“You’re going to talk to them about your father? Are you going to tell them about—”
“No, I can’t tell them about the cure. I don’t want too many people to know in case it ends up not working. Plus, if it does work, I don’t want people wondering why my father had been hiding it so long.” He looks down at his feet. “So, it turns out you were right about him hiding something.”
“Pretty lousy thing to be right about.” She moves closer and places a hand on his arm. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head. “I’m still . . . sorting through everything. If this cure works, it will save a lot of people’s lives, and that’s all I want to think about right now.” They walk a few more steps in silence, until Tamriel says, “I’m going to speak to the advisors who might support my ascension to the throne. Most of them are loyal to my father—he made sure of that when he appointed them—but I know a few who have begun to doubt him these past few years. Maybe they can spread the word to the nobility to support me.”
“I hope so, but you need to be careful. What if your father hears of your plan?”
“I’m his late wife’s only son. He won’t hurt me, but I’d still prefer he not know.”
“Well,” Marieve says, “you have my support, for what it’s worth.”
When Ser Morrison glances back and narrows his eyes, Tamriel points to an oil painting on the wall, and Marieve feigns interest until Morrison turns forward. Elvira walks a few feet behind him, nervously eyeing the sword hanging from his belt. The four of them walk in relative silence until they arrive in the great hall. Calum stands in the center of the room, speaking to Emrie and two nobles’ sons Tamriel recognizes, but does not know by name.
The double doors of the castle stand wide open, and Ser Morrison starts toward them at an unnecessarily fast pace. Tamriel wonders if he feels uncomfortable with the revelations they had uncovered, with the secrets of which he’s now a part, then chuckles under his breath. Of course, he feels uncomfortable. Even Tamriel feels uneasy, knowing what his father had been hiding from him and the rest of the kingdom. What nags at him most is the fact his father had not been planning on telling anyone about it—and for what? The fear on his face had been real—of that much, Tamriel is certain—but he should be fearing the impact of the potential thousands of deaths in Sandori and across Beltharos, if the reports of the plague in other cities are to be believed.
As they near the doors, Tamriel turns to Marieve. “Will you come back tonight?”
She startles, dragging her eyes from where she had been staring at Calum—which Tamriel notes with a flicker of jealousy—to meet his. “What?”
“Meet me in the library this evening. Please?”
“O-Okay.” Marieve searches his face for a second, her brows furrowed. After a pause, she nods. “I’ll see you later, then. Good luck.”
She stares up at him for a moment longer before hurrying after Ser Morrison and Elvira, who wait at the castle entrance with matching frowns. He watches them leave, then turns and pulls Calum out of his conversation and drags him across the room.
“What are you doing? Tamriel!” he objects.
“I need you to gather the nobles in my mother’s old house tomorrow night,” he hisses, “but only those who will support my ascending the throne on my eighteenth birthday.”
Calum’s jaw drops. “Are you . . . saying what I think you’re saying? Are you crazy? What the hell happened to convince you to do that?”
“Let’s just say some new information has come to light which makes me question my father’s ability to rule. Can I trust you to do this for me?”
Calum nods, looking shocked. “Of course. When?”
“Midnight. And I don’t want any guards along, either—I don’t want anyone who might report back to my father.”
“Okay, but for your safety, I’ll make sure everyone who comes leaves their weapons at the door.”
“You’re not coming.”
“I’m not—What?”
“I want you here, to cover for me in case anyone comes looking. I doubt my father will, but you should be here in case there’s an emergency.”
“You mean in case you end up strung up on the castle gates, too?”
Tamriel’s lips quirk upward. “Something like that. I’m sure there’s no shortage of noblemen eager to impress my father by rooting out potential usurpers, even his own son.”
“You’re not making a very good case for going out on your own,” Calum says, then sighs, “but I can see you’re not going to change your mind. I’ll stay here, if that’s what you wish.”
“Thank you. And don’t worry, I’ll wear armor and carry my sword, as well.”
“Good. Be careful. I would hate for something to happen to you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Just then, Elise walks into the throne room, a bundle of papers in her arms. Calum pauses when he sees her, and Tamriel follows his gaze across the room.
“Go talk to her.”
“Should I?”
He shrugs. “How many months has it been? I doubt she’s changed her mind, but you can certainly try. I have to go, anyway. Just . . . don’t go all doe-eyed and forget to speak to the nobles, alright?”
Calum waves him off, already moving away. He ignores Tamriel’s chuckle as he moves toward Elise, and the prince laughs as he heads into the adjacent corridor.
Elise’s pretty face is scrunched in thought. Her heels tap lightly on the floor as she continues toward the doors, not noticing Calum until he steps right into her path. She lets out a surprised yelp and stops midstep, nearly barreling into him. He catches her and grins. “Hello there.”
“Don’t do that to me, Calum!” She clutches the papers to her chest and swats at him with one hand.
“Ow, watch it! I just got stitches there, if you hadn’t heard.”
“I heard all about your little fight by the shore, believe me. I’m sure it was a sight to see. Exactly how many times were you knocked onto your ass?”
