“You—” Tamriel interjects, but Mercy steps on his foot and he shuts his mouth.
“There won’t be a next time,” she finally says, as much a promise to the elf as a warning to Calum.
The archer nods and returns to the front of the group, pulling out his dagger and hacking at the overgrown branches with barely controlled anger. The elf Calum had pinned to the tree straightens, rubs his throat with a hand, then spits in Calum’s face. He grins smugly and walks to the archer’s side, where they begin whispering in Cirisian.
“What an ass,” Calum mutters under his breath, wiping his face with a sleeve.
Tamriel and Mercy shoot him the same dark look. “Ignore what they say,” Tamriel says. “Now is not the time to antagonize them. I would not test that man’s aim or temper, if I were you.”
Mercy opens her mouth, but Calum cuts her off with a raised hand. “Don’t tell me to be grateful he didn’t kill me.”
She scowls and starts after the elves in front of them. “I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to tell you to shut up and get over it.”
He smacks the back of her head. She shoves him with her shoulder.
“Come on, stop it—” Tamriel begins, but he breaks off when the elves in front of them abruptly halt. “What’s—”
The archer turns, his grin a flash of white in the darkness, and spreads his arms out wide. “Welcome,” he says, “to our camp.”
14
Tamriel
As the archer leads them through the camp, the Cirisians gawk and gape at the newcomers, whispering in their unusual tongue. Tamriel had expected most of them to be asleep in the middle of the night, yet dozens of them are huddled around low-burning fires with animals roasting on spits, dripping sizzling fat into the embers. The scent makes his mouth water. He tears his gaze from the glistening meat and meets the hard, unkind eyes of an elderly woman seated beside the nearest fire. Her lip curls in distaste.
The camp lies in a rough circle, tents of several different colors and sizes strung up between the trunks of the trees. Most of the tents have Beltharan family crests sewn on the sides—no doubt stolen from the outpost and the other Beltharan camps in the archipelago—but he is surprised to see several with emblems of the Feyndaran royal house. The sight unsettles him: either the fighting with the Feyndarans has advanced much closer to the Beltharan border than he had been told, or the Cirisians possess the numbers to not only have slaughtered everyone in the nearest Beltharan outpost, but the Feyndaran one, as well.
His only comfort lies in the fact that they’d found one of Cassius’s fruits. He’d tried to keep an eye out for more while they’d walked to the camp, but as the night had grown darker, he’d barely managed to stumble along the path in front of him. Hopefully they’ll be able to negotiate with the Cirisians for more fruit and leave these wretched islands before anyone else he cares about dies.
The elves surrounding Mercy, Calum, and Tamriel slow as they near a small, sun-bleached tent in the middle of the camp, a sliver of flickering light escaping the open flap of the door. The archer pushes aside the tent’s flap and steps inside, gesturing for Mercy, Calum, and Tamriel to follow. The remaining elves wait outside, standing so stiffly they remind Tamriel of the guards the Daughters had slaughtered back home. A pang of grief shoots through his heart, so strong he nearly doubles over. Mercy reaches back without looking and brushes his hand for the briefest of seconds before taking a deep breath and following the archer into the tent.
When he ducks in behind her, what strikes Tamriel first isn’t the crooked rack of weapons against one wall, the tattered cushions with rips spilling stuffing strewn about the floor, or the chipped clay platters and bowls stacked in the corner—it’s the diminutive redhead sitting in the center of the room, brushing her waist-length locks with a handmade wooden comb. Like the archer, she wears several braids decorated with colorful beads, and dark tattoos coil around her face and down her neck. She’s astonishingly young—only fourteen or fifteen—and dressed in similar garb as the rest of the Cirisians: a short top made of knotted strips of fabric and knee-length brown woven pants. Her feet are laced into worn leather sandals.
“Your scouts were right, Kaius,” the girl says. She cocks her head and regards Mercy, Tamriel, and Calum curiously. “We have visitors.”
“Visitors?” Calum demands. “How about ‘hostages?’”
