Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “What about Mercy?” Landers Nadra pipes up. Surprisingly, his son is not at his side. Good. For a while, Tamriel had thought the man had two shadows. “She was a Daughter of the Guild. She has your trust and free rein of the castle. What is to keep her from sharing information about our plans with the Cirisians?”

  “Need I remind you she betrayed the Guild weeks ago? They want her dead as much as they do me.”

  “What if she traded information for her life?” he presses. “She helps the knife-ears in the war, and the Guildmother overlooks her slights against the Assassins. It’s not a bad trade, especially for someone as talented with a blade as Mercy is. I’d bet my estate the headmistress is dying to bring her wayward Daughter back into the fold.”

  A few of the councilmembers nod. Before he can respond, his father says smoothly, “Mercy is not on trial here, and my son does not owe you any explanations, Nadra.” He leans heavily into the title, a warning in his tone. The Rivosi noble merely shrugs, clasps his hands over his bulging stomach, and leans back in his chair.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty.”

  Cassius snorts.

  “Have something to say, Bacha?”

  “Only that your appointment to this council never ceases to amaze me. If you thought half as much about what comes out of your mouth as what goes in it, you’d know better than to paint yourself as such a monumental ass.”

  “Gentlemen—” Ghyslain begins, but another lightning strike cuts off his words.

  “My job is to ensure the security of our country,” Landers shouts over the rumble of thunder. “I’ll not overlook an Assassin living in the castle in order to protect my position. She cannot be trusted.”

  “Neither can you,” Tamriel snaps. “Someone helped Drayce Hamell plan the attack on her life. We haven’t ruled you out as suspect.”

  “Drayce Hamell was a moron and a mediocre guard at best. Give me a little credit, Your Highness. If I’d helped him plan it, he wouldn’t have failed. In fact, he wouldn’t have been involved in the first place.”

  “You—”

  “ENOUGH!” Ghyslain roars. “One more snide comment and I’m stationing the lot of you on the front lines against the Cirisians. I called you here to plan in the event Firesse’s troops somehow manage to reach the capital. If you cannot suppress your hatred of one another long enough to complete this simple task, perhaps you’re not worth saving.”

  A heavy silence settles across the room, broken only by the patter of raindrops against the window and the occasional clap of thunder. Half of the councilmembers shuffle the papers before them sheepishly, their eyes downcast. The other half gape at Ghyslain, certain their king has truly lost it.

  That’s it, Tamriel thinks as he gazes at his father, something like pride filling his chest. Stand up to them.

  “Now,” Ghyslain says, his voice as sharp as a knife’s edge, “what are your thoughts on the war?”

  Cassius scans one of the papers in front of him, eyes squinting behind his crooked spectacles. “Firesse is angry. She ordered the attack on Sapphira to prove a point. What she fails to realize, however, is that the havoc she wreaked caused more harm to the elves of that city than good.” He hands the report to Ghyslain. “Since the attack, violence against elves in Sapphira has tripled. Just two days ago, a guard patrol found two female slaves huddled in an alley, each suffering from a broken nose and multiple broken ribs. The people of Sapphira are angry, and they’re taking it out on the most convenient enemy.”

  Bile rises in Tamriel’s throat. “We should station additional troops there until the war is over.”

  “Master Adan already ordered the city guards to be on high alert, but I’ll have him send backup tonight,” his father says.

  Porter Anders jumps up from his seat. “They should be protecting the people. Firesse is going after the humans, not the elves. That’s the most immediate threat. With the Daughters on her side, the people need as much protection as we can afford to give them.”

  Ghyslain shoots him a look. “They are all my people. One race is no more worthy of survival than another. We’re sending troops to keep the peace, not to pick sides.”

  “Back to the discussion at hand,” Tamriel says, gesturing to the map. “Hypothetically, if Firesse were to reach the capital, what is our plan to stop her?”

