“You know Elisora and Ghyslain were married, and the king met Liselle while she was serving Elisora at their betrothal celebration. He claimed to love Elisora, but most believe his heart belonged solely to Liselle. She was only nineteen and had the king at her beck and call. When the queen was bedridden with pregnancy complications a couple years later, Liselle began appearing in public at the king’s side. When there was a slave uprising in the slums, it was Liselle who addressed and appeased the rioters. She promised new laws abolishing slavery and giving the elves the rights they deserve.”
“And the nobles had her murdered for it. I’ve heard this before.”
Calum rolls his eyes. “Let me finish. Ever since her death, there have been calls by elves and humans alike for a revolt against the crown. The people claim the king is unfit to rule because he gave so much power to an elf, and the elves want him removed from the throne because of the injustice of allowing their mistreatment. Liselle wanted to change everything,” he says, grimacing, “and he would have done it for her.”
Mercy leans back in her saddle and narrows her eyes. “Why do you care so much? Why do you bother to help me? I’m a stranger you met a few days ago.”
He laughs, baffled. “A stranger? You’re so much more to me than that, love.”
Before she can ask what he means, he spurs his horse forward and returns to Hewlin’s side.
They ride all day without stopping, until Mercy’s legs ache from the saddle and the reins dig into her hands, and by dusk, they arrive in Ellesmere.
14
As Mercy, Aelis, and the Strykers near the outskirts of Ellesmere, the wide-open fields and tall barns give way to crowded clusters of cottages, while groups of people on the streets pause in their chores to gaze at the passing strangers. It appears to Mercy that they are simply families and friends spending the last traces of sunlight outside before supper until she notices a pattern:
For every group of people gathered on the streets, four or five figures stand quietly to the side, watching friends greet each other and mill about in amiable chatter. When a young man who is standing to the side shifts into the light of a lantern, the orange glow illuminates the points of his ears and the white sash across his chest.
Mercy pokes Nerran and points. “What is that?”
“We’ve arrived right at the end of the spring harvest. People come from all over Beltharos to buy the freshest produce they can find before it’s all shipped to Sandori. Lots of families use it as an excuse for a feast.”
“Not the villagers. Them—the elves, wearing those sashes.”
“Well, uh, by law, all slaves are required to wear sashes so officials can identify them in a crowd or at a distance. You see that patch of yellow just over their hearts? It’s an emblem—two upside down V’s—elves’ ears.”
“Hm.” Surveying the next crowd they pass, Mercy counts three slaves—all female, all elven. When she turns, her face blank, Nerran gapes at her. “What?”
“You don’t care?”
“Not particularly, no.” She cocks her head when he frowns. “Would you rather I did?”
“You’re not going to go all ‘plight of my people’ on me?”
“They’re not my people. Just because our ears are the same shape doesn’t mean I feel any kinship toward them. You have two legs. So does that bird over there. Do you feel kinship to him?”
“That’s not remotely the same.”
“Isn’t it? You are suggesting because we share similar features, I should feel some sense of community with these strangers. I pity them, as I would any creature whose freedom has been stripped, but I feel no closer to them than you to a Qadar.” She pauses. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“Honestly? A bit.”
She shrugs and studies the slaves. The women wear their hair behind their shoulders, in braids or tight buns, and the men’s hair has been shorn short, close to the scalp. Their ears are on full display to any passerby.
In the lead, Hewlin stops his horse and gestures for the rest to do the same, then dismounts. The city’s stablemaster greets them cheerfully, apologizing for the little room left for their horses as he takes the reins. “On account of all the visitors,” he says as he leads the horses away.
Calum leans close to Mercy and whispers, “Welcome to the rest of the world.”
Ellesmere is huge.
