Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  In turn, Leon and Maisie explain the traditions behind the Solari festival, of which she’d heard, but never taken part. Although a vast majority of Beltharans follow the Church of the Creator, Solari is mostly a holiday for the upper class, who can afford lavish celebrations and feasts and follow the intricate mathematics used to determine when Solari occurs next.

  “The simplest explanation is it occurs every ten years, but it’s not always exact. It relies on the location of the sun and moon, and sometimes doesn’t occur at all,” Maisie explains. “Sometimes generations pass without a Solari, and that’s when we know something terrible is about to happen. The Creator has foreseen it and sends us a sign.”

  “That’s the superstition, anyway,” Leon quips.

  “Likewise,” she continues, elbowing her brother, “when there finally is a Solari, it’s said to be a blessed year.”

  “The last one was about fifteen years ago,” Seren Pierce says, having regained his earlier composure. “It was wonderful. There was partying in the streets all day, and the celebration itself went on for over a week. I heard the Churches were overflowing.”

  “What are the rumors this year?” Marlena leans forward and props her chin on her hand, eyes twinkling. “Shall our king lead us to glory in the war for Cirisor? Will peace finally be restored? Or will Tamriel ascend the throne, do you think?”

  Murray snorts.

  “Perhaps it is something to do with your arrival, my dear.” Nerida smiles at Mercy. “You’re the first royal Feyndaran to visit Beltharos in generations. Maybe you’ll be the one to break the animosity between our countries.”

  Mercy smiles and lifts her glass of wine. “I hope so.”

  23

  “Elise? Are you up here?”

  Standing at the top of the stairs, Mercy peers down the length of the hallway. The six rooms before her don’t have doors; lightweight curtains hang over the open archways and flutter in the breeze from the open windows. At the opposite end of the hall, candlelight flickers on the plush rug of a seventh room. Mercy tiptoes forward, sounds of jovial chatter emanating from the floor below.

  “Elise?” Two hours after storming out, Elise still hadn’t returned to the dining room—nor did Mercy expect her to after the spectacle she’d made—so Mercy had offered to comfort her in private.

  If only she were intending to do that.

  When no response comes, Mercy stalks forward, listening for footsteps and the whisper of fabric. Three of the rooms she passes are bedrooms, the beds half-hidden behind intricate lace partitions; all of them empty. Another is the library, one is a gallery, and the last contains nothing more than an easel and jars of vibrant paints, arranged in meticulous fashion first by color, then shade, on the shelves lining one wall.

  Elise is nowhere to be found. Perhaps she has gone for a walk or to speak with her brother—Mercy doesn’t care. She slips into the room at the end of the hall and grins. Everything she needs is right in front of her.

  A massive desk dominates Seren Pierce’s study, and the city map sits open on its face, the dark lines of ink faded where the well-worn creases divide the map into quarters. A candle burns in a short, plain candelabrum on the corner of the desk, melted wax dribbling slowly down its length; Aelyn must have left it burning when she had brought everything up. Mercy picks it up and holds it over the map, careful not to drip wax on the parchment.

  The city sprawls across the yellowed paper, careful lines marking the divisions between the city walls, Sapphire Quarter, market district, and Beggars’ End. Scraggly squiggles mark the rocky shore of Lake Myrella behind the castle, and the lake stretches to the top of the paper.

  And there, marked with thick red lines along the city’s walls, are the escape points.

  Cassius Baccha had drawn them after waking from his nightmare; the lines are crooked and uneven, drawn by a shaky hand, and there is a ring of red in the corner from his pot of ink. Tick marks dot the southern edges of the walls and the gate where Mercy and Sorin had entered, probably noting old stones which need to be replaced. Mercy traces the line of the wall with a light fingertip, and when she reaches the eastern edge, her breath catches.

  The entirety of Beggars’ End is blood red.

  Not only the walls, but every house, street, well, and abandoned warehouse is red. Her eyes automatically find the building where she’d met Atlas, unsure whether it’s a trick of the light that the building seems darker than the rest.