The archer—Kaius—nods. “They were at the old outpost. Took them a while to find our warning, but they managed eventually—even gave him a proper Beltharan burial.” At this, the young girl’s brows rise. “It appears this one is a prince,” he says, jerking his chin to Tamriel.
“That’s correct. We have no intention of hurting you—”
“Why else would you come?” The girl jumps to her feet, brandishing her comb like a weapon. At once, the youthfulness falls from her face, something far crueler and far uglier taking its place. “You humans have done nothing except spill our blood and dance on the ashes of our culture for generations—for centuries. Your soldiers strike down as many Cirisians as they do Feyndarans, slaughtering women and children without a thought for the lives they so carelessly cut short. I have seen far too many of my people butchered at the hands of men in shining armor. So you do not,” she seethes, “set foot on my island and assume that because you’re a prince your life is worth more than the lives of the thousands of elves who have died here.”
Tamriel stares at her, his mouth agape at her sudden, unbidden fury. “I would never assume such a thing, and if my father’s soldiers are killing your people, it will end at once—as soon as I return to the capital. I swear,” he says, his voice low and sincere, “I have no desire for your people to come to harm.”
“You swear?” Calum repeats. He glares first at Kaius, then the girl. “That ‘warning’ your people left for the army was a man with friends, with a family. How do you think they will feel when he doesn’t come home? Their grief is no less excruciating than your own.”
“Exactly. You humans will never cease hurting us until you have endured as much suffering as has been forced upon my people. You understand.”
“What I understand,” he says through clenched teeth, “is that you will murder any human you find and call it justice—regardless of his involvement in our country’s past crimes.” He shoulders past Tamriel, his face dark with rage and grief, but Tamriel grabs his arm and pulls him back before he can approach the young elf. Kaius reaches for his dagger.
“Stop!” Mercy’s eyes are bright, the flecks of hazel reflecting the light of the candles strewn about the room. “They didn’t come to hurt any more of your people, and I’m not their slave,” Mercy says to Kaius and the girl. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the scaly fruit they’d found impaled on the sword. “We’re looking for this. We must bring as much of it back to Sandori as we can—we believe it is the cure for a plague which has already infected thousands.”
“That? I’ve met many a healer and none had any medicinal use for Cedikra as far as I know. It’s a bitter, nasty fruit with hardly any meat worth salvaging.”
Tamriel’s heart drops straight to his feet, but he fights not to let it show. “We’ve come this far and lost good people—we’re not returning to Sandori with nothing to show for it. I won’t allow my people to suffer.”
“In that, at least, our priorities are aligned,” the girl says, “but I cannot help you. Your presence alone is enough to put the people of my tribe on edge. You may stay the night, but you and your men must leave—”
“Our men?” Calum chokes on the words. “You mean—?”
“They’re not dead, idiot,” Kaius snaps. “While we watched you on the bank, four of my men brought them back to the camp. They’re uninjured—for the most part—and resting in a tent near here.”
“‘For the most part?’” Tamriel repeats. “They are still men in service of the crown—”
“—which has no authority here,” the girl interjects. “When I was to
ld they arrived with a prince, naturally I was curious. I didn’t want to risk angering you, but I couldn’t have you thinking you could overpower your escort. So Kaius and his scouts tipped the scales in our favor.”
“How did they make it here before us?” Mercy asks. Then her face transforms in understanding. “Ah. There was another canoe.”
“We also have your equipment. Now, I must ask that you surrender your weapons while you are our guests,” the girl says, her expression making it clear that she is not asking at all. “Everything will be returned to you when you leave in the morning.”
“I’m not leaving without more of this fruit,” Tamriel insists, his patience wearing thin. Hundreds of miles of riding, countless sleepless nights, and the grief of losing Master Oliver and the other guards have taken their toll. “We have ridden far too long to not have anything to show for it, and I refuse to tuck tail and run back to the capital without the cure.” He straightens, suddenly aware of the anger flushing his face. He forces himself to regain his composure before speaking. “Please help us. Help us and I swear that when this plague is cured, you and your tribe will want for nothing. You will have a friend on the throne for the rest of your life.”
