Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  “What, in that fight?”

  “You’re not impressed?”

  Mercy raises a brow. “Was it meant to impress me?”

  “Not necessarily, but it wouldn’t be an unwelcome side effect.”

  She lets go of his hand and walks ahead of him, lifting her chin. “I’ve seen better.”

  “You’ve seen better,” Tamriel repeats skeptically. “I don’t believe it. Where?”

  “Hey,” Mercy says, turning around and continuing to walk backward to where Ser Morrison and Elvira wait. “Do you want to talk to your father, or not?”

  “You’re cruel,” Tamriel says, then laughs and jogs after her.

  “What are you not telling me about the plague?”

  Tamriel stands over his father, crossing his arms over his chest. Ghyslain sits at the desk in his study, staring at the fire roaring in the fireplace while Mercy, Elvira, and Ser Morrison stand outside, listening intently. Or, rather, Mercy listens, watching through the crack in the door, Elvira paces, and Ser Morrison stands a few feet away, disapproving of the whole affair.

  “Nothing.”

  “I know you know something about it. Marieve already told me there isn’t a cure,” Tamriel says, and Elvira squeaks in surprise. “What else are you not saying?”

  “What is he talking about, no cure?” Elvira whispers to Mercy, but she waves her away.

  “Shhh!”

  “Marieve!”

  “I’m trying to listen.”

  “Father, come on. You know I only ask because I have the country’s best interests in mind.” His tone turns cold. “What are you hiding?”

  “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this,” Ser Morrison grumbles. “This is sensitive information which should not be entrusted to a foreign royal.”

  “This was Tamriel’s idea. Do you think His Majesty would tell him anything if I were in there with him?” Mercy whispers. “If you’d like, you could walk in there now and tell the king everything. I’m sure he’d be very happy to hear you’ve been standing outside his study for the last five minutes, listening to his ‘sensitive’ conversation.”

  Ser Morrison glowers at her, then closes his mouth and looks away. Mercy smirks and shifts closer to the gap in the door, peering in with one eye. Tamriel still stands over his father, his jaw set stubbornly, but Ghyslain has turned away from the fire and now looks up at his son like he doesn’t recognize him.

  “Whose idea was it to ask me that?” he says slowly. “Yours or Marieve’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “I see.” Ghyslain sits back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “And was it on your order that she came and spoke to me last night, as well?”

  “That she— What?”

  “She didn’t tell you? I’m surprised, considering how much time you’ve been spending with her lately.” He sighs. “Why, Tamriel? Why do you trust her? She’s from Feyndara, in case you’ve forgotten—a country with which we are at war! You cannot allow her into your confidence, not if you have any love for your country.”

  “She has been nothing but helpful to us. We owe her, Father.”

  “I do not owe her anything. Whatever foolish promises you’ve made to her are yours alone.” Ghyslain stands, and although his stature dwarfs Tamriel, his son doesn’t back down. “Someday, when you take the throne, you will make these decisions. You can meet with the Queen of Feyndara—if she deigns to allow you onto her shores—and you can agree to negotiate for Cirisor. You can give away all of Beltharos if it so pleases you, as you seem so enthralled by Feyndarans already.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—”

  “Ridiculous? It’s not Marieve, then, who is standing outside, eavesdropping?”

  Mercy’s blood runs cold, but Tamriel doesn’t miss a beat. “Seeing ghosts again, Father? Who is it this time, Mother or the elven slut?”

  Ghyslain jumps to his feet, knocking over the candelabra and sending a splatter of hot wax across the desk. The flame extinguishes as it falls, a thin ribbon of smoke rising from the black wick. “Don’t call her that. Don’t you ever call her that, you ungrateful child. You have no idea what it was like, losing her—losing them both—”

  “You’re right!” Tamriel shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I have no idea what it was like—what any of it was like—because you refuse to speak about it. You refuse to speak about anything remotely related to them. All my life, all you’ve ever done is sulk and shout and push me away. I used to beg your advisors to tell me stories about Mother, because you’ve never told me anything! You think it was hard losing her? I never knew her!”