  A stack of papers sits on the corner of the desk. Mercy picks them up and shuffles through them quickly, ignoring pages filled with drawings and measurements and other things of little import—financial reports, shipping orders, lists of building materials, a calendar—until the last page. Cassius had drawn a plant.

  The bulb is the size of a fist, covered in thick, upward-pointing scales. Four wide green leaves sprout below the bud, and beside the picture, he has written the word Niamh.

  “What—”

  Footsteps tap up the stairs. Biting off the rest of her sentence, Mercy shuffles the papers into a pile and pushes them into the corner of the desk, hoping Seren Pierce hadn’t paid too close attention to the order. Hot wax dribbles onto her sleeve when she returns the candelabrum to its place, and she sucks in a breath as it burns the skin underneath.

  “Elise? Marieve?”

  The footsteps move closer, higher on the stairs. Her heart pounding, Mercy peers through the curtains in the doorway and, seeing no one, runs into the nearest room—the gallery. Inside, no candles burn, but there is enough moonlight streaming through the window to illuminate the portraits and framed canvases covering every wall. A backless sofa sits in the center of the room. Mercy perches on the corner and fans her skirt around her ankles just before Nerida passes in the hall. She spots Mercy out of the corner of her eye and stops midstep, arranging her face into a beaming smile. She parts the curtains with one hand and leans against the frame of the stone archway, peering inside.

  “She’s not here, is she?”

  “No.”

  “I had hoped she would stick around—for your sake—but Elise doesn’t have a stomach for confrontation. Never has. Don’t worry about her—I bet she’s simply out on a walk, collecting her thoughts.” Nerida crosses her arms over her chest, glancing at the floor before meeting Mercy’s eyes. Her cheeks flush. “My lady, I shudder to imagine what you must think of us after our boorish behavior tonight.”

  “No, I understand,” Mercy says, rising from the sofa. “There’s no need—”

  “Please—” Nerida blurts. “Allow me to apologize on behalf of my family and me. Tensions have . . . run high for us this year, and it’s been especially hard on Elise. I don’t suppose she’s told you about her brother?” When Mercy nods, Nerida’s lips press into a tight line. “My husband and son had a falling out last winter and, um, have hardly spoken since. Pierce’s method of coping—flawed as it is—is to throw all his time and energy into his work. Sometimes I feel like our son no longer exists to him.”

  “I . . . don’t suppose this has something to do with Julien?”

  Nerida stiffens. “Elise told you?”

  “Nothing more than the name.”

  “What they were doing was unnatural. I had tried to convince him to break it off but . . .” She trails off and shakes her head. “One of his commanders found them together. It was humiliating. It’s a miracle Atlas wasn’t thrown out of the guard altogether.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.” Mercy steps forward and, on a whim, takes one of Nerida’s hands in her own. She jumps, startled. “I am your guest tonight; you need not apologize to me. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Nerida lets out a choked laugh. “The entertainment was quite something, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Do—do you like art, my lady?” Nerida sweeps past her and crosses the room, pausing before a portrait of a white-haired woman in a blooming garden.

  “I do. I hope you don’t mind I
found my way in here. After Marlena said how much she likes your gallery, I wanted to take a look.”

  She dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “My father made this painting of my grandmother a few years before she passed. We had never been close, but she loved Elise more than anything in the world. She and Elise used to sit on the floor of her art studio and paint for hours.” She glances at Mercy, chuckling. “Elise tried to teach me once, you know. She said I couldn’t paint worse if I’d been holding the brush between my toes. Compared to hers, it certainly looked that way.”

  “She’s that good?”

  “Decide for yourself.” Nerida gestures to the opposite wall, which is adorned with so many paintings barely an inch of the limestone is visible between the gilded frames. The smallest ones had clearly been crafted by a child’s hand; the colors bleed together and the paper is wrinkled from too much paint. More than half are simple doodles or calligraphy scribbled over torn-off pieces of old reports. Further down the wall, the lines become sharper, surer, the colors more vivid. Many are landscapes: the view of the city unfolding from the base of the castle’s steps, the rocky shore of Lake Myrella, the sun rising over the city walls.

