy you, for you are not forced to listen to his attempts to deafen the rest of us with what can only be likened to the braying of a sick donkey.
Despite the constant traveling, the work we’ve been doing is rewarding. Hewlin has taught me how to make scimitars and spears and swords and daggers, how to fold and sculpt metal into something of beauty, as well as functionality. It more than makes up for the nights of sleeping in old tents and lice-infested taverns, wishing I could do more than reread the few letters you have dared send me. I know your father doesn’t approve of our ‘dalliance,’ as he calls it, but you must write me more often, my love. Perhaps Liri could smuggle your letters to the courier?
Soon, we shall move south, to the farming district. It seems some wealthy landowners need new tools, and Hewlin is more than happy to oblige. Some of the men think it’s a waste to use Stryker talents on farming implements, but it pays for our travels and food, so they cannot complain too much.
As we head south, I cannot help but consider what we discussed before I left. I wish justice could be served without such dire consequences. I wish Tamriel did not have to be dragged into the middle of this. If we go through with this, I will never forgive myself. But if I do nothing, the man responsible for my father’s murder will continue to go unpunished.
Write back soon, my love. As I sign off to endure another night of troubled dreams, I leave you with this:
So much of my life is uncertain. I don’t know the woman who gave me life. I don’t know my place in the castle. I don’t know what will become of us when I return. But I am certain of two things, and they shall never change: I love you, and I shall continue to love you as long as my lungs draw air.
Yours,
Calum
Tamriel sinks onto the couch in the center of the room, forcing himself to scan the next several letters. They are all similar to the first—mostly flowery language, declarations of love that Calum would have killed Tamriel for reading, updates on his travels. Almost every one of them alludes to the contract on Tamriel’s life. Calum had been smart not to mention it explicitly, but it’s obvious now that they had been planning his death for the better part of a year. Tamriel flips to the last letter.
—will be arriving in Ellesmere within the fortnight. Send the papers and coin to a tavern called Pearl’s End. The owner, Myreese, works with “I.” I’ll retrieve them and deliver them to her on behalf of the king when we arrive for the Trial.
My heart is heavy as I write this, but I know it must be done. For my father, for myself, for you . . . I have no other choice.
Creator forgive me.
—Calum
“By the Creator,” Tamriel mumbles, numb with shock. He looks up at the guards, who had been hovering around him wearing identical expressions of concern, as he tucks the letters into his pocket. “I need to speak to my father immediately.”
Please, Creator, give us a victory, he prays as Raiden trails him out of the room and down the hall. Let this evidence be enough.
7
Tamriel
A few minutes after they arrive at the castle and Raiden leaves to find Ghyslain, the main doors swing open behind him. Tamriel turns, expecting to see a guard on rounds or slaves running from chore to chore, but instead finds Cassius Bacha striding up to him.
“Your Highness,” he says in a puff of breath. He stops before Tamriel and bows, his bald head shining under the light of the chandeliers. “My sincerest apologies for not responding to your father’s summons sooner. Murray has taken ill.”
Tamriel stiffens. “She hasn’t caught the plague, has she?”
“Thank the Creator, no. Just a fever, but she’s been bedridden and it’s making her crankier than usual, if such a thing is possible. May we speak in private?” He gestures for Tamriel to follow him into the throne room and closes the double doors behind them. “I must admit, I had not expected to see you alive again, my prince. I am grateful my vision did not come to pass.”
“Not as grateful as I, I assure you. That’s actually why we wished to speak with you. I had thought that whatever happens in your visions is certain.”
“In my experience, until now, it had been.”
“Calum took an arrow to the chest in Xilor—the one that would have killed me. That means your visions are not certain. That means we might never figure out the cure.”
Cassius blinks and frowns, wringing his hands. “That is worrying, indeed, Your Highness, but if you think I can explain the Sight to you, I’m sorry to tell you I cannot. I can share with you what little I know, which is what I saw in my dreams. First, about the cure: I drew that strange plant and wrote down that word I saw. Niamh. Did you figure it out?”
“Yes.”
“And I was right about the plague infecting Beggars’ End first, remember?”
“I remember, but that doesn’t help me understand why your vision of my death didn’t come to pass,” he says impatiently.
“As I said, Your Highness, I don’t have the answers. The Sight is weak in my family.”
“Have you Seen anything else recently? Any other visions?”
Cassius shakes his head again. “Nothing, Your Highness. My Seer blood is so diluted I rarely have multiple visions in one year. Perhaps this year is different because of Solari.”
Tamriel snorts. “Years on which a Solari falls are said to be blessed, yet less than two months after the sacred holiday we’ve had to face an outbreak of plague, an impending Cirisian invasion, and betrayals from every side. If this year is blessed, I’m terrified to see what next year will bring.”
