“Obviously.” Mercy rolls her eyes, but it’s with affection, not annoyance. “I will admit they are very comfortable. Much better than all the pomp of Sandori.”
Tamriel takes his time looking her up and down, causing her to blush. “You’ll have to bring the Cirisian fashion back to the capital with you.”
Mercy smirks. “You just want me to dress skimpy like this all the time. Didn’t you get a good enough look by the waterfall?”
“No.”
She snorts and places a hand on his chest to push him away, but he catches her before she can, kissing her and muffling her sound of protest.
“That’s not fair!” she says when she pulls back. “You can’t just kiss me whenev—”
He plants his lips on hers again, and she melts against him.
“. . . or maybe you can.”
Tamriel tries to grin, but it slips. Being here, in the middle of the celebration, he can’t help but think of Hero. How many of the Cirisians around him are former slaves? How many had he helped smuggle out of the city? Mercy needs to know—she needs to know the truth about Hero. “I need to tell you something.”
From the look of abject terror that crosses Mercy’s face, she must expect him to push her away again, to leave her at the mercy of the Guild.
“No!” he says quickly. “Not about . . . that. Just come with me.” Still holding her hand, he turns and leads her through the throngs of dancing elves. His palm is slick, his body tense with guilt for what he must confess.
Please, Creator, let her understand . . .
He stops beside the bonfire and plants Mercy in front of him. Her hazel eyes are wide and clouded with worry. “That day in the throne room with Hero, after my father passed his judgment to . . . uh, have her tongue cut out . . . Master Oliver, my father, and I went down to the dungeon where my father made me— where I had to—to do it. I mutilated her. And it was all my fault, I—”
“I know.”
Tamriel’s heart stutters. “You know?”
The little copper beads in Mercy’s hair clink as she nods, her expression solemn. “Elvira and I followed you. We saw everything.”
“And you didn’t hate me for it?”
“Well, at the time, I was planning to kill you, so my opinion didn’t particularly matter.” He frowns, and her joking tone falls flat. “Your father is the one who carries all the blame for this, Tamriel, not you. You know that, right? He forced you to hurt her.”
“I know, but you should have seen him afterward. He was inconsolable, a mess—like part of him knows it’s wrong, but he’s so afraid of showing weakness to our subjects that he ignores what’s just. He’s terrified that if any hint of sympathy for the elves reaches the court, they’ll put both our heads on spikes.” Tamriel glances away, feeling his father’s corrupting influence like a stain on his soul. His entire life has been spent trying to please the nobility, fearing abusing what little power the throne grants his family. Ghyslain had often spoken of the future as if he and Tamriel were merely prolonging the inevitable, biding their time until the day they’d find angry citizens rioting outside the castle gates, clamoring to continue the bloodshed they had begun when they had murdered Liselle.
“I don’t want to think about him,” Tamriel says. “I just . . . needed you to know the truth.”
“Think about this,” Mercy says, waiting until he meets her gaze to continue, “some of these elves wouldn’t be here without you. You and Hero saved lives—you saved these people from years of slavery, of watching their children grow up in chains. Look!”
She gestures to the sea of faces around them. A few of the elves dancing nearby are newly tattooed, the lines of ink still covered in thin scabs. How many of them had he helped?
Suddenly, Mercy stiffens.
“What is it?”
She jerks her chin toward a group of dancers across the valley, where a break in the sea of bodies offers a glimpse of a familiar face. Elvira sways in time to the music, a young man’s arms wrapped around her waist. She smiles at him, the fresh, still-scabbed Cirisian tattoos coiled along her forehead and cheeks shiny in the firelight. Tamriel had forgotten about Mercy’s handmaid with everything which has happened since she and Mercy were falsely arrested.
“Doesn’t she work for the Guild?”
“Not anymore. She was indentured to Illynor, but she was planning to escape from the capital with her husband, who was a slave in the castle. Looks like they made it.”
Elvira looks up then, her face transforming in shock when she spots them. She recovers from her surprise quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line as she and Mercy stare at each other. Then she nods once—either an acknowledgement or a dismissal, Tamriel isn’t sure which—and turns back to her husband.
