Born Assassin Saga Box Set

by Jacqueline Pawl

  The guard who had given the order to attack stares at Firesse, his mouth agape. “You—Why are you doing this?” Blood pours from a deep gash in his temple. He turns in a slow circle, taking in the dead guards surrounding him. Only six remain. “What—What could you possibly stand to gain from this?”

  “Something my people have never had: vengeance. I’ll give you a choice. Die here, now, or run. Maybe you’ll make it past the archers I’ve posted outside your village. Maybe not. We’ll make a game of it. My archers could certainly use the target practice.” She grins. “What do you say?”

  He exchanges uncertain looks with the other guards. “The king will hear of this—”

  “Oh, I’m hoping so.”

  “He’ll send more troops—”

  A loud splintering interrupts him. They all watch as the roof of one of the warehouses crumbles and collapses, sending a column of bright sparks dancing in the air. Firesse jumps at the distraction and calls, “What is your decision?”

  The guards shoot her hateful looks, but, at a nod from their leader, they sheathe their swords. “You’ll pay for this,” he shouts as he and his men retreat. Firesse gives a command in Cirisian, and her men step aside to allow the guards to pass. They obey, sending icy glares at the humans as they file out of the square. The second they’re gone, Myris whirls on Firesse.

  “Why in the gods’ names did you allow them to live?”

  She sheathes her daggers and starts across the square, toward a narrow road they’d left free of flames. Myris, Drake, and the others fall into step behind her. “The archers deserve some fun of their own.”

  They fall silent as they make their way toward the southern tip of the island, ignoring the cries of the terrified citizens. Sure enough, when they reach the docks where they’d first crossed the Bluejet, the guards are floating facedown in the water. Firesse watches her people slip into the cold, rushing water and begin wading to the opposite bank. At last, only Drake, Myris, and Firesse are left standing by the water’s edge. Without a word, Firesse walks to each of the three posts lining the bank and picks up the oil lantern hanging from the hook. She hands one to Myris and one to Drake.

  Calum can see the elves’ glowing, glimmering eyes peering out at them from the cover of the grass across the river. They chitter quietly in Cirisian as they watch Firesse, Drake, and Myris throw the lanterns at the ships docked there. The glass shatters when they hit the wood of the decks, splattering burning oil everywhere and igniting the sails. Drake and the others dive into the water as the shrieks of the people trapped in the burning village swell. The sounds of collapsing buildings and the tolling of the bells echo across the plain as they cross the river and stumble onto the opposite bank, their clothes heavy with water and blood.

  The Cirisians whoop and cheer when Firesse beckons them forward, their shouts of ‘Lo Benii!’ full of victory and pride. She doesn’t spare a glance at the Strykers as she strides straight past them, her soldiers trailing her every step like a pack of wild dogs. Hewlin catches Drake’s arm when he moves to mount the horse he’d left behind.

  “You led them into this battle,” he hisses, his eyes full of rage. The sight makes Calum flinch. “You helped massacre all these people. Do you count this a victory?”

  “This is war, Hewlin. Do you think I enjoy watching my countrymen burn?” As his father speaks, he hears the quiet thunk, thunk, thunk, of the archers’ arrows striking flesh. Some of the villagers have begun trying to flee.

  He shakes his head. “I think it’s clear I don’t know anything about you anymore, lad. There’s a darkness in your heart I’ve never seen before.” His gaze shifts to Firesse, already well out of earshot, and the elves following her. “You should turn your blade on that she-demon before she leads us all to our deaths. She’s a blight, Calum. Villains like her are not meant to survive long in this world.”

  “She’s trying to achieve peace for her people.”

  “Don’t feed me that bullshit. You think spilling all this blood is going to achieve peace? Ghyslain is going to wise up eventually, and his forces will crush her little rebellion like a bug. I hope to the Creator you come to your senses and flee long before that happens,” he says, scowling. “I once loved you like a son, Calum. I don’t agree with anything you’re doing, but at least I have the courage to tell you to your face when you’re making a mistake. Give me the respect I deserve and treat me the same way. You know how this war will end.”

