She hefts the bag onto her shoulder, expecting it to be heavier than it is. Is this all her life amounts to? A couple pieces of ratty clothing and two knives? Kind of depressing, she thinks.
She pushes the thought from her mind and moves into the hallway and down the stairs, where Elvira is moving around in the kitchen, cleaning dishes. “I thought it best to let you sleep, considering you’re going to be walking most of the night. I made extra for dinner, so you can take whatever’s left with you.” She points to the counter, where a plate of bread, beans, nuts, and several dried meats sits.
“Thank you.” Mercy reaches immediately for a strip of dried beef, smiling when she bites into the tough, smoky meat. “This is perfect. I’m starving.”
For a while, they eat and work in silence, until Elvira brushes a hair out of her face and gives Mercy a shy look. “I . . . owe you an apology.” She wrings a towel between her hands, watching the little droplets of water patter to the floor by her feet. “I shouldn’t have doubted you would complete your contract, and I’m sorry. Truly.”
Elvira waits, wondering whether the supposed Daughter will confess to not having killed the prince. She knows he lives because the prince’s cousin had arrived unannounced earlier that afternoon and explained exactly what had taken place the night before. While Mercy had slept soundly two floors above, Elvira had left and sent Calum’s letter—claiming Tamriel had discovered Mercy’s identity and was holding her hostage in the castle—to the Guild. Mother Illynor will send agents to collect her and complete the contract; she would never let an investment like Mercy rot in a dungeon for long.
Elvira also knows the forged contract is void, but she won’t tell a soul.
Your husband works in the castle, does he not? Calum had asked, blocking Blackbriar’s doorway with his body.
He does, she had answered slowly.
Well, he had said, if you wish him not to be shipped off with the rest of the diseased or locked inside of Beggars’ End for the foreseeable future, you will make sure Mercy kills the prince. Understood?
She had agreed. Of course, she had. For Kier, she would do anything.
“It’s alright, Elvira,” Mercy says. She pushes the plate forward, the food half-eaten. “And thank you, I’m stuffed.”
Elvira nods, hiding her disappointment as she pulls out a thick square of cloth and pours the leftover food into the center, wrapping it up and twisting the neck so it forms a pouch. She finds a length of string and ties it around the neck of the pouch with dexterous fingers. “Here,” she says, and passes Mercy the small bundle, which she tucks into her bag. “Try to make it last as long as you can. And remember you won’t have a horse, but you might be able to hitch a ride with a merchant on the road.”
Mercy nods and pulls the bag onto her shoulder. “Thanks, Elvira.” She turns and walks into the hall before Elvira can respond. Mercy hates goodbyes, and the sooner she leaves, the better, before Elvira finds out she hasn’t completed her contract. Perhaps she’ll go west, to the mining sector. She can work as a sellsword until she’s earned enough money to sail to Rivosa. She’ll eke out a life in some foreign city until the Daughters track her down.
They will track her down.
And she’ll be ready.
She reaches for the front door, and just before she grabs the handle, a loud knock sounds on the other side. She jumps, then opens the door to Elise’s smiling face, her fist still hovering in the air. Elise takes one look at Mercy’s outfit and the bag slung over her shoulder and raises a brow. “Going somewhere?”
“Depends. Do you need something?”
“I don’t. Tamriel asked for you, though.”
Mercy flinches and glances behind her. Elvira is still in the kitchen, cleaning, and Mercy assumes by the lack of an outburst she hadn’t overheard. “Hold on,” Mercy says, then drops her bag on the floor and kicks it to the side. She steps outside and pulls the door closed behind her, and notes with some satisfaction Ser Morrison standing across the street glowering. Elise must’ve asked for privacy.
“Why didn’t Tamriel come here himself?”
“He’s busy with the nobles, remember? Convincing them to give him the throne? He asked for you, so here I am.” She pivots on her heel and walks a few feet away, then stops when she realizes Mercy isn’t following. “Marieve?”
