Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “But—”

  The doors at the back of the throne room swing open, and Tamriel grins when he sees Mercy stride through, that arrogant, self-satisfied smirk gracing her lips. She has given up the sling, although he can tell by the way she moves that her injured arm still pains her. “Sorry we’re late,” she calls as the nobles turn to gawk at her. She winks at Tamriel, the heels of her boots clicking against the stone floor with each step. “I simply couldn’t resist a dramatic entrance.”

  She’s clad in a sapphire-blue silk top, the sleeves embroidered from shoulder to wrist with whorls of thread-of-gold, and tight leather pants, her fearsome curved daggers sheathed at her hips. The gemstones in the handguards reflect flecks of red and orange light on the faces of the outraged councilmembers as she pushes straight through the edge of the gathered crowd and continues toward the dais. She’s not the only one they stare at, though. Their anger shifts to confusion when they see Nynev, Cassia, Matthias, and Ino trailing behind her, each wearing the pristine leather armor and daggers Tamriel had commissioned for them from the armorer.

  “What the hell is that on their chests?” Edwin Fioni demands.

  Mercy bares her teeth in a grin and simply responds, “My crest.”

  A simple design has been pressed into the leather over their hearts; they had adopted the symbol of slaves—two upside-down V’s meant to represent elf ears—and bracketed them with two half circles: on top, a chain to symbolize Liselle’s death at the hands of the courtiers, and on the bottom, Mercy’s curved daggers, back-to-back. The idea for a crest, for something to distinguish them from everyone else in the capital, had been Ino’s. The idea to turn their weaknesses into a source of strength and pride had been Cassia’s.

  Mercy stops before the dais and bows to the king. Then she straightens, turns toward the councilmembers, and spreads her hands to encompass the elves flanking her. “Meet my personal guard,” she announces, nodding to each of them in turn. “Nynev and my siblings—Ino, Cassia, and Matthias Mari. You may recognize the surname from a certain courtier who was murdered here seventeen years ago. I don’t doubt you’ll be shocked to learn that Liselle Mari was my sister.”

  Indeed, some of the nobles turn pale at the pronouncement. Most of the men merely gape at her gall, but a few protest outright when she climbs the steps and positions herself at Tamriel’s side—claiming her place among the court hierarchy and daring the councilmembers to challenge her. She grins as Nynev, Cassia, Ino, and Matthias spread out before the dais. Each of them rests a hand on one of their daggers as they glare at the courtiers.

  “Your Majesty,” Landers forces out, “this . . . display . . . is highly improper. The girl’s a commoner—and an Assassin. She should not be privy to sensitive information about the state of this kingdom.”

  Ghyslain glances at Mercy, then Tamriel. Although the king’s expression does not change, Tamriel can read the warning in his gaze. This is a dangerous move they’re making, taking a stand against the nobles when so much is at stake with Firesse, but Tamriel is willing to risk it for Mercy; for the hope that one day, when he’s king, he’ll be able to improve the lives of all the people in his country—not just the humans.

  The king turns back to Landers and raises a brow. “Improper as it may be, she protected your prince from Assassins, Rennox, and Cirisians, and journeyed to the Islands to find a cure for the plague which is currently ravaging our country. Need I list more ways in which she has proven that she is trustworthy?”

  “But the guards,” someone interjects. “They’re elves.”

  And you’re an asshole, Tamriel thinks. “They are citizens of this country and on the guards’ payroll. You will treat them with respect regardless of the shape of their ears.”

  Mercy reaches over and grabs his hand. He’s not entirely sure whether it’s out of gratitude or simply to make the nobles’ blood boil, but he’d put his money on the latter.

  Unsurprisingly, every pair of eyes latch onto their joined hands.

  “In addition to the news about the war,” Ghyslain says, peering over at her, “I believe Seren Pierce has made some progress in his investigation into the attempt on your life.”

