Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  The guard pushes open the door and gestures to the large central table, dozens of vials of unlikely cures lined up along its length, the mixtures inside illuminated by the moonlight drifting in from the open windows. Tamriel’s heart sinks at the sight—so much hope bottled up in these little jars, and not one will save the thousands of sick people languishing throughout the city. They might be enough to alleviate the people’s pain for a while, but Tamriel shudders to think what might happen if Leitha and her soldiers don’t return soon with the Cirisian cure.

  He picks up one of the vials and rolls the cool glass between his fingers, watching the pale pink liquid slosh against the sides. Then he has an idea. “Fetch me a bag and gloves, Vela,” he says suddenly. “And call for a carriage.”

  She does as he bids and when she returns, he carefully dumps all the wax-sealed vials into the soft canvas bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he follows Vela to where the carriage waits at the bottom of the castle’s steps. As they walk, he tugs on the supple leather gloves she had found, much too fine for what he is planning.

  “Shall I accompany you, Your Highness?”

  He glances up at the castle’s tall, imposing structure, the gilded towers and flecks of obsidian glinting under the starlight. He imagines his father inside, acutely aware of the suffering of his people, yet doing nothing to stop it. Tamriel looks at Vela. “Come with me if you wish—I won’t order you. I’m going to Beggars’ End.”

  To her credit, her expression doesn’t waver except for the slightest hint of surprise. She calls their destination to the driver before clambering into the carriage behind Tamriel, her mouth set in a tight line.

  “I know it’s dangerous,” Tamriel says. “You don’t have to risk your life for this.”

  “I am sworn to protect you, Your Highness. My place is by your side.”

  The driver snaps the reins and the carriage jolts forward. Tamriel and Vela sit in silence for the fifteen-minute ride to the western sector of Sandori, the only sounds the clomping of the horses’ hooves and the occasional friendly greeting from carriage drivers they pass. Soon the carriage slows, then halts, and the driver climbs down and opens the door. As Tamriel exits, he thanks the driver and instructs him to wait outside the gates for his return.

  He walks toward the gate to Beggars’ End. It’s not the same one the mob had tried to break through only days ago—he fears Master Oliver had posted extra guards there since the commotion—but there are still more guards here than usual. The three young men bow when Tamriel and Vela approach.

  “Let us through the gate, please,” Tamriel says to Dorian, the eldest of the trio. When Dorian straightens, his brows furrowed in confusion, Tamriel adds, “That’s a command, not a request.”

  “Of course, Your Highness.” He lifts the large ring of keys and unlocks the heavy padlock. The iron gate creaks as Dorian and one of the other guards pull it open, and they exchange a concerned look when Tamriel and Vela step through. The clang of the gate closing behind them seems to echo in the night, and Vela rests a hand on the grip of the sword at her hip.

  Tamriel tugs at the neck of his fine linen tunic, wishing he’d thought to wear his armor, then forces himself to stop. I’m the prince, he reminds himself. There is nothing I cannot do.

  Except save your people, a goading voice in his head retorts, but he shoves the thought away.

  Leitha Cain and her soldiers will return with the cure within a week.

  He fidgets with the strap of the canvas bag as he and Vela walk the streets, skirting potholes and pools of what Tamriel hopes is merely foul-smelling water. They pass shops with broken shutters and peeling paint, houses with sagging roofs smelling of filth and rot, and, occasionally, small groups of people huddled in the alleys who peer out at them with sunken, hopeless eyes. Vela is close at his side, keeping his clipped pace with ease. The jingling of her chainmail and the quiet clinking of the glass vials follows them as they round a corner. A large warehouse comes into sight before them, one of the few still standing in the district. As they approach, a familiar figure pushes off the wall and starts toward them.

  “No one’s supposed to be out this late,” Atlas calls, lifting a lantern and peering out into the night. “By decree of the king.”

  “At ease, friend,” Tamriel says, and Atlas stiffens at the sound of his voice.

  “Y-Your Highness?”

  “The one and only.” They meet in the middle of the block, the flickering flame in the lantern momentarily blinding Tamriel after the long, dark trek from the gate. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small envelope Elise had given him the day before. Atlas’s eyes widen when he sees her perfect, elegant handwriting. His Adam’s apple bobs. “This belongs to you.”