  “Then you’re lucky! You didn’t grieve for her like I did!”

  “You think I didn’t grieve?” Tamriel asks, bewildered. “You think I don’t ask myself every day why she had to die? That I never wondered why my father could barely stand the sight of me? It killed me to know you blamed me for her death. I blame myself for her death!”

  “Y-You did?” Ghyslain chokes out.

  Tamriel freezes, more startled by the sadness in his father’s voice than when he had shouted. “How could I not?” he says quietly, his entire body taut and motionless except the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “I read it on your face every time you looked at me. I’ve never been your son, not to you. You only see me as your wife’s killer.” His mouth quirks into a self-deprecating smile. “It wasn’t hard to start seeing myself the same way.”

  “Tamriel—” Ghyslain says, and the word holds so much anguish it physically strikes Tamriel. His face drains of blood as he flinches and backs away.

  “Forget it. Just answer my question: what are you hiding about the plague?”

  “Son—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Father and son stare at each other, the tense silence stretching between them becoming more and more electric by the second. Mercy tightens her grip on the metal doorknob as she watches. The anger and hurt pouring off Tamriel is practically palpable, even across the room, and when Mercy glances back, Elvira has stopped pacing and stares at her with wide eyes. Even Ser Morrison has moved a few feet closer, listening intently.

  Hypocrite.

  Inside the study, Ghyslain’s expression softens, shifting to resignation. “There . . . is a cure,” he says slowly. “A flower native to the Cirisor Islands. But, Tamriel, you must not search for it. Promise me.”

  “Promise you?” Tamriel’s brows shoot up. “Were you never going to tell anyone? You’re willing to let our people suffer—to let them all die? Why?”

  “Tam, I’m begging you, do not look for the cure. It will only bring you and the rest of Beltharos harm. There’s nothing you or I can do to stop it.” Ghyslain’s voice turns pleading and he rounds his desk, his hands outstretched to Tamriel, who starts and backpedals before his father can touch him. When he reaches the center of the room, he slows, eyeing his father warily, seconds from bolting out the door. Ghyslain’s face falls and he stops, his hands slowly lowering to his sides. “Please,” he whispers. “I can’t lose you, too.”

  “You’re mad. How did you learn about the cure?”

  “Cassius Baccha. The Sight is prevalent in his family, but only strong enough to provide fractals of visions through his dreams. You remember the nightmare he had?”

  Tamriel nods, staring at the king as if he’d sprouted two heads.

  “It’s the worst he’s had in years. The most vivid, too.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “He’s been right so far. He was so agitated on Solari, when the priestess showed up—”

  “Pilar. Her name was Pilar.”

  “—and he predicted Beggars’ End being most devastated by the plague.”

  Mercy remembers the city map she had seen in Seren Pierce’s study, the red ink painted across Beggars’ End, and a stone drops in her stomach. Behind her, Elvira’s breaths come out in quick, ragged gasps, and she covers her mouth with a trembling hand. She sinks to her knees in the middle of the
hall and begins to murmur a prayer, and Ser Morrison watches her uncomfortably.

  “You must not go searching for it,” Ghyslain says again, pleading. “Promise me.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too dangerous. I won’t lose another person I love—another person I cherish. Please, please promise me.”

  “Fine, I promise,” Tamriel snaps.

  Ghyslain’s shoulders slump with relief. “Thank you, Tam. Thank—”

  Tamriel turns on his heel and walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He pauses just outside, breathing hard, and doesn’t appear to hear Mercy when she says his name.

  “Tamriel—” she repeats. When she reaches for him, he shrugs off her hand and walks away.

  When he rounds the corner without looking back, something inside of her breaks for him.

  42

  “Master Oliver! Master Oliver, come here!”

  Tamriel sprints through the soldiers’ barracks, stepping over books and piles of folded and crumpled clothing, not slowing until he reaches Master Oliver, who stands in a circle with several senior officers. He pauses midsentence and stares at the prince as he nears, shaky and out of breath, and shoves the commanders out of his way to meet Tamriel in the center of the room.