  Cassius’s lips purse as if he’d bitten into a lemon. He’s the only councilmember who knows the truth about Firesse’s powers—and about the very real possibility she might make it to Sandori. “We’d have to move the sick from the infirmary tents to a quarantine facility somewhere else in the city. Possibly some of the abandoned warehouses along the Alynthi. It would take a lot of time and effort—some of those people can hardly stand, and others are barely lucid. The citizens outside the city walls would have to be brought inside, as well. After that, who knows? With the lake and the river, the city can stand a siege for years. Firesse doesn’t have that much time or patience. The walls are impregnable, but there is a tunnel near the infirmary which leads outside the city. It was built centuries ago to allow the royal family to escape in the event of a war. Does Calum know about it?”

  “I don’t know. I never told him, but it’s possible he found it on his own.” Tamriel himself hadn’t known about the hidden escape until Master Oliver had shown it to him when he was sixteen. Just in case, he’d said as he led Tamriel down the dim hallway, searching for the carving of the Myrellis family crest in the ancient stone bricks. Sometimes it’s better to run from a fight. You know that, don’t you?

  I don’t run, he’d shot back, crossing his arms. I’m not a coward like my father.

  You’re not a fool, either. You’ll know when you’re facing an enemy you can’t defeat, when you’re staring death in the eyes, and you’ll make the wise decision. Only a fool faces Death believing in his own immortality.

  Later, he’d used the tunnel to help Hero smuggle elven slaves out of the city. He’d stolen food from the kitchen, bound it in small pouches with enough coin to pay the elves’ way to Cirisor, and sent them to their freedom. He hadn’t risked it often—too many slaves go missing, too many nights stealing late-night “snacks” from the kitchen, and someone would have caught on—but he’d helped a dozen or so elves over the two years since Master Oliver had shown him the passage. Even though he’d been certain the Master of the Guard knew about his partnership with Hero, they’d never spoken of it.

  “We’ll operate on the assumption that Calum knows every possible advantage we have,” Ghyslain says. “We’ll be prepared for anything coming our way. Adan will station guards at regular intervals through the tunnel. It’s only wide enough for a few men to stand abreast, so the guards won’t be facing the entirety of Firesse’s army at any one time.”

  “Meanwhile, the rest of the men and women will meet the Cirisians in the field,” Cassius adds, nodding.

  “It’s a solid plan.” Landers leans forward, grinning as if he were the mastermind behind their strategy. “Fortunately, we will never have cause to use it.”

  For once, Tamriel hopes he’s right.

  Ghyslain nods, somewhat mollified. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Fioni and Anders, I want you to find suitable warehouses and prepare them for quarantine. I’d rather them be ready and unused than be caught unprepared if the Cirisian army manages to reach the city. You’re all dismissed.”

  After the councilmembers shuffle out of the hall, Tamriel turns to his father, whose gaze is trained on the map and the wax-splattered papers surrounding it. “We will win.”

  “I hope so, Tam.” The king moves to the window where Tamriel had been standing and peers through the glass, frowning at the smattering of white tents just visible through the raging storm. Firesse and her army survived a battle against six hundred trained soldiers in full armor and managed to slaughter a dozen nobles in the middle of a fortress city. If they make it to Sandori, they won’t hesitate to cut down the thousands of innocent humans caught between them and the castle.
“For all our sakes, I really, truly hope so.”

  The halls below the castle are colder and danker than usual, the walls slick from the water leaking through the cracks in the ancient bricks. The thick, earthy scents of dirt and rain hang so heavily in the stagnant air that Tamriel can taste them. He turns the corner just in time to see a guard step out of the infirmary, closing the door softly behind him. The second the young man sees him, he shoots Tamriel a dazzling smile. “I made it in from Ospia right before for the storm,” he calls as Tamriel approaches. “I was told I have you to thank for that, Your Highness. Julien Bouchard, at your service.” He drops into a theatrical bow, the golden threads of the Myrellis family crest on his uniform shining in the low light.

