Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  Mercy’s mouth drops open, and he quickly adds, “It’s not ideal, I know, but . . . it would benefit both our countries greatly. This animosity between Beltharos and Feyndara must not continue, and you said it yourself, what better way to form an alliance than through marriage?”

  “I, uh, I did say that.”

  “So, what do you think?” He hesitantly reaches forward and cups her chin, running his thumb gently over her cheek.

  Mercy swallows painfully, her mouth suddenly dry. She might have laughed in his face if not for the way he is watching her. His eyes are trained on her face, the firelight flickering mesmerizingly in their depths, and his lips part into a small, sheepish smile.

  Creator damn her, she cannot deny he is beautiful.

  She opens her mouth, and silently curses herself for what she is about to say.

  “Yes.”

  38

  Later that night, Mercy is training with her daggers in her bedroom when a series of quick, short taps on the front door interrupts her mid-swing. She frowns and wipes the sheen of perspiration off her brow, then twists the pommels of the daggers together and slips them between the bed frame and her mattress. She smooths her shirt with her hands as she walks into the hallway, shaking her head at Elvira when she glances out of her bedroom, a questioning look on her face.

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  As Mercy descends the stairs, the tapping comes again, louder and more urgently. She pads down the hall, and the door creaks loudly in the nighttime quiet when she opens it and finds herself staring into Owl’s wide hazel eyes.

  “Thank the Creator I found you,” she sighs, clasping Mercy’s hand in her gloved one. Every inch of the little girl’s skin is covered except her face, from the silken scarf wound around her head to the too-large cloak which pools at her feet. “Come, we must return to the infirmary immediately.” She tugs at Mercy’s hand, but weak as she is, she doesn’t even succeed in shifting Mercy’s balance.

  “Owl, wait—What are you talking about?”

  “It’s Pilar—she doesn’t have much time. Alyss doesn’t think she’ll last the night. Now let’s go, and I’ll explain on the way.”

  “I— Fine, okay, let’s go.”

  Owl pulls Mercy along the sidewalk, tugging her scarf further over her face when they pass a house and the light from the open window shines on her. Mercy glances at her and realizes with horror that three-quarters of her face—which had been clear, healthy raw skin after Alyss’s Pryyam salt bath—is now covered in pitted, crusty scabs and milky blisters. Owl notices Mercy’s stare and quickly turns away, hastening their pace until they return to the shadows. “Alyss’s treatment didn’t work,” she says in a quiet voice. She drops Mercy’s hand and moves half a step away, dismissing the topic for conversation.

  Instead, Mercy asks, “How did you manage to leave the infirmary? Aren’t the soldiers still guarding the door?”

  “Yes, but they can’t do their jobs nearly as well if they’re unconscious; Alyss drugged them so I could come find you. Pilar kept asking for you—she’s half-delirious, spouting all these things about visions—and she wouldn’t quiet down until Alyss agreed to send for you.”

  Owl takes a shuddering breath and leads Mercy through the gate. Rather than following the gravel path to the castle’s front doors, they cut through the garden and jog to the side of the castle, where a wooden door is nestled between vine-covered trellises. On its surface are a series of metal latches and switches, which Owl unlocks with quick, lithe fingers faster than Mercy can follow, and the door springs open. When Mercy gapes at her, she glances back and shrugs. “Alyss taught me.” She and Mercy step inside, and she pulls the door shut behind them.

  The servants’ entrance is only a few short hallways from the infirmary, and when they turn the last corner, Mercy suppresses a snicker at the sight of the two guards slumped against the wall, one dangerously close to falling off his stool. Owl raps on the door, casting a worried glance over her shoulder when one of the guards stirs at the sound, and Gwynn lets them in, a grave expression on her face.

  Owl darts around the shelves and Mercy follows, to find Alyss kneeling on the side of Pilar’s bed, tightening ropes around Pilar’s wrists. The bed frame groans as Pilar tugs on the ropes, moaning quietly. Her legs are free and kick out halfheartedly, tangling the blankets around her feet. Mercy hesitates at the sight, and Owl brushes past her and moves to the opposite side of Pilar’s bed, brushing sweat-slick hair from her forehead, like a mother tending her child.

