Tamriel stands and holds out a hand to Master Oliver, who stares at it in confusion. “Let’s go,” the prince says. “We have people to save in Sandori.”
“And Calum?” Master Oliver asks as he rises.
“After we’ve cured the plague, I will send troops to retrieve him from Firesse’s clan so he may face punishment in the king’s court—if he is still alive. If not, the Creator will see him repent for his sins in the Beyond.” Tamriel turns away as he speaks so Master Oliver cannot see how much these words cost him. “Mercy was right: thousands of people are sick and dying back home. Now that we have Niamh and the Cedikra, there’s no reason to stay here any longer.”
“As you say, Your Highness.”
While Master Oliver remains behind to speak to the guards, Tamriel slips through the concealed entrance in the cliff. He pauses for a moment in the mouth of the tunnel, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, before striding into Niamh’s cavern. Six pairs of eyes snap to him immediately—Mercy’s, Dayna’s, Adriel’s, Nynev’s, Niamh’s, and Isolde’s—but Mercy’s gaze weighs on him most heavily. Her expression shifts from sympathy to embarrassment when he lifts a hand and gingerly touches his cheek, still slightly swollen from her slap. When he stops before her, she stiffens, expecting another argument.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
Her shoulders slump with relief. “I am, too.”
“Please gather your belongings,” he says to Niamh. “We must leave right now.”
“But—” Mercy begins.
“We’re going to Sandori,” he clarifies. He turns back to Niamh. “You claim to know nothing of the cure, my lady, but one of the people who sent us here—a noble by the name of Cassius Bacha—has the gift of Sight. He had a vision of the Cedikra and your name in connection to Fieldings’ Plague. I believe you play a part in curing this disease.”
“But I’m not a healer.”
Despite the weariness tugging at his bones, Tamriel offers her his most charming smile. “Cassius has been right about everything else he saw; I know he is right about you. When we return to Sandori, you will live in the castle under my watch—under the protection of Master Oliver and the guards. Anything you desire will be at your beck and call.”
Niamh’s expression remains uncertain, but, eventually, she nods. “Very well. I will help you.”
“You will?” Nynev and Isolde echo in disbelief.
“I give you no promises of my healing abilities—because, frankly, I have none—but I will do what I can to aid you in your search for the cure.” She glances sidelong at her sister. “Do not worry for my safety, mo dhija. Remember, I cannot die.”
“Just because they cannot kill you does not mean they cannot hurt you. Human lands have never been welcoming to our kind.”
She rests her head on Nynev’s shoulder. “You and the others have fought to protect our new home from the humans for years, but there will come a time when we must overcome the animosity between our races and negotiate a new lot in life for our people. If my helping cure this plague brings that day closer, I will do everything in my power to aid the prince.”
“And in return, you will have a friend on the throne for life,” Tamriel promises. “My soldiers will escort you safely home to your sister, and we will see justice done to Firesse for Odomyr’s murder.”
“Thank you,” Dayna murmurs from across the cave. Beside her, Adriel nods solemnly.
“We could do more than that,” Mercy interjects. All eyes swing to her. “We could make you First. After we’ve cured the plague and Tamriel is made king, you must give us Firesse and—if he’s still alive—Calum. In return, we’ll give you her clan. You won’t have to hide any longer.”
Niamh’s eyes widen. “You will?”
Mercy looks to Tamriel for support, and he nods. “You have two strong people at your side to help you keep the peace,” he says, gesturing to Nynev and Isolde.
Niamh clutches her blanket, glancing between her sister and Isolde. “I don’t know . . . What do you think?”
“I will support you in whatever you choose.” Isolde grins. “But I still think you are too good for these strangers.”
“Unfortunately, she is also too stubborn to change her mind once it’s set.” Nynev wraps an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “That’s why I’m coming with you. Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
“I’m coming, too,” Isolde adds.