  Tamriel raises a brow. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Only half the stories the guards whisper about me are true. The fun is in figuring out which are, and which are not.” He straightens. “They call me an Unnatural—a claim to which our dear Leitha Cain could testify, but I’ve heard she’s rather busy in the afterlife and unable to make social calls. A pity, really. I liked her until she discovered my relationship with Atlas and convinced Master Oliver to station me in the mines. I assume the rumors don’t bother you, since you were the one who had Master Adan bring me back.”

  “If you do your job well, I don’t care what you do on your own time . . . or who you do.”

  Julien laughs. “I’ll be honest, Your Highness, I never thought you had much of a sense of humor before this very conversation.”

  “I’m full of surprises.” He nods to the infirmary door. “How’s Atlas faring?”

  “Better. Still feverish, but the healer seems to think he has a good chance of recovery.” Julien bows again. “I should return to my rounds. Spend too much time alone with me and soon you’ll be the subject of the guards’ whispers.”

  As the guard’s footsteps fade, Tamriel lets himself inside the infirmary. The warmth from the hearth offers a welcome respite from the damp chill of the hall. When he emerges on the other side of the supply shelves, he finds Niamh and Lethandris murmuring to one another in Cirisian, bent over a thick tome lying open on the desk.

  “Any progress?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” the priestess responds, lightly tracing a line of text across the aged yellow parchment. The nib of her pen scratches against a piece of paper as she transcribes the phrase, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Ancient Cirisian is difficult to translate because it originated as a spoken language. Eventually, with the influence of Beltharan and Feyndaran explorers, they developed a written alphabet, but the symbols varied wildly between the various clans.”

  “We’ve managed to decipher a bit more about the Aitherialnik, though,” Niamh adds. “It seems each Old God was part of a gens—a family, of a sort. Each Aitherial could draw on the Aitherialnik to bolster his own magic, but he could only borrow and wield the power of a member of his gens.”

  “So Firesse doesn’t have unlimited powers,” Tamriel says, some of the tension in his chest lessening. “Which Old Gods were in Myrbellanar’s gens?”

  “That’s the problem. Their names and stories are lost to time, just like the true names of the Creator and Myrbellanar. All we know for certain is that the magic she can control through the Aitherialnik is related to Myrbellanar’s powers over death and the realms of the living and the Beyond.”

  “Could she summon more spirits, like she did Drake and Liselle?”

  Lethandris pauses her writing, pursing her lips in thought. “Probably, but she can’t wield blood magic without depleting her own health. With the Daughters fighting on the front lines, I doubt she’ll risk it unless she absolutely needs to.”

  Niamh stands and examines the guards while the priestess speaks. Tamriel watches her roll back Atlas’s sleeve and slather more ointment onto his forearm, Atlas gritting his teeth when her fingers brush the tender skin. The scabs where the milky blisters had been are still healing, but the rash appears to have lessened. She lays his arm back down on the bed and moves to the next cot. As she continues tending her patients, Lethandris gathers her books and excuses herself, muttering something about the High Priestess finding out the ancient texts have been taken from the archive without her permission.

  “They’ve been eating better and sleeping more peacefully,” Niamh tells him when she returns to the desk, wiping the medicine off her hands with a rag. “The healers and I will observe them for a few more days, and if their recovery continues going smoothly, I’d venture to guess we can start distributing the cure by the week’s end.”

  His shoulders slump in relief. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”

  “Tamriel?” Atlas croaks, his voice still hoarse from the plague. Tamriel kneels on the floor beside his friend’s cot, bracing himself for the hatred he’ll certainly find in the guard’s eyes. Instead, Atlas swallows painfully and says, “Julien’s here. That was your doing, wasn’t it?”

  He smiles. “I thought you might like to see him again. I actually met him in the hall. He’s an unusual one. I’m sure he’ll serve my father well until he inevitably gets into trouble and winds up shipped halfway across the country again.”

  “You’re telling me,” Atlas chuckles. He glances at Niamh and the other guards, then lowers his voice. “You knew about my . . . affliction . . . before I told you about Julien, didn’t you?”