  “Wow,” Mercy breathes. “These are amazing.”

  She steps closer to one, narrowing her eyes. In it, a merchant kneels beside his wagon, its broken wheel resting on the street beside him. He’s wiping his forehead with one arm and smiling at a young boy who crouches beside him, offering him a handful of coin. A shock of brown hair hangs over the boy’s brow, obscuring all but his smile and the sharp line of his jaw. He’s upper class, finely dressed, but doesn’t appear to care; the cuffs of his pants are scuffed with dirt and he’s pushed one of his sleeves up to his elbow. A sense of familiarity nags at Mercy’s mind. She returns to Nerida’s side and a quick count reveals the boy in four other paintings.

  “Who is that?”

  “Who, that boy? Probably someone Elise had seen in the market—she used to spend hours wandering around that filthy place when she was a child, much to our dismay.”

  “A childhood crush?”

  “Ha! Maybe.” Nerida smiles, then glances out the window and startles. “Oh! Look how dark it is! I’m sorry, I’d completely lost track of time. We should head down and finish dessert. I’ll send Pierce to look for Elise, and I’m sure Leon won’t mind accompanying you back home.”

  “That’s really not necessary—”

  “Nonsense. What sort of host would I be to leave you to wander home in the dark in a foreign city? Come, come. I can practically hear my husband begging me to rescue him. He’s not one for dinner parties, I’m afraid.”

  Nerida laughs and moves to the archway, holding the curtain back for Mercy. Just before she steps through, she glances back at the painting of the young boy and can’t shake the feeling she’s seen him before.

  “Thank you, Leon. Goodnight.”

  Mercy closes Blackbriar’s front door and leans against it, sighing. Mere seconds later, footsteps sound down the stairs. Elvira scuttles into the hallway, her hair tied in an unkempt braid, and pulls Mercy forward by the elbow.

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  Elvira directs Mercy to the couch in the study and busies herself with pouring two steaming cups of tea from a tray on the ottoman. Mercy accepts the cup Elvira offers and sips it while Elvira swipes some nonexistent dust from the cushion, then perches on the edge, the skirt of her nightgown pooling around her ankles.

  “The king sent a message earlier. He and the prince would like to speak with you tomorrow at noon for a private audience,” she says. “I will walk with you to the castle, but I will not be permitted to attend the meeting.”

  “Anything I should be aware of?”

  “Just, um, be careful what you say around them. The king can be quite, well, touchy about certain topics, as you have seen. And the prince might act polite, but royalty or no, you’re still an elf. Growing up in the aftermath of Liselle’s and his mother’s deaths couldn’t have instilled in him a great sympathy for our kind.”

  “Even though his father’s advisors committed the murder?”

  “The elves were in open rebellion against the crown and nobility. Without Liselle fanning the flames, there would never have been the need to take such drastic measures.” She rolls her eyes. “That what the courtiers tell themselves, anyway.” She rises and sets her cup on the tray, then moves to the bookshelf. Her fingers skim the spines of several books before she plucks one out and hands it to Mercy. It’s no more than fifty pages in all, the cover two thick sheets of waxed parchment. Twine looped through the spine bind it together.

  “It’s hardly comprehensive, but I started writing things down a few years ago. Notes. Rumors going around, city changes, information from the slaves—anything important. You should read it,” she says. “As for your meeting tomorrow, you can’t speak specifically or convincingly about Feyndaran politics, so talk about the effects of the war here. Make him want to end the war because it’s good for him, not some foreign queen who hasn’t visited this country in decades. At worse, you’ll become closer to completing your contract. At best, you could bring an end to the fighting over Cirisor.”