“Only twice.”
“Oh, so an improvement.” She arches a brow, and her teasing smile makes him weak in the knees. His hand still rests on her arms, and his fingers toy with the tie on the sleeve of her silk dress. She smiles at him for another second before moving out of his reach, and his hand hovers in the air, empty, before he brings it back to his side.
“Where are you going?” he asks, hiding his disappointment behind a lopsided grin.
“I have to take these orders to the docks for my father. He’s trying to secure shipments of medicine and dried herbs from other cities since the healers have already begun to run out.”
“They have?”
She nods, her face grim. “The herbs they need don’t grow this time of year, so they’ve had to rely on their limited stores of dried herbs. Meanwhile, more and more people are being transferred to the makeshift hospital each day.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I overheard Landers saying they ran out of beds two days ago. They’ve had to string up hammocks between the cots and still people are left to sleep on the floor. Oh, Calum, it’s so terrible, isn’t it?”
Her lip trembles, and when Calum pulls her into a hug, she doesn’t fight him. “We’ll make it through this,” he whispers. “I promise.” Her arms stay curled around the bundle of papers as he embraces her, but she rests her head briefly on his shoulder before backing away again.
“We shouldn’t do this.” Her grip tightens on the papers, her fingers fidgeting with the corner of one of the sheets. The movement mesmerizes him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, my love,” he says. He looks away and shuffles his feet for a moment before glancing back up at her. “I’ve missed you.”
Her lips twitch into an almost-smile, then she catches herself. “What do you need me to do?”
“His Royal Highness has invited Marieve to meet him in the library tonight for a chat. You don’t think you could stop by the market and pick up something to help our frie
nd Ser Morrison sleep tonight, do you? I think I’ll pay him a visit later with a refreshment. I’ll also make sure the soldiers stationed around the library are reassigned this evening so she can make a hasty escape with the body.” The last bit he says under his breath, just loudly enough for Elise to hear, and she nods.
“Okay, I will. You’re sure she’ll do it?”
“Absolutely.”
She smiles and shifts the bundle of papers into one arm as she shoulders past him, brushing his fingertips gently with her own. She squeezes his hand once, then lets go and saunters away.
43
No one says a word during the walk to Blackbriar, until Mercy stops Ser Morrison in his tracks the minute they step off the street and onto the paved stones leading to the front door.
“You’ll wait right there,” Mercy says, crossing her arms. “The king may have assigned you to follow me around the city, but I’d like some privacy in my own home.”
Ser Morrison frowns.
“What do you think I’m going to do, sneak out?” Mercy rolls her eyes. “There’s one door, and you’re looking at it. The minute I step outside, you can follow me around to your heart’s content. In the meantime, don’t worry, I’m not going to climb out the window or anything.”
And this—to be fair—is a lie, because that’s exactly what she does.
Later that night, Mercy opens the curtains and pushes one of the wide glass windows in the first-floor study open wide, leaning out to stare up at the sky tinged with the red-orange streaks of sunset. She glances back at Elvira and grins, then boosts herself up and over the windowsill, hopping down onto the stone outside.
“Okay, hand me everything.”
Elvira passes her a thick black bundle of cloth, and Mercy unwraps the twin daggers and tucks them into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back. Her loose top hides their bulk well enough, but she still drapes the black cloak over her shoulders and ties the strings into a knot at her collarbone, grateful for the thick wool when a cool night breeze sweeps past. She pulls the cloak tighter around herself, only the toes of her worn leather boots peeking out from under the hem. They’re far from the finery she’s become accustomed to wearing, but they’ll be much better for running and sneaking than her usual silk flats. While still of high quality, the clothes she has chosen will keep her warm on the road in case she is forced to flee the city in the middle of the night. All she wears are simple black pants and a crimson knitted top, and Elvira’s white sash is tucked into her pocket in case she needs a quick disguise.
Elvira passes her a small silk pouch, full of the aurums she’d saved and the Guild coin Aelis had given her. Mercy tucks it into her pocket.
“Thanks, Elvira,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”
“Or not,” she responds. Mercy steps back as Elvira reaches out and swings the window shut, but before she latches it, she adds, “Good luck.”
Mercy nods, then turns and walks around the corner of the house, squeezing into the narrow alley and inching along until she is close enough to peer at the front door. Ser Morrison sits on a stool Elvira had left for him, slumped half-upright against the doorframe. He snores quietly, his head bobbing against his chest as he breathes. Mercy steps out from the alley and makes it three feet before something white flutters in her peripheral vision. It’s a scrap of paper, pinned to the ground next to Ser Morrison’s boot with a pebble. She eyes him cautiously as she approaches, uncertain whether this is a trap to catch her sneaking out. When he does nothing more than mumble incoherently in his sleep, she picks up the paper then darts onto the street and out of sight before she reads it.
The scrap had been torn from an order log, neat rows of boxes filled with numbers and shipping codes in cursive script crossing its surface. The note scrawled across it had clearly been written by a different hand.
You have about three hours before he wakes up and finds you missing—don’t waste a second, love.