When they begin chattering softly in Cirisian, Mercy grins at Tamriel. “We did it,” she whispers. The back of her hand brushes his, gently, hesitantly, as if fearing rebuke after their earlier argument. Her smile falters for a moment, her eyes shining with an unspoken question.
In response, he intertwines their fingers and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “Yes,” he whispers, “we did it.”
37
Mercy
Master Oliver and the guards return to the cavern a few minutes later. “What’s the plan?” Oliver asks, sensing the change in the room.
“We’re leaving now. Did you see any signs of Firesse’s scouts?”
“None, Your Highness.”
“They can’t be far behind,” Adriel says, speaking up for the first time in a while. “You’d better move quickly if you hope to leave the island by nightfall. After you cross the water, you should endeavor to stay as far from Firesse’s camp as you can afford—her fighters are much more accustomed to the land than you are, and they won’t stop to ask questions if they find you alone and away from Ialathan.” He pauses and turns to Mercy. “Before you go, may I . . . May we have a word in private?”
When Mercy nods, he leads her through the tunnel and out into the forest. He clenches and unclenches his fists as they walk, his deep hazel eyes troubled. “You and the prince are . . . romantically involved?” he finally asks.
“It’s a little more complicated than that. I was supposed to kill him.” She tries for a smile, but falls short. “I have you to thank for that. I never would have met him if I weren’t in the Guild.”
He turns slightly green at the thought. “So will you return to the Keep when this plague business is finished?”
“I killed one of their best Assassins and failed my first contract. It’s highly unlikely that they’d welcome me back, don’t you think?”
“How . . . um, how many people have you killed?”
By the barely-concealed terror on his face, Adriel must expect dozens. For a moment, Mercy considers lying—Let him see the monster the tutors created from his daughter, she thinks, a flicker of pain in that old wound left by their abandonment of her—but she is not that cruel, not anymore. “Three.”
“Three?”
“A highwayman who tried to rob me. A healer in Sandori who contracted the plague. The Assassin Mother Illynor sent to kill Tamriel.”
He slumps with relief, his expression somewhere between sadness and pride. “I will never, ever stop regretting sending you away, Bareea, but I’m grateful that you forged your way out of the darkness of the Guild. Taking a life is a terrible deed, one which stays with you forever.” He rubs his temples wearily. “You have spent every day of your life fighting to survive because of the choices your mother and I made. If I could take it all back, I would in a heartbeat. I would’ve protected Liselle before she . . . before they . . .” he trails off, staring into the woods. “I would give anything to do it all over again.”
After a moment of hesitation, Mercy lays a hand on his arm. He tenses under her touch, then relaxes, finally dragging his eyes to meet hers. The sorrow she sees in their depths takes her breath away. He must know the truth. “Liselle is still here,” she says softly. “I don’t know how or why, but she’s here.”
“W-What?”
“She’s been helping me since I arrived in the castle.” Mercy cranes her neck and scans the forest, wishing she knew to where Liselle goes when she disappears. “Liselle?” she calls.
Adriel claps a hand over her mouth, his face pale. “Are
you insane?” he hisses. “Are you trying to get us all killed? What if Firesse’s clanmembers are nearby?”
“Father?”
Adriel freezes. Over his shoulder, a smoke-filled form materializes between two massive mangroves. Their father sucks in a breath when he turns and spots Liselle standing before him, silver tears slipping down her cheeks.
“What sort of witchcraft is this?” he murmurs. “Liselle?”
She nods, wringing her skirt between her translucent hands. “Hi, Papa.” Her form wavers when a breeze dances through the trees.
“My darling girl,” their father begins in a choked voice. He steps toward her, but she backs away before he can touch her. “Your mother and I failed you all those years ago. I’m so, so sorry.”
“You did nothing of the sort. I always knew the price my rebellion would cost me. I only wish I could have done more with the little time I had.” Her expression turns stricken when she begins to fade again. She focuses on Mercy. “Calum is alive. At least, he was alive last I saw him. I wouldn’t help Firesse, so she’s trying to banish me from the Islands, trying to keep me from speak—”
Liselle disappears.
