Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  When the last latch clinks into place, Faye turns and grins.

  “Let’s go find the prince,” Mercy says.

  51

  The door to Tamriel’s chambers stands ajar, grunts and the ring of steel on steel echo from inside. Two dead guards slump against the wall outside, their eyes open and unseeing. One still clutches the gaping hole in his side. Mercy’s eyes widen at the sight, but neither she nor Faye slows as they burst into the prince’s bedroom, sending the door flying open with a resounding crack. They immediately unsheathe their weapons, but it takes Mercy a moment to make sense of the chaos.

  Lylia stands in the center of the room, slashing and hacking at the six guards who surround her. She grips a sword in her right hand—taken from one of the dead guards lying at her feet—and a dagger in her left, which she uses to parry a soldier’s swing. As Mercy watches, she catches his sword with the dagger, then plunges her sword through the chink in the armor around his midsection. When she pulls the blade out, it drips with blood, and the soldier crumples to the ground.

  At Mercy’s side, Faye sends a throwing knife into the neck of one of the guardsmen. He gurgles and falls, and Faye unsheathes her dagger and dives into the fray, taking up an offensive stance beside Lylia. She slashes with lightning-fast strokes, and it’s all the guards can do to deflect her continuous attacks.

  Mercy can’t see the prince, but she knows he’s here, somewhere. She twists the pommels of her daggers together to form the double-bladed staff and leaps onto Tamriel’s bed, her heart thundering in her ears. When she spots the prince, her breath catches.

  He’s standing in the corner, he and the two guards in front of him forced into a defensive position by Aelis’s vicious attacks. His sword is in his hand, but he wears no armor; his loose white undershirt and cotton pants are rumpled from sleep. Several shallow cuts on his arms bleed and stain the linen of his shirt crimson.

  Aelis lunges toward the prince, her teeth bared in a snarl. A guard leaps forward, but she feints right and lunges left, ducking under the arc of his sword as it whistles through the air. She darts behind him, shoving her sword through the back of his thigh. He cries out in agony and falls to his knees. Four inches of the sword stick out of the front of his leg. Tamriel roars and charges toward her, but the other guard pushes him out of the way.

  Aelis hasn’t even broken a sweat.

  She pulls her sword out of the soldier’s leg and lifts it just in time to block the other guard’s swing. Their swords clash and Aelis grunts with the effort of fighting the man’s strength. Tamriel darts forward, his sword raised, letting out a war cry. Aelis turns and delivers a kick to the prince’s chest which sends him flying into the stone wall. The sword falls out of his hand and clatters to the floor.

  Mercy jumps off the bed as Aelis shoves her sword through the other guard’s side, piercing his heart. Mercy rounds the circle of soldiers fighting Lylia and Faye—only three left now, each bleeding heavily—and tightens her grip on her double-edged dagger as Aelis pulls her sword out of the guard. He falls, dead before he hits the ground.

  Tamriel is unarmed, groaning with pain, but Aelis turns her attention to the soldier kneeling on the ground. He lifts his sword and tries to stand, blood pouring down his leg, but he only manages to make it halfway before falling back to his knees. As Aelis approaches, grinning a predatory smile, he lifts the point of his sword, but he’s too late.

  His head thumps to the floor.

  His body follows.

  Aelis wheels on the prince. Tamriel pushes onto his knees, scrambling for his sword. His eyes are wide, his face pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. The Daughter makes a show of wiping the blood off her sword as Tamriel stands, a hand braced against the wall. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that it’s trembling.

  Mercy pushes past the last guard and places a hand on Aelis’s shoulder. “Allow me.”

  Tamriel’s eyes meet hers. Recognition, disbelief, horror, and terror flicker across his face in a matter of seconds, finally settling on a look of abject hopelessness.

  Aelis frowns but steps back, waving a hand to the prince as if to say After you.

  Mercy’s fingers are tight around the grip of her daggers, the leather smooth and luxurious under her calloused hands. She steps forward until only two feet separate her and the prince, two feet between her and the completion of her first contract—what she’s been waiting for her entire life. She was raised to become a Daughter. This life of killing is all she has known, and it feels so, so right.

