Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  In addition to sorrow, however, the thought brings a wave of relief. After Ialathan, he’d bartered for his life by writing to the Strykers on Firesse’s behalf. He’s the one who dragged them into the middle of this war. He’d hoped that they could somehow free him from Drake’s hold, but he knows now that that was the dream of a fool. Watching Nerran and the rest of the Strykers leave will be bittersweet, but it’s what needs to happen. They never should have been here in the first place.

  “I’m grateful for your help,” Drake responds. “I’ll pay you for services rendered when we reach the city.”

  “Keep your money.”

  He looks at the smith sharply, his brows furrowing. “What?”

  “Keep your money.”

  “I heard you the first time, but I’ve never seen you refuse payment for anything. You’d face down a Rennox if it owed you two aurums.”

  Finally, Nerran turns his head and meets Drake’s puzzled gaze. “We discussed it yesterday while you were in Rockinver. We want to walk away with no memory of this wretched job, and we can’t do that if our pockets are filled with blood money. We can bear the loss.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t wish to be paid because you don’t want to be reminded that things you made killed people?” he asks, incredulous. “You’re armor- and weaponsmiths, for the Creator’s sake. You think someone who pays a thousand aurums for a sword uses it to trim his hedges?”

  “Of course not, smartass. But there’s a difference between a man trying to protect his family and a coward who slaughters innocents in their own damn beds.”

  “What about assassins who strike from the shadows?” Drake asks, jerking his head toward Faye. “Where do they fall on your morality scale?”

  “Leave me out of your quarrels,” she snaps. “I only came to enjoy the sunrise.”

  It’s only then that Drake and Nerran realize the sun has half-risen above the horizon, its rays turning the expanse of long, swaying grass and rolling hills before them into a gilded sea. Aside from the silhouette of Rockinver—reduced to nothing more than a dark mass by the distance they had travelled while Calum was gone—and the snaking ribbon of the king’s highway, the wild landscape is uninterrupted, untouched by human hands. Deep blue rivers and slender streams wend across wildflower-dotted meadows. If Calum were not trapped within his mental prison, the sight would have taken his breath away.

  “It really is a magnificent dawn, isn’t it?” Nerran breathes, forcing his anger down. He tilts his head back and stares up at the fat clouds drifting languidly across the sky, his face more open and relaxed than Calum has seen it in ages. Then he murmurs, so quietly Calum almost can’t hear him over the rustling of the long grass, “What horrors will today bring, do you think?”

  Neither of them responds.

  They sit there for several long minutes, watching the sun continue its slow ascent. No one speaks, yet the hillside is far from silent; crickets chirp, the stalks of grass whisper against one another when the breeze sends them dancing, and the Bluejet gurgles in the valley behind them.

  “I hope I never see another war,” Faye murmurs, her voice thick with sorrow.

  “It’s hell,” Nerran agrees.

  She shudders. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sounds of the attack last night—the way the people screamed and retched when Firesse turned the food in their stomachs sour. I wasn’t even in the square, but I could hear it from blocks away.” Her hazel eyes drift from the plains before them and land on the rough calluses across her palms and fingers from a lifetime spent in the Guild. She swallows. “And I can’t stop thinking about all the people I’ve killed. Forty-four. Forty-four people in the span of a few weeks, all because Firesse offered Mother Illynor a payday she couldn’t refuse.”

  “You’re an Assassin—getting paid to kill people is part of the job description,” Drake retorts. “It’s the entire job description.”

  “Delicately put, mate,” Nerran mumbles. “Don’t forget that she’s armed.”

  She ignores the smith and glares at Drake, annoyance flashing across her face. “I know that, Calum,” she snarls, her tone making it obvious that she remembers who is truly behind Calum’s features. “But we’re not soldiers, and we’re not hired swords. Our business is in killing politicians and courtiers who shirk their duties or overstep their bounds; in staging accidents for corrupt businessmen or slavers—that’s what Mother Illynor always says. Just because we’re assassins doesn’t mean we can’t have morals and standards. If we didn’t, we’d be just like those Feyndaran bastards who butchered Emmalyn.”

