Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  As they make their way through the castle, Mercy keeps an eye out for Tamriel. She had expected him to meet them in the infirmary after he woke up, but he has either finally allowed himself to sleep in or gotten caught up in another matter. To her disappointment, they make it all the way through the castle and out the gate without catching so much as a glimpse of the prince.

  Myrellis Castle sits atop a slight hill, and from the intersection right outside the grounds, Mercy and Nynev can see all the way down the gently sloping main street to the southern gate of the city. Outside the massive gray walls, more houses and shops spill over the land, gradually growing farther and farther apart until they give way to the plains of the countryside. Sterile white infirmary tents dot the fields in little clusters. There are nearly one hundred tents, each manned by healers and Church priestesses, each containing scores of people suffering from the plague. Death carriages weave their way between the tents and collect the bodies of those who have succumbed to the plague. They’ll take the dead to be burned in the massive pits on the opposite side of Lake Myrella, where a constant stream of black smoke rises and stains the fat white clouds hanging over the city.

  As they start toward the city center, Nynev gapes at the massive mansions of the Sapphire Quarter. Mercy laughs at the awestruck expression on the huntress’s face; no doubt she had looked exactly like that when she and Sorin had first ridden into the city. Nynev is so absorbed in the houses that she doesn’t notice the wary glances the passing humans shoot them or the curious looks from slaves who trail their masters down the sidewalk.

  They pass under the arch which divides the Sapphire Quarter from the rest of the town, and Myrellis Plaza spreads out before them. It doesn’t escape Mercy’s notice that the bustle of the square is greatly diminished from the last time she’d been here; several of the stores and artisans’ workshops are boarded up and abandoned, the doors marked with bright red splashes of paint. Multiple homes they pass bear the same marks on their doors and shuttered windows, but it’s not until Mercy and Nynev stumble upon a large crowd gathered around a house in the middle of the square that she realizes what the markings mean.

  A carriage bearing identical red slashes is stopped in the middle of the road, its doors standing wide open. Two masked and gloved men emerge from the house, dragging a rash-covered woman between them. She bucks and tries to slip out of their grasp, but they’re too strong. She shrieks in terror and kicks at one of the men’s legs as they drag her down the steps and into the street. He lets out a grunt of pain but does not release her.

  “By the gods,” Nynev murmurs, and Mercy follows her gaze to the baby-faced girl who has just stumbled out of the house, a threadbare stuffed rabbit clutched in her fist.

  “Mama!” she wails, tears streaming freely down her round cheeks. She belatedly notices the crowd and freezes at the top of the steps, her face contorting in terror. “M-Mama?”

  At the sound of her daughter’s voice, the woman lets out a sob. Tremors wrack her body as the men lift her into the carriage.

  “Dahliana!” The girl’s father bursts out of the house and snatches her up, wrapping her protectively in his embrace. She buries her face in his chest. She jumps and begins to tremble when the carriage doors slam shut and the bolt slides into place.

  One of the carriage workers climbs the steps and speaks to the girl’s father in a low voice. The man nods, then carries his daughter into the house, kicking the door shut behind him.

  “Dahliana! Cedric!” the woman screams, clawing at the small window in the carriage as she watches them retreat into the house.

  The other carriage worker rifles through a chest attached to the back of the carriage and pulls out a thick paintbrush and a bucket. He paints one long red slash across the house’s front door, climbs onto the bench beside the driver, and gestures for the crowd to part. They obey immediately, and the carriage lurches into motion. The clacking of the horses’ hooves against the cobblestones is almost completely lost under the sounds of the woman’s sobs. Whispers erupt around Mercy and Nynev as the onlookers begin to wander away.

  “—healers can’t do anything—”

  “—taking her to be treated—”

  “She better not have infected anyone else—”

  “Why did they not take all three of them?” Nynev whispers. “Is it not unsafe for them to remain in the city?”

  “If they’ve been living with that woman and haven’t been infected yet, they’re probably immune. They’ll still be quarantined for a few days just in case.”

