He leads her into the corridor—a rarely-used one, by the looks of it, leading past the great hall and into some part of the castle where Mercy has never ventured—and shuts the door behind them. The walls are so narrow they’re nearly chest-to-chest. Mercy stares up at him, his warm breath tickling her face, as he grabs the hand of her uninjured arm and interlaces their fingers.
“I can’t stop thinking about the moment you were shot,” he begins, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I saw you fall. I heard Niamh scream. I thought . . . I thought you were dead, and it nearly killed me.” Agony passes across his face, and he clutches her hand tighter. “I should have seen it coming. I should have done more to keep you safe. More guards—”
“It’s not your fault, Tamriel. I’m here. I’m alive.” She nods toward her sling. “Only a little worse for wear.”
He shakes his head, a strand of dark hair falling into his face. “You should leave, go somewhere safe. Ospia, maybe, or Blackhills. You’d be away from the nobles, away from Firesse and the Daughters if they march on the capital—”
“No.”
He looks at her imploringly. “Consider it.”
She waits a beat, then says, “There, I’ve considered it, and my answer is no. I’ll stay right where I am—with you. We’ll stand against the nobles together. If Firesse and the Daughters make it to the city gates, we’ll stand against them together.”
“My father thought he could protect Liselle by keeping her close, and look at what the courtiers did to her. I’m not losing you the same way.”
“You won’t. Liselle was brave, but she wasn’t trained in the Guild.”
“She also wasn’t being hunted by Assassins.”
Mercy lifts onto her toes and kisses him. “You worry too much,” she murmurs as she pulls back. “I’ll be fine. I have my daggers, my guards, and a no-nonsense Cirisian huntress to protect me.”
He shakes his head but releases her hand, reaching past her to open the door. “You may have a point,” he concedes. She follows him into the throne room, where Nynev and the guards are still waiting. He studies the swords sheathed at the guards’ hips, then Nynev’s hunting knives, bow, and quiver of arrows, and raises a brow. “Creator help the next man who wrongs you.”
They arrive at the armory not five minutes later. Already, the short walk from the throne room has left a dull throb in her shoulder. Perhaps she should wait to train. She braces a hand against the doorframe as she surveys the racks of weapons.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Kova—the youngest of the three guards, a pretty girl with a port-wine stain down one cheek—asks, her brows furrowing.
Nynev scoffs. She shoulders past Mercy and plucks a broadsword off the wall, examining its razor-sharp edge. “I bet she could best any one of you with an injured arm and a blindfold over her eyes.”
“We train hard to become members of the royal guard,” Tobias objects.
She grins at Mercy as she says, “Compliment to the Guild, not a slight to you. Although, if you truly wish to protect your prince, maybe the Assassin could teach you a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat.” She nods toward the dagger on Mercy’s belt. Since her left arm is out of commission, she’d left the other tucked away in her room.
“That’s right.” Mercy draws the dagger, the red and orange gemstones of the handguard twinkling in the light of the lanterns hanging overhead. Between the sling and the weight of the weapon, her balance is off, but that won’t stop her from training; quite the contrary. If her left arm is going to be useless for as long as Healer Tabris fears, she’d better get used to fighting one-handed. “So, who’s first?”
She and Kova face off in the training room adjacent to the armory, inside a circle Nynev had drawn in the sawdust coating the floor. The guard wields a broadsword in her right hand, a dagger in her left, and she’s clad in the light leather armor some of the guards wear around the castle to escape the intense midsummer heat. Mercy had chosen not to don armor; it would have been too much hassle with the sling and bandages, and her blood is already thrumming in anticipation of a fight.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Kova says. “The prince will kill me if something happens to you.”
“That’s why you’re in the ring, and we’re not,” Bas, one of the other guards, calls from where he, Tobias, and Nynev are watching across the room.
“Enough talk,” the huntress calls. “Let’s see some action.”
“But—”
Mercy lunges while Kova is distracted and swings her dagger low. The guard knocks her blade aside and slashes at her half-heartedly, uncertainty in her green eyes. Mercy parries the strike and rolls her eyes.