  She’s not wearing any armor. If Tamriel wanted to, he could plunge his blade straight through her heart. He won’t, though, and they both know it. Tamriel halfheartedly lifts his sword, his eyes pleading with her. The sharp point quivers in the air between them, reflecting the moonlight which streams in through the open curtains. Behind her, the last two guards cry out and their lifeless bodies thump to the ground.

  “Mari—Mercy,” Tamriel pleads.

  She lifts the dagger.

  Then spins and plunges the blade into Aelis’s stomach.

  Aelis’s mouth drops open, but no sound escapes. Her eyes drift from Mercy’s face to the hilt protruding from her stomach, where her blood flows through her punctured leather armor. Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly as Mercy twists the dagger a quarter turn, then pulls it out, causing blood to gush from the hole in Aelis’s abdomen. She sways for a moment before her eyes roll back and she crumples to the ground.

  Mercy glances at the prince, whose face is white with shock. When his eyes meet hers, she smiles weakly. “You’re welcome.”

  “TRAITOR!” Lylia roars. She tackles Mercy, knocking the wind out of her when they land on the hard floor, and Mercy’s daggers slip from her grasp and fly out of reach. Mercy coughs and sputters, a hand going to her ribs, which are almost certainly bruised, if not broken. “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Lylia screams, battering Mercy with her fists. “Drowned you in the river, poisoned your dinner, shot an arrow through your heart. I should have pushed you off the wall of the Keep years ago. When I’m done with you, they’re not going to—”

  Lylia’s weight is lifted off Mercy, and she opens her eyes to see Tamriel’s hands clamped around Lylia’s throat, squeezing until her eyes bulge. Then Tamriel lets out a disgusted noise and shoves her backward. “I am not a murderer.” He offers Mercy a hand and pulls her to her feet.

  Lylia stumbles over a body, then straightens and pulls her dagger from her belt. Her eyes narrow and she rushes forward, her blade gleaming as she raises it high. Faye—who had been standing in the center of the room, frozen with shock—springs into action now, reaching out to catch Lylia’s wrist, but she’s too slow.

  Mercy pushes Tamriel behind her and braces herself.

  She’s unarmed.

  But Lylia never reaches them.

  A crack of thunder fills the air, causing Lylia and Faye to fly across the room like ragdolls. They hit the wall, and when they don’t immediately stand, Mercy runs over and presses a hand to Faye’s neck. She checks Lylia, too, then sighs with relief.

  “They’re unconscious,” she says to Tamriel, but he doesn’t hear her. He’s too busy gaping at the woman who stands before him.

  Her body is made of gray smoke, translucent enough that Mercy can see the silhouette of the furniture and the guards’ bodies through her. She looks from Mercy to Tamriel, her long, pointed ears peering through her hair.

  “You must leave the castle now,” she says, and Mercy’s blood runs cold. Hers is the voice which has been whispering in her ear all along. “If the soldiers see you outside of your cell, they won’t stop to ask questions. When they see him”—she nods to Tamriel—“all bloody and pale, they’ll blame you, and you won’t have to wait for an execution this time.” She picks up Mercy’s dagger and crosses the room to hand it to her.

  Mercy takes it and looks up into the woman’s face for the first time, stifling a gasp. She’s strikingly beautiful, from her dark, serious
eyes to the wavy hair framing her face. While they share the same lithe build as every member of the elven race, her body is lean and her movements far more graceful than Mercy could ever hope to emulate. There is also something strangely familiar about her.

  The woman smiles. “Hello, sister.”

  “Liselle?” she whispers.

  Tamriel lets out a choked sound, his face pale, and he sways as if he is about to pass out.

  “How—”

  “No time,” Liselle says, and holds out a hand to Mercy. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepts. Liselle’s hand is as solid as hers, unnaturally warm, yet Mercy recoils as soon as she stands. “I’ve risked much to find you and I’ve stayed too long already. You must leave the castle and go north, to Cirisor.” She drags Mercy behind her and shoves her at Tamriel, who catches her in his arms. They exchange a bewildered look as Liselle continues, “The thing Pilar saw . . . the danger brewing in the north—it’s real. Myrbellanar, the disease—it’s all connected. You must stop it. Leave now, while the castle is in disarray. You remember the flower?”