  Nynev shakes her head and follows Mercy through the throngs of people. “I’m glad Niamh hasn’t had time to explore the city and see the damage the plague has already done to your prince’s people. She puts too much pressure on herself as it is.” Although her expression doesn’t change, darkness flickers in and out of her eyes as they walk; she clearly doesn’t miss the way the humans recoil from them, as if they’re the ones infected by the plague. She frowns and touches the vine tattoos coiled along her face. “Do you have any money?”

  “Some. Why?”

  “I’d like to get some makeup—something thick enough to cover tattoos.”

  “I thought you don’t care how people look at you.”

  “I don’t. It’s for Niamh. She has spent enough time feeling like an outsider, isolating herself because of who—what—she is.” At Mercy’s questioning look, she elaborates: “After Firesse worked her magic on my sister two years ago, Niamh refused to leave her cave for weeks. She wouldn’t eat or sleep or even speak. I think she was hoping that one day she’d simply fade away.

  “When starvation didn’t work, she jumped off Hadriana’s Bluff while Isolde was out hunting. The poor girl returned to find Niamh in a heap of broken bones, but my sister hadn’t died. She couldn’t—can’t. That night, Isolde snuck into Firesse’s camp and begged me to talk some sense into her.” Pain flashes across Nynev’s face. She looks down at her hands, realizes they’ve begun to shake, and shoves them into her pockets. “I’ll never forget the sight of her lying in that cave, disfigured almost beyond recognition.”

  “How did you make her change her mind?” Mercy asks softly, shocked at how much the huntress is revealing.

  Nynev sucks in a sharp breath. “I screamed at her. I called her every terrible name I could think of. I told her she was being selfish, that we hadn’t risked everything to escape to the Islands so she could give up. I told her our parents were cursing her from the Beyond for being so weak.” She flinches and looks away, biting her lip. “I was awful to her. I hated her for being so cocky when she fought, for letting herself be injured that gods-forsaken night, for believing she didn’t deserve the life Firesse had given her. For days, I begged her to return to camp. Isolde and I tried to convince her to move to another clan with us—somewhere they wouldn’t question her miraculous recovery. She refused every time.”

  “Why?”

  She lifts a slender shoulder in a shrug. “Firesse’s magic had done something to her . . . changed her in a way I can’t completely fathom. She’s not entirely my sister anymore—not really. Her soul is trapped between worlds, and she can feel it. She knows she doesn’t belong here, but she has stopped trying to force herself to pass into the Beyond. I have no idea how long Firesse’s magic will last—if I’ll wake up one morning to find a corpse in her place or if she’ll still be here long after you and I have turned to dust—and not a day goes by that I don’t think about the curse Firesse placed upon her. I subjected Niamh to it—I asked Firesse to help. I should be the one who pays the price.” She scowls, turning her attention to the shops and workshops they pass. “So I try to make her life as bearable as possible. I do my best to ease her suffering because I know she knows who is responsible for the hell she endures every day. Anyone else would hate me for it. Niamh doesn’t.”

  “I can’t imagine Niamh hating anyone,” Mercy admits. She remembers the tale Niamh had told them back in her cave, how she had gotten her monstrous
scar in a fight against human soldiers. That woman is worlds away from the one they’d found in the cave. “Honestly, I can’t even imagine her being one of Myris’s fighters.”

  “Firesse saw the darkness which bloomed in Niamh’s soul after our mother died. She did then exactly what she did to Calum and Drake—she nurtured it, fed it, encouraged it. She’s young—I have no idea how young—but she knows how to manipulate people into following her into the darkness.”

  “A woman with a sharp tongue is often more dangerous than a woman with a sharp sword,” Mercy says, paraphrasing Mistress Sorin’s words from her first day in the city. She had thought Sorin was trying to be clever, but now, after being lied to and fooled by Calum, Elise, and Firesse, she knows how true the statement rings.

  Nynev nods. “Exactly.”

  They walk in silence for a while, pretending they do not see the houses and stores with boarded-up windows and red slashes painted on the doors. When they find a shop selling jewelry and makeup, they stop inside and purchase a tin of face paint and a compact of powder for Niamh.

