“Will you attend the council meeting?”
He shakes his head, his stomach dropping at the thought of Atlas, trapped in the End. “I have to do something first.”
Before he leaves, Tamriel changes out of his finery and into the simple tunic and pants Hessa had given him on their journey back from the Islands. He pulls the hood of his cloak over his head as he slips through the castle gate and into the city. Rather than take one of the easily-recognizable carriages from the castle, he hires an unornamented one from a stop a few blocks down the street. None of these precautions will completely disguise him, of course, but he’d like to attract as little attention as possible.
“Where to, sir?” the driver calls.
“Guinevere’s Square.” He climbs in and draws the curtains as the carriage lurches into motion. Normally, the roads leading toward the center of the city would be clogged with traffic—private carriages, merchants’ wagons and carts, shoppers and pedestrians—but the streets have grown emptier since the outbreak of the plague. They arrive in Guinevere’s Square in half the time it would usually take. Tamriel calls for the driver to stop in front of a quaint little bakery and clambers out, keeping his face turned away when he pays the fare.
After fifteen minutes of wandering between the narrow houses and old shops of the Square, Tamriel arrives at the northern gate of the wall surrounding Beggars’ End. Three guards are standing watch outside the solid iron gate. Thankfully, there hadn’t been another mob outside the End while Tamriel and Mercy were gone, but Ghyslain had still taken every precaution to protect the slums. Every hole in the crumbling wall had been filled and a new padlock the size of Tamriel’s fist holds the gate shut.
The guards snap to attention when they see him approach. “Who goes there?” one calls, reaching for his sword.
Tamriel pulls down his hood. “I have business in the End. Unlock the gate, please.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The padlock rattles on its chain as he unlocks it. A high-pitched screech pierces the air as the guards pull the heavy gate open. “Would you like one of us to accompany you?”
“No, thank you.” He tugs the hood up and strides through the gate. Before they shut it behind him, he adds, “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Can you hire me a carriage?”
“It will be waiting here when you return.”
The hinges screech again as the guards close the gate and fasten the padlock. He starts down the road, scanning the dilapidated buildings warily. The insides are dark and quiet, but that doesn’t mean they’re uninhabited. After becoming partners with Hero and Ketojan, he had never felt unsafe in the End—they had made sure the elves never taunted or threatened him like they did the other humans who entered the neighborhood—but he has no idea how much has changed, how desperate the people have become, since the plague took hold.
I should just turn around and go home. After everything Elise has done, he shouldn’t be helping her. He shouldn’t want to help her, but he’d given her his word all those weeks ago, and he will not break it.
His stomach sinks when he arrives at the warehouse and finds Atlas’s post empty. A man with one leg is sprawled outside one of the nearby houses, a ratty woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He hacks and coughs as Tamriel approaches.
“You know the guard who was stationed here?”
The man nods and spits on the ground.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Few days ago. Went in an’ didn’t come back out.”
“Was he sick?”
“Sure as everyone else is ‘round here.” The man offers him a toothless grin, absently rubbing the stump of his leg with one grimy hand. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?”
“It is. Thank you for the information.” Tamriel pulls out his coin purse, but the man dismisses him with a wave.
“Don’t want none a your coin, sir. Keep it to yourself, an’ keep it outta sight.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can give you?”
“Nothin’ the stronger, bigger bums won’t take from me.” He nods to the warehouse. “Now scram. Someone’s waitin’ for you.”
Tamriel turns and, after a moment of searching, spots the silhouette of a person standing in one of the third-floor widows of the warehouse, watching him. He sucks in a breath. He can’t make out anything more than the outline of her thin, angular body, but he’d recognize her anywhere.
Hero.
She’s alive!
The putrid stench of disease hits him the second he pulls the warehouse door open. A lone lantern hangs from a hook across the room, illuminating the sick people lying in cots and huddling together on the floor. He glimpses Ketojan’s choppy white hair in the corner of the room. The elf notices him a second later and straightens, wiping his hands on his pants as he crosses the room.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hello to you, too. I’m looking for the guard who was stationed outside. He’s here, isn’t he?”