“Sorry, it’s just . . . now’s not a good time. We had a bit of an . . . argument last night,” she lies, feeling the tips of her ears flush with embarrassment.
Elise’s face hardens. “He is risking his life to help his citizens, surrounded by men who have pledged their loyalty to the king. He could be jailed or killed for conspiring behind his father’s back. Your disagreement is not of the slightest importance right now.”
Mercy takes a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Calum crouches in the shadow of the wall which surrounds the castle, his eyes trained on the front door of the Queen’s old house. Given to her by the king, the house had once been one of the largest and most extravagant in the city, with proud, tall columns supporting the second-floor balcony which looks out over the street and castle. Wide bay windows lined with flowerboxes jut out from its façade.
The mansion had once been resplendent. Now, its crumbling form sits like a skeleton in the center of the block, its white limestone grayed and weathered, its pillars cracked and covered in ivy. Broken pieces of glass hang from the windowpanes like jagged teeth.
After a carriage clatters past, Calum darts across the street and slips through the gap between the Queen’s house and the neighboring mansion until he emerges at the back. What had originally been intended as a private garden now overflows with brambles, some of the weeds higher than Calum’s knees. They catch and tug on his clothes as he tramples them down. He frowns at the ground, having no trouble imagining the ticks, lice, rats, and other vermin which undoubtedly live in this mess. Look at all I do for you, Father, he thinks sullenly. Just look at what I’m willing to do.
One of the rear windows is completely shattered. He pulls the hem of his shirt over his hand and sweeps the bits of broken glass off the sill and into the grass. He glances at the door a few paces away and sighs. One of the hinges has rusted away completely, and, even if he could open it without alerting half the block to his presence, the wood has warped and swollen out of its original shape. He hoists himself over the sill and, as he does, a sharp shard of glass he hadn’t noticed slices into his shoulder. He hisses in pain, the sound of his sleeve ripping seeming much louder than it should in the silence of the night. When Calum eases through the window and straightens, a fat, warm drop of blood rolls down his arm.
Outside, the moonlight had helped him to see, but here, heavy velvet curtains reeking of mildew cover each of the intact windows, blocking out nearly every modicum of light. As his eyes adjust, he can vaguely make out the shapes of furniture and the corners of paintings scattered around the room, covered in dusty tarps. Most of Elisora’s art collection had been locked away under the castle after her death, but the less expensive stuff had been brought here—probably a tenth of her original collection.
The sharp sound of metal snapping echoes from the front of the house, and Calum freezes. Tamriel is here. He must have broken the aged lock which had held the front door closed. He’s early, so he won’t think anything of the fact that none of the nobles are here to speak with him; Calum had never bothered to invite them the second time.
Calum slowly makes his way into the hall, pausing frequently to find his bearings or to skirt one of the many piles of animal droppings on the floor. He hears Tamriel pacing in the other room. As he stalks down the corridor, he pulls his dagger from its sheath and creeps forward, peering into the foyer through the open doorway.
Tamriel has taken off his cloak and tossed it aside, and his breastplate gleams in the light from one of the bay windows. He wears light leather armor over his clothes, but it’s nothing a well-crafted blade couldn’t slice through. The prince is nervous; when th
e wind blows and whistles trough the broken windowpanes upstairs, he jumps. His hand moves to the sword sheathed at his hip to remind himself it’s there.
Calum moves out of the doorway and into the room, flipping the dagger’s grip in his hand. He takes a deep breath. I will not be weak. I will not give in to affection like I did in the library. Tamriel, not hearing Calum’s approach, takes a step toward the window, his hand reaching for the curtain to pull it aside. Calum lifts the dagger and swings at his head, and the pommel connects with Tamriel’s skull, right behind his temple. His cousin crumples to the ground at his feet, groaning once before falling unconscious.
47
“This is the house. You remember when I showed you?” Elise asks.