  “Pilar, look who we brought.”

  “Mer—”

  “—Lady Marieve,” Owl corrects, then looks up at Alyss. “How is she doing?”

  Alyss stands and crosses her arms, although Mercy notices her hands trembling as she does so. “She’s . . . hangin in there, and I’ve done wha’ I can, but I’m afraid ‘er pain’s not going away. I’ve given ‘er as much as I can without overdosin ‘er.”

  Pilar turns her face toward Mercy, and it takes everything Mercy has not to let out a gasp of shock. The priestess’s face is scabbed and scarred, just like Owl’s and Gwynn’s, but her blind eye is no longer white—it’s turned a dark red, almost black, and the skin around her eye is inflamed and irritated, crisscrossed with tiny scratches. Her other eye has turned cloudy, with just enough left of her sight for her to track Mercy as she moves to the side of the bed and leans forward, hovering over Owl’s shoulder. The scabs continue down the side of Pilar’s face and neck, oozing blood where her sudden movements had ripped the skin open.

  “What happened to her?” Mercy asks.

  “Sh-She was havin’ delusions,” Alyss says in a shaky voice. “She says she no longer feels the Creator’s presence in ‘er visions anymore—all she sees are death and destruction. Last night, I found ‘er tryin to scratch ‘er eyeballs out to make the visions stop.”

  Behind them, Gwynn hiccups a sob and buries her face in her hands. She falls to her knees beside the fire and murmurs a prayer between labored breaths.

  Pilar moves her arm to reach for Mercy, but the rope pulls taut and she growls in frustration. Mercy rests a hand on her arm, then looks up at Alyss. “Could we have a moment in private?”

  Alyss nods and steers Owl by the shoulders to the hearth, next to Gwynn. After a few moments, Owl bends her head and joins the prayer, while Alyss watches Mercy and Pilar with concern.

  Mercy kneels by the side of the bed and rests her elbows on the mattress, pressing a hand to Pilar’s cheek until the priestess’s cloudy eye focuses on Mercy. “How do you feel?”

  She closes her eyes as a shudder racks her body. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “I’m not ready to go to the Beyond. I want to help.”

  “You are helping. You’ve been helping this whole time. You’re the one who alerted us to Fieldings’ Plague. Because of you, we’re able to treat people who are suffering. Alyss and the other healers are working to find a cure.”

  “You can’t cure it.” Pilar opens her eyes and blinks up at the ceiling. “Not really. You can only keep it at bay. To remove it completely, you must defeat it . . . defeat him.”

  “Who?”

  “The one who preys on Cirisor. Myrbellanar.”

  “From the legend?”

  “I thought it was a legend—I used to. But I saw him. He’s the one who created the plague.”

  “An Old God.” Mercy stares at her. “You can’t be serious.”

  “He wants to hurt the Creator by destroying his Creations. You mustn’t let him. It must be you.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not a hero,” she says. “I’m no Chosen One.”

  “No, you’re not, but if you don’t, who will?” Pilar whispers. “He’s shown me such terrible things, Mercy, things which would shatter the toughest Daughter.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and she begins to mumble under her breath. Every few seconds, her eyelids drift shut, and each time stretches a little longer before she opens them again.

  “Pilar? Pilar, don’
t go yet, okay? Stay here. Stay with me.” Mercy shakes Pilar’s arm gently until her eyelids flutter open.

  “I’m here. I’m here. For a little bit longer . . .” She clenches her teeth, shifting her legs under the blanket. “It . . . it hurts.”

  “Alyss, is there anything you can give her? The mushrooms?”

  “No, don’t!” Pilar interrupts before Alyss can respond. “The pain is something to hold on to, at least. I don’t want to slip away. Not yet.”

  Mercy takes one of Pilar’s hands in hers as Gwynn and Owl walk over and settle on the ground on either side of Pilar’s bed. Alyss moves to the foot of the bed, her eyes downcast, and gnaws on her lip. Owl kneels beside Mercy and braids a small section of Pilar’s hair, humming softly under her breath, an old folk song Mercy recognizes from some of the apprentices at the Guild. Sadness and homesickness strike her so strongly she closes her eyes and clasps Pilar’s hand tighter, and the four of them remain in that position long after Pilar’s eyes drift shut for the final time.