There are so many buildings, short and squat and built haphazardly beside one another, as if the layout of the town had been decided by the roll of a die. The sun is a sliver of fire in the west, and people bustle through the streets on their way home from work. A man in a deep blue coat strides from shop to shop, lighting the lanterns which hang over each doorway. Merchants pack up their wares, their tables overflowing with lush green herbs and ripe fruits in every color and shape imaginable. Most of them, Mercy couldn’t name if she tried; there are spiky purple berries the size of her fist and earthy, dark red somethings as long as her arm. Herbs perfume the air with their spicy aromas almost well enough to hide the scent of the horse dung trampled into the cracks between the street’s paving stones.
Ellesmere is the largest town in the agricultural sector, the trading hub of the south. It’s one of the most important cities in Beltharos due to its position at the juncture of the Alynthi and Baltana rivers, and since Alynthi runs all the way into the Forest of Flames, it is the ideal location for Sorin’s partners, who often ship crates of supplies down the river.
They meet Sorin beside a carriage in front of an old inn, and her jaw drops when she sees Mercy. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you—”
“—won the Trial,” Nerran finishes for her. “Yeah. Didn’t see that coming.”
Calum winks at Mercy.
They’re standing in the center of the market, a wide, cozy-looking building sprawling before them. It’s only two floors tall but dominates most of the block, and like most of the town, the walls are made from blocks carved from a light stone, with dark wood trim around the roof and wooden shutters. A sign hanging over the doorway declares ‘Pearl’s End Inn & Tavern.’
Sorin frowns. “To be honest, I’m amazed to see you alive after pulling a stunt like that.”
Mercy grins. “To be honest, I’m a little amazed to still be alive.”
“Look here,” Aelis says, dragging Mercy toward the inn’s entrance. She points up to the sign hanging over their heads. “Do you see that mark in the corner?”
Mercy searches, then she does. About a quarter of the way down, there’s a faint shadow, light enough to be mistaken as the natural texture of the wood if she hadn’t been looking for it. Something is off, though. Its shape is too perfect, like a teardrop. “The mark of the Guild.”
“Anyone who works with Illynor is going to have that mark on his sign. Go inside, flash the owner this coin”—Aelis presses a circle of metal into Mercy’s hand—“and he’ll get you anything you need. Be discrete.”
The coin is real gold, chipped around the edges from age, and bears no image or mark except a single teardrop in the center. It fits in her palm with surprising weight. She pockets the coin. “You won’t need it?”
She shakes her head. “There are plenty more at the Keep. I’ll spend the night here and head back tomorrow, and I’ll take Blackfoot with me.”
“Thank you.”
“We should go now,” Sorin interjects. “We’re losing daylight, and the sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll arrive at the capital.”
“Time for us to be off, too,” Amir says, nodding a goodbye to Mercy. “Can’t say I envy your job, but yeah, you’re good.”
“Try to not get yourself killed,” Nerran adds, and Oren elbows him. “What?”
Calum steps close and rests a hand on Mercy’s shoulder, his voice low. “Be careful. Remember what I said earlier—don’t draw any undue attention to yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“I know you’ll do great, love.”
Mercy punches his arm. “Don’t call
me that.”
He grins.
“See you next spring?”
“Of course, Mercy the Assassin.” He winks and Nerran groans.
“All right, let’s go before you get all sappy and shit.” He grabs Calum’s collar and drags him down the street, where the rest of the Strykers stand, waiting. They wave goodbye, then disappear around the corner.
Aelis and Sorin turn to her. “Ready to go?” Sorin asks.
Mercy takes a deep breath, then nods. “Absolutely.”
“You’re going to impersonate a royal,” Sorin says without preamble fifteen minutes later. “We’ve already sent a forged letter to the castle that a member of the Feyndaran nobility is going to be visiting for the Solari celebration in a few days. Fortunately, we were vague about the details.” Their carriage bumps and bounces on the cobblestones. Mercy stares out the small, slatted window as they ride through the city.
“Quite fortunate, indeed,” she says. “Who will I be impersonating?”
“Lady Marieve Aasa. Familiar with her?”