“Priestesses of the Church believe the Sight is a gift given to humanity by the Creator. As Solari is a celebration of him, it would make sense that I would receive more visions than usual. Perhaps he has a plan for you.” He smiles, dropping a wrinkled hand on Tamriel’s shoulder. “All will turn out the way he intends it. Have faith in that, Your Highness.”
“How can you say he has a plan when the Church teaches that he is all but lost to us? All he does is sit in his prison and watch us bumble around trying to make sense of everything.” Tamriel looks out the window at the back of the room, scowling at the sun shining over the lake. The Church claims that the Creator imprisoned himself for slaughtering the Old Gods—his brethren. Even he had fallen prey to a desire for vengeance. He’s no better than Calum. “Does he have a plan for the hundreds of people who have already died from the plague? Is there some divine reason why my people must watch their children waste away to nothing? Why should I worship a god who allows his Creations to endure something so terrible?”
“I wish I had the answers, Your Highness, but we call it faith for a reason. Terrible things have befallen you and your people before, but we always pick ourselves up and keep toiling. We rebuild. We heal.”
Eager to change the subject, Tamriel reaches into his pocket and pulls out Elise’s letters. “Have you heard the news yet? Calum and Elise tried to have me killed.”
“I’ve heard whisperings. May I?” He takes the letters and, after perching his spectacles on the tip of his nose, scans them, his brows furrowed. His frown deepens as he reads. When he finishes, he makes a sound of disgust and thrusts the papers back at Tamriel.
“Despicable. Foolish boy. Drake paid his price for murdering Liselle, and Ghyslain pays his penance for sinking to that bastard’s level every day he is forced to live without his loves.”
“Bacha.”
The king’s voice precedes him into the room. Cassius pockets his spectacles and sweeps into a deep bow as Ghyslain strides in. “Your Majesty.”
“How are you and Murray?”
“I am fine. Murray is sick but recuperating well.”
“I am glad to hear it. What news, Tam?”
He holds out the letters. Surprise and understanding cross Ghyslain’s face when he sees Calum’s swirling signature. “You might want to sit down when you read these.”
Fifteen minutes later, Ghyslain sits back in the desk chair in his study, his expression unreadable. He shakes his head and tosses the letters onto the desk.
“Well?” Tamriel asks, watching his father’s reflection in the windowpane. He had been staring out at the waves of Lake Myrella—and the dark smoke from the plague victims’ burning bodies beyond—but he now turns his attention to the king. “Is it enough? Will the nobles believe that she’s guilty?”
“It’s enough.” Ghyslain’s black hair sticks out around his temples; he had been running his fingers through it in agitation while reading. “By the Creator, Tam, you’ve done it.”
“Even so,” Cassius pipes up from one of the two high-backed chairs before the desk, “this must be approached with diplomacy. The council is angry. They already assume that this is a cover-up for His Majesty.” He picks up the papers and squints at them. “Here, Calum explicitly says ‘I’ll retrieve them and deliver them to her’—she being Illynor, of course—‘on behalf of the king when we arrive for the Trial.’ He lied to the Guildmaster about the contract’s origins, but it won’t look that way to the rest of the council. That, coupled with your cousin’s absence, will make them suspicious that His Majesty somehow planned Calum’s accident in Xilor so there wouldn’t be a witness to his crime.”
Tamriel looks to his father. “You admitted yesterday that you don’t need their permission to jail someone. Why must we do so much planning?”
“If I sentence her to death out of what they believe is mere self-preservation, we’ve just given them a martyr. She’ll become to them what Liselle was to the elves.”
He throws up his hands in frustration. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
“Speak to the councilmembers in private,” Cassius suggests after a moment of thought. He turns to the king. “Tell them exactly what you told me about the plague, the Islands, and Firesse. Leave out the magic but tell them the Cirisians intend to attack. They won’t dare to throw the capital into political turmoil while a larger threat is on their doorstep. Turn their selfishness against them. Use it to manipulate them into doing what you want.”
“If we approach it just right, it should work,” Ghyslain affirms. He glances at Tamriel. “Why don’t you go visit Niamh and check on her progress with the cure? Cassius and I will discuss the specifics of the trial, and I’ll fill you in on the plan tomorrow after Oliver’s funeral.” Tamriel flinches at the sharp twinge of sorrow the words bring, and Ghyslain’s expression softens. “Are you ready to see him?”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m ready. Master Oliver gave his life for me—I won’t disrespect that sacrifice by missing his funeral.”
He is halfway down the dank underground hallway, on his way to the infirmary to meet Nynev and Mercy, when he hears their voices echoing off the stone walls behind him. They must be coming back from lunch or errands. He pauses in the middle of the corridor and waits for them to catch up.
“We did it,” he announces when they round the corner.
Mercy stops midstep. “You mean Elise . . .?”
“Will be found guilty at her trial. I found letters from Calum talking about my father, the contract—everything.”