  They remain seated around Pilar’s bed for so long, Owl falls asleep leaning on Pilar’s mattress, her arms folded under her head like a pillow. Her eyes are swollen and her tears have left pink trails across her face. Without a word, Gwynn stands, grimacing at the cramps in her legs, and rounds the bed. Gently, she picks up Owl and carries her to the farthest bed, tucking the blankets around her small body. Owl mumbles something incomprehensible and shivers, and Gwynn looks down at her for a long time before laying down on top of the blankets and taking the little girl into her arms. It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep.

  Alyss stares at Pilar, her face carefully neutral. “We should move ‘er out now,” she says, although her mouth hardly seems to move. “I don’t want ‘er here when they wake up.”

  Mercy nods and stands. Together they peel the blankets off the bed and untie the ropes around Pilar’s wrists, throwing both into the fire. Alyss places Pilar’s left arm at her side, then reaches over her to move her right arm, and as she does, the collar of her shirt slips forward enough for Mercy to catch a glimpse of the bright red rash streaking across her shoulder and chest.

  “Alyss!” she gasps, and Alyss’s eyes follow hers to her torso, then they widen. She clutches the collar of her shirt and pulls it up to her neck, hiding her diseased skin. “You’re sick!”

  “Don’t say a word to anyone!” Alyss hisses, anger suddenly flaring in her eyes—only . . . it’s not just anger, Mercy realizes as she stares at Alyss. It’s terror. The healer’s hands have begun to shake, and she occupies them by pulling up the sides of the sheet on Pilar’s bed. “We’ll wrap ‘er up in this, then we can take ‘er outside.”

  “Alyss, don’t change the topic. You’re sick, you shouldn’t be going outside at all. What if you spread it?”

  “It’s—It’s only in the early stages, okay? I’ll be careful, I’ll cover up. It’s transferred through touch, as far as I can tell. Maybe they’re immune. Ye never caught it.”

  “I’m one person, not the whole of Sandori!”

  “Okay, look, you’re strong, but you’re goin to need help to get ‘er out of here. I’m already infected, so there’s no point in involvin two soldiers who might catch it if they move ‘er,” she says. “I’ll help ye carry ‘er out of here, then we’ll come back immediately. No contact with anyone, no spreadin of the disease. Let’s move ‘er, then ye can scold me as much as ye want.”

  Mercy sighs. “Fine. But I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t like it, either, but what else can I do?”

  Mercy and Alyss wrap Pilar’s body in the sheet and carry her to the door, Alyss at her head and Mercy at her feet. Alyss pounds on the door with her heel, and it swings open a moment later to a very confused and groggy-looking soldier. He rubs his eyes, shock and sadness flickering across his face when he realizes what Mercy and Alyss are doing. Out of instinct, he reaches forward to help, then hesitates and draws back, moving out of the way for them to carry Pilar through the doorway. The other guard—who had been lounging on the floor—pushes to his feet and jogs down the hallway ahead of them, and they hear the servants’ door open in the distance. When the approach, the guard holds it open for them.

  “Send for a driver to bring a carriage to the front of the castle,” Alyss says as they step outside.

  “Of course.” The guard nods and runs off, closing the door behind him. Mercy and Alyss maneuver Pilar’s body away from the vines and carry her along the side of the castle. When they reach the corner, Alyss stops and sticks her head out, waiting for the carriage to arrive before stepping out in the open with the body. Alyss scowls when the driver tries to help them place Pilar’s body on the floor. He offers each of them a hand as they climb inside—a hand Alyss avoids as if he were the one infected.

  “Where would you like to take her?” he asks, unfazed by what he assumes is Alyss’s lack of manners.

  “To the Church.”

  “You . . . know there’s practically no one left, don’t you? Most of them were moved out of the city for treatment.”

  “We’d like to return ‘er to ‘er family. The Church, please.”

  He nods and closes the door, and the carriage dips with his weight as he climbs onto the front and settles onto the bench. He snaps the reins and the horses lurch forward, their hooves crunching on the gravel.