  “Assuming the prince doesn’t immediately suspect something and have me imprisoned. It’s not his father I need to convince—Ghyslain’s the one who hired me. Besides, it’s just a ruse to get closer to the prince. I don’t actually care about the politics.”

  “Regardless of whether you care, it’s possible Ghyslain will agree to negotiate with Feyndara after you return to the Guild. That is, once he ‘recovers’ from the death of his son.” Elvira starts toward the door, then pauses. “If there’s nothing more you need from me, I will take my leave, and I suggest you rest, too.”

  “I will. I’m going to read some of this first. You can leave the candles burning.”

  “Okay.”

  She leaves the room. As Mercy flips through the pages, a flash of red ink catches her eye. “Elvira, wait. What’s this?”

  “Hm?” She pokes her head into the room, toying with the end of her braid. Mercy holds up the book for her to see, and she takes a few steps forward, squinting with tired eyes. “Oh, Fieldings’ Blisters. It’s a disease found mostly among the lower class—it looks like a red rash or sunburn and sometimes creates fluid-filled blisters.”

  “What causes it?”

  “They used to think it was irritation from plants in the fields outside the city, where the poor work for the herbalists and florists and such—that’s why it’s named what it is—but no one’s really sure. It’s fairly common. Why do you ask?”

  “I saw a body in Beggars’ End today with the same rash—”

  “You went to Beggars’ End?”

  “Briefly. It was interesting, to say the least. The rash looked like this.” Mercy points to the drawing, a man’s torso inflamed with stripes of bright red skin and shiny welts. “How serious is it? Is it lethal?”

  “No—well, not as far as I know. It targets the skin and can leave nasty scars if the blisters pop, but that’s as bad as it gets.” Elvira bites her lip. “Not to be indecent, but cleanliness isn’t a high priority for most of the people in the End. However that person died, it was probably unrelated—but I will keep an eye out for any news.”

  “Good. Thank you, Elvira.” Mercy closes the book and stands. “Now go to bed, I won’t bother you anymore—tonight, at least.”

  24

  “Enough pleasantries. You want us to give you Cirisor.”

  “I want an end to the fighting,” Mercy corrects.

  King Ghyslain leans forward over his desk, in front of which Mercy had watched him cower less than twenty-four hours ago. The shattered remains of the porcelain vases he’d thrown had been swept up and discarded, and a cheery fire crackles in the fireplace behind them. The desktop is bare save a pitcher of wine and three gold goblets, none of which have been touched since the slave set them down ten minutes ago.


  Ghyslain folds his hands together and studies her. “And what do you propose, exactly? Neither of us is willing to surrender, so you must forgive me if I do not see how this conflict can be resolved peacefully.”

  “There must be a way. Both of our countries are pouring money into a war with no end in sight—money which would be better spent on our citizens,” Mercy says. She leans forward and props her elbows on the arms of her chair, mimicking Ghyslain. “My uncle Justus was an ambassador to the people of Cirisor. He arranged the transport of supplies to the elves and soldiers. My people know the land better than yours. There’s no need for you to lose more soldiers on needless expeditions—in fact, I know you lost a squadron of soldiers you sent out last spring. A compromise between our countries could save countless more.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Ghyslain sits back, considering. “I understand your objections, but I have yet to hear a viable solution. So, again, have you a plan?”

  Mercy stares at him, waiting for him to fill the silence. Either Ghyslain knows her identity and is keeping up appearances for Tamriel’s sake, or he truly thinks he’s negotiating with Marieve. She hopes it’s the former.

  “If not, we’ll have to cut this meeting short. I’m afraid I have other matters to attend.” Ghyslain doesn’t look her way as he stands and gestures to the door.

  Prince Tamriel leans against the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest. He does not wear a cloak or armor today, instead dressed in a simple—yet finely crafted—tunic and pants. He stares at Mercy with interest, not having said a single word to her or his father since she’d walked in.

  “Let the islands become an independent country,” Mercy says, desperate for a reason to prolong her time with the prince.