Kaius’s distrustful expression doesn’t change, but the girl’s shifts to thoughtfulness, weighing Tamriel’s offer. “I shall consider it,” she says finally. “I will alert you of my decision in the morning. Right now, however, you must rest. Donnic, Omri, amonoe-sho taig visha, savea,” she calls, the Cirisian words a jumble in Tamriel’s ears. A second later, two of the elves who had been waiting outside open the tent flap and stare expectantly at Mercy, Tamriel, and Calum. “Please follow them. They’ll escort you to your tent.”
Tamriel clenches his jaw. They’re so close to the cure, it’s infuriating to be dismissed by a little girl—to be left without a clue whether she’ll help or order Kaius and his scouts to slit their throats in the middle of the night. But she and her people know the land better than he ever will, and if he’s to gather enough of the fruit to make the cure, he’ll need their help to locate it.
Finally, he nods. “Thank you for your generosity,” he says tightly, and Calum echoes the same sentiment. He turns and walks out of the tent, Calum and Mercy close on his heels.
“Not you,” the girl calls, and Tamriel glances back to see her smiling at Mercy. “Stay a moment, won’t you?”
Tamriel pauses just outside the tent, waiting for her to decline—politely, he hopes—but she doesn’t. “Mercy?”
Slowly, very slowly, she nods. “Go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He frowns.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I can take care of myself.”
Then one of the elves—Omri, he thinks, although he isn’t sure—mutters something in Cirisian, grabs the back of his shirt, and pulls him and Calum away from the tent. As the flap flutters shut, Tamriel catches a glimpse of the three elves settling into a circle on the floor of the tent. Kaius smiles—actually smiles—at Mercy, and Tamriel hopes he had imagined the predatory glint shining in the archer’s eyes.
15
Mercy
“Sit, please,” the girl says, gesturing to the cushions strewn about the room. Mercy peers at her, then raises a brow to Kaius. This is the First of their clan? A fourteen-year-old girl? Without a word, Kaius nods toward a faded turquoise cushion and Mercy sits.
“Mo naven Firesse.” The girl doesn’t appear surprised when Mercy stares at her, uncomprehending. She sighs. “I suppose it was unrealistic to hope you might speak our language. My name is Firesse. Kaius is the head of the hunters, and my second-in-command.”
“What do you want with me?” Mercy asks. “You could have killed us the second your hunters laid eyes on us. Why bother to bring us here?”
“Because you are of particular interest to me.”
“Why?”
“You arrived with a prince and a contingent of guards, claiming to be a free woman. You’re a warrior, a fighter. I can tell by the way you move. There’s only one place in Beltharos where humans would willingly place a dagger in an elf’s hand and train her in its proper use.” Her lips quirk upward in a knowing smile. “You’re from Illynor’s Guild. The first elf to be raised by the Guild, if I’m not mistaken. Your parents told me about you.”
“M-My parents?” Mercy jolts upright, surprise flickering across her face before she thinks to hide it. Her parents abandoned her, bartered her life for theirs. They are nothing to her. But . . . they’re alive? “You know them?”
“I met them once, when they first arrived on the island. They were wrecks, barely more than husks after watching their children be torn away by human lords. They moved to an eastern island, but not before they told me about the child whose life they’d been able to save by sending her away. They might still be alive—”
“They came here seventeen years ago. You’re a little young to have known them then, aren’t you?” Mercy narrows her eyes. At most, Firesse could be a very young-looking sixteen, but it’s unlikely.
“You remember the stories we discussed in the canoe?” Kaius asks. “How every story holds a kernel of truth? What do the humans say of the true elves?”
“If you want me to believe that you’re immortal like the elves in the tales, you’ll be sorely disappointed.” Mercy must fight to keep from rolling her eyes.
“Not immortal, we just . . . age slower,” Firesse says with a smile. When she leans back, the candlelight catches her hair and turns it copper, like Kaius’s. “But never mind that. The point is, I suspect you were made a Daughter and failed to complete your contract. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re running from the Guild?”