When the musicians begin a new song, Tamriel tugs Mercy close. “Care to dance?”
“What?”
“Dance.” He nods at the elves, doing their strange twisting, turning, undulating dance. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with those particular moves, but for you, I’ll try.”
She laughs. “After you.”
They do their best to blend into the mass of dancers, ducking under outstretched arms and dodging the small children who run around and between the dancers’ legs, giggling when they miss a step and their feet tangle. Like the drum beat, the music seems to take on a life of its own: it blankets the valley, wrapping around them and filling them up until they hardly have to think of the steps. Instead, they allow the dancers to guide them along.
“Your Highness, Mercy,” a deep voice says, cutting through the spellbinding music. They turn to see Kaius standing behind them, still and solid in the ocean of dancers. His copper skin and hair shine like gold in the light of the bonfire. “There are some people you should meet.”
“Who?” Mercy’s voice is laced with caution and, after a moment of confusion, Tamriel understands why. Standing just outside the ring of dancers, watching them, are a woman with wild curly hair and a man with bright hazel eyes, his gaze as piercing as a hawk’s.
There is no doubt in his mind who these strangers are:
They’re Mercy’s parents.
27
Mercy
Without waiting for a response, Kaius turns on his heel and leads them through the throngs of bodies surrounding the bonfire, the dancers parting around him like a river around a boulder. Mercy and Tamriel follow closely behind, exchanging wary glances. The second they emerge onto open ground, the woman lets out a cry of relief.
“Bareea,” she says, flinging her arms around Mercy. Mercy stands perfectly still, her hands itching for her dagger. Regardless of whether this woman is her mother, she’s still a stranger, and touching her far too much for comfort. The only thing stopping Mercy from skewering this woman is Tamriel’s hand on her wrist, squeezing tightly. He knows her well.
“This was Firesse’s idea, wasn’t it?” she grumbles. Over her mother’s shoulder, she sees Kaius nod and slip into the crowd, looking satisfied. I’m going to have some choice words for the First when this is all over.
Mercy backs out of the embrace, ignoring the hurt which flashes across the woman’s face. She studies the strangers. Her mother has the same inky blue-black hair as Mercy, the same slightly pointed chin, the same straight nose. Her father’s hazel eyes are identical to hers. His body is built of lean, corded muscle, his dark hair peppered with gray. Even when the physical resemblances end, Mercy recognizes her mother’s soft, feminine beauty—her kind smile, her easy grace—in Liselle.
“Right, um, sorry. I suppose introductions should be made. I’m Dayna, and this is Adriel, your father.” Dayna attempts a smile, but it falls flat. “I must say, it feels rather strange to introduce ourselves to our own daughter.”
Anger flashes through Mercy. “Perhaps if you hadn’t abandoned—”
“My name is Tamriel,” the prince quickly interrupts, clearly attempting to defuse some of the tension. “You’ve met Mercy.”
“Is that
what they took to calling you?” Adriel asks with raised brows. “The Guildmaster has a sense of humor. I expect Illynor told you about us, about why we had to give you away—”
“She told me you traded my life to save yourselves,” she growls. “That’s all I’ve ever needed to know.”
“Bareea,” Dayna begins.
“Stop calling me that.”
“But it’s your name,” she protests. “We named you after your grandmother—”
Mercy holds up a hand. “Stop. I don’t want to hear it. You lost the right to call yourselves my parents when you handed me over to an Assassin. Llorin could have killed me the second she left your sight. Did you even care whether I survived?”
“Mercy—” Tamriel whispers, his voice soft. She remembers what he had said earlier that day—I’ve lived with one parent all my life. I would give anything to know my mother—and steadfastly ignores him.
