“We’re going to divide the army into twenty groups,” Firesse is shouting, first in the common tongue, then in Cirisian. “Each commander will lead about three dozen soldiers, and they each have a specific route to the capital to follow. Harkness, Graystone, and Briar Glen will fall by the week’s end, and the cities of Cyrna and Xilor will soon follow. Strike hard, strike fast, and strike true. Remember the horrors their soldiers have subjected our people to for generations—for centuries—and make them pay for every man, woman, and child we’ve lost.”
A cheer rises up from the troops, and she beams down at them. Beside Drake, Oren begins to tremble. “By the Creator, she’s insane. Really, truly insane. She’s going to get them all killed, and us along with them.”
Drake shushes him. “Don’t be a coward.” Last night, when he and Firesse had finalized the routes each group will take to Sandori, Calum had begged him to convince the First to let the Strykers leave. Ask Firesse to dismiss them, he’d pleaded. They’ve done their jobs, now let them go on their way. Send them their payment after you arrive in the capital. Oren won’t make it through the war. He was fine traveling Beltharos with Hewlin and the others, but we slept in taverns and inns, not on the cold ground—not when we could help it. He’s been losing weight again, growing sicker. He won’t survive much longer like this.
His pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
Not for the first time, Calum had wished his father were alive, just so he could have the pleasure of killing the bastard himself.
Firesse gives a few more orders, then the crowd disperses to finish packing the last of their belongings. Because they’ll need to set up and disassemble their camps quickly, they’re leaving behind over half of the tents they’d brought from the Islands, carrying only enough to shelter the members of each party. They’ll be forced to sleep like sardines, but it will enable them to flee at a moment’s notice.
The Daughters cluster around their fake merchants’ wagons at the end of the dirt road, arming themselves so thoroughly they appear more weapon than human: throwing knives sheathed on their belts; a dagger strapped to one thigh and another to a forearm; a knife tucked into a boot; a bow or crossbow and a quiver slung across their backs. Faye even tucks a tiny oyster-shucking knife into the collar of her lightweight leather armor, the handle concealed at the nape of her neck by the thick braid which falls to the small of her back.
While Drake helps the Strykers load their supplies onto the wagon Mother Illynor had given them, Firesse gives each of the group leaders their orders and helps them locate the soldiers under their command. The newly-liberated slaves will be scattered among the troops, as well, but kept out of intense fighting until they’re comfortable wielding a sword.
Faye raps on the side of the Strykers’ wagon, peering up at Drake as he loads the last crate of tools. It won’t be easy to maneuver across the sector, but it’ll be better than carrying their supplies on their backs and in their arms. “You ready?”
“To watch the annihilation of my king and the murders of every human we run across? Always.”
The Assassin looks over her shoulder at Hewlin and the others, standing beside the docks and staring out at the sea, likely wishing they were in Rhys. “Drake,” she murmurs. Her deceptively innocent-looking doe eyes meet his. “That’s you in there, isn’t it?”
Yes! Calum wants to shout. Yes! Help me!
“What are you talking about?” Drake closes the trapdoor of the wagon’s false bottom and shoves the crates of fabric back into place. He hops out of the wagon and starts toward the Strykers. The Assassin falls into step beside him.
“You’re Calum’s father. I heard the Strykers talking about your death while you were finishing up in the workshop the other night. Between the elves’ whispers about their Blessed One’s gifts and that . . . that thing she did during the battle—raising those corpses—I figured out what she did to you. I should have realized it sooner. Why else would Firesse trust you so completely if you weren’t under her command? Why would she keep you so close?”
“Maybe she just enjoys my company.”
She huffs in irritation. “Like father like son. Never a straight answer. Does anyone else know?” She grabs his arm to stop him, and before he can blink, the oyster-shucking knife is out of its sheath and pressed to his stomach. “I want a real answer, you silver-tongued snake.”
“You couldn’t kill me with that. Even if you could, Firesse would only bring me back again.”