  “Indeed he has.” Mercy nods to Nynev, and the huntress wades through the crowd—the councilmembers recoiling as if she were diseased—and disappears into the hall. A few moments later, she returns, Seren Pierce, Kelaya Zavian, Ehren Tallis, and several guards in tow. Shackles bind Zavian’s and Tallis’s wrists and ankles, the chains clanging as they shuffle toward the throne.

  “It appears my hunch was right, Your Majesty,” Pierce calls as they approach. When they reach the front of the room, the guards force Zavian and Tallis to their knees before Ghyslain. “These are the men who conspired with Drayce Hamell to kill Mercy. Tallis put up half the bribe, and Zavian tried to disguise his withdrawal from the bank as a gallery expenditure. Fortunately for us, he was either too stupid or too lazy to hide it better in the accounting records.”

  “I wasn’t—” Zavian objects, but one of the guards shushes him.

  “You have definitive proof of their guilt?”

  Pierce nods and pulls a bundle of papers from his pocket. “The bank records from the gallery, and Tallis’s and Hamell’s accounts. The numbers match. Not to mention,” he adds, grinning when the councilmembers begin to murmur, “they’ve confessed.”

  Tamriel’s brows shoot up. “Really?” The question slips out before he thinks to stop it.

  Mercy squeezes his hand, glaring down at the men before them. “After a little interrogation, they gave us all the information we desired.” The coldness in her tone—the implication behind it—sends a shudder through him. From the looks on the councilmembers’ faces, they feel it too. Whatever she had done to convince Zavian and Tallis to confess, she had left no marks where they can see, no lingering hints of violence or threats save for the hatred burning in Zavian’s eyes.

  “Very well. Adan, take these would-be murderers to the dungeons. They’ll be transferred to the prison in Oldony after this mess with Firesse is over.” Ghyslain dismisses the council with a wave of his hand, and Tamriel feels a little tremor go through Mercy when the nobles begin to clear out of the room. A few still shoot her hateful looks, but the majority do not acknowledge her presence at all. He’ll take that over them trying to kill her any day.

  “We did it,” she breathes as Ghyslain stands and disappears into the hall to speak with Master Adan. Nynev and the others turn to her with matching grins. “We did it.”

  Tamriel lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of hers. “I had no doubt we would.” He’d known having her join him on the dais beside the king was the right move since he’d suggested it at their meeting in the council chamber days ago. The council needed to be put in its place, and Mercy needed to be given one within the court. He could think of no better place for her than at his side. “Make no mistake, it’s a small victory, but hopefully one of many to come.”

  34

  Mercy

  When the last of the nobles and guards files out of the throne room, Tamriel barely has time to release Mercy’s hand before Matthias lets out a whoop, bounds up the steps to the dais, and sweeps her into a bone-crushing hug. “You are so badass,” he murmurs. She laughs, ignoring the slivers of pain in her still-healing wounds, and clutches him just as tightly.

  Tamriel chuckles. She backs out of her brother’s embrace just in time for the prince to lean in and whisper, “I’ll leave you to celebrate your first successful day in court with your siblings.” He brushes a kiss against her cheek and adds, “We can celebrate later—in private.”

  A shiver dances down her spine at his husky tone. Matthias, Cassia, and Nynev pretend not to overhear, but Ino can’t resist shooting her a knowing look as Tamriel slips into the hall. He raises a brow. Her face flushes, and she smacks Ino’s shoulder as she descends the steps. “Jerk.”

  “What’s the point of being your brother if I can’t tease you every o
nce in a while?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I should have left you scrubbing pots in the kitchen.”

  “We all would have preferred that,” Matthias says. “He never does the dishes at home.”

  “Neither do you,” Cassia shoots back.

  As they begin to good-naturedly bicker back and forth, Nynev drops down on the top step, a wistful look on her face. Mercy sits beside her. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I . . . I don’t want to leave this when the war is over,” the huntress admits, looking surprised by her own words. “I could do without the courtiers and the secrecy, but the city’s beautiful, and I don’t want to leave all of you. My . . . friends.”