  Her arms crossed over her chest, Mercy glares at Alyss, who stares back with stony resolve. The healer’s anger mounts until it’s practically tactile, suffocating them in the small space until she finally snaps. “I suppose you’re goin to continue lecturin me now, aren’t you?”

  “You can’t hide this, Alyss. You’re sick and you’re going to make more people sick. You need treatment.”

  “So I can rot in some putrid tent out in the fields? No, not while I’m able to work. We’ve been dealin with Fieldings’ Blisters for decades. I can find a cure for this, I know I can. I just need more time to try.”

  “There is no cure. Pilar told me. She saw it.”

  “Half of the things she claimed to see were hallucinations,” Alyss insists, although she doesn’t look quite as certain as she had earlier. “Ye should have seen the way she was ravin earlier, talkin about flowers and somethin called ‘Niamh.’”

  Mercy pauses. “She said that?”

  “I thought it might be a place, or someone’s name. Does it mean something to you?”

  “It . . . might. I’m not sure yet. But”—Mercy shakes her head sharply, her frown mirroring Alyss’s—“don’t try to change the subject. This is about you, Alyss. You can’t hide this.”

  “The hell I can’t!” she explodes, so loudly one of the horses nickers nervously. She lowers her voice and leans close to Mercy. “I will, as long as I’m able, ‘cause I swore an oath to serve the royal family and the people of Sandori, and Creator damn ye if ye think I’ll turn my back on that for a measly rash! Ye saw what this disease did to ‘er,” she says, nodding to Pilar, “the way it corrupted ‘er and poisoned ‘er mind. She spoke of dead gods and spirits and blood spillin across the city, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t believe ‘er when she says there is no cure for this ‘Fieldings’ Plague,’” she says, her eyes wide. “If this disease kills me, so be it, but I will not sit idly by and wallow in self-pity waitin for it to claim me. I will spend what little time I have left exactly where I belong—tendin those far sicker than I and workin to find this cure. If I fail, another healer will pick up where I leave off, and there will be no need for any more people to suffer.” She stops suddenly as her eyes brim with tears, turning away to swipe at them angrily. After composing herself, she adds, “And I will not hear another word on the matter.”

  Mercy nods—not because she thinks it’s the right choice, but because she doubts arguing further would convince Alyss to change her mind. In fact, she’s sure it would only succeed in making Alyss more certain she’s right.

  Alyss stares at the white sheet covering Pilar’s face, then says in a quiet voi
ce, “When it comes time for me to die, ye must remember yer promise.”

  Mercy nods. “I will.”

  “Good.”

  Alyss offers her a small, grateful smile and looks away. Neither of them speaks again for the remainder of the ride.

  39

  It’s only a matter of minutes before the carriage stops in front of the steps of the Church in the market district. The driver climbs down from his seat and pulls the door open, then backs away from the carriage, not risking another scathing look from Alyss. She and Mercy carry Pilar up the three stairs to the church, waiting under the stone overhang after Alyss knocks on the door with the toe of her boot. The sound resonates in the quiet, and a moment later, the door is swung open by a surprised priestess. Her purple robe hangs crookedly off her shoulders, thrown on in haste, and her hair is a frizzy halo around her strangely tattooed face.

  “How may I—Oh,” she says, focusing belatedly on the body in their arms. “Who—Who is that?”

  “Pilar.”

  “Oh.” Her face falls and she steps aside, opening the door wider. “Please, come in.”

  She leads them through the center of the church, past rows upon rows of pews set before a bowl-shaped altar. The vaulted ceiling stretches high overhead, and the priestess offers Mercy a small smile when she notices her gaping at its height. “This is the tallest building in Sandori,” she says, “even taller than the castle. A hundred years ago, after his coronation, King Esmond had the spire added to show deference to the Creator. He was a devout believer in the Book of the Creator.”

  They follow her through a curtained archway and down a short hall to the priestess’s chambers. The few bedrooms they pass are noticeably empty, the mattresses stripped of sheets and the bedside tables empty save unlit candelabras and well-worn copies of the Book of the Creator. The priestess doesn’t slow or glance inside as they pass, yet her pace falters when Mercy asks, “Where is everyone?”