“I don’t have to kill you to make you suffer.”
He smirks and leans close, their noses almost touching. “I’ll give you one answer for free. No one knows except Firesse and Kaius.”
Fear flits in and out of her eyes, so fast Calum isn’t certain whether he’d imagined it. “Calum is still in there, isn’t he?”
“A little piece of him. What do you care? You hardly spoke to him before.”
“I have a weakness for creatures forced to wear shackles.”
“Or perhaps you want to know what it’s like in case Firesse decides to make you play host, too. Don’t worry. Play your part in the war to come and you’ll remain yourself.” He swats the knife away and grips Faye’s chin tightly enough that she winces. “It’s nice to see how concerned you are for my son . . . Faye, is it?”
“You know my name,” she spits.
“You remind me of an elven bitch I used to own. She was pretty, too. Bore me a son.”
She slaps his hand away. “Don’t touch me, you ass.”
“But she didn’t ever have the guts to say that to me.” He laughs and snatches the knife out of her hand, dropping it in the dirt between their feet. Before she can grab another, he catches her wrists in one hand and whispers, “I’d enjoy breaking your spirit, Faye.”
She jerks back, anger flashing across her face. “You’re disgusting.” She breaks his hold on her wrists and snarls, “I’ll gut you like a fish if you ever lay a hand on me again.”
Faye softens her expression as Firesse breezes past. “Your orders,” the First says as she hands Faye a slip of paper and continues walking. The Assassin takes the opportunity to shoot him one last hateful look before striding away to find the soldiers she’ll be commanding.
Just like that, they’re wandering again. They start off trailing out of Fishers’ Cross as one big caravan, the clomping of the horses’ hooves and the groaning of the wagon wheels punctuating their progress. One by one, Lysander’s, Ivani’s, Faye’s, and Mother Illynor’s groups break away from the main force. Then Aoife’s, Tanni’s, Kaius’s, and Myris’s follow. Drake ignores the dark looks Dayna and Adriel shoot him as they hurry after Myris and the rest of their company. Calum’s spirit sinks. Two more potential allies lost.
Finally, the last few groups branch off, leaving Firesse and her forces alone in the middle of a vast plain. Drake, the Strykers, and the three dozen Cirisians whose names he has not bothered to learn walk or ride behind her. They’ll follow the Bluejet River inland to Graystone and Rockinver, then join up with Faye and some of the others outside Cyrna.
“We never should have opened your damn letters,” Hewlin murmurs to Drake as he passes. He gazes back at the wagon slowly rolling behind them and the blacksmiths sitting atop its bench seat, his expression hard. “We should have continued on to Rhys like we were supposed to, not joined up with this wicked little rebellion of yours.”
“Yes,” Drake intones, “if only you’d known.”
24
Mercy
Mercy gapes at the stranger’s—her sister’s—outstretched hand. Cassia’s alive? And not just alive, but standing right in front of her, grinning like she’d just performed the world’s greatest magic trick. Before leaving the Keep, Mercy had thought she was completely alone in the world. Over the past few weeks, she’s met her half-brother, the ghost of her sister, her mother, her father, and now, another sister. A living one. She appears to be in her late twenties—only a few years younger than Liselle would be if she were still alive.
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“Cassia,” she repeats.
She nods, dropping her hand to her side. “Bareea.”
“That’s not my name—not really. The Guildmaster changed it when I was taken to the Keep. I’m Mercy.”
Cassia bursts out laughing. “Of course that’s your name. Oh, the Creator has a wicked sense of humor, doesn’t he?”
“Family reunion aside,” Nynev interrupts, “who the hell are you?”
“One of the few allies our smartass former Assassin has in this city. Come with me and I’ll explain everything.” She marches straight through the middle of their small group and takes the lead, pointing to a tailor’s shop halfway down the block. There are no lights on inside; the door and windows bear the red slashes of paint marking the building as one tainted by the plague. “Don’t worry,” she adds, catching Kova’s doubtful expression. “Any traces of the plague are long gone. Now let’s go—the others will be home soon.”