  As they start back toward the castle, Mercy catches Nynev studying her more than once. After the tenth time in just as many minutes, she asks, “What?”

  “Something’s on your mind. You didn’t just want to take a walk to get some fresh air,” she says, wrinkling her nose when another plague-marked carriage clatters past. “Not that one could call this air ‘fresh.’ Is the plague what’s troubling you? Or something else?”

  “It’s the Guild. By now, Mother Illynor must know that Lylia is dead, which means she will search for me even more fiercely than before. Illynor won’t take the loss lightly. I can defend Tamriel and myself from any Assassin she sends, but if Firesse succeeds in convincing the Daughters to fight alongside the elves, it could turn the tide of the war.”

  Nynev raises a brow. “You think a few dozen Assassins are that gifted at fighting?”

  “We’ve been trained all our lives to become instruments of death. We may not be soldiers in the traditional sense, but we’ve spent our lives learning how to kill and maim, how to strike when no one is watching.” Mercy grimaces. If her Sisters join in the attack, what fate lies in store for her and Tamriel? Betraying the Guild is an insult of the highest degree, made worse now that they’ve killed two Daughters. Will they kill her outright, and her prince immediately after? Or will they drag her back to the Keep as a lesson for other assassins about the cost of deserting?

  Seeing the fear in Mercy’s eyes, Nynev pales. “If the Daughters are truly as dangerous as you claim them to be, may the gods have mercy on our souls.”

  6

  Tamriel

  The front door of Seren Pierce’s house is ajar when Tamriel arrives. Through the gap, he watches Pierce pace the length of the foyer, his fists clenching and unclenching as he mutters angrily under his breath. The sounds of furniture scraping the floor as the guards search for evidence drifts from every room. When the seren’s back is turned, Tamriel slips inside the house and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

  He cocks his head, knowing he should hold his tongue but too angry to care. “Be careful, Seren. Too much pacing and you’ll wear out that fine rug.”

  Pierce whirls around. “Your Highness,” he says, his voice pinched as he tries to rein in his temper. “What a pleasure it is to have you in my humble home.”

  “Humble?” Tamriel asks, brows raised. He casts a glance at the gold-framed paintings on the walls, the colorful silks and chiffons draped over each archway, the ostentatious navy and gold rug running the length of the hall. “No, I daresay your decorations rival that of the castle. I had no idea you had such an eye for interior design.” He bites back a satisfied smirk when Pierce’s face flushes purple. Then he sobers, remembering his father’s warnings against making more enemies.

  “My wife’s influence.” The seren straightens and takes a deep, calming breath. “Your guards won’t find anything on my daughter, Your Highness. She’s a good child who has always served your father well.”

  “As long as you and I agree that justice must be done to the people who tried to kill me, we won’t have a problem.” Tamriel wanders through the house, Pierce trailing a few steps behind him. As they move from room to room, the guards report their findings—nothing. Every minute, Tamriel’s impatience mounts. What if his father is right? What if Elise and Calum had been clever enough to hide every trace of their treachery?

  He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize Pierce has been speaking until the seren pauses, waiting for a response. “Pardon me?”

  Pierce leans against the kitchen counter, clasping his hands in front of him. “I was wondering at the wisdom of staking my daughter’s freedom on the testimony of an Assassin. You care for her deeply, don’t you? I understand that you’re young, Your Highness, but affairs of the heart do not last. You should be married to a woman of the court by now—or, better yet, a Feyndaran princess. Not an Assassin masquerading as one.”

  Across the room, two guards pause in their search of the cupboards and glare at Pierce, warnings in their eyes.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tamriel responds icily.

  “Don’t I? Perhaps, my prince, I wish to not see your heart broken the same way your father’s was. He was my friend once, you know. I watched him fall for Liselle. That little harlot had your father wrapped around her finger. She nearly destroyed our country, and your darling Assassin”—he spits the word like a curse—“will no doubt do the same.”

  At the seren’s patronizing tone, the leash on Tamriel’s temper finally snaps. To hell with not making enemies. He seizes Pierce by the lapel and pins him against the counter, the seren’s fine shirt bunched in his fists.