“He is.” Ketojan’s eyes flick to the floor above them. “Come on.”
He leads Tamriel up the stairs. When they reach the landing, Ketojan grabs the lantern hanging from the bannister and picks his way around the cots and sick people slumbering on the floor, Tamriel close on his heels. He stops beside a bed crammed in the corner of the room, a massive young man filling its rickety frame. His feet hang off the end, a stained beige blanket tangled around his legs.
“How much longer do you think he’ll last?” Tamriel whispers, taking in the sores and boils marring Atlas’s face and neck. The guard’s eyelids flutter at the sound of his voice.
“Not long now. Most don’t last a week.”
Atlas’s chapped lips part. His eyelids twitch again, then open fully. “Your—” he croaks. “Your Hi—”
“Don’t speak,” Tamriel says softly. He glances over his shoulder at Ketojan. “Can you fetch him some water?”
The elf pads silently across the room and returns a moment later with a dented tin cup full of water. Atlas’s eyes widen when he sees it and he reaches for it, but Tamriel gently pushes him back against the mattress and lifts the cup to the guard’s lips. Atlas takes a long, deep drink. Some of the water spills over the lip of the cup and onto his soiled uniform, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Atlas’s head drops back onto the pillow.
“Your Highness,” he groans, grimacing. “What are . . . What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t think I’d leave you here, did you?” Tamriel tries to smile, but he doesn’t quite manage it. He has known Atlas as long as he can remember. When they were children, Atlas had accompanied his sister to the castle every day, where they had helped their father with his work or played with Tamriel and Calum on the castle grounds. They’d spent entire days chasing each other through the hedge mazes. They’d raced across the manicured green lawn, swinging broken tree branches like swords as they reenacted legendary battles from the Year of One Night. Tamriel’s voice is thick when he says, “I’m going to take you back to the castle, my friend.”
Atlas doesn’t seem to register his words. He peers over Tamriel’s shoulder and frowns at Ketojan, his brows furrowing. “Am I dying?”
“No.”
“Not yet,” he corrects, his head dropping back onto the reeking mattress. His eyes drift shut. “Soon.”
Tamriel grips his friend’s hand tightly. “I won’t let that happen. Do you hear me? As your friend and as your prince, I forbid you to die.”
The boils on Atlas’s cheeks pull taut when his lips spread into a small smile. “Then I shall do my best to obey, Your Highness.”
14
Tamriel
Ketojan disappears up the stairs to fetch a change of clothes for Atlas and returns minutes later with Hero in tow. Together, the three of them help the sluggish guard change into a too-short pair of pants and a worn shirt from Ketojan’s wardrobe. They’re much too small for Atlas, but they’re clean, which more than makes up for the size. Despite the waves of heat
which emanate from his fevered body, Atlas shivers so violently that Tamriel fears he’ll keel over before they even make it out of the warehouse. He shrugs off his cloak and slips it over the guard’s shoulders.
“Thanks,” Atlas mumbles. He takes a step toward the stairs and stumbles, but Tamriel catches him before he falls and slings the guard’s arm over his shoulders.
“Lean on me.”
“I’ll squish you.”
“I’m not the scrawny little boy I used to be,” Tamriel says as they shuffle slowly through the maze of sickbeds. Dear Creator, please don’t let him fall, he prays when they reach the top of the rickety staircase. Despite his bravado, if Atlas trips while they’re descending, Tamriel won’t be strong enough to keep them both from tumbling all the way down.
“Neither am I,” Atlas responds with a weak chuckle.
Tamriel snorts. “I doubt you’ve ever been called scrawny, you big oaf.” Each step groans under their weight. “What the hell do they feed you in the guard—and why aren’t I getting any of it?”