“The others?” Mercy asks. “Ino and Matthias? They’re alive?”
“Yes. You already know their names? Frankly, I’m surprised the Guildmother told you about us.”
“She didn’t, actually. It’s . . . a long story.”
When they reach the shop, Cassia unlocks the door and ushers them inside, a little bell tinkling overhead as they file in.
“I worked here with Theodosia before you were born. I was lousy with a needle—pricked myself more times than I did the fabric—but she kept me on because she knew the alternative was selling myself into slavery.” Her fingers trail along the bolts of silk and lace as she leads Mercy and the others toward the back of the building. They pass through a narrow doorway, climb a spiral staircase, and emerge in the apartment above the shop. It’s a quaint little place—a kitchen to their right, a sitting area with a big bay window overlooking the street, and two small bedrooms tucked against the left wall. “I haven’t seen her since we fled the city after Liselle’s death. When we returned not two weeks ago, I didn’t know where else to go for help but here, but she’d already been taken away. I have no idea if she’s dead or alive.”
She moves into the sitting area and kicks aside the blanket someone had left crumpled on the floor. “Damn it, Matthias,” she mutters. “Pig.” She sinks onto the couch and gestures for Mercy to do the same. “It seems I owe you some answers. First, to your Cirisian friend’s question of who the hell I am,” she says, nodding to Nynev. The huntress is still standing in the doorway with the guards, surveying the room as if expecting an attacker to leap out of the shadows. “Cassia Mari. Third child of Dayna and Adriel Mari. Would you like to ask me anything, or should I simply monologue?”
“Go ahead.” Mercy waves a hand, then reaches up and shifts the strap of her sling. The damn thing has begun rubbing her neck raw again. “If I ask all the questions I have, we’ll be here for days.”
“Okay, but—does she always look like that? So angry?” she asks, eyeing Nynev.
“This is my normal expression. You don’t want to be around when I’m angry.”
“I’m beginning to see that. Won’t you sit?”
“Not while there’s a threat to Mercy’s life.”
“I see.” She turns her attention back to Mercy. “Quite a friend you’ve found. Anyway . . . I don’t know where to begin. You know about Liselle’s death, don’t you? And why you were sent to the Guild?” When she nods, Cassia continues, “Our parents saw you out of the city first. Once you were safe, we were supposed to accompany them to Cirisor, but they trusted the wrong people along the way. There used to be a system for identifying those who were committed to aiding runaway slaves on their escape to the Islands—you know, a symbol painted above a doorway, a pattern in a blanket hung from a clothesline. A few days after leaving Sandori, we stayed with a farmer and his wife. They fed us at their table and gave us clothes and shoes from their children’s closets. Ino, Matthias, and I fell asleep under a pile of horse blankets in their cellar while the farmer supposedly helped Mother and Papa plan the rest of our journey.
“Instead,” she says, her voice turning bitter, “one minute, we were sleeping peacefully, our stomachs full for the first time in days, and the next, we were being tied up, blindfolded, and shoved into the back of a wagon. His wife and their three brutish sons drove us to the next town over and sold us to a slaver.”
“They really did that?” Kova asks, her face slack with shock and disgust.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know the sorts of things people like you do to people like us. They saw three healthy kids and they knew they’d be able to make a fat lot of coin off us. I bet we were locked in the slaver’s cages before our parents even realized something was amiss.” She scowls and flaps a hand in dismissal. “Doesn’t matter—can’t change it now, anyway. The only one who ever bothered to try and make things better for elves was our sister, and those rich bastards killed her for it. Liselle was a fool for becoming the king’s mistress. She had wanted to help the people of Beggars’ End, and she loved the king—she really, truly did—but she took too many risks. She lost her life for it, and she destroyed ours in the process.”