“I remember.” Mercy frowns at the derelict manor, crinkling her nose in disgust. “I understand it’s his mother’s house, but why would His Highness want to hold a meeting in there? I can practically smell the shit from here.”
“Exactly.” Elise nods. “Everyone knows the prince cherishes everything of his mother’s, but something as . . . decrepit as this? Well, only the lowliest of beggars deign to sleep here. He’s hiding in plain sight.”
They walk in silence until Elise leads them to the front of the house. With each step, a strange sense of unease washes over Mercy, almost like she is going to be sick. The feeling only intensifies when Elise raps on the door three times in quick succession—to no response. She frowns, and they exchange a concerned glance before Elise tries again.
Three knocks . . .
Nothing.
Elise grabs the doorknob and the door swings open without her having to turn it; someone had snapped the latch when he broke the lock. She pushes the door fully open and shrieks, picking up her skirt and running inside. Mercy darts in behind her, then stops in her tracks.
Tamriel lies in the center of the room, dead.
Mercy runs to him and falls to her knees, laying her hands upon his chest. His breastplate lies a few feet away, as if someone had tossed it there. She lets out a choked gasp of relief when she feels his ribs expand and contract under her palms. He’s breathing, but it’s slow and shallow.
“Creator preserve us,” Elise whispers. When Mercy glances back Elise is trembling from head to toe, her face stark white.
“He’s alive,” Mercy says, “but he may not be for long. Go find help. Go!”
Elise lets out a sob, then nods and stumbles outside, shouting words Mercy can’t make out over the pounding in her ears.
The prince’s hair is sticky with blood. It pools in the curve of his ear, pouring from a wide gash behind his temple, and Mercy rips a long strip of fabric from the hem of her shirt and presses it to the cut. The opposite side of his head has begun to swell where it had hit the ground when he fell.
That’s when she sees the pool of blood.
It seeps out from under him, a puddle on the stone below his shoulder. Her hands shaking, she grabs his shirt in one hand and his belt in the other, and uses them to pull him onto his side. Her breath catches in her throat. A large gash carves a crescent moon across his back. His shirt is soaked with blood, the slash in the silk gaping to show the wound as more blood pours out. It’s deep enough he’d have bled out if Mercy and Elise had arrived ten minutes later, but as long as Elise returns with help soon, he may survive.
Something crashes in the back of the house. Mercy jumps to her feet, her heart beating in a constant hum. She glances back at Tamriel, who moans, his eyes still shut. Please don’t die. She pulls out both daggers and grips them until her knuckles turn white and her fingers threaten to go numb, her hands slick with Tamriel’s blood.
She runs through the hallway and into the back room, letting out a string of expletives when she realizes it’s empty. A breeze sweeps in from the broken window, which offers a glimpse into an overgrown garden, brambles climbing up the legs of the statue standing atop the dry fountain. The gaping hole is large enough for someone to climb through, and as Mercy nears, she spots blood on the point of a piece of glass which hangs from the window frame.
Run, says a foreign voice.
Footsteps and voices sound outside, and she returns to the foyer as the door opens and Elise, several guards, and a healer walk in.
Mercy, run!
“That’s her!” Elise yells. “She tried to assassinate the prince!”
“What—” is all Mercy manages to spit out before the guards swarm her. Two grab her wrists and twist her arms behind her back hard enough to make her cry out in pain, her eyes watering. They wrench her arms to the verge of snapping, and she drops her daggers. They clatter to the ground and another guard scoops them up. Someone locks shackles around her wrists and another clamps them around her ankles. Anger and fear fill her veins.
“Elise, what the hell are you doing?” Mercy shouts. She bucks and fights against the guards holding her in place, but their grips don’t waver.
Elise doesn’t respond. She watches the healer as he opens his case and pulls out disinfectant, bandages, and a needle and thread. Her worried expression immediately shifts to relief as the healer positions himself at Tamriel’s back and pierces his skin with the needle, instructing another guard to hold the gash shut. Tamriel moans again.