  “Who?” Drake asks, and Calum silently echoes the question. Mercy had certainly never mentioned an Assassin named Emmalyn—not to him, at least.

  “Mercy didn’t tell you about her?”

  “No.”

  “Then count yourself lucky.” She rips up handfuls of grass as she speaks, her delicate features turning sharp with anger. “All my life, Mother Illynor has claimed that we’re better than those Feyndaran dogs who like to call themselves our equals. They’ll kill anyone, so long as the pay is good. But Mother Illynor . . . She’s more selective when accepting a contract—a corrupt politician here, a dishonest businessman there.” She pauses and glances sidelong at Calum. “The brooding son of a mad king, perhaps. No one really knows what goes on in that mind of hers, but it’s like she has some sort of tally, a code of right and wrong only she is privy to. Step too far over the line and you’re fair game.” She bites her lip. “That’s what she always claimed. It’s the reason I sought out a Daughter of the Guild when I was seven, why I wanted to learn to be strong and tough and fearless like the assassins in the stories. I thought—” She stops, scowling, and takes another sip of wine.

  Drake and Nerran exchange a glance, debating whether to press her further. This is the most Calum has ever heard her speak. He realizes with a flicker of surprise that he’s desperate to hear the story of how Mercy’s sole childhood friend found her way to the Guild, how she gave herself to a company of Assassins. How does someone—how does a child—make that sort of decision? Mercy had never had a choice, but Faye and all the other girls had sought out a life of killing.

  When the Daughter does not continue, Nerran gently places a hand on hers and asks, “Thought what?”

  “I thought I was going to be ridding the world of assholes like the man who tried to buy my hand in marriage—me, a seven-year-old girl wed to a man old enough to be my father—not slaughtering fishermen and farmers in their beds.”

  Nerran opens his mouth, closes it, and blinks, clearly at a loss for words.

  “It’ll be over soon.” Drake glances over his shoulder. While they’ve been sitting there, basking in the dawn and trying to drown in alcohol the horrors they’ve witnessed and committed, the soldiers have begun to awaken. A few Cirisians Calum recognizes from Myris’s and Faye’s groups are sitting in little clusters along the banks of the Bluejet, working with the rest of the Strykers to repair armor and sharpen their weapons. Kaius’s few remaining soldiers wander among them with platters of meat they’d roasted over the low-burning fires. In a few days, they’ll arrive in Xilor, then Cyrna, and stage the largest attacks they’ve planned to this point. After that, Sandori. To Tamriel. To Mercy. To watch Firesse and Drake destroy his home.

  “It’ll be over soon,” Drake repeats, pushing to his feet. Faye and Nerran do the same. He sneers, “You can get back to your righteous killing after we make it through this war.”

  She shoots him a hateful look and leans in close, lowering her voice so only he can hear. “Make no mistake,” she whispers as Nerran picks up the now-empty bottle and begins strolling back toward the camp, clearly in no hurry to join the flurry of activity in the valley below, “if you were still alive, you’d be first on my list, you despicable prick.”

  33

  Tamriel

  Tamriel strides into the great hall early that morning only to stop dead in his tracks, his mouth falling open at the sight bef
ore him. “Atlas?”

  The guard turns and grins. His uniform pools around his frame, slim and sickly where there once were muscles, but he’s really there, standing before him. Alive. Steady, too, even without Niamh’s hand cautiously laid on his arm. “At your service, Your Highness.”

  A matching smile grows on Tamriel’s face. “I’m glad to see you on your feet again.” He clasps his old friend’s hand warmly, noting the smooth, unblemished flesh where there had once been blisters. “You’re completely healed?”