  Drake lowers his voice, watching the rest of the Strykers climb atop their supply cart and snap the horses’ reins, begrudgingly leaving the burning village behind them. “You’re forgetting about her powers.”

  “Even if I live to be a hundred, I will never forget watching my own skin split at the slightest touch of her fingers, but she’s still a candle burning from both ends. She’s unpredictable, and she’s going to get you killed.” He steps back, starting toward the horse he’d left by the riverside. “I’ve said my piece before, and I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

  Drake shakes his head and mounts his horse, spurring it into a gallop. Together, Firesse and Myris lead the rest of the troops along the Bluejet, until the cries and shouts of the dying villagers fade in the distance and they can no longer see the flames leaping from building to building. The archers will remain behind and pick off anyone who had survived the flames, then meet them at their next camp.

  Hatred, absolute abhorrence—at Firesse, at himself—overtakes Calum as he watches the First ride at the front of the group. If he ever manages to free himself from Drake’s grasp, he’ll kill Firesse for what she has done to his people—for what she and Drake have forced him to do to his people. I’ll kill her, he vows, and I’ll take my time doing it.

  28

  Tamriel

  “How quickly can you make it?”

  The castle’s armorer glances up from the drawing Tamriel had sketched, his thick, calloused fingers curling around the edge of the parchment. “A week or so, Your Highness. It’s . . . not like the guards’ armor.”

  “I’ll pay for whatever materials and aid you need. Just let Akiva know how much it’ll cost and he’ll secure you the funds.” He nods to the guard, who is leaning against the post in the center of the room, absently rubbing his bad leg as he watches the armorer’s assistants hammer away at pieces of glowing metal.

  The armorer bows. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Akiva falls into step behind him as he exits the room, the scent of leather and smoke from the forge’s fire clinging to his fine tunic. The guard’s limp is more pronounced than usual, Tamriel notices as they stride down the labyrinthine halls.

  “Have you taken a day off since we returned from the Islands?”

  “No, Your Highness.”

  “It would do you well to rest.”

  “That’s what Healer Tabris said, but I won’t sit on my ass doing nothing while there are people here who would see you harmed.” He grimaces. “It’s just that damned storm making it sore.”

  “Please, take a day off already, Akiva,” Master Adan calls from the next hall. A moment later, he turns the corner, flipping through various letters and reports. He bows to Tamriel, then raises a brow at Akiva. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to steal my job.”

  Despite the teasing in the Master of the Guard’s voice, Akiva stiffens. “No, sir.”

  “Do you have news of Firesse and her troops?” Tamriel asks.

  “Our soldiers arrived in Fishers’ Cross only to find the entire town deserted. They said the elves had built pyres across the top of the bluff to burn the men they killed, and that there was so much ash along the shore that the water was more akin to sludge.”

  Tamriel suppresses a shudder at the words. How many of his people had died? How many of hers? “Where did the army go?”

  “We’re . . . not entirely sure. It appears the Cirisians have scattered across the fishing sector to wreak as much havoc as possible—burning houses and razing field
s of crops. Our soldiers are on their trail, though.”

  “Find them. Let me know when you have more information.”

  Tamriel and Akiva continue toward the great hall after Adan bows and excuses himself. When they arrive, Tamriel stops in the doorway, automatically searching for Mercy. He finds only disappointment. He shouldn’t be surprised—her temper is not likely to have cooled in the few hours she has been gone—but blind, sharp panic sweeps over him at the thought of her roaming the city streets where her would-be killers still lurk. Nynev and the others are watching over her, he knows, but they’d been caught unprepared before. It could happen again.

  I will not lose her to the nobles. I will not let them take her away from me.

  His earliest memories are of his father’s wailing cries echoing down the castle corridors, raw and ragged with grief. As a child, he had often tiptoed to Calum’s room and slipped between the silken sheets, burying his face in his cousin’s chest to muffle his terrified sobs as priceless porcelain shattered against the stone walls. His father had been a monster to him then, some two-faced creature out of a storybook—handsome king by day, a prowling, wailing, broken husk of a man by night. Love was a weakness. That’s what his father had been trying to teach him all those long, sleepless years. Love was that strange, foreign thing that had filled Ghyslain up so completely and left him so broken after it was ripped away—and, long ago, Tamriel had sworn he would not fare the same. He would not become his father.