  “Your pining wasn’t exactly subtle, my friend.”

  “I never pined for anyone.”

  “You most certainly did. But if it makes you feel any better, I won’t tell a soul.”

  “And I suppose you were the reason my father visited me earlier and begged my forgiveness?”

  Tamriel nods. “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds. I just couldn’t stand by and watch him treat you like shit any longer.”

  Atlas waves away his concerns. “My relationship with my parents has been strained for a long time. I can’t forgive them completely—not yet, at least—but I’ve agreed to sit down with them and talk. I owe it to Elise to try. Even after they kicked me out, she did everything she could to fix things between us.” Tamriel reaches out and grasps his friend’s hand as grief fills Atlas’s eyes. He and Elise had been closer than most other siblings in the court. For a long time, one would never go anywhere without the other. Elise had made some terrible decisions, but Tamriel knows she’d have died for her brother if necessary.

  “After you recover,” he says, desperate to distract Atlas, “I’d like you to join my personal guard. No more Beggars’ End for you.”

  For the first time since leaving the End, his friend smiles. “It would be an honor, Your Highness.”

  After visiting with the rest of the sick guards, Tamriel bids farewell to Niamh and the others and trudges up the stairs to the guest wing, where he finds Mercy’s room dark, the pot of tea one of the servants had left on the desk cold and untouched. A pile of discarded clothes lies on the floor before the wardrobe, the left shoulder of the tunic crusted with dried blood. He rolls his eyes at the sight. He’d have been more surprised if Mercy had listened to Tabris’s orders to rest; he’d have feared Drayce’s arrows had knocked something loose in her head.

  The doors to the library are ajar when he emerges onto the second-floor landing, a sliver of light escaping through the gap. They don’t make a sound as he pushes them open and steps inside.

  It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness; built into the center of the castle, the library has no windows, and the only light comes from the low, crackling flames in the fireplace at the far end of the room. When they do, he spots Mercy sitting with her back to him before the fire, exactly where they’d first kissed so many weeks ago. Neither Nynev nor the guards are in sight.

  “They’re in the hall outside,” Mercy says without turning back, somehow reading his thoughts. That she’d known it was he who had found her surprises him; he’d been all but silent walking in, not wanting to disturb her but aching for her compan
y. Was her Guild training really so good that she is able to identify someone without them even speaking? She gestures toward the door set into the left wall of the library—the one through which Tamriel had often sneaked in during his childhood, to escape his father’s wailing sobs by losing himself between the pages of a book. “I needed a moment to think.”

  “About what?” he asks as he starts down the long center aisle.

  “About my siblings. Liselle told me about them when we first left for the Islands, but she didn’t know if they’d survived the aftermath of her murder. Apparently, they did, and they came here to find me.” When he sinks onto the couch beside her, she explains everything—their flight from Sandori, their enslavement, their search for her after they’d learned of her arrest—and finishes by describing how Cassia had saved her life the day of Elise’s execution. “They want me to run away with them—a fresh start for all of us.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few long moments. “Is that what you want?” he finally forces himself to ask, fighting to keep the note of fear from slipping into his voice. He’d wanted to send her away to keep her safe from the nobles, but that would have been temporary; the thought of her leaving forever nearly cleaves his heart in two.

  She reaches up and cups his cheek with her good hand. His gaze travels once more to the sling—that Creator-damned reminder of exactly how ruthless the nobles can be, and to what lengths they’re willing to go to keep their power. “What would you do if I said yes?”

  “I don’t know if I’d be able to bear seeing you leave,” he confesses, trailing his thumb across the curve of her lower lip. He tucks her curls behind her ear, the point cast in gold by the light of the fire. “But if that’s what you decide, I won’t stand in your way. I’d secure you and your siblings safe passage wherever you wish to go.”

  “You’d forget about me? You’d marry some Rivosi princess and make lots of little heirs?”