  “Your Highness, please tell me you didn’t venture all the way out here to deliver a letter.”

  “I made your sister a promise. She made quite a fuss when she found out you were stuck here.”

  “Sounds like her.” He chokes on a laugh and accepts the letter, clutching it so tightly Tamriel worries he’ll rip right through the paper. He stuffs it into his pocket. “Will you . . .?” He trails off, his face flushing. “Nevermind. I-I wouldn’t presume to—”

  “Go ahead.”

  Atlas bites his lip. “Will you just let her know I’m okay? The other guards and I are watching out for each other. We’re handling it.”

  “Is that true?”

  “We . . . lost Willard and Geoff, Your Highness, two days ago.” Tamriel doesn’t recognize the names, but his heart still aches at the grief in Atlas’s voice. “Please don’t tell her that, Your Highness. Tell her I’ll see her when this is all over. Soon.”

  Tamriel places a hand on the guard’s shoulder. “I’ll tell her,” he says. “I trust all has been quiet since the district has been quarantined?”

  “As much as one would expect. The people weren’t happy to find the gates locked, and violence between the humans and elves here tripled in the first few hours of the lockdown. People panicked. But, uh, as more people fall sick, the streets grow more empty by the day.”

  Tamriel starts toward the warehouse, the two guards falling into step beside him. The light from Atlas’s lantern bobs as they walk, the small orange flame reflected in the shards of glass hanging in the windows where the wooden boards had rotted away. Even after almost twenty years, streaks of black soot mar the gray stone, scars from a blaze which had claimed over a dozen other buildings and taken the city’s firemen two days to extinguish. The building had been home to rodents and squatters in the decades since, only recently cleared out by the guards to quarantine the infected after the healers’ tents in the fields had filled.

  “I’ve brought what I can,” Tamriel says, gesturing to the vials in his bag. “They haven’t been tested because our healer is . . . indisposed . . . at the moment.”

  When they reach the door of the warehouse, Atlas sets the lantern at his feet and pulls three handkerchiefs from his pocket. He hands one to Tamriel, who ties it over his mouth and nose, then turns to Vela. The prince stops him before he can pass it to her. “You two are waiting out here.”

  “But—”

  “Your Highness—”

  Tamriel huffs exasperatedly. “If one more guard questions my orders tonight, I’ll have the lot of you thrown into the Abraxas Sea.”

  They close their mouths.

  “Atlas, your family has served mine for generations. I owe too much to your father and sister to allow you into harm’s way. You shouldn’t have been locked in here in the first place—none of you. Vela, wait outside until I return. I will return,” he says with a wry smile at her stricken look. It’s hardly my first visit to Beggars’ End, he thinks, but he doesn’t dare voice it.

  “Take the lantern,” Atlas insists, pushing the heavy metal into his hands. “The moonlight’s enough for us to see by.”

  The whoosh of air which greets Tamriel when he steps into the warehouse is thick and stale, putrid with the odor of unwas
hed bodies. The lantern’s flame sputters and flickers, illuminating the vague shapes of people huddled in blankets against the walls, strung up on stained hammocks between large stone pillars, or lying on the bare ground. It’s nearly impossible to tell which of them are dead and which are simply sleeping. Their infected skin is red and scaly, the boils swollen and crusty where the blisters have popped, and all is silent save the quiet rasp of pained breaths.

  “Here,” Tamriel whispers as he kneels beside an elderly woman with skin like tissue paper. She squints against the light of the lantern. He breaks the wax seal on the vial and pours half of the contents into the woman’s half-open mouth, catching a droplet which dribbles down her chin with a gloved fingertip. “Rest now. The medicine will ease your pain.”

  The woman nods once, weakly, and her eyes flutter shut. If she survives until morning, she won’t remember a thing.

  Tamriel works quickly across the massive room, rationing the medicine as much as possible. He sidesteps more dead bodies than he cares to count, stopping only to close their eyelids and send a prayer to the Creator for their passage into the Beyond. They’d had to quarantine Beggars’ End much earlier than they’d anticipated because of the mob, and after news of the plague had spread, no healers had been willing to risk their lives for such ‘low-born scum.’ The only healthy people who have set foot in this building in the past week are guards and a few brave volunteers.