  Mercy nods.

  “Find it.” She looks at Tamriel. “The soldiers you sent are gone. If you value your people’s lives, you must leave tonight. Do not let your father dissuade you.”

  “My father?”

  “He’s known you would have to leave for some time. You must choose.”

  Tamriel presses his lips together, his fingers tightening on Mercy’s shoulders. She wraps her arms around him, and startles when her hands come away wet; the entirety of his back is soaked with blood. She gapes at him, but he steadfastly ignores her. Somewhere in a distant hallway, a man shouts, and the stamping of heavy boots follows him—more guards drawn by the sounds of fighting, no doubt. Mercy stiffens. If they find her, they will kill her.

  “Choose,” she whispers to Tamriel.

  “Quickly,” Liselle adds.

  The prince’s eyes flick from Mercy to Liselle, uncertainty shining in their depths. He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. Then he seizes Mercy’s hand and they sprint out of the room.

  52

  He drags her into the hallway, pausing at the sight of the slain soldiers slumped on either side of his door. He frowns, and Mercy wonders how well the prince had known them. Living in the castle, it couldn’t have been easy to remain strangers with everyone in his command.

  The hallway extends to their right and left. From their left, the sound of running footsteps grows louder as the guards approach. To their right, it’s only a few corridors to the stairs which will lead them to the main floor and out of the castle. Tamriel wavers, glancing from side to side. For a moment, Mercy fears he will decide not to trust Liselle and take her left, leaving her to the soldiers’ mercy. After everything that had happened, she wouldn’t blame him. It’s her fault he almost died tonight, after all.

  Tamriel makes his decision, and then they’re running again. Mercy lets out a cry of relief when he leads her right and they arrive at the spiral staircase. She keeps her eyes trained on Tamriel’s back while they run down the steps. He won’t be able to continue much longer at this speed; the blood darkening his linen shirt continues to spread. When he glances back at her, she sees he is clenching his teeth in pain.

  They sprint down the stairs so quickly Mercy is surprised her feet don’t tangle underneath her. Tamriel’s hand is wrapped around hers, slick with perspiration and blood, and he tightens his grip to keep her from slipping away. The soldiers pursuing them are closer than they had been before; the clattering of their metal armor echoes on the stone walls and steps above Mercy’s and Tamriel’s heads. As they reach the first floor, Tamriel pulls her out of the stairwell with a sharp tug, but not before one of the guards catches a glimpse of Mercy’s hair.

  “The Assassin’s there!” he cries.

  “Hurry,” Mercy urges Tamriel.

  “This way.”

  She doesn’t realize until it’s too late where he’s leading her.

  “No!” she shouts as the prince shoves open the doors to the great hall. “The guards!” She tugs at Tamriel’s hand, but she’s too weak after her time in the dungeon to escape his grasp, and he hasn’t yet realized his mistake.

  Ten guards in identical armor stand in front of the tall doors which lead out of the castle, their swords raised. Seeing them, Tamriel stops in the middle of the room so quickly Mercy crashes into him. He hisses in pain and drops Mercy’s hand, breathing hard. He lifts his chin. “Step aside, soldiers.”

  None of them move.

  Behind Mercy, the guards who had chased them from Tamriel’s chambers enter. They freeze when they see the prince standing beside Mercy, and all of them drop to one knee, bowing their heads.

  “Forgive us, Your Highness,” the commander says. “We didn’t realize—”

  “Rise.”

  Tamriel startles at the voice, then slowly turns to face his father, standing in the doorway to the throne room with his eyes trained on his son. He frowns and steps closer, and the frown deepens when Mercy raises her dagger.

  “That’s close enough,” she warns.

  Behind her, the guards stand and unsheathe their swords. Ghyslain holds out a hand to stop them, and Tamriel shoots her a look of warning. She glowers at him, but obliges, lowering her weapon.

  “Where are you going, Tamriel?” Ghyslain’s expression is one of innocent curiosity; he appears truly puzzled. “And why is she out of her cell?”