  “You don’t have to go back to the Islands if you don’t want to. Stay here. Stay on as my personal guard. Niamh could work as a healer’s apprentice. Just—stay. Please. Help us change things.”

  She shakes her head. “I wish I could, but before my mother died, I swore to her that I would look after Niamh. Our place is in the Islands. There are still some good Cirisians out there—Isolde is out there—and the clans will need rebuilding after Firesse gets all of her soldiers slaughtered.”

  Mercy nods, shoving down her sadness at the thought of saying goodbye to Nynev and her sister. “Well, you’ll always have a place to stay, should you decide you’re sick of having to hunt your own meals.”

  “And you can stay with us anytime the nobles begin to grate on your nerves.”

  “So, tomorrow?”

  They laugh, distracting Matthias and the others from their conversation. Mercy’s siblings wander over and settle on the steps around them. Cassia fidgets with the end of the scarf wrapped around her hair—slate gray today—then asks, “Do—Do you know our parents?”

  The huntress nods, and a faint smile tugs at her tattooed lips. “I met them at Ialathan when I first arrived in the Islands. They were so kind to Niamh and me. We didn’t speak the language, of course, so your father translated for us when it came time for the storyteller to recite the tale of Myrbellanar and the Creator. Your mother even held my hand while they gave me my tattoos.”

  “Really?” Cassia’s eyes widen and she leans forward, hungry for more information about the parents they had lost so many years ago. Nynev graciously indulges her. As she spins story after story about Dayna and Adriel and life in the Islands, Mercy studies each person in the circle—in the family she and Tamriel have found over the past few weeks—in turn:

  Cassia, with her quiet strength and easy smile, beautiful even with the scars Leopold had given her. Ino, stoic and protective, a warrior incarnate, a boy forced to grow up and provide for his family far too early. Matthias, good-humored, only a few years her senior, with the same angular face and teasing glint to his eyes as Calum. Even Niamh and Nynev have become more than mere allies and friends since they arrived in the capital. Although she can be snarky and stubborn, Nynev has stood by Mercy’s side unrelentingly, and her sister has been willing to do whatever it takes to rid the country of the plague.

  Mercy’s heart swells with pride and affection as she listens to them converse and laugh. Before she left the Guild, she never could have imagined her life becoming anything like this. She never could have imagined caring for anyone but herself. For seventeen years, she had only been concerned with her own survival, her own training. Nearly two months ago, she had betrayed her best and only friend for a chance to fight in the Trial.

  But now—

  Now, she would give anything for the people sitting around her. She would give anything for Tamriel, to see him take the throne his father has so terribly abused, and that is why she interrupts Nynev in the middle of a story by declaring, “I need you all to promise me something.”

  After she bids goodnight to Nynev and Niamh, then to her siblings—the latter having been given their own quarters in the guest wing—she enters her room to find Tamriel already waiting for her, seated in the plush velvet armchair Nynev had dragged in while she’d watched over Mercy’s healing. A pile of reports lies on the floor at his feet, and another is sitting on his lap. His eyes light up as she closes the door behind her and slings her belt with her sheathed daggers onto the vanity table. “Enjoy your celebration?”

  “Only briefly. It seems that when you’re facing a deadly plague and an impending attack from a blood-magic-wielding Cirisian clan leader, the work is never done.”

  He snorts softly. She watches in the mirror as he places the unread reports with the others on the floor and rises, his smile turning into a smirk when he notices her gaze drift to the undone buttons at the top of his shirt, offering a glimpse of his lean, muscular chest and flawless olive skin. “I hope you haven’t forgotten about our celebration.”

  She turns as Tamriel stalks closer, grinning in that private way of his. His hands cup the curve of her waist and draw her close. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, ducking his head to press a kiss to her jaw, right below her ear. “We’ve had so much to do lately, I feel like I’ve hardly spent any time with you since we returned. It’s killing me.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?” she whispers, her breath hitching when his lips graze a ticklish, tender spot at the base of her throat. “Not after all the work I’ve put in trying to keep you alive.”