Mercy says nothing.
“Do they know?” she asks, jerking her chin to the door through which Tamriel and Calum had left.
“. . . Yes,” Mercy finally concedes. “They know. Tamriel was the one I was supposed to kill.”
Firesse’s and Kaius’s eyes widen simultaneously. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you to say that. Did you leave the Guild of your own volition?”
“More or less.”
Firesse’s tattooed lips rise into a half-smile. “Then I’m pleased you’re alive. How you ended up here with those two in tow must be quite a tale. I hope to hear it one day.”
“You won’t.”
Kaius chuckles. “Beyhon ao doune sh’fira ji Guild.”
Firesse grins. “Beyhon ao doune. Perhaps one day,” she says again. Then an idea seems to strike her. “Would you like to meet your parents?”
“No.”
“Every year several tribes meet to trade and celebrate the culture of our ancestors. You will accompany us as our honored guest. We share our history with the children and the newcomers who have escaped the human lands. Ialathan. Your parents will most certainly be in attendance.”
“It’s in four days,” Kaius adds.
“I’m not— Four days? You told Tamriel he has to leave . . . oh,” she says, finally comprehending the expectant looks on their faces. Of course. They think they’re saving me. She stands abruptly. “I’m not staying here.”
Firesse and Kaius rise, as well. “No one will make you stay,” she says, stepping forward to clasp Mercy’s hands. “But you have no place in the human lands.”
Mercy pulls her hands away. “I think I’ll retire for the night. Don’t,” she warns when Kaius moves to escort her out. “I’ll find the tent on my own.”
“Very well.”
She turns to Firesse. “Please help Tamriel. I know what you think of humans and what you hear about his father, but he’s not like the king. Not at all. He only wants to help his people.” The memory of Tamriel sawing through Hero’s tongue a few weeks ago rises in her mind. He still doesn’t know she had seen it happen. It seems impossible to think that the kind, affection-starved young man she had saved from Aelis is the same emotionless prince she had met in the king’s court.
The distance from his father has done him well.
&n
bsp; Firesse frowns. “I shall consider it, but only if you agree to consider my offer as well. You will have a place here, should you choose to accept it. You won’t have to run from the Daughters anymore. We’ll protect you.”
Mercy pushes open the flap of the tent, a cool breeze sending her hair dancing in front of her face. The words which come out of her mouth are an outright lie, but it still comforts her to say them. “I don’t run from anything, and I don’t need anyone’s protection.”
It doesn’t take Mercy long to find the tent the elves had set up for them in the center of camp. Firesse hasn’t posted guards, but Mercy notices several armed elves seated at the nearby campfires, no doubt instructed to keep watch over them. She slows as she approaches, then stops. Tamriel will want to discuss the events of the night, and she’s in no mood to talk. She glances between the tent and a nearby circle of men and women clustered around a low-burning fire.
A gray-haired man sitting beside the spit notices her and waves her over, his wrinkled face creasing as he smiles. “T’asseia,” he says, gesturing for her to sit on the log beside him. When she does, he picks up a wooden bowl from a stack beside him and slices a piece of meat from the bird roasting over the fire, then ladles in a thick stew from a pot resting in the embers. “T’eja,” he says as he hands it to her, offering her a spoon.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, but it’s almost drowned out by the sudden rumbling of her stomach. The elves surrounding her laugh. She hadn’t realized how famished she is.
“Vareisa,” the elder corrects in a kind voice.
“Var . . . Vareisa,” she repeats slowly, her tongue clumsy in the strange language. “That’s ‘thank you?’”
He nods.
“Vareisa,” she says again, testing the word. When her stomach rumbles again, the man nods to the bowl of stew. Mercy sinks her spoon into the meat, so tender it falls apart at the slightest touch. Coils of steam rise from the thick herbal broth as she brings it to her mouth. “Wow,” she moans, scooping up two more spoonfuls so quickly she scalds her tongue. She doesn’t care. It’s delicious and she’s starving.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 54