  Tamriel wavers, his entire body tense. His guards were murdered in front of his eyes—he would have followed them had Mercy not stepped in—and now the spirit of the woman he has despised all his life is telling him to leave everything to explore the war-torn Cirisor Islands. At best, it’s a leap of faith. At worst, they’re running headfirst to their deaths.

  “Tamriel,” Ghyslain says slowly, “step away from her.”

  “She saved my life.”

  “She’s the reason we’re in this mess.”

  Mercy frowns and shifts closer to Tamriel, opening her mouth to say—

  “Not one more inch,” Ghyslain snaps. His eyes are dark as ink, full of rage. “Do not step any closer to my son or I swear to the Creator I’ll have your head.”

  “I haven’t done anything except protect him when your soldiers failed.”

  “You will leave my castle—alone—this instant. You and your people will no longer plague my city—”

  “Stop!” Tamriel commands. The king freezes, taken aback, as Tamriel stalks forward until he is face-to-face with his father. “I’m not leaving because of her. I’m leaving because of you—because of your lies! You’re too cowardly to search for the cure to the disease which is killing more of your people each day. How many has it been so far, Father? A thousand? Two thousand? Do you even know? Do you even care?”

  Ghyslain’s hand flies out and strikes Tamriel across the face. As the prince staggers back, a hand to his reddening cheek, the anger on Ghyslain’s face bleeds away to horror. “I-I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t.” Tamriel lowers his hand and squares his shoulders, slipping behind that emotionless mask he wears so well around his father. “Enjoy the rest of your time on the throne, because it ends when I return with the cure.”

  “It’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—things you must learn before you make your choice,” the king says.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not in front of the Assassin. Come with me into the throne room.”

  “No. Anything you have to say, say it now.”

  A muscle works in Ghyslain’s jaw. “Very well,” he says. He turns to the commander. “Seize them. Take the prince to my chambers and leave the Assassin here. I will deal with her myself.”

  Four soldiers run forward, but Tamriel jerks out of their reach, pushing Mercy behind him. “Fine,” he spits. “I’ll listen to what you have to say, but it’s not going to change my mind.”

  The king turns on his heel. The guard standing in front of
the archway to the throne room steps aside, and Ghyslain enters, not bothering to look back at his son. Tamriel has no choice but to follow.

  The prince steps forward, but Mercy catches his arm, stilling him. “Be careful.”

  He looks away and nods, placing a hand on top of hers. He takes a deep breath, then turns and follows his father into the throne room.

  Mercy strains her ears, but all she can hear is the low murmur of their voices drifting from the other room. In addition to the guards lining the room, two stand on either side of her. She looks left and glares at the one closest to her.

  He completely ignores her.

  Lylia and Faye are still somewhere in the castle. Liselle’s thunderclap—whatever it was—had been enough to disable them for a short while, but it’s only a matter of time before they’ve recovered enough to come after her, and the longer Mercy is trapped in the great hall, the easier it’s going to be for them to find her. They won’t set foot in this room, but she knows they’ll be stalking the halls, waiting to catch the prince and her unawares. Whatever kinship had remained between Mercy and Faye is undoubtedly gone now that she has committed the worst sin of all: killing a fellow member of the Guild. There is no going back, no chance of forgiveness. Ever. Whatever value Mother Illynor believed Mercy to have is now worth nothing. If she tries to return to the Keep, they’ll kill her before she steps through the gate.

  Something clangs against the doors to the castle, and Mercy and the guards look over to see the handle jiggling. When he realizes it’s locked, the person begins banging on the doors with his fists. The ten guards glance at one another as they turn and lift their swords.

  “Let me in!” he shouts, his voice muffled through the wood. “Let me in or I swear—”

  The commander hurries forward and opens the door to a petrified-looking Calum, who stands with his enormous crossbow in his hands, a heavy bolt aimed straight ahead. Seeing the commander, he lowers the crossbow and sprints into the castle, bumping shoulders with one of the guards in his haste. He stops dead when he sees Mercy, his eyes flicking from the grim expressions on the soldiers’ faces to the blood splattered on her hands and clothes. His face drains of blood and the crossbow slips out of his fingers, clattering loudly on the stone tile.