  He laughs. “No, that wouldn’t do at all.”

  When his hands slip under the hem of her shirt, she arches against him and pulls his mouth to hers. Her heart begins to pound in her chest. Even after today, even now, she can hardly believe he’s hers—that he had looked at that cruel, cold Assassin she’d been so many weeks ago and found someone worth loving. She deepens the kiss, teasing his tongue with hers. Tamriel lets out a little moan of desire and guides her backward until she bumps the edge of the vanity table.

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry.” Then, without warning, he shoves everything off the top of the vanity—her daggers, various combs and brushes, jewelry she has never bothered to wear, hair pins, all clattering to the floor—lifts her up, and sets her on the vanity table. He winks at her. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  She cocks her head. “And how old are you, again?”

  “Come on—I’m always cleaning up after my father’s messes. Let me make one of my own for once. It’ll give the servants something to gossip about.”

  Mercy brushes a stray strand of hair from his face, tucking the dark curl behind his ear. “You’re horrible.”

  “And you love me for it.”

  “Are you so sure about that?” She looks pointedly at her precious daggers, lying in a heap with everything else he’d knocked off the table. “Regardless of my feelings for you, the guards wouldn’t be enough to protect you from my wrath if you damaged those.”

  His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “Cruel, beautiful woman,” he murmurs, a teasing glint in his eyes. He presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

  Then he’s kissing her again.

  He grins against her mouth, and she’s certain he can feel her heart hammering against her ribcage when he pushes the neckline of her shirt off her shoulder and presses a feather-light kiss to the still-healing wound just above her heart. Tamriel shudders when his lips brush the ugly black stitches.

  “Did we make the right choice today? With the council?”

  “I don’t know,” she admits. “I hope so.”

  “I hope so, too. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, Mercy,” he breathes, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Promise me everything will be okay.”

  When his dark eyes meet hers, she nods. “I promise. We’ll make it through this. All of us,” she adds with a glance at the door, toward where their friends—their family—are sleeping just down the hall.

  His hands trail down her thighs and nudge her knees apart. When she wraps her legs around his hips, pinning him in place, he merely scoops her up and carries her to the bed, gently laying her down on her back. He kneels over her, his gaze full of love and desire and hunger. For a few long moments, h
e merely watches her. Then he closes his eyes and confesses, “I’ve been terrified of falling in love my whole life. I saw how it destroyed my father, and I was determined not to let myself fall into the same trap.” He chuckles softly. “What a fool I was. Meeting you, Mercy, is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

  She bites her lip, then says, “Until I came here, I never cared about anyone but myself. I didn’t think I could. But you—you changed everything. Growing up in the Guild stripped me of every bit of kindness and compassion I once had, but knowing you . . .” She swallows, trying to force the words past the sudden lump in her throat. She has never been so honest, so vulnerable, in front of anyone before. Every instinct within her screams to shut up, to hide any weakness her enemies could exploit. Mother Illynor did that to her. Mother Illynor turned her into that unfeeling killer. Not anymore, Mercy thinks. She does not control me anymore. “You taught me how to be a person again. You taught me how to be a good person, Tamriel.”

  She barely manages to finish her sentence before he’s kissing her again, passionate and insistent and desperate. She fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, and only makes it halfway down the row before Tamriel lets out a growl of impatience and rips it the rest of the way off, tossing it aside. His skin is flushed, his muscles tensing under her touch when she runs her fingers down the hard planes of his stomach. He catches her hands before she can reach for the waistband of his pants and says, “Your turn.”

  He helps her slip her top off, then that, too, goes sailing over the side of the bed. He props himself up on an elbow and stares down at her, drinking her in. “You’re so beautiful, Mercy. You don’t even know how beautiful you are.”

  She shivers at the raw emotion in his tone. Her lips part in a sly grin and she says, “Then I suppose you’ll have to keep telling me until I believe you.”