By the time they reach the main floor, they’re each drenched in sweat, and Atlas’s face has gone deathly pale. Just a little farther, Tamriel pleads. With Hero and Ketojan’s help, they pick their way through the warehouse and emerge outside. Tamriel and Atlas collapse in the middle of the cobblestone road and suck in lungfuls of clean air.
“Sweet Creator,” Atlas mumbles. “I’d forgotten how much it stinks in there.”
Tamriel swipes his sleeve across the perspiration on his forehead and forces himself to stand. “We’re not done yet. Can you make it to the castle?”
“I’ll try.”
He turns to Hero and Ketojan. “Is there anything I can do to help you? Do you need food, clothes, money?”
Hero shakes her head. “The cure,” she says, the word slightly misshaped because of her missing tongue.
“We’re doing everything we can.”
She presses a feather-light kiss to his cheek. Tamriel shoots a stricken glance at Atlas, but the guard is too distracted by the sight of the one-legged man across the street to wonder how the prince came to know two Beggars’ End nobodies. “Go on.”
Twenty minutes later, Tamriel and Atlas sit facing each other in the carriage the guards had had waiting for them outside the End. The entire carriage jounces when they hit a rut. Atlas grimaces.
“We’re working on a cure,” Tamriel tells him. His friend’s wide shoulders are hunched, and he clutches the cloak tightly around himself as he shivers. “We’re going to heal you.”
“Why? Why me? Why not the hundreds of helpless people in the End? You left them all behind. Don’t you care about them?”
“Would I have risked my life in the Cirisor Islands if I did not care? Would I have risked the lives of seven guards? The people of the End are my subjects, too, and I will do everything in my power to protect them.”
The carriage turns a corner and the walls surrounding Myrellis Castle appear before them. When they ride through the gate, Atlas peers out the window at the gilded spires of the castle towers, the roofs flecked with chips of obsidian. He lets out a long breath. “I was so certain I’d never see the outside of that warehouse again.” He lets the curtain fall back over the window, then says, “You never answered my question, though. Why me?”
Tamriel hesitates. He’s not eager to tell Atlas about his sister’s crimes and the end she’ll meet in a few short days. It’ll break Atlas’s heart, and he’ll do anything to spare his friend that pain for a little while longer. “I made a promise to Elise.” He opens the door the second the carriage rolls to a stop before the castle steps. Atlas pulls the hood of his cloak over his head and clambers out of the carriage after him. Together, they climb the stairs and begin the long walk to the infirmary.
A passing guard pauses in the middle of the great hall when he sees them. “Atlas, is that you? By the Creator, I thought you were dead. We all did.”
“I may yet manage it,” he rasps. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here . . . or that I look like this.”
“I won’t, but—"
“On your way, Tanner,” Tamriel says with a pointed look, and the guard hurries out of the room. He takes Atlas’s arm and leads him into the hallway. When they start down the stairs to the basement, Atlas sighs.
“Were you ever told why Master Oliver assigned me to Beggars’ End?”
“I heard . . . rumors.”
“Rumors. Right.” He shakes his head, leaning heavily on Tamriel for support as they descend, his other hand gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I’ve never dared to speak his name in the castle. I thought I was being so careful,” he says. “Julien said it would never last.”
“Julien,” Tamriel repeats cautiously. Despite their many years of friendship, they have never discussed the affliction which has haunted Atlas all his life. There had been whispers among the guard that Atlas is an Unnatural, as they call it, but there had never been any substance to the rumors . . . until Leitha Cain had stumbled upon the two young men holed up in one of the castle’s many hidden alcoves a month and a half ago. “Have you seen him since . . .?”
“Since Leitha caught us? No, I was sent to Beggars’ End immediately, and Julien was shipped off to guard the mines in Ospia that very day. The only reason Master Oliver kept me in the city was because my father is a seren. He tried to pretend it wasn’t a punishment, but I know it was. He thought I could change.” He spits the word, his voice trembling with pain and fatigue. “Everyone wants me to change.”
“Even your family?”