“Liselle? Liselle!” Mercy jumps forward, searching for a glimpse of her sister to no avail. She and Adriel are alone. She turns back to her father, who stares at the place Liselle had stood with wide, unblinking eyes, his face ashen.
“Was that really her?”
“Firesse must have brought her back from the Beyond, just like she brought back Drake. Liselle says she has no memory of what happened, only that she woke up in the castle a little over a month ago. When she found me, she started watching me, protecting me.”
Adriel smiles. “That’s my daughter—my daughters,” he corrects, taking Mercy’s hand in his. “Don’t tell your mother about Liselle.”
“But—”
“I’ll tell her in time. Not yet, not so soon after our First’s murder. I don’t think she’ll be able to handle it.”
“I won’t,” she promises, then looks up at the lightening sky. “We should go back, shouldn’t we?”
“We should,” he sighs. “But before we go back . . . I just want you to know that if you ever need to leave Beltharos, we’ll be here for you. You could stay with us. This doesn’t have to be goodbye.”
“You’re not coming to Sandori with us?” Mercy asks, surprised at the sorrow and disappointment in her voice.
“We can’t. There is no place for us in Sandori—too many ghosts.” He squeezes her hand and lets go, starting back toward the cave where Niamh and the others wait. “Dayna and I will see you safely off the island, but we must return to our clan. Our First has just been murdered by one of our own; we’re needed here, at home.”
“Won’t they realize you helped us escape? Won’t you be in danger?”
“There was so much chaos after Odomyr’s death, I doubt anyone has noticed we’re missing. They’ll simply assume we’re out looking for you.” He holds aside the curtain of vines and follows Mercy into the tunnel. “We’ll do what we can to help you from here. If we find out more about Firesse’s plans, we’ll send ravens to warn you.”
“Thank you,” Mercy murmurs.
When they return to the cave, they find everything packed and ready for the trek across the Island. Master Oliver’s uninjured arm is slung over Tamriel’s shoulders, his face no longer dangerously pale after the few hours of rest. The guards each carry a crate or chest of Cedikra. Nynev nocks an arrow in her bow while, beside her, Niamh and Isolde each clutch a bundle of clothes to their chests.
Dayna crosses the cave and tucks a strand of hair behind Mercy’s ear. “You told her we’re staying behind?” she asks Adriel.
“He did,” Mercy cuts in. “And he told me what you’re willing to do to help us. You’re sure you feel comfortable spying on Firesse? You don’t know what she’ll do if she finds out.”
“We’ll risk it for you, Bareea.” The corners of Dayna’s eyes crinkle when she smiles. “For you and your prince.”
“Ready to go?” Tamriel calls softly.
Mercy nods. More than ready to leave these Islands. “Let’s go.”
38
Mercy
Dayna and Adriel lead their group through the forest after they climb Hadriana’s Bluff, giving a wide berth to the valley of Ialathan and the surrounding woods. It’s slow going; they pause and listen for Firesse’s scouts at every sound or movement in the underbrush. At first, it’s nerve-wracking, but after the tenth stop in as many minutes, it shifts to downright annoying. Mercy desires nothing more than to return to Beltharos, a sentiment which is doubtless felt by everyone else in the group. A jittery, uneasy energy fills the air around them.
Mercy looks up at Tamriel, who walks beside her in silence. He hasn’t spoken much since they left Ialathan. She bumps his shoulder, trying to make him smile. “You made the right choice about Calum,” she whispers. “It’s not worth risking your life to try to save him.”
When he stares down at her, his expression is laced with pain. “If I choose blood over the good of my country, I’m no better than my father.”
“Your father—”
“—spends his time trying to please the nobles and chasing the ghosts in his mind. I know what the people say about him and what kind of ruler they fear I will become.”
“I do not doubt that you will be a wonderful king. Look at all you’ve done in a matter of weeks. You might be the king who restores peace to Cirisor.”
He grins and squeezes her hand. “Thank you, my love.”