—C
Mercy tears up the note and tosses the pieces behind her as she starts toward the castle, a slight smirk on her face. The street bustles with pedestrians, carriages, and wagons carting last-minute shipments, and Mercy has no problem slipping into the midst of a group of slaves who follow their human masters along the sidewalk.
When they reach the corner, Mercy breaks away and slips into the castle grounds through the main gate, walking at a leisurely pace until she nears the foot of the stairs. She darts to the side and around the corner until she sees the vine-covered trellises which hide the servants’ entrance. A few guards wander the gardens, but they pay her no mind aside from a cursory glance. Although the sun shines low in the west, she knows the shadow cast by the castle is enough for them to identify her clearly elven body and the shape of her pointed ears without looking too closely at her face.
She finds the door and unlatches the complicated lock as Elvira had explained to her. The door springs open to the dark corridor, a far-off point of light flickering where the hall to the infirmary intersects the one ahead of her. Mercy pulls the door closed behind her and starts down the hall, refusing to look at the infirmary door or think of Alyss and the two priestesses when she passes. Her boots muffle the sound of her footsteps as she makes her way up the stairs, then down a hallway and up two more floors.
She emerges from the stairwell facing the door to the library, and when she opens it, warm air caresses her cheeks and twines in her hair, a fire crackling somewhere inside, beckoning her closer.
“Tamriel?” she calls softly as she wanders down the aisle between twenty-foot-tall bookshelves. Iron ladders lean against the shelves at intermittent intervals, the sides shiny where hands have rubbed the metal smooth. Oversized velvet settees overflowing with satin pillows and soft throw blankets are clustered around mahogany side table and leather ottomans every few yards, the silver candle sconces on the ends of the shelves bathing the area in warm light.
At the back of the library is a huge black fireplace, a latticed iron gate protecting the carpet from the sparks which fly from the logs as they crackle and shift. Mercy’s footsteps slow as she approaches, untying the strings of the cloak before she removes it and drapes it over the back of the nearest couch. She glances down the rows of shelves around her, but the prince is nowhere in sight. Is this a trap? She begins to perspire, both from the heat and the nerves running up and down her spine, and slowly brings her hand back, her fingers brushing the handle of one of her daggers and—
She sees him.
He’s sitting on the floor ten feet away, his back against one of the bookshelves and a candelabrum on the floor at his side. One of his legs is stretched out in front of him, the other bent to prop up the spine of the book he’s reading, and he leans into it as if he wishes to step into the pages and transport himself into that make-believe world. He hasn’t noticed her yet.
She’s never seen him more at peace.
She lets her fingers drop from the dagger and simply stands there, watching him. His head is bent forward, his hair falling into his face, a small crease between his brows as his eyes move across the page. He bites his lip, his fingers curling tighter around the book’s cover. Two more books are stacked beside him, as if he had decided to stay and read all night if that’s how long it would take her to arrive. The gesture warms her more than the fire.
“I can come back later, if you’re busy,” she murmurs.
Tamriel starts and looks up, his lips spreading into a smile so bright it puts the stars to shame. “Too busy for you?” He closes the book and places it on the ground beside himself, then stands. “Never.”
“How did—”
Before she can say anything else, Tamriel closes the distance between them, cups her face in his hands, and kisses her.
His fingers twine in her hair, pull her closer, trace little trails of fire along her scalp and the line of her jaw. Her hands are pressed against his chest, curled in the soft fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, Mercy stands frozen in shock. When
Tamriel slides one hand to the small of her waist and tugs her flush against him, every thought leaves her head.
Every thought except I want this.
She wraps her arms around Tamriel’s neck and rises onto her toes, grinning against his lips when he chuckles. His lips are soft against hers, kissing her with want, with desire, with need. She shivers when his hand slips under the hem of her shirt and grazes her bare skin.
Too soon, he pulls back, breathless, and rests his forehead against hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispers. When he leans forward to kiss her again, she turns her face away, guilt threatening to choke her.
What are you thinking? she wants to scream at herself. What the hell is wrong with you?
Instead, she takes a shaky breath and says, “Did you speak with the advisors?”
He frowns at the sudden change of subject. “I did. Unfortunately, they all think it’s a ruse my father and I created to test their loyalties. I’m going to speak to them again tomorrow night and see if I can convince them to trust me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They listened, which means they’ll at least consider supporting me. After the morning we had, this feels like a step in the right direction.”
“Is that optimism? From you?” If he notices the quiver in her voice, the shakiness of her hands, he has the grace not to show it.
“Master Oliver reported that the soldiers he dispatched to find the cure had spoken to Cassius Baccha. Apparently, he was very cooperative, and, with luck, the soldiers will send word from Cirisor before my birthday. Then I can reveal to everyone that I may have found the cure, and hopefully that will be enough for the nobles to support me.” He rubs the back of his neck with a hand, frowning at the ground. After a moment, he looks up, troubled. “Did you see the look on my father’s face earlier? Whatever he thinks is coming terrifies him.”
“I know what you mean,” Mercy says. “It scares him enough to put thousands of lives at stake.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 38