Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “Us? You think I’m going to release you after I get my revenge? No, not yet. There’s a whole world out there that I’ve missed out on. I’m not going back to the realm of the dead for a long, long while.”

  You— Calum begins, but he stops when Drake notices a blot of darkness on the horizon. In the distance, the small ship bobs on the waves as it draws nearer, white sails spread wide. When it is close enough for Calum to make out the individual men aboard, he spots Nerran standing at the helm, waving his arms wildly. As the men steer toward the shore, Calum feels the strange prickling sensation which accompanies his father searching his memories, learning about the year the Strykers had spent traveling together.

  Nerran jumps from the ship the second it hits the shore. He splashes through the shallows and meets Drake on the beach, immediately embracing him. “It’s good to see you, mate,” he says, laughing as he slaps Drake’s back.

  “You, too,” he responds, forcing warmth into Calum’s voice. “I see you received my letters.”

  “We did. Six of them, if I’m not mistaken.” He steps back and raises a brow. “You are going to explain what’s going on, aren’t you? Like . . . what the hell you’re doing in the Cirisor Islands?”

  “I’ll tell you everything on the walk to camp.”

  “You’d better. Hewlin wasn’t happy about leaving, but we insisted we help a friend. Your letters sounded like you really need it. We’re supposed to be on our way to Rhys right now.”

  “He won’t mind when he sees how much Firesse is willing to pay for your work. Believe me, it’s worth the trouble.”

  “It had damn well better be worth it,” Hewlin grumbles as he makes his way onto the shore. Behind him, Oren and Amir work on lowering the anchor into the shallows.

  “Who are you working for in Rhys? The queen?”

  “Something like that.”

  Drake nudges Nerran with an elbow. “If you see the princesses, put in a good word for me, won’t you?”

  “Don’t you have a girl back home? You know, the one you were always writing to and fawning over?”

  He shoots him a sly grin. “She wouldn’t need to know.”

  “You, my friend, are incorrigible.”

  “Don’t pretend you’re any different.”

  “Oh, I won’t. You all know me too well.”

  “You’re looking better, Oren,” Drake says as the other two Strykers join them. Calum is relieved to see that the sickly, lanky man actually does look healthier; his once sallow skin is now flush, and he has even put a little meat on his bones since their time at the Keep.

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s been a while,” Amir says, grinning. “After you ditched us, I thought we’d never see you again.”

  “I couldn’t do that to you. You’d have missed me too much.” Drake glances up at the mid-afternoon sky and the clouds rolling in from the west. “We’d better head back. It’ll take a while to cross to the next island. Leave the ship here—it’ll be too hard to maneuver through the channel.”

  Hewlin nods, still frowning. “As you say. Just give us a minute to gather our supplies.”

  Please notice that I’m different. Realize something is wrong. I’m not the same, can’t you see? The man before you isn’t me—can’t you tell? Calum pleads silently as the Strykers follow Drake down the trail to Firesse’s camp. Don’t you know me?

  Earlier, as they’d crossed the channel between islands, Drake had explained as much as he’d dared. He’d left out Firesse’s magic, of course, but he’d told the truth about Calum’s upbringing in the castle and his need to avenge his father’s murder.

  “So . . . you’re royalty, then,” Nerran had said as they’d rowed the canoe across the waves, his surprise at learning Calum’s true surname still etched on his face.

  “Not royalty. Related by marriage, not blood.”

  “But . . . you’re rich. Your family was rich, wasn’t it? And you never told us?” The hurt in Nerran’s voice had cut straight to Calum’s core. He and the Strykers had traveled together for a year, sharing meals and tents and jokes. They’d become family—and Calum had lied to them since the day they’d met.

  Now, Calum only hopes that they realize something is wrong with him before they become caught up in Firesse’s misguided war . . . but Drake is too great an actor. He teases Nerran, Amir, and Oren, even earning a few chuckles from Hewlin in the process. He searches through Calum’s memories as easily as flipping through a picture book and regales the men with humorous stories from Calum’s childhood in the castle. In sharing details of the life they’d never known he had, Calum can see their trust in him—in Drake’s charade—renew.