He nods. “My father especially. He pretends I was never born.” They reach the bottom of the stairs and start toward the infirmary. When they pass a torch, Tamriel sees the hurt and bitterness in the guard’s eyes. “Don’t you think if I could change, I would have? Do you think I enjoy being estranged from my family? Elise is the only one who still cares whether I live or die.”
“She isn’t the only one,” Tamriel murmurs, remembering the haggard look on Seren Pierce’s face when he had learned his son was trapped inside Beggars’ End.
When Atlas doesn’t respond, Tamriel allows the topic to drop. How could I not have seen it sooner? How could I not have done something to help?
Although . . . he had known, hadn’t he? When he was younger, he’d taken to watching the older boy at the state functions to which the king had dragged him, amused and bewildered by Atlas’s complete lack of awareness of the pretty girls who clung to his every word. It hadn’t taken him long to notice that Atlas’s eyes always seemed to latch onto Leon and some of the other advisors’ sons. He had thought Atlas’s fascination was mere envy of the richer boys until one night about five years ago, when Leon had teased Atlas about never having been kissed. The young guard’s face had flushed a bright crimson as he stammered out excuses. Calum, encouraged by the taunts of the other boys, had swaggered over, seized Atlas’s face between his hands, and planted a fat, wet kiss on Atlas’s mouth. Elise had shrieked and covered her eyes, while the other advisors’ children had laughed so hard a few of them fell off their chairs.
“There,” Calum had said after he’d pulled back, grinning smugly. “Now you’ve been kissed. I’m afraid no others will measure up.”
Atlas had been so flustered he had burst into tears and bolted from the room. After that, he hadn’t shown his face in the castle for a month.
Following the incident, Atlas had withdrawn from the other children. He still doted on Elise, still acknowledged Tamriel and Calum whenever they passed each other in the hall, but some invisible barrier had sprung up between them. Atlas began spending more time in the guards’ barracks, throwing himself into his training with more resolve than ever. Tamriel had still occasionally caught Atlas watching some of the other recruits, but the boy had never acted on his desires.
That is, until Julien Bouchard enlisted six months ago.
Tamriel had heard the guards gossip about the new recruit when they thought no one was ar
ound. Julien Bouchard is the youngest son of a jeweler in Myrellis Plaza. Until he joined the guard, he’d made a habit of picking up odd jobs around the city, never managing to hold a position for more than a few months at a time. I heard he fooled around with the cobbler’s boy last spring, one of the guards had whispered. When the cobbler discovered them in his shop, he threw rubber soles at Julien and chased him into the street. Tamriel hadn’t cared about rumors—as long as it does not interfere with their jobs, he doesn’t care what the guards do in their personal time—but there are many in the country who still bear old prejudices.
When they reach the infirmary, Tamriel shoves open the door and they stagger through, startling Mercy and Nynev from their reading.
“Who is that?” Mercy asks as Tamriel helps Atlas to the nearest bed. The guard’s hood falls off when he slumps onto the mattress, the wooden frame groaning under his weight. “Atlas?”
“Lady Marieve?” Atlas frowns at her. “You’re still here?”
“How much does he know?” she asks Tamriel.
“Nothing.”
“Why did you bring him here?”
“I thought Niamh could use someone to observe, to test treatments.” After a pause, he adds, “I couldn’t leave him to die.”
She nods and presses a hand to Atlas’s forehead, being careful not to rub his raw, peeling skin. Her palm comes away slick with sweat. “He’s running a deadly fever. Nynev, mallowroot extract—top shelf.” As the huntress searches for it, glass jars and bottles clinking, Mercy wets a rag and places it on Atlas’s forehead. She fills a chipped ceramic mug with water and a few drops of mallowroot extract. “Drink,” she commands, holding it up to the guard’s lips. His nose wrinkles at the sharp, bitter scent, but he obliges.
“Thank you,” he gasps after he gulps it down.
“You’re welcome.” She offers him a fleeting smile. “Any friend of the prince is a friend of mine.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 85