“Don’t insult my skills by taking it easy on me.” She nods at the girl’s dagger. “Show me you know how to use that thing.”
Kova leaps forward, and the real onslaught begins. Slash. Parry. Lunge. With every whistling arc of her sword, her dagger flies out a second later, ready to catch Mercy between the ribs or open the contents of her stomach. It’s all she can do to block each blow as it comes. Kova flips her dagger and swings it low. Mercy jumps back a second too late and the blade slices through the ruby crepe of her tunic.
“So you do know how to use it.”
Mercy feints to the right, then lunges left, knocking the dagger out of the guard’s hand. It clatters to the ground. Before Kova can scoop it up, Mercy presses the advantage, slashing again and again, forcing the guard to give up precious ground with every near-strike.
“You fight like a damn hurricane,” Kova pants. She swipes at the perspiration beading on her brow with a sleeve, lifting the sword in her other hand to block Mercy’s next swing.
Mercy grins, ignoring the bone-deep fatigue, the waves of pain radiating down her left side. She wills that warrior’s calm to slide over her. She’d been injured in the Guild before, but she’d never had the luxury of resting in bed while the others trained. So many weeks without constant sparring have left her rusty and weak.
Kova jumps forward. At the last moment, she turns to the side and slams her shoulder into Mercy, knocking her even more off-balance. They land on the ground in a heap, Kova kicking up sawdust as she scrambles up and crawls toward the dagger lying a few feet away. Mercy groans, shards of pain shooting through her ribcage, and pushes to her feet. She touches the fabric over the wound in her chest and her fingers come away wet. At some point—she’s not sure when—it had begun to bleed.
Kova straightens and turns, her dagger clenched in her fist, right as the flat of Mercy’s blade hits her in the back of the head. Kova stumbles and falls to her knees, blinking dazedly. Mercy had been careful to only hit her hard enough to stun her. She sheathes her weapon and extends her good hand to Kova.
“Good fight,” she says as she pulls the guard to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bas hand Tobias a pouch of coin. “You almost stood a chance.” She turns to the other guards. “Who’s next?”
Bas’s brows shoot up. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a flesh wound.”
“He’s next,” Kova says, pointing her dagger at Bas. “The bastard bet against me.”
He shrugs. “I’d have to have been blind not to.”
She pushes him into the ring, taking his place against the wall beside Tobias. “Let’s see if you fare any better than I did.”
“Great,” Nynev purrs, grinning at Tobias as she runs her fingers over the grips of the hunting knives sheathed on her belt. “Save the biggest one for me. Ever fought a Cirisian heathen, boy?”
“No.”
She beams. “Then today’s your lucky day. We’re going to have some fun.”
By the time Nynev knocks Tobias onto his ass the second time, Mercy’s muscles have turned to gelatin and the blood on her tunic has dried and crusted to her wound. She peels it back gently, grateful to see that although the skin around the wound is red and swollen, she has only torn a few of the stitches.
They wander back to Mercy’s
room in silence—the guards sullen, their pride smarting, and Mercy and Nynev basking in their victories—to find their dinner already prepared for them. The guards wait outside while Mercy and Nynev quickly eat and dress. Less than an hour later, they set out for the address Mercy’s brother had left in his note.
Kova hails a carriage from a stop down the block—both to protect them from any would-be assassins lurking on the rooftops and to give them all a chance to rest their muscles after sparring. When they’re all seated inside, clattering along toward Guinevere’s Square, she asks, “Are you sure it’s wise to be venturing so far from the castle?”
“If I let the nobles scare me into hiding behind those stone walls, then I let them win. Two measly arrows don’t change anything.”
Nynev frowns, fidgeting with the fletching of one of her arrows. “You nearly died. That’s not something to be taken lightly. I was on board with sparring, but I don’t know about this.”
“My brother—a brother I didn’t even know was alive until a week ago—saved my life. I’m not waiting any longer to meet him.”