  Niamh nods and whispers, “The magic worked. The fever broke two days ago, and the physical symptoms disappeared sometime during the night. He’s in no danger of infecting anyone, and the other guards are faring almost as well as he is. It seems Lethandris’s gamble on the ritual was correct. I ask only your leave to continue my work.”

  His smile falters at the request. Niamh can cure the outbreak, but how many of his citizens will she have to sacrifice to garner the power to heal all the sick in the country? How many lives is he willing to allow her to end before it becomes too many?

  Niamh seems to sense his troubled thoughts. She murmurs something to Atlas and, after he nods, gestures for Tamriel to follow her. She leads him to the far corner of the room and ducks behind one of the tall pillars lining the hall, out of sight and earshot of any passersby. “I know you have doubts, Your Highness. By the gods, I wish there were another way to save your people. Lethandris and I looked—we searched for days, we labored over so many passages in those ancient books trying to find another way to help them without killing—but this magic is the only way we can be certain we’ll save as many of your sick as possible. I would give anything for more time. Anything. But if we wait any longer to start healing those people in the tents outside the city, we risk losing them all.”

  Her fingers drift to the sleeve covering her left arm, tracing the line of that jagged, gaping wound. She shudders, her face turning slightly green as she continues, “Do you know what it feels like to carry the same dark powers in my veins that Firesse used to manipulate Calum? Do you know how . . . how dirty I feel manipulating the blood magic she used to kill Odomyr, to destroy so many of your people?”

  “Niamh, I—” he begins, reaching out a comforting hand.

  She jerks back before he can touch her, pain and guilt shining in her eyes. “When I woke up in Firesse’s tent the night I nearly died, I vowed that I would never kill another person. No one—human or elf—would meet his death at my hand. Helping you has forced me to break that vow. Curing this plague has cost me that, but the price must be paid. I wish there were another way,” she says again, “but this is why Cassius saw me in his vision of the cure. It must be. I was meant to save your people, Tamriel. I may have broken my vow to myself, but I will not break my promise to you that I will do everything I can to save your people.”

  “Does my father know what you wish to do?”

  “I spoke with him this morning, right after I discovered that Atlas was healed, and he gave me permission to continue with the rituals. Even so, I have not disobeyed your orders. You’re my—friend,” she says hesitantly, color creeping up her cheeks, “and I would do anything to keep it that way.”

  “As would I.” He takes a deep breath and nods. “Continue working with Lethandris and Hero to heal the people in the End. The guards have been limiting travel in and out of the city since the outbreak, but I’ll speak to Master Adan to secure you transport to the infirmary tents.”

  She beams at him. “Thank you, Tamriel.”

  He’s not certain, but he thinks that’s the first time she has ever addressed him by his name. “Anything for a friend.”

  She hurries back to Atlas’s side. As Tamriel walks down the short corridor which connects the great hall to the throne room, the portraits of his ancestors frowning down at him, he catches the eye of one of the guards standing at attention beside the throne room doors. Julien bows, one corner of his mouth rising into a crooked grin, and murmurs, “Thank you for helping him,” as he passes.

  Ghyslain is already seated on his throne, his council gathered before him, when Tamriel enters. Master Adan and a dozen of his guardsmen surround them. Sensing the formality of this meeting, the councilmembers sweep into low bows when Tamriel climbs the steps of the dais and takes his place beside his father.

  “You’re late,” the king murmurs.

  “My apologies. I was speaking to Niamh.”

  “And where is Mercy? I would have thought she’d like to be here.”

  He simply says, “On her way.”

  Ghyslain shoots him a curious look, but finally bids the councilmembers to rise. While the nobles straighten and exchange confused glances and whispers, he leans forward and announces, “It’s time you learned the latest developments of this war. We’ve lost Graystone and its sister cities.”

  A ripple of shock passes through the nobles. None of them—Tamriel included—had ever expected Firesse and her band of untrained soldiers could make it so far into their country. There had been survivors of each of the attacks, but shipping in the fishing sector has ground to a complete halt. Several companies lost thousands of aurums’ worth of merchandise in the burning of their ships, and those which were unaffected have delayed all their shipments for fear of the same happening to them.