“Let’s go, filth,” one of the guards hisses into her ear. He and the others drag her past Elise and toward the front door, fighting them the entire way.
“What are you doing?” she hisses when they pass Elise. “You know I didn’t attack him.”
“I found you standing over him with your daggers out and his blood on your hands. How can there be any doubt of your guilt?”
Mercy glares at her but says nothing. Just as the guards drag her out the door, she turns her head and looks back over her shoulder, and—for one second—Tamriel’s eyes open and lock onto hers. They’re wide and terrified, the light in his eyes hazy with pain, and then he winces and falls unconscious again.
The guards pull her from the house and back to the castle, dragging her when she moves too slowly, kicking her heels when she trips. They sneer and regard her with hatred and disdain, fury burning in their eyes. Mercy doesn’t try to plead with them—even now, she will not condescend to beg—but instead growls vicious insults at them, threatening them, promising to tear them apart and reconfigure them so their own mothers will be reviled by the sight of them. It doesn’t help her claim of innocence, of course, but she doesn’t care. Her anger is the only thing holding her together.
They lift her and pull her up the stairs to the castle by her underarms, not caring when she cries out in pain. They march her through the great hall, and the few slaves who are awake at this hour stop and gawk as the soldiers pass, cowering when they meet Mercy’s furious gaze. The soldiers carry her down the several flights of stairs to the dungeon, and one fumbles for his keys to the door. His hands are shaking with so much anger he drops them twice before finding the right key. He pushes the door open and leads them inside, then unlocks the door to the cell in the farthest corner of the dungeon.
They toss her inside and she flies forward, her knees cracking on the stone floor when she trips over the heavy iron chain of her shackles. Her hands are still clasped behind her back, useless.
She pulls her knees in close to her chest and braces her back against the wall, lifting her butt off the ground enough to bring her arms and the chain connecting her wrists from behind her, under her, to her front. She grits her teeth when the heavy iron cuffs dig into her wrists and pinch the skin, then sighs with relief when she works her feet around the chain, and her arms are free in front of her—well, as free as they can be while cuffed together, but at least her shoulders no longer ache from being locked in the strange position behind her back.
She scrambles upright and whirls around as the cell door clangs shut. The senior guard pulls out his keys and snaps the lock shut, the sound of it echoing in the dank room. As they file through the door, Mercy screams at them. After they shut the door and entomb her in the pitch black, she
kicks at the strong iron bars of her cell until her foot throbs.
Mercy sits against the back wall of her cell, her legs stretched out in front of her. Time seems to have slowed to a stop in the pitch black of the dungeon; the only way she can tell the passing of the hours is by her growing hunger, which starts small, but soon sends pangs which ebb and flow through her entire body in jolting waves. Somewhere, there’s a crack in the ceiling through which droplets of water form, swell, and fall, and she counts the seconds by the pattering of the droplets on the ground. It begins as a way to take her mind off everything—her hunger, Elise’s betrayal, and her terror over Tamriel’s fate—but the constant drip, drip, drip soon becomes maddening.
Her worry for Tamriel gnaws at her while she sits in the utter darkness, waiting—for the second time in her life—to be called for execution. The unanswered question brings more pain than anything else: were they too late? She has no idea if Tamriel survived. He could be a few floors above her right now, lying cold and dead on his bed as a priestess mutters prayers and reads the last rites for his burial. The second Mercy thinks it, the world seems to slide out from under her.
If he’s alive, what will they tell him when he wakes up? What will he remember? He was attacked from behind, that much is certain, so chances are he never saw his would-be assassin. They’ll tell him Mercy tried to kill him. Elise will smile sympathetically and lie through her teeth. Will he believe it? Will he remember everything about the night before, in the library, and think it was all a part of an elaborate game?
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 41