They walk in silence for a few hours, the sun blazing overhead. Behind them, Niamh and Isolde talk in Cirisian, their voices so soft Mercy can’t make out the words. Master Oliver and the guards take up the rear beside Nynev.
“We’re almost to the shore,” Adriel finally announces. “Firesse’s clan must have left canoes for—”
A sharp cry of pain cuts him off, followed by a crash and a curse.
“Scouts!” one of the guards shouts.
Mercy whirls around, pulling out her daggers as she drops into a crouch. Silas is leaning against a tree trunk, a hand on the arrow protruding from his chest as bright red blood leaks over his fingers. The chest of Cedikra he had been carrying lies on its side at his feet, the spiny fruit spilling out of the open lid. Master Oliver unsheathes his sword with his uninjured arm, his face a mask of fury.
“Get down!” Adriel hisses when Tamriel unsheathes his sword.
“I’m not going to sit back and let you fight for me.”
“Me neither,” Mercy says.
“Both of you are going to stay right here, and stay silent,” he orders. “You’re the ones they’re looking for.”
The prince grumbles but obeys, ducking behind the trunk of a thick palm. Adriel yells something in Cirisian at their attackers, waits for a response which doesn’t come, then strides forward, his hands open to show that he’s unarmed. He jerks his head to Niamh and Isolde—who are standing in plain sight, frozen in terror—and wordlessly gestures for them to hide. As they scamper away, Dayna kneels beside Mercy, biting her lip as she watches her husband.
The guards keep their backs to Adriel, swords drawn, and Nynev nocks an arrow in her bow.
Adriel yells something in Cirisian and—again—waits for a response.
He waits.
And waits.
Then there’s a scuffle to the right and, before anyone can react, an arrow flies from the shadows. Dayna bites back a yelp as it whizzes past Adriel’s face.
“Va-teja!” someone shouts.
The guards fall into a defensive position as five elves leap from their cover, swords and daggers glinting in the dappled sunlight. They meet with a clash of steel. Master Oliver lashes out in a wide arc, his blade catching one of the elves in the side and opening a huge gash in his stomach.
Adriel darts back to Tamriel and snatches the prince’s sword. “Stay out of sight,” is all he says before running back into the fray. Mer
cy begins to stand, itching to join the fight, but Dayna grabs her arm and yanks her back down.
Cries of pain and the ringing of clashing swords fill the woods, blood spurting and dappling the underbrush bright red. The elves are so fast, so nimble, so accustomed to fighting in this environment, they look like they’ve hardly taken a scratch. The one Master Oliver had injured grits his teeth as he holds his side, but he still fights, jumping out of the way of the slashing swords and parrying back with enviable speed. Directly in front of Mercy, Silas grunts and locks swords with one of the elves, his tunic sticky with blood. The elf darts forward and jams a dagger into Silas’s stomach. The guard lets out a cry of pain, but it’s cut short by a gurgle when an arrow flies out of nowhere and impales itself in his neck.
Nynev is guarding her sister and Isolde, firing blindly into the underbrush in an attempt to hit the hidden archer. Clyde and Adriel fight two elves back-to-back. Maceo and Akiva hover beside Master Oliver, whose injured arm hangs limply at his side, oozing dark blood through his bandages. Nynev spins and fires an arrow at the elf facing off against Maceo, but the man suddenly shifts and the arrow strikes Maceo instead. He staggers back, and the hesitation caused by his shock is enough for the elf to dart forward and slash open Maceo’s gut. Master Oliver lets out a roar of rage as Maceo falls. He leaps forward, ignoring the elf he had been fighting, and skewers the one who had killed Maceo through the middle.
Thunk.
A spray of splinters rains down on Mercy. She and Dayna look up to see an arrow buried in the tree above their heads.
Someone needs to take down that archer.
Tamriel creeps over from where he’d been hiding. “Are you hurt?” He cups her cheek with a gentle hand, his face pale and terrified.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 69