  Look at me, he silently implores them as Drake begins to explain the history of Firesse’s clan and the events leading up to her declaration of war. Look at me and see that something’s not right. Get out—save yourselves before you too become puppets in Firesse’s game.

  But no one even blinks twice at him.

  “Here we are,” Drake announces when they finally reach camp. The forest parts, revealing the massive clearing which houses the troops—hundreds upon hundreds of elves chattering to one another, preparing dinner, working fighting drills, finishing their chores. On the other side of camp, Kaius and Myris continue training the soldiers. As he watches their blades whistle through the air, Calum notes with foreboding how skilled the elves have become in such a short time. Many had pledged themselves to Firesse without ever having held a sword; they’d joined simply because they’d learned of Odomyr’s murder at a human’s hand during the sacred celebration. It had been the straw that broke the camel’s back—and it is the reason most of them are awake before dawn and still training long after the sun has sunk below the horizon each day.

  Hewlin stops dead in his tracks. “You— These elves— I thought— There are so many,” he stammers, his face turning as pale as his graying beard.

  “Don’t worry,” Drake drawls as he leads them farther into camp. “Contrary to the elves in your nursemaid’s stories, these don’t bite.”

  Firesse meets them outside her tent, grinning from ear-to-ear. “I see our guests have arrived.” She offers them a graceful little bow, the beads in her hair clinking softly, as the Strykers gawk at the slender, delicately-boned girl before them. Since Ialathan, she has abandoned her usual Cirisian garb in favor of light leather armor. Razor-sharp hunting knives are strapped to her hips, thighs, and forearms. The leather-wrapped hilt of one sticks out of the leg of one of her boots. “I’m Firesse, First of my clan and leader of this army.”

  “First?” Oren echoes. His shoulders curve inward when Firesse straightens and fixes her gaze on him.

  “Head of my clan. These are my soldiers, and you’re going to outfit them with all the weapons and armor we need to invade Beltharos. Follow me.” She turns on her heel and leads them toward the sparring elves, leaving no opportunity for further questioning. “As you can see, we already have some supplies from the Beltharan and Feyndaran forces, but they’re few and far-between, and they’re not Stryker-made. I need every advantage I can get if we’re to win the war. Spears, swords, daggers, maces, arrows—whatever you can make, we’ll use. You’ll be paid handsomely for your services.”

  Nerran raises a brow, casting a wary glance at the tattered tents and pieced-together suits of ill-fitting armor. “With what money?”

  Drake clears his throat. “Ghyslain seized most of my father’s assets after his death, but a few accounts remain in Sandori and Feyndara. You’ll get your money.”

  “The Beltharans have better numbers, weapons, training, and experience,” Hewlin argues. “They’ll decimate you in the first battle, I guarantee you. It’s hard to collect money from a dead man.”

  “You don’t know what tricks I have up my sleeve,” Firesse responds, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

  He exchanges looks with the rest of the Strykers, silently debating the wisdom of allying with the fabled Cirisian savages, then turns his gaze to D
rake—studying him, assessing him. Can he tell something is wrong? Can he sense the bloodlust lurking just beneath Firesse’s teasing tone? Finally, he nods, and Calum’s hope withers. “Fine. We’ll help you, but we can only do basic repairs here. You want us crafting anything new, we’ll need a workshop and a forge.”

  “We’ll see what we can do. For now, please rest and eat while I speak to Calum and my generals. I’m sure you must be tired from the journey. Vyla will help you get settled.” She calls to a young woman in Cirisian, and the elf nods, gesturing for the Strykers to follow.

  Catching sight of Firesse, Kaius shouts for the sparring elves to take a break. He and Myris meet them inside Firesse’s tent moments later. “The Strykers have agreed to help?”

  “Yes, but they need a forge to craft new weapons.” She turns to Drake. “Do you remember if there is a blacksmith’s shop in Fishers’ Cross?”

  Before he has a chance to search Calum’s memory, Kaius says, “There was a ship repair shop with a forge. It’s not ideal, but I’m sure they can make do with many of the supplies until we move farther inland.”

  Drake nods. “Good enough for now.”

  “Are the soldiers ready for an attack?”