“Not really, not beyond the name. Her grandmother is Queen Cerelia.”
“Who is the king?”
“Prince-consort. It’s a queendom. His name is Dion Kanan-Aasa.”
“Good. Study their family tree and history. You need to be able to answer any question without hesitation. A contract this important isn’t one where you can slip in and out. It could be weeks before you find an opportunity to strike.”
“And you expect me to . . . what? Sip tea and attend balls while I’m waiting? I’m an elven assassin with no family name and not a drop of royal blood. You’d have better luck sending in Hewlin wearing a ball gown and convincing them he’s royal.”
“If you’re serious about your dedication to the Guild, you’ll manage. Are you serious, Mercy?”
She shoots Sorin a look. “You should know better than to ask that.”
“Then you’ll have no trouble at all. Just remember your lessons, and you’ll be fine.”
“What about these?” Mercy pulls back her hair, exposing her ears.
“The ruling family of Feyndara is elven, which makes your impersonation of Marieve strategically ideal.”
“A queendom and ruled by elves—no wonder Beltharos wants nothing to do with them. What do you need me to do?”
“Prince Tamriel will turn eighteen in little over two weeks from now. He will be eligible to ascend the throne that night, but his father will never abdicate while the prince is alive to wear the crown. Nevertheless, the nobles have begun pressuring Tamriel to find the woman who will become the next queen, and that’s where you come in. An alliance between Feyndara and Beltharos is a sound political strategy—much better than marrying some nobleman’s daughter off to the crown. Perhaps you can use the pretext of an alliance to get him alone, somewhere the guards won’t find him after you kill him. In the meantime, follow him, get to know him,” she says. “Queen Cerelia is the only member of the royal family to visit Sandori since she ascended the throne, so no one should realize you’re not Marieve.”
“Clever.”
“I thought so.”
Mercy hesitates, then asks, “Sorin, who paid for this contract?”
“You can guess who. You know Illynor’s rules.”
“. . . The king?”
“Only a royal can buy a contract on another royal. If the commoners had their way, there’d be no royals left to rule.”
Mercy nods. “It makes sense. If the court is pressuring Ghyslain to abdicate, why not have his sole heir murdered? Remove the threat to his power. If he’s truly as unstable as people seem to think, it’s not hard to believe he’d do it.”
“Fathers have done much worse things to their sons.”
“Why not have me pose as a servant, though? The guards would never notice one more—there must be hundreds in the castle.”
“There are, but there is no guarantee you would ever have contact with him. You could be stuck in the kitchen or assigned to clean the streets, neither of which would help us. Aside from the meaningless dispute over the Cirisor Islands, there is no contact between Feyndara and Beltharos. Marieve visiting the castle could appear to be a step toward peace between the two countries. At first, they’ll watch you, but give them no reason to suspect you, and their curiosity will soon abate.”
“As soon as it does, I’ll lure Tamriel somewhere private and kill him.”
“A castle that large must have hundreds of hidden alcoves and forgotten rooms. Play your cards right and they may not find his body for years. Use your judgment and do what you must. Throw him in the lake, the dungeon, the cellar—I don’t care. Fulfill the contract and get out. If you somehow get trapped in the city, don’t let them see that anything has changed. Some will point the finger at you, the granddaughter of a foreign queen, but you must not give them an inch. Cry if you must—”
“I don’t cry.”
“—but do not breathe a word of your true identity to anyone. Do not even think it. Remember your vow. No matter the circumstances, your loyalty belongs to the Guild until your last breath.”
15
Riding in the carriage all day and straight through the night, it still takes them four days to reach Sandori. The two drivers—servants who had accompanied Sorin from the Keep—take turns sleeping and steering, complaining to each other in the dead of night when they think both women are asleep. They’re usually right about Sorin.
Mercy can’t stop looking out the window.