  As he grew, those words became his mantra. They were the reason why in his adolescence, even as he charmed and danced with some of the noblemen’s pretty daughters at state functions and celebrations, he had never let the shields around his heart—those walls of glittering black eudorite—falter. When he turned fifteen and the noblemen began suggesting that they find him a fiancée, he’d shot down every princess and noblewoman they’d recommended. He’d seen the way Seren Pierce and Nerida had fallen into a slow but fierce love, and he’d been terrified he and his future wife would end up the same way—and that she’d be torn from him just like Liselle and his mother had been from the king. For years, he had kept everyone at arm’s length, everyone except Calum and the few friends he’d made among the councilmembers’ children.

  Until Mercy.

  She’d been different—so refreshingly, unabashedly, stunningly different from everyone else that the armor around his heart began to fracture, to crumble, whenever she was around. He’d finally found someone who shared his contempt of the nobles’ games. He’d found someone around whom he hadn’t needed to pretend to be the stoic, brooding son of the mad king, and he hadn’t realized until it was too late that he’d fallen for her. Those words, that mantra, all those years of practice pushing people away . . . they’d all failed him.

  And in return, he’d failed Mercy. He’d given in to all the fears, all the paranoia his father had tried to instill in him, and he’d let the courtiers’ threats blind him to what needs to be done to the snakes who call his city home.

  The realization had struck him the moment the library’s doors had slammed shut behind Mercy. As Nynev and the guards had chased her down the hall, he’d grabbed a piece of parchment from one of the side tables and begun designing a suit of armor for his beloved—something strong enough and beautiful enough that anyone who beholds her will see it for what it truly is: a love letter to Mercy, a thank-you for all she has done and an apology for all the ways he has wronged her, and a warning to the courtiers. He is finished masking his hatred of them behind a smile. He is finished watching them walk all over his father. He is finished letting them hurt the woman he loves.

  29

  Tamriel

  Someone roughly shakes him awake. His eyes flutter open to a pitch-black room and he bolts upright immediately, her name already on his lips. “Mercy—?”

  “No, it’s me,” Nynev whispers, her grip tightening on his shoulder. He blinks up at her, trying to make out the details of her face in the darkness. “It’s late. Or early. I don’t know. It’s my sister—I don’t know where she is.”

  He frowns, fighting against the heavy sleep still clouding his mind. “She’s not in the infirmary?”

  “Oh, is that where she would be? I should have thought to look there before I woke you.” She smacks his arm, hard. He hisses in pain and jerks back, bumping his shoulder against the headboard. Damn her Cirisian eyes, he thinks, scowling as he rubs his shoulder. “I already checked there, Your Royal Daftness. She’s not in the castle, and Atlas and the others were asleep whenever she left. I went to visit her around midnight, and she said she’d come to our room when she finished working with Lethandris on the translations. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Maybe they went to the Church.” Tamriel pushes off his blankets and reaches blindly for the boots he’d left beside his bed. When he finds them, he slips his feet inside. Before he even stands, Nynev pushes a cloak into his hands.

  “The guards in the great hall never saw them leave, which means they used the servants’ entrance. They wouldn’t have sneaked out unless they didn’t want anyone knowing where they’ve gone or what they’re doing.”

  “Take a deep breath, Nynev. We’ll find her. Just give me a moment to dress, then we’ll go.”

  She stalks into the hall, and he quickly changes into the pants and tunic he’d tossed aside when he’d crawled into bed late that night. He’d tried to wait up for Mercy, but he’d only made it five pages into the book he’d grabbed to distract himself from his worries before he’d suddenly found himself being shaken awake. He’s had too many sleepless nights and stressful days of late.

  When he steps into the hall, Nynev is pacing outside his door, her hands fluttering from the hunting knives sheathed at her hips to the bow slung across her back. She stops when she sees him. “Took you long enough.”

  “Do you want my