  “With the help of the archers and Myris’s fighters, they’ll manage. We’ve been training hard.”

  “Good. We’ve already waited as long as I am willing. The Strykers will have tonight and tomorrow to repair weapons and armor. I want our people in Fishers’ Cross by midnight. Kaius, you’ll be with the archers atop the bluff, and Myris, I want you on the street below. Keep an eye on the recruits.” She grins, something dark and cruel and a little bit mad in the gesture. “Tomorrow night, the slaughter begins.”

  9

  Tamriel

  The day of Master Oliver’s funeral is depressingly beautiful. Rays of golden sunlight stream through the slats of the tall, narrow windows in the Church’s vaulted ceiling, illuminating the dust motes in the air and the dark clothes of the mourners seated below. The double doors at the front of the room stand wide open, allowing a floral-scented breeze to sweep through across mourners without offering any reprieve from the heat. Tamriel ignores the bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck as he stares at the two caskets sitting atop the dais.

  In one, Clyde is laid out in finery far above his station—gifts from Tamriel’s own closet—with a gleaming gold medal pinned to his chest. Across the aisle from Tamriel, Clyde’s mother sobs into a handkerchief, one arm wrapped around the slumped shoulders of a girl he assumes is Clyde’s younger sister. In the other casket, Master Oliver is clad in full military regalia, his medals strategically pinned to hide the deformity the Daughters’ arrows had made of his chest. Plaques dedicated to the guards whose bodies they’d been forced to leave behind—Parson, Conrad, Florian, Silas, Maceo—sit beside the bowl-shaped altar. Piercing sorrow engulfs Tamriel. These men had given their lives for him. He’ll do everything in his power to ensure their sacrifices do not go to waste.

  He forces his gaze not to waver as the newly-appointed High Priestess climbs the steps of the dais and begins reciting passages from the Book of the Creator. As she prays, she drops bunches of dried herbs into the altar. “Innis leaf to cleanse you of your sins,” she says, her rich voice spilling over the mourners and echoing off the high ceiling. “Ender root to ease your loved ones’ mourning. Osha’s Grace to guide you safely to the Beyond.”

  The High Priestess waves a young initiate forward and takes the vial of golden oil from her hands. She moves to Master Oliver’s casket, dips her fingers into the oil, and traces the Creator’s holy eye symbol onto his pale forehead. She does the same to Clyde, then pours the remainder into the bowl. The initiate steps forward again and drops a lit match onto the altar. The herbs inside burst into flame.

  “Go now to the Creator’s side,” the High Priestess murmurs.

  “And there find peace eternal,” Tamriel and the others respond, finishing the prayer. He squeezes his eyes shut as someone in the back of the room begins sobbing in great, keening wails. He feels his father stiffen beside him.

  Someone touches Tamriel’s shoulder, startling him. Mercy, who has not uttered a single word since sitting down beside him, now watches him with concern in her eyes. She eases open the fist he hadn’t realized he’d been clenching and intertwines their fingers. He lets out a tight breath as she brings their joined hands up to her mouth and presses a soft kiss to the back of his. She doesn’t try to ease his grief with hollow words. Instead, she merely lets their hands drop down to sit on Tamriel’s knee and rests her head on his shoulder.

  When the flames die and the herbs are reduced to smoldering embers, several senior members of the guard step forward and lift the twin caskets onto their shoulders, beginning the slow procession out of the Church. Clyde’s mother’s cries begin anew when her son’s casket passes her.

  “Your Majesty? Your Highness? Are you sure you would like to attend the burial?” Akiva asks from the end of the pew, reading the pain on their faces. He grimaces and shifts his weight off his bad leg. After they’d returned to the capital, Tamriel had offered him time to rest and heal, but the guard had refused. Master Oliver wouldn’t have taken time off, he’d said through clenched teeth as another guard had rebandaged his leg, so I won’t, either.

  Ghyslain’s gaze is still locked on the altar, his mind no doubt consumed by memories of those he’d loved and lost before. “Yes, we’re sure,” Tamriel answers for him. Oliver had had no family beside those he’d served and served beside in the castle. They owe it to him to see his body laid to rest.