  “Creator’s mercy, Your Highness. What’s wrong?”

  “We—We must speak in private. Your office?”

  Master Oliver waves a hand to the door of his office, and Tamriel rushes inside, pulling him in. As the prince pulls the door shut, Master Oliver rounds his desk and shuffles the mess of papers and reports into a haphazard pile. At the sound of the door’s bolt snapping into place, he pauses. “Your Highness?”

  “Do you completely trust everyone in your command?”

  “Of course,” he says without hesitation. “What do you need?”

  “My father cannot know about this. No one can know—I don’t want word getting back to him.” Tamriel begins to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I need you to send a company of soldiers to Cassius Baccha’s house to ask him about a flower he dreamt of—”

  “A flower?”

  “He will describe it to them. They must depart immediately for the Cirisor Islands, find it, and bring back as many as they can. They must tell no one what they are doing.” He stops pacing and turns to Master Oliver, letting out a long breath. He offers him a weary, relieved smile. “We may have found a cure for the plague.”

  “That’s wonderful! Right?” Master Oliver says hesitantly. “Why do you not want your father to know?”

  “He’s known about the cure this whole time and wasn’t planning to tell anyone. He made me promise not to search for it, which is why you must help me do it behind his back.”

  “Your Highness . . . I’ve known your father a long time. I’ve been in his employ since before you were born. You are asking me to violate decades of trust and friendship to help you—you realize this?”

  “I do.”

  Master Oliver sinks into his chair, resting his elbows on his desk as he studies Tamriel’s solemn face. He sighs. “Listen, son, I’m not asking you to pretend you and your father have a great relationship—or a good one, at that—but if he’s asking you not to pursue this, he must have a reason. He cares for you—”

  Tamriel snorts, and Master Oliver fixes him with a look.

  “You know he does.”

  “You’ve been more of a father to me than he ever was.”

  “Nevertheless, your father is a good king. He does what he can to protect his people, even if it kills him to do it.”

  “Then why didn’t he tell anyone about the cure?”

  Master Oliver narrows his eyes. “How certain are you this cure is real?”

  Tamriel slumps into the chair opposite him. “Not very. But if there’s something I can do to help my people, I’ll do it. I’ll do everything I can—I won’t leave them to suffer.” He rubs his temples wearily, careful to avoid his cut. “I don’t understand why he’s not exhausting every opportunity to prevent our people’s suffering. He’s always been cautious, but never selfish. Has he said anything to you?”

  He shakes his head. “Not a word.”

  Tamriel deflates. “I thought not. Will you help me?”

  Master Oliver opens his mouth, closes it, then nods. “I will. I’ll have Leitha Cain visit Cassius, then depart for Cirisor with five of her men in a matter of hours.”

  “Six soldiers? You think that’s enough to make it to the Islands and back? What if they encounter Feyndaran forces?”

  “Leitha is one of our highest-ranking commanders—trained well, and resourceful, too. If she and her men find themselves in a jam, she’ll know how to get them out without engaging the enemy.”

  “No one will question her absence?”

  “She often travels throughout the country searching for recruits. No one will question it.”

  “Good.” Tamriel stands, the weight on his chest marginally lessened. “Thank you.” He moves to the door, but before he reaches for the doorknob, Master Oliver’s voice halts him.

  “Your High—Tamriel.”

  He doesn’t turn around. “What?”

  “Don’t be so hard on him. Your father raised you the best he could, while grieving and ruling the country, no less. Don’t forget, you weren’t exactly a saint as a child, either,” he says, and although Tamriel can’t see it, he hears the smile in Oliver’s voice. “Each of you carries blame and each of you is responsible for pushing the other away. I’m not saying it has to be now, but you know if you ever want to find peace, you have to forgive him.”

  Tamriel is quiet for a long time. “I’m trying,” he finally says, and leaves.