Adriel’s temper flares, anger sparking in his narrowed amber eyes. “Of course we cared,” he snaps. “Giving you up was deplorable, but we had no other choice. You know how the nobles murdered Liselle, what vile acts they committed before they sent her to the Creator’s side, but you don’t know what it was like watching her live her last few months in constant terror. You don’t know what it is like to see your firstborn child, your darling little girl, be dragged through the streets from the back of a horse, to listen to her sob and scream for help, to stand aside helplessly as she is strung up on the castle gates. You didn’t hear her whimpers as they carved her skin open and left her to die.”
“They killed Liselle and seized the others—Ino, Cassia, and Matthias. We don’t even know if they’re alive,” Dayna murmurs, her sorrowful voice barely distinguishable over the sounds of music and celebration. “They would have killed you, too, if Adriel hadn’t stumbled upon Llorin the night she murdered Drake. He brought the Daughter to our home in Beggars’ End and we paid her to take you to the Keep, where she promised you’d be safe. That same night, we fled for Cirisor.”
“You didn’t try to take her with you?” Tamriel asks.
“She was barely a week old. We didn’t have the means or the money to care for her if she became sick on the road, but the Guild did.” Dayna bites her lip, then steps forward and hesitantly takes Mercy’s hand. “I understand that you hate us, but we did what we thought was best for you. I don’t regret the choice we made—how can I when you’re standing before me, living, breathing?—but I do regret every ounce of pain you endured.” She runs her fingers over the calluses on Mercy’s palm, the pale scars crisscrossing her arms.
“We don’t expect you to forgive us,” Adriel adds, “but we would like to get to know the woman you’ve become.”
Mercy looks to Tamriel, expecting him to pressure her into agreeing, but he merely mouths, Your choice.
Her parents watch her with cautious hope in their eyes. Dayna still clutches one of Mercy’s hands, her narrow, delicate fingers surprisingly strong. Despite the sun-and-stars tattoos marking them as members of Odomyr’s clan, it’s hard not to see herself in their faces. There is no doubt in Mercy’s mind that they are telling the truth, but the wound they left in her may be too old and too deep to ever heal. Regardless of their intentions, they had given her to the Guild knowing she would be raised to kill. They had allowed her to become the ruthless monster Illynor had wanted.
“No,” Mercy finally says, tugging her hand out of Dayna’s. She ignores her mother’s heartbroken expression and moves to Tamriel’s side, entwining their fingers. Adriel’s eyes narrow at their clasped hands. “I’d like us to remain as we are now: perfect strangers.”
“My beautiful baby—” Dayna begins, her lower lip trembling. “My darling Bareea—” She starts to step forward, but Adriel halts her by placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Come here, my love,” he murmurs. “After what we did, she has every right to refuse us.”
“Your Highness.” Firesse appears beside them, Calum and the guards in tow. “It’s time to exchange gifts with the other Firsts. If you will accompany me . . .”
“Of course.” Mercy casts one final look at her parents, unsure what to say to them. How does one bid farewell to the people who betrayed her? In the end, she settles for a solemn nod, an acknowledgment of the pain in their eyes, and hurries after Firesse and the others.
Lysander smiles when Tamriel hands him one of the packs filled with weapons, jewelry, and clothes they had brought for the Firsts. He offers them thanks in Cirisian and the common tongue, then waves forward two elves who carry a chest between them, lifting the lid to reveal it full of ripe red Cedikra. Tamriel grins widely and shakes Lysander’s hand, thanking him profusely. Firesse chats with the First in Cirisian for a few minutes, then herds them to the next massive tent. Akiva and the guards trail behind Tamriel, Mercy, and Calum, while Silas and Maceo haul the chest of Cedikra.
They continue to Amyris’s and Ivani’s tents, speaking with them, offering gratitude and accepting crates full of Cedikra. They collect so many of the strange fruits that the guards have to make multiple trips to Firesse’s tent to store them, unable to carry all the chests and crates among the four of them. With each exchange, Mercy notices the tension in Tamriel and Calum diminishing, hope taking its place. She tries not to think of the mystery of Niamh, and even finds herself smiling with relief.
Halfway through their conversation with Odomyr, though, a commotion rises across camp. Kaius runs past Odomyr’s tent with his hunters and several armed elves behind him, shouting something in Cirisian at Firesse. She calls something back to him, her face screwed up in confusion, but he doesn’t respond, already out of earshot.