Downstairs, a bell chimes. “Our brothers are back,” she announces, her smile not quite meeting her eyes. Footsteps tap up the stairs, and a few moments later, two young men appear behind Nynev and the guards, who step aside to let the strangers through. One is tall, a few years older than Cassia, with jet-black hair and a faded scar on one side of his jaw. The other is a few inches shorter—still surprisingly tall for an elf—with a muscular build and a hint of Calum’s handsome, angular face. They freeze midstep when they see her.
“You found her?” the one with the scar asks.
Cassia nods, first to the elder brother, then the younger. “Ino, Matthias, meet Mercy.”
Matthias’s lips twitch, fighting a smile, when he hears her name. Without saying a word, he pushes past Ino and crushes Mercy in a hug. “I’m glad to see you’re safe, sister. I’ve missed you.”
Despite her aching wounds, she hugs him back just as tightly. She had spent so many years thinking she was alone in the world, that she’d been sent to the Guild because her parents hated her. She’d never imagined she had parents or siblings who remembered her—who missed her.
“We didn’t know you were still alive until we heard about the arrest of an elven Assassin,” he tells her. “I thought the nobles would have killed you for sure.”
“They tried their best.” When she steps out of his embrace, she finds that she and her siblings are alone; Nynev and the guards are nowhere to be seen.
“The others went downstairs to give us some privacy,” Cassia says to her unvoiced question. “Let’s sit. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She guides Mercy back to the couch and pulls her onto the cushion beside her. Ino and Matthias settle in the armchairs across from them.
“How—how did you find me? How did you know I was here?”
“We were working as hired swords in Blackhills when news of the attempt on the prince’s life swept through town. When we heard that an Assassin matching your description had been arrested, we sold what we could afford to lose and bought passage here in a merchants’ caravan. By the time we arrived, you had already left for Cirisor.”
“We had no idea if you were coming back,” Ino adds, “but because of the plague, transportation out of the city is hard to find—and what is available is expensive. We were hoping to lie low until we could manage to scrape enough coin together to get out of this shithole of a city, but then you came back. Imagine our surprise when we learned you had fallen for the prince you once sought to kill.”
“Why didn’t you approach me sooner?”
“We wanted to,” Matthias says, gesturing to himself and Ino. “But she had other plans.”
Cassia fidgets with her skirt. “I didn’t think we should. To be honest, I . . . I resented you. You never knew Liselle. You didn’t have to watch the nobles turn on her, to see our parents’ master defile our mother—”
&n
bsp; “I know what Drake did to her and I know Calum Zendais is her son. I’ve met him.”
“But you didn’t have to watch it happen. I remember the way Drake tormented and tortured her. I was nine when she fell pregnant with Calum; after that, Drake didn’t lay a hand on her. He didn’t have to. The memory of what he’d done drove her into a depression for months.”
“I wanted to kill him,” Ino whispers, gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turn white. Mercy can hear the barely-restrained rage in his voice. “The bastard deserved a much more painful death than that Assassin gave him.”
“I resented you,” Cassia continues, “because even though you’d been raised by the Guild—a harsh life for any child, I’m sure—you were sheltered. Protected. You weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder, fearing the day that slavers clapped you in irons once more. You’d made a life there, a home—”
“It wasn’t my home,” she says sharply.
“—and I was jealous of you. I’ve spent most of my life wishing I could forget all the pain we’ve gone through. You were so blissfully ignorant, and I envied you for it.”
“What changed?”
“The first time I saw you, you and your Cirisian friend were walking through Myrellis Plaza. I’d been trying to find work, but no one’s hiring elves on account of the plague—they think we’re no better than rats, spreading disease wherever we go. I was sitting by the fountain and you passed me. I recognized you immediately. Something about the way you move . . . it’s just like our father. And, of course, there’s the hair.” She reaches out and gently tugs on one of Mercy’s curls. “Just like Mother’s.” Her hand strays to the scarf wrapped around her own head before she lets it drop back into her lap.
Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 92