“Oh, Tamriel.” Mercy beams at him. She closes the distance between them, throws her arms around his neck, and plants a kiss on his lips. “You did it,” she murmurs. “You really did it.”
“Yes,” he whispers, breathing in the scents of herbs clinging to her skin. He can feel Nynev rolling her eyes at them, but he can’t bring himself to care. For the first time in what feels like ages, something is finally going right.
“All right, cut it out, you two,” the huntress says, tugging at Mercy’s sleeve.
She steps out of his embrace, looking sheepish, but Tamriel merely raises a brow and drawls, “Jealous, Nynev? Should I find you a dashing young courtier of your own?”
She rolls her eyes again and brushes past them, muttering something about finding Niamh. The second she disappears around the corner, Mercy grabs Tamriel’s hand and grins at him. A swell of adoration overtakes him as he studies her, her wild curls like a mane around her face, her brown eyes glowing gold in the torchlight. She’s fierce, strong, fearless—everything Tamriel had wished he were when he was a child, cowering under his covers as his father’s grief-stricken moans filled the halls.
Mercy squeezes his hand. “You’re staring at me.”
He pulls her close, his free hand sliding to her lower back. He smiles at her and guides her backward until she’s pressed against the cold stone wall, then dips his head forward until his lips brush the point of her ear. “How can I help it when you’re so infuriatingly beautiful?” he whispers. An all-too-encouraging moan slips from her mouth when he presses a line of kisses along her jaw and down her neck.
“A guard could walk around that corner any second,” she murmurs, her breath hitching when he slips a hand under the hem of her tunic. “Tamriel!”
“Let one come—I don’t care.”
She sighs and, at first, he isn’t sure whether it’s out of pleasure or exasperation. She doesn’t stop him when his fingers graze the bare skin of her stomach, or when he pushes aside the collar of her shirt and kisses her pale, scarred collarbone. She shivers and arches her back, leaning into him. Her fingers snake through his hair, driving him out of his mind with desire. “Oh, come here already,” she moans, and pulls his lips to hers.
8
Calum
The day the Strykers are expected to arrive, Drake leaves Kaius and Myris to train the soon-to-be-soldiers and crosses the camp alone, eyeing the elves who scurry out of his path. They don’t know about Firesse’s Old God powers, but it’s obvious his presence disturbs them. A small boy grabs his younger sister and tugs her back into the tent they had just exited. A woman with ice-blonde braids studies him warily as she cleans the blade of her sword with a scrap of fabric.
She’s pretty—for a knife-ear, Drake whispers to him.
Don’t you dare.
Drake smirks as he passes through the tree line and starts down the trail to the next island. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Such manners. Such respect for the knife-ears.”
Keep your—my—voice down. What if one of them hears you?
Drake spreads his arms wide, gesturing at the thick vegetation around them. “Do you still fear that Cirisian savages are hiding in the trees, waiting to swoop down upon us? Don’t act like a child. Even if one hears me talking to myself, what do you think he’ll do? Run to Firesse and tell her you’ve lost your mind?”
Calum doesn’t deign to respond.
When he reaches the shore, his father crosses the water in one of the Cirisians’ canoes and starts across the westernmost island of the archipelago. He trudges through the underbrush until the vegetation gives way to sparkling white sands and the blue-green waves of the Abraxas Sea beyond.
Drake leans against one of the thick-trunked palm trees at the edge of the beach, shading his eyes from the blinding reflection of the sun on the water. “Now,” he sighs, “we wait and see if your Stryker friends took the bait.”
After two uneventful hours pass with no sign of the Strykers, Drake throws up his hands in agitation and kicks at a clump of dirt by his feet. As his father’s impatience mounts, so to
o does Calum’s anxiety. What if the Strykers don’t show up? What if they never received the letters? Perhaps if they arrive—if they see him acting strangely—they’ll realize something is wrong. They might find a way to free him. He struggles against the ice-water in his veins, the bonds of his mental prison.
“Stop that,” Drake snaps.
Am I hurting you? Calum asks, satisfaction flooding him at the thought.
“No, but it’s quite annoying—like a bug buzzing in my ear or an itch I cannot scratch. Nothing more.”
He continues fighting for power, for control, but pauses when a new approach occurs to him. What if you just left? No one else is around. No one else would know for hours. The bridge where he, Tamriel, and the others had crossed from Beltharos is on the western shore of this island—just a few miles northwest of where they are now. Perhaps if he can get Drake alone, away from Firesse and her unnatural powers, he can find a way to fight this possession. Perhaps Drake’s strength would weaken the farther he wanders from the girl who had summoned him from the Beyond. You could run, strike out on your own—
“And I’d get a few hours’ head start before Firesse realizes we’re gone and pulls me back. She brought me to this realm, she can call me back to her side whenever she wants. I’m as trapped as you are, boy.” He snorts and shakes his head. “Enslaved to a knife-ear, of all things. What cruel irony.”
There must be some way you can free us from her.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 80