“Stay here,” Firesse tosses over her shoulder, already bolting after him. Odomyr stops one of the elves who darts past, and Mercy recognizes one of the Cirisian words they repeat over and over.
“A human?” she translates, her brows drawing low in confusion.
Tamriel looks at her sharply. “A human?”
“I think so. Could someone have stumbled upon their celebration?”
“A Beltharan scout?” Calum suggests. “We didn’t see any soldiers on Firesse’s island, but it’s possible your father sent more troops to protect you.”
“TAMRIEL!” someone shouts in a deep, rumbling baritone. Tamriel’s face pales. Before Mercy can stop him, he darts after the curious elves who have begun to wander toward the source of the commotion.
Elves are clustered at the edge of the valley, gathered at the mouth of the trail which leads back to Firesse’s island. Mercy lets out an annoyed growl as she plunges into the crowd behind Tamriel, elbowing Cirisians out of her way. After what feels like an eternity, she emerges on the other side of the crowd to see Tamriel standing between Kaius and the arrow he has aimed at—
Master Oliver’s chest.
The massive guard is coated in dirt and grime, swaying as he fights to remain standing. His expression dazed, he scans the gathered faces until he spots Tamriel’s, then his mouth splits into a huge grin. He raises his arms to embrace the prince, then winces and lets them drop back to his sides. Mercy notices then that one of his shoulders—the one that the Rennox’s spear had pierced—is wrapped in thick bandages caked in dried blood.
“H-how? How are you alive?” Tamriel asks, his face awed and confused. He blinks up at Oliver as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
“Tam—” Master Oliver stumbles forward and falls to his knees, gritting his teeth in pain. Tamriel rushes to him and drapes one of the huge man’s arms over his shoulders, and Mercy does the same with the other. She grips him around the waist, marveling at the way his soiled and stained uniform pools around his sickly frame.
“Where is your armor?”
“Lost it . . . along the way,” he mumbles.
Kaius hasn’t moved. “Step away from him.” He narrows his eyes, the bow straining under his grip.
“Put down your weapon,” Calum snaps. “Can’t you see he needs help?”
“Firesse!” Tamriel calls, straining his neck to see over the gathered elves. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, some of curiosity, others of wariness.
“Over here. Bring him to my tent. Kaius, stand down.”
Kaius lets out an annoyed growl but relaxes his bow. He and his hunters shout commands in Cirisian and begin herding the rest of the elves back toward the bonfire.
When they finally manage to drag Master Oliver into Firesse’s tent, they ease him onto a low wooden bench in the center of the room. Firesse marches in after them, Calum and the guards on her heels.
“It’s good to see you again, kid,” Master Oliver says to Tamriel, letting out a wheezing laugh. “For a while there, I didn’t think I’d make it.”
Tamriel laughs, unshed tears shining in his eyes. “I should’ve known you’d be too stubborn to die.”
Master Oliver hisses in pain when Firesse begins unraveling the bandages around his shoulder. The once-white fabric is now a dingy brown. “I swore your father an oath to watch over you.”
“How did you make it out of the Mountains alive?” Mercy asks, still baffled by his sudden appearance. “Akiva and I saw you get hit by that spear.”
“I had . . . some help,” he responds in a strange tone, as if Mercy should know the meaning behind his words. “I told you I’d take as many of those bastards down with me as I could. Turns out, you can’t kill one—not with steel, anyway. When they all chased after you, I managed to drag myself out through another tunnel and grab one of the horses you left behind.
“Which reminds me—these belong to you. They got me out of more than a few sticky situations on the road.” He reaches behind his back with his free hand and pulls Mercy’s daggers from his waistband. The long, curved blades gleam in the light. The orange and red gemstones embedded in the handguards shimmer as Master Oliver hands them to her. He lets out another rumbling chuckle. “To be honest, the Rennox weren’t half as scary as the thought of what you’d do to me if I lost those things.”
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 63