Nynev grumbles but falls silent when they pass under the arch into Guinevere’s Square. Mercy parts the curtain over the window beside her enough to peer out with one eye. The houses are nice—nothing like the grand mansions of the Sapphire Quarter, but a far cry from the leaning, creaking buildings in Myrellis Plaza and the shipping district. Some of the shutters over the windows hang crookedly or are missing slats, but the window-boxes are well tended, colorful flowers bobbing merrily in the breeze. Like the rest of Sandori, the streets are near-empty, the citizens either working or languishing in the makeshift infirmary tents outside the city limits.
The street where Mercy’s brother had told her to meet him is too narrow for the carriage, so the driver lets them off outside a private college a block away. Students float from the school to the nearby bookseller or café, whispering to one another as they catch sight of Mercy and her strange company.
“The rooftops are clear,” Bas mutters as the carriage rolls away. “Still, best to move quickly.”
One of the passing students spits at Mercy’s feet. “Whore.”
Nynev draws her hunting knife, lunging forward with a feral snarl, but Kova grabs her arm and yanks her back before she can get within striking distance. “What did you say, asshole?”
“Haven’t you heard what the people have taken to calling you?” he asks Mercy, basking in the attention of the little crowd rapidly forming around them. “His Highness’s Whore? The next Liselle? You’ve managed to trick the prince into giving you free rein of the castle. How long until you revive her failed rebellion? You and the other knife-ears are an infestation in this city. You should have been chased out long ago.”
“Or put down like lame donkeys,” someone mutters.
“The only asses I see here are you,” Tobias snaps. He crosses his arms and stares down his nose at the man. “Keep going. Make one wrong move and you’ll spend the night in a cell.”
“Come on, Mercy. Let’s go before this gets ugly,” Kova mutters, tugging at her uninjured arm, but Mercy doesn’t budge. She’s not afraid of some insolent prick.
The student lifts his hands in surrender, offering Tobias a grin which must have charmed many girls and teachers over the years, but the guard’s scowl doesn’t waver. “Woah, big fella. I’m not picking a fight with you.” He grins at Mercy. “Hiding behind the castle’s muscle, now, are we?”
“Oh, no. He’s only here to make sure I don’t turn your innards into sidewalk art.” Mercy looks over her shoulder at Nynev, smirking. “All those expensive books, all that time spent studying, and he’s still too stupid to know not to provoke an Assassin.”
Before he can respond, she turns on her heel and walks away, Nynev and the guards falling into step behind her.
“You handled him well,” Bas murmurs as they turn onto the next street.
“Don’t tell Ghyslain that I’ve failed to make a friend again.”
Behind them, someone laughs. “You don’t want a racist piece of shit like him to be your friend, anyway.”
They whirl around to find a woman walking several paces behind them—and judging by her grin, she’d witnessed the whole spectacle. Her heart-shaped face is pretty, finely-boned, and her hair is hidden under a scarf—the same deep plum of her muslin dress. She cocks her head, her brown eyes twinkling. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Do I know you?” Mercy asks. Something about the woman is familiar, but she cannot place what.
“You don’t recognize me? I’m hurt. But I suppose it was to be expected. Last time we met, you were a mere babe.” She beams and extends a hand for Mercy to shake. “Pleasure to make your reacquaintance, sis. I’m Cassia.”
23
Calum
A few days after the attack in Sapphira, Drake finds Kaius standing in the middle of the road, watching Faye and the other Daughters spar beside the docks. Their slashes and parries are so quick even a Cirisian warrior would be jealous—and Calum can tell by the furrow between the archer’s brows that he is.
He purses his lips. “A school for orphans and runaway children to learn to kill for money. What must it be like?”
“From what I’ve heard, rather bleak,” Drake says. “The girls are strong, though. It’s rumored that no man is a match for them.”
“We’ll see in the coming weeks. Did you see the magnificent weapons they brought? Those alone could be enough to give us an edge in the war.”
Drake nods. The wagons the Daughters had driven from the Guild are rigged with false bottoms; the trapdoors hidden under the crates of fruit and boxes of fabric open to reveal a rolling armory, complete with bows, crossbows, spears, maces, and enough blades to render the Strykers practically useless.