  “Additionally,” Ghyslain continues, his voice carrying easily in the near-empty room, “Firesse and part of her army attacked Rockinver during their Bounty Fest celebration. A raven arrived a few hours ago with the news.”

  At this, the nobles’ expressions shift from surprise to anger. Before they can question Adan about the troops, Ghyslain adds, “She has more than sharp weapons, Assassins, and a few gifted smiths at her disposal. She has also found a way to wield blood magic against us.”

  Tamriel stiffens. After the raven from Rockinver had arrived, they’d debated long and hard about revealing Firesse’s powers to the nobles. The council will call them mad, of course, but letting them think that Firesse’s ragtag army had managed to outsmart and outmaneuver the Beltharan army on their own could be far more dangerous than reigniting rumors of the king’s insanity. Thoughts like those flickering across the courtiers’ faces now—that the army is worthless, that the king cannot protect them, that perhaps they really would be better off with someone else on the throne—could lead to the uprising Ghyslain has been fearing for nearly eighteen years, and more political unrest is the last thing their city needs right now.

  “Blood magic?” Landers scoffs. Leon, standing behind him, looks equally disbelieving.

  “That’s right.” Ghyslain straightens, levels Landers with a hard stare for interrupting, and says, “That’s why she’s been two steps ahead of us this whole time.”

  Then he begins to explain.

  The king tells them everything—Cassius’s vision of the cure; Firesse’s powers over the Beyond and how she manipulated Calum into inciting war; the magic she had wielded during the attacks in the fishing sector; and Calum’s involvement in the planning of the Cirisians’ advance into the country. He also explains why Nynev and Niamh had accompanied Tamriel from the Islands, and the plague treatment Niamh and the other healers had discovered. By the time he finishes, half of the councilmembers are staring at him in horror, their faces bloodless and eyes wide. The other half gape at the king as if he had just suggested they invite the Cirisians into their own homes for dinner, drinks, and dancing.

  “It—It can’t be true,” Landers finally stammers. “Blood magic?”

  “I was as loathe to believe it as you are, Nadra,” Ghyslain says, “but you’ve read the reports. You’ve seen our soldiers train. It would be impossible for a force as small as Firesse’s to stand against our own in open battle and survive without having some sort of trick up her sleeve. She’s using blood magic to weaken my soldiers and harm my people without the Cirisians ever having to lay a hand on them. That is why she can so easily destroy our towns. That is why she can face down a host twice the size of hers
and walk away with barely a scratch.” He crosses his arms and frowns. “Hearing all that, do you still think me mad? Do you think I’m making it all up?”

  When his father fails to respond, Leon clears his throat and says, “N-No, Your Majesty.”

  As their shock gives way to terror, the councilmembers begin to argue.

  “I don’t believe it. Magic? It’s not possible—”

  “The Cirisians have been a blight on our world since the dawn of time. We should have rid the Islands of them long ago.”

  “I knew those sisters were up to no good. Killing our own sick and claiming that she’s healing them? No doubt the Assassin’s involved, as well.”

  Tamriel’s hand clench into fists when he hears that, but he holds his tongue. Too often recently, he has let his temper slip its leash. Watching his father rage at the news about Rockinver reminded him why he had always worked to keep his emotions in check around everyone but Calum. It’s too easy to let them get the better of him.

  “How can we possibly hope to defeat someone who can wield the Old Gods’ powers against us?” someone asks.

  Master Adan steps forward then. “I’ve sent orders to my men in the fishing sector. Every soldier will be reporting to Cyrna, Xilor, and the other major towns along the road to the capital—every location we believe the Cirisians will be targeting next. Firesse may wield unnatural powers, but her soldiers are flesh and blood. They die just as easily as any other. Kill enough of them, and she’ll be forced to surrender.”