  By the time he climbs the steps to the second floor, three-quarters of the vials are empty and Tamriel’s heart is heavy with grief. Nestled in among the dying and dead, he’d found an elven woman who had clutched her dead child to her breast, stroking her babe’s round, colorless cheeks as silent sobs racked her body. She hadn’t said a word to Tamriel, only gripping her child closer and shaking her head vehemently every time Tamriel had offered her medicine. She had been the only one he had told of the cure. He’d foolishly thought the news would uplift her. Instead, her eyes had held the same lifelessness as the body cradled in her arms.

  The prince is pulling an empty vial from a sick man’s lips when something shuffles behind him. “I knew I’d find you here,” he says quietly.

  “Where else would I be when so many of my people need me?” Ketojan asks, his voice a deep rumble. He crosses the room and stops beside Tamriel, cocking his head. “Two visits in one week? Are you sure that is wise?”

  “No,” Tamriel admits. He stands and shifts the bag, the empty vials clinking. Only one remains full. “Is she here?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Ketojan plucks the lantern out of Tamriel’s hand and leads him up the stairs on the far wall. Like most of the warehouse, the stone is soot-stained and chipped with age, a few of the steps slanted dangerously this way or that. “Your father made a bold show outside the castle, I’m told. Whipping the mob leaders outside the gate where Liselle was killed? One might even think he cares about us poor wretches.”

  “Half of Sandori knows he is sympathetic to the elves.” As always, Liselle’s name sets his teeth on edge. While he understands her need to free the slaves, she will forever be the woman who tore his family apart.

  “Half of Sandori thinks he is sympathetic to the elves. Whispers without proof are just that, child. Whispers. Nothing more. And what of you? What do the people make of you, prince?”

  “I’d like to think I’m better about hiding my allegiances than my father.”

  “If you keep visiting like this, someone will put two and two together eventually.”

  “I’ll insist I’m merely concerned about my citizens. It’s the truth.”

  “It won’t seem that way when they consider your feelings for a certain Feyndaran lady.”

  Tamriel is glad Ketojan is in front of him on the stairs; he can’t see his face flush. “How do you know so much about the goings-on outside of this place?”

  “You aren’t the only one who works in secrecy, Your Highness.”

  “Hm.” It doesn’t surprise him. Ketojan and Hero have worked together to free elves from their human masters for decades, long before the name Liselle meant anything to anyone. Tamriel is merely a pawn in their operation—a rather important pawn, but still. There is only so much information they trust to him.

  Ketojan leaves the lantern on the floor when they reach the top of the stairs. Half of the roof had collapsed after the fire and had never been repaired, and the stars twinkle brightly in the dark blanket of the nighttime sky. Bathed in their silver light are half a dozen bodies wrapped in stained and patched sheets. A woman kneels over the farthest one, her head bowed and lips moving as she murmurs a prayer for the dead. One of her arms is in a sling, her shoulder swollen and bruised beneath the rags she wears. When she looks up at Tamriel, his stomach clenches.

  “Hero,” he croaks. “I’m so—” He can’t force out the word sorry; it feels too small, too feeble, too flimsy after all he’d done to her, after all he’d seen tonight.

  She rises and walks to him, resting her good hand on his arm. The light touch makes him want to cry. In her eyes is none of the malice or contempt she had shown the king, and somehow, that makes it worse. Ketojan crosses the room and leans against the wall, crossing his arms lightly over his chest and staring out into the night. His white hair practically glows in the starlight.

  “You could have told him it was me. By the Creator, Hero, you—you should have told him it was me. They wouldn’t have hurt you . . . I wouldn’t have hurt you. I’m so . . .” This time, he does say it, although he has to look away to summon the courage. “I’m so sorry.”

  Hero moves her hand from his arm to his cheek, turning him so he’s facing her. She makes a sound which might have been I forgive you, but Tamriel doesn’t dare to hope.

  “Our Hero is tough,” Ketojan says, his voice soft with affection. “That wasn’t the first time she’d been threatened or tortured”—Tamriel flinches at the word—“and it will hardly be the last. Even so, the reward far outweighs the risk.”