Calum’s gaze finds Faye in the midst of the slashing blades. It hasn’t escaped his notice that she has been quieter than usual since the Daughters’ arrival. According to Amir, who had wandered too close to the Daughters’ house the night they’d arrived, Mother Illynor had raged at her for allowing Lylia to die and Mercy to slip through her grasp. And then, Amir had said, shuddering at the memory, she just went deathly quiet. Just like that. I think that terrified the poor girl more than the shouting. Illynor really, really wants Mercy back.
How could she not? The weapon Illynor had spent seventeen years crafting had betrayed the Guild and had caused the deaths of two Assassins. Calum shudders to imagine what terrible punishment Mother Illynor will inflict once she gets her hands on Mercy. If the cool rage simmering in those flat, slitted eyes is any indicator, she certainly won’t do her the favor of killing her quickly.
Kaius’s gaze lifts to the bluff guarding the town. “Scouts report Beltharan troops a half-day’s ride away. It seems the king has decided to send reinforcements. Firesse wants everyone packed and ready to move in an hour.”
“I’ll let the Strykers know.”
Hewlin and the others are sitting around the kitchen table playing cards when Drake enters the house they share. “Want to play?” Nerran asks, no hint of the animosity between them on his face. “Since we’ve finished all the repairs, there’s nothing to do around here. I’m taking these chumps for everything they’ve got.”
“No, we need to start packing. We’re leaving in an hour.”
“Off to kill more innocents?” Hewlin snarls. The rest of the Strykers pause. Oren glances sidelong at Amir, then buries his face in his cards as the tension grows thick enough to choke.
Images flash through Calum’s mind—guards lying dead outside Sapphira’s city gates, Faye’s throwing knives embedded in their throats; men and women dying in their beds, dark blood spilling out of the holes Drake had carved in them; a young elven woman cowering behind velvet curtains as she watches her master choke on his last bloody breath. Calum had screamed and raged and fought with everything he had against his father’s control, but nothing had happened. No—one thing had happened. One minute, he’d been yanking at the bond
s of his mental prison, trying to free himself of the shackles holding him hostage within his own mind, and then a thick wave of blackness had swept over him. The next thing he knew, Drake and the others were back on their horses, riding to Fishers’ Cross. Several hours had passed without his knowledge. The realization had terrified him to his core. Until then, he’d been there with Drake every minute, forced to watch the atrocities his father committed in his name. But the darkness which had swept over him had been so complete even the pained cries of the nobles Drake had murdered with Calum’s own hands hadn’t penetrated it.
Drake offers Hewlin a smile, chilling in its delight at the memories running through his mind. “Do you consider slaveowners innocent? Do they not deserve it?”
You’re a monster, Calum growls. His father had owned slaves. He’d forced himself on them. He’s only saying that because Firesse would.
Hewlin’s expression doesn’t soften, but he turns back and shuffles the pile of cards before him. “No one deserves to be butchered like that.”
Nerran clears his throat. “Well, uh, I suppose we’ll finish this hand, then start packing. I’d offer to share some of the winnings with you like we did in that gambling hall in Ospia, but you’re rich, mate.”
He grins as he clambers up the narrow staircase. “There isn’t enough in that little pile to share, anyway. You’re not that good at cards, my friend—you’re just better than they are.”
Firesse is standing atop the bluff when Drake and the Strykers exit the house an hour later, her commanders—Kaius, Myris, the other Firsts, Mother Illynor, and a handful of Assassins—flanking her as she stares down at the army gathered before her. As much as he hopes she’ll fail, Calum must admit she has managed to pull together quite a fearsome little force—over eight hundred Cirisians; Mother Illynor and her fifteen Daughters; the Strykers for repairs and smithing; and the few dozen slaves they’d liberated in Sapphira, who will no doubt relish seeing Ghyslain’s throne toppled. With her unearthly powers and Calum’s knowledge of the country, she may just eke out a victory.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 91