  “Your Highness—”

  “Not. Another. Word,” Tamriel hisses.

  The guards rush forward. “Your Highness, would you—”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  “Your—”

  “Dismissed,” he snaps. He looks away from Pierce’s pale face long enough to glare at the guards. “Ignore my order again and you’ll find yourselves out of a job. Search upstairs.”

  The guards trip over themselves in their haste to leave.

  He returns his attention to the seren. “Listen to me carefully, Pierce. Your slander against Mercy ends now. Your opinions of her character are worth less than dirt to me, do you understand? From here on out, you do not speak to her, you do not speak of her, you do not so much as think about her. If any harm befalls her, my guards will kick down your door and throw you into the dungeon beside your treasonous daughter. Have I made myself clear?”

  Pierce’s eyes, which had been steadily growing wider as Tamriel spoke, harden at the mention of Elise. “I think you should be very careful who you threaten, princeling.” He sniffs, somehow still managing to appear haughty despite the fists at his throat. “I’m part of the nobility and the council. Their hearts are with me and my family. If your father wrongfully imprisons her—if he kills her—they’ll be clamoring to remove your family from power. The king seems to know that well, my prince. It’s time you learned that, too.”

  He leans forward until their faces are mere inches apart. “You are speaking out of turn. Two days from now, your daughter will have her trial. Justice will be done, regardless of the consequences.”

  “Pierce? Are you down here?” someone calls from down the hall. Tamriel releases the seren’s shirt just as Pierce’s wife, Nerida, sweeps into the room with a whisper of silk. Their family slave trails her, attempting to pin little flowers in Nerida’s long blonde braid as she moves. “Ah, there you are. Your Highness! What a surprise.”

  “Hello, Serenna.” When she bows, he offers her a polite nod. He smiles at the slave, but she merely bows and positions herself behind her mistress, out of the prince’s line of sight.

  “I beg your forgiveness for my appearance, Your Highness,” Nerida continues, either oblivious
of or purposely ignoring the tension in the room. She clutches the belt of her black silk robe. “The guards moving everything about has made it quite difficult to dress.”

  “You look lovely, my lady. For what it’s worth, I am sorry for the interruption, but we must be thorough in our investigation,” he responds, finding it easier to control his anger in her calming presence. He has always liked Nerida. She’s from a prominent upper-class family in the countryside and is, like most people from the farming sector, exceedingly honest, diplomatic, and kind. Seeing her and Pierce together, seeing the affection between them, it’s not hard to understand why Pierce is such a champion of arranged marriages.

  She waves his apology away. “Please. All we want is for the truth to come out.” She shoots her husband a look as she adds, “Whatever the outcome.”

  Upstairs, there’s a loud thump and a hissed curse. Nerida jumps and looks up at the ceiling, biting her lower lip. “They’d better not be ruining my Elise’s art gallery. Her paintings are more valuable to me than anything else I own.”

  Tamriel freezes, an idea striking him. “I— Ah— Excuse me, won’t you?” he stammers as he darts out of the room. He runs down the hall—nearly bowling over a guard who chooses that exact moment to step out of the dining room—and flies around the banister and up the stairs.

  Three guards are searching through the piles of supplies in Elise’s art gallery. All of them snap to attention when Tamriel bursts through the sheer curtain hanging over the archway.

  “What have you found?”

  “Nothing yet, Your Highness. We’ll keep looking.” The guard’s voice wobbles a bit, and it takes Tamriel a moment to recognize him: Raiden, the man whose nose he had broken for insulting Mercy—then Marieve. His nose has healed, but crookedly.

  “I might know where to find a clue.” Tamriel steps into the room and—

  There it is.

  The painting of Calum kneeling beside a merchant hangs in the center of the wall, its frame shining under the sunlight streaming through the window. In it, Calum is only eight or nine, offering a handful of coins to the merchant so he can repair his broken wagon wheel. Elise had painted it a couple years ago. Tamriel remembers Calum bragging to him about her talent after she had finished and, sheepishly, shown the painting to him. Maybe one day she’ll paint the portrait of you as our king, Calum had suggested.