  When he exits the soldiers’ barracks, he is greeted by the sound of raised voices drifting down the hall. As he starts down the corridor, a couple guards jog past him on the way to their posts, and offer him awkward half-bows as they pass. He nods and they continue running, their footsteps loud from their heavy boots. When they round the corner, the arguing stops until their footsteps have faded to dull thuds as they climb the stairs, then it resumes. Tamriel cannot make out the words, but he recognizes Marieve’s voice first out of the three—not yelling, but agitated. He smirks to himself as he turns into the next hall and—sure enough—Ser Morrison, Marieve, and her handmaid—he cannot remember her name—are standing in a circle, in heated debate.

  Marieve steps forward, and Ser Morrison blocks her path. Her expression darkens. “As I have told you, my lady, I cannot allow you to pass. These are the barracks, and you have no business being inside. You must remember you are a guest within this castle and your welcome here could very easily be revoked.”

  “You don’t think we have more important issues than this?” she snaps. “More and more people are dying by the day. And you’re afraid of me seeing what, the patrol schedule? You could change it in five minutes, before I could do anything with the information.”

  “There is sensitive information inside.”

  “Oh, there is? Why didn’t you say so? I bet that information is much more valuable. Maybe I’ll steal that.” Marieve rolls her eyes. “I bet the king is having a great laugh over all this, sending you to supervise me,” she says bitterly.

  The handmaid tugs on her sleeve. “Let’s just go. The prince is clearly busy, he—” She stops, her large elven eyes going wide when her gaze lands on Tamriel. “He’s right there,” she says shyly, immediately blushing when he approaches.

  “I am,” he affirms, then looks to Marieve. “I assume you were waiting for me and not some dashing young soldier who has caught your attention?”

  She rolls her eyes. Her face, flushed with anger, relaxes a little, then tightens again with concern. “What happened?”

  “Tonight, Master Oliver is going to send a group of soldiers to Cirisor to search for the cure. Hopefully they will return within a week or two with news.” His father’s warnings about trusting her ring in his ears—she’s Feyndaran, and an elf, at th
at—but he’s seen the way she looks at the king with disdain in her eyes, and he knows she will not betray him by running back to his father. Her unusual brown-and-gold eyes widen in sympathy, and it’s almost too hard to tear his gaze away.

  He turns to the handmaid and Ser Morrison. “If you value your lives, you will not speak a word of this to anyone, least of all my father. Understood?”

  They nod, their expressions grave. The elven woman shrinks away.

  “Good. Now, Ser Morrison, if you wouldn’t mind escorting these two to their house?”

  “But—” Marieve starts.

  “Of course, Your Highness.”

  Marieve glowers at him. “I don’t need to be ‘escorted’ anywhere.”

  “It’s for your safety. With the disease spreading and people becoming more anxious about Beggars’ End, I can’t be too careful. What would your people back home think if you were hurt?” He tries to remain serious, but the combination of her annoyed expression and her curly hair flowing like a wild mane around her face makes him smile. Her scowl deepens.

  “I can take care of myself.” As Marieve speaks, her handmaid gapes at her like she is insane for speaking so brazenly.

  “I’m sure you can, but please”—he steps closer and takes one of her small yet strong hands in his—“everything’s so uncertain right now. It would put my mind at ease.”

  “Fine,” Marieve says, looking somewhat mollified. She pulls her hand out of his. “You’re sure you don’t need help?”

  “My duties here didn’t start when you arrived, my lady. I’m quite sure I can handle this on my own.”

  She nods, and Tamriel waves a hand to Ser Morrison to lead them to the great hall. He and the handmaid—Elvira! That’s her name, Tamriel thinks with satisfaction—take the lead. When Marieve turns to follow, Tamriel catches her sleeve and gestures for her to be quiet before they start walking, waiting until Elvira and Morrison are out of earshot to follow.

  “I’m sorry for sending you away, but I must speak to my father’s council, and I am afraid having foreign royalty there could make them suspicious of my intentions.”