  “Very well. A carriage is waiting outside for you, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you, Akiva.” He stands and turns to Mercy as the guard limps away. “Are you coming?”

  She shakes her head, tugging at the sleeve of her black mourning gown. “Go ahead, mourn in peace. I’ll see you at the castle.”

  A contingent of guards surrounds him and his father as they make their way out of the Church and into the carriage—Ghyslain on one bench, eyes glazed with pain as he stares out of the little window beside him, and Tamriel on the other. The clattering of the wheels fills the heavy silence between them as they start the long ride to the old cemetery. When they pass Myrellis Plaza, Tamriel can hear talking, laughing, the sounds of life, echoing off the houses’ façades. He looks out the window and watches three young children race alongside the carriage, drawn by the royal crest painted on its side. One catches his eye and waves, shooting him a gap-toothed grin. Tamriel lifts a hand just as the carriage turns the corner and the children fall out of sight.

  “Will this grief never end?” his father finally murmurs. His eyes are still trained on some distant point, his hands gripping the carriage’s bench seat so tightly his knuckles are white.

  Tamriel doesn’t respond. He’s not sure whether his father had meant to speak aloud or if he’s still lost in his memories.

  The carriage slows as they near the shipping district. The houses here are tall and narrow, some of them so old that they’ve begun to lean forward into the street. If Tamriel reached out the window, he could touch them. They pass enormous factories, boarded-up warehouses, and shops and homes marked with the plague. Tamriel steels himself when he sees a death carriage stopped in the street, two workers carrying a body from her home. Finally, the aged, crooked fence surrounding the cemetery comes into view. As the carriage slows to a halt in front of the gate, Tamriel turns to his father.

  “Does it ever become easier? Losing people you care about?”

  Ghyslain finally meets his gaze. For a moment, the king appears much older than his almost forty years: the lines of his face are drawn, and shadows hang in the hollows of his cheeks. For the first time, Tamriel notices that his father’s ebony hair has begun to gray around the temples.

  “I wish it did,” Ghyslain says, then climbs out of the carriage.

  They linger at Master Oliver’s graveside long after the final spadeful of dirt falls.
The gray headstone—unmarred by weather and age, the newly-etched name and dates still legible—stands out starkly against the chipped, mossy gravestones surrounding them. OLIVER RYEVOSS, Master of His Majesty’s Guard and Army, it reads. Oliver had been so much more of a father to Tamriel than the king. He’d been warm, unwavering, calm in the face of Ghyslain’s fits of madness. Even more importantly, he’d been a brother to the king. He’d been Ghyslain’s most trusted guard since his coronation, Tamriel knows, and although the stoic guard had tried to keep their relationship strictly professional, a fierce friendship had grown between them.

  Ghyslain kneels in the dirt and traces the words etched into the gray headstone. When he reaches the date of Oliver’s death, he pauses and looks up at his son. “You were planning to steal my throne, weren’t you?” he asks, the question so unexpected it takes Tamriel completely off guard.

  “The night Calum attacked you,” Ghyslain continues when Tamriel doesn’t respond. “You were going to meet with the nobles and convince them to help you usurp me. Don’t look so surprised. Calum isn’t nearly as sneaky as he thinks himself to be, and there are a few nobles in the court who are still loyal to me.”

  “I . . .” Tamriel hangs his head, shame filling him. “Yes.”

  Ghyslain sighs and runs a hand down his face as he stands. “The nobles think I am so desperate to keep my throne out of ambition, or pride, or some need for power, but they mistake their own selfish desires for mine. I never wanted to be king. I know my duty to my country, but I’ve never enjoyed ruling. Even so,” he says, his dark eyes pinning Tamriel in place, “I promised myself the day you were born that I would never abdicate. I want—all I have ever wanted—is to keep you from becoming king as long as possible.”

  He recoils, stung. “You don’t think I could handle it?”

  “No—that’s not it at all. When I was a child, I saw firsthand how running the kingdom destroyed my father. He met with courtiers, foreign dignitaries, noblemen, and advisors constantly. He held court daily. He went out of his way to visit his people, to speak with them, to rule them justly. He was all heart, and it killed him when he was only a few years older than I am now.