The gentle green plains surrounding Ellesmere give way to rolling hills, each meadow and valley a sea of vibrant summer flowers, the buds having already burst to life under the warm sun. The climate of Sandori is very different to that of Ellesmere; the northern region of Beltharos is not as close as the marshy land of Gyr’malr to the equator, but enough so that in winter, the nearest flake of snow is hundreds of miles south. Quaint one-room cottages dot the landscape, most surrounded with flocks of sheep or goats grazing in the fields. The houses grow larger and closer together until the gray smear of Sandori stains the horizon.
Against the cloudless blue sky and the long green grass, the silhouette of the capital rises from the ground like a wound. A wall nearly twice the size of Kismoro Keep’s encircles the city, blocking all but Myrellis Castle and the Church spires from view. Wood-framed houses of the commoners too poor to afford property inside the city spill across the open land and over a nearby hilltop, where, just beyond, lies the Alynthi River.
“We’ll be coming up on the southern gate shortly,” Sorin says. “From there, it’s a short ride to the house where you’ll be living in the Sapphire Quarter. I’ll stay with you for a day to make sure you have everything you need, but then it’s up to you. Creator knows I can’t be away from the infirmary for too long.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Sorin stares for a moment too long before she nods. “I know.” She jerks her chin to the daggers, resting on the seat beside Mercy. “Hide those.”
Mercy shoves them under the bench on which she sits, and a moment later, the carriage jolts to a stop, joining a line of traders’ caravans eager to enter the city. Sorin draws the curtains over the windows.
A few minutes later, someone raps on the side of the carriage. “What is your purpose for entering the capital?” a soldier asks the drivers.
“We have been charged with transporting a royal to the city to attend the king’s court,” one of the girls says. “Lady Marieve Aasa of Castle Rising of Feyndara, granddaughter to Her Majesty Queen Cerelia Aasa.”
“A Feyndaran, here?”
“As real as you are,” quips the other driver.
“The king sent for her?”
“No, Her Ladyship came of her own volition. She wishes to speak to the king about a solution to the long feud over Cirisor. Plus”—the driver pauses, and paper rustles as it is pulled out of a bag—“we sent a copy of this letter to the council announcing her impending arrival. She has come in respo
nse to your king’s invitation to the Solari festival. Now, I’m terribly sorry, but Her Ladyship is very tired from her long journey. May we enter the city?”
There’s a moment of silence, during which the guard mostly likely scans the letter. “We are under strict orders not to let anyone pass without checking her carriage. May I?” After confirmation from the driver, the door to the carriage swings open and a lean young man peers inside. “Apologies, my lady. Standard check, nothing to be concerned about. D-Did you bring nothing with you?” he asks, eyeing the small bundle of clothes at Mercy’s feet. His eyes sweep over her simple linen top and black pants next. “If I may be so bold, that’s . . . not what most would wear to meet the king.”
“You think a lady and her maid would travel for days in their finest silks?” Sorin scoffs. “The bandits would be upon us as soon as we entered their sight.”
“You’re . . . quite right, miss.”
The other guard calls to the drivers, “You’re free to enter.”
“Thank you.”
The soldier begins to close the door, then hesitates. “If you sailed from Feyndara, why are you entering through the southern gate instead of the east?”
“I sailed on my grandmother’s ship from Rhys, not Castle Rising. The carriage is too difficult to maneuver across the rivers in the east.” Mercy raises a brow. “Now, may we go? Or do you have any more inane questions for me to answer?”
A flush creeps up the guard’s neck. “Not at all, my lady. I meant no offense.”
The other guard steps forward and lays a heavy hand on the soldier’s shoulder, pulling him backwards. “There are merchants waiting in line, Errol. Enjoy your time in Sandori, my lady, and steer clear of Beggars’ End if you value your belongings.” He closes the door and, a second later, the carriage jolts into motion, carrying them through the wall and into Sandori.
Sorin quirks a brow. “You play the entitled princess well. Will you be able to keep it up the whole time?”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 16