  Hero nods. She takes Tamriel’s hand and leads him to Ketojan, gesturing to the elf. He hesitates, then pulls a sheaf of papers out of his tattered jacket. He hands them to Tamriel. “Davron Eddas. You know him?” When Tamriel nods, he continues, “Apparently he’s a less than desirable owner—if such a one exists. Three elves have contacted us from outside the End wishing to go to Cirisor. They’ve scraped together enough money for food and supplies on the road, but need help sneaking past the guards now that Hero’s tunnel has been filled.”

  Tamriel looks to Hero. “You’re sure you want to continue this? The price you’ve already paid—”

  Hero’s eyes glimmer with fierce protectiveness when she nods, and Tamriel knows there is no talking her out of it.

  He hands the papers back to Ketojan. “Then consider it done. The next guard schedule goes out in three days. I’ll find a way to intercept it.” He glances from Ketojan to Hero, their faces tight and grim. “How else can I help?”

  46

  At the break of dawn, Mercy leans on the wall of the well in the center of the market, turning the Guild coin over between her fingers. The early morning sunlight reflects off the shiny teardrop embossed in the center and into Mercy’s tired eyes, and she grimaces. It would be so easy to let go, to watch it fall through the air and hear the plink of the coin breaking the water’s still surface, swallowed forever in its inky blackness.

  She runs a hand over her lips, feeling the ghost of Tamriel’s kiss, and sighs. She’d wandered through the city all night, too restless to return to Blackbriar, too terrified Elvira would read the truth of what she’d done on her face. The muscles in her legs ache, her silk slippers pinching at her toes.

  A child’s laugh sounds across the square and Mercy looks up, closing her fist around the Guild coin. A woman steps out from a dark shop and pulls the door shut behind her, a bucket in one hand and her daughter following close at her heels. The girl giggles as she hops from one cobblestone to the next, a ragged doll clamped in one chubby hand.

/>   When her mother nears the well, the girl stops, her smile replaced by a stricken look. “Mama,” she says, “why is the knife-ear staring at us?”

  The woman shoots Mercy a dark look. “I don’t know. It should mind its own business if it doesn’t want us to report it for not wearing its sash, don’t you think? It should know better than to slink around like a dog without its tags.”

  Anger flares in Mercy and she pulls her cloak tightly around her. She pockets the coin and walks away without a word.

  As she turns the corner, she rubs her eyes with the heels of her palms. Where did everything go wrong? she thinks for the millionth time, remembering the feel of the prince’s hands on her waist before banishing the memory from her mind. The daggers tucked in her waistband feel cold, much too cold, the coin heavy in her pocket. They feel like betrayal.

  A while later, she finds herself in front of Blackbriar, not entirely sure how she had walked all the way back without thinking. Although the drugs must have worn off hours ago, Ser Morrison still snoozes beside the door. Mercy slips around to the back of the house and taps on the window as loudly as she dares.

  “Come on, Elvira,” she murmurs. A few minutes later, the sleepy, frizzy-haired elf appears in the doorway, still in her rumpled nightgown. She hurries to the window and pushes it open, then grabs Mercy’s elbow to help her through.

  Elvira closes and latches the window. “Is it done?”

  Mercy nods once, pressing her lips into a thin line. She’s too exhausted to worry about Elvira finding out the prince still lives, her mind muddled from wandering around Sandori all night. “I must leave Sandori tonight.”

  Mercy wakes late that night, still in the clothes from the night before. Her stomach rumbles and she ignores it as she stands and moves to the wardrobe, pulling out the few tunics and worn trousers she had brought and placing them into the black bag Elvira had left outside her bedroom door. She changes out of her rumpled shirt and into a black top, leaving her same pants on and pulling on her leather boots. The thick black cloak hangs from one of the posts of Mercy’s bed and she wraps it around herself, then takes a thinner, softer one from the bottom of the wardrobe and adds it to her bag. She pulls the daggers out from beneath the mattress and throws them inside, too. After a second thought, she takes them out and tucks them into her waistband in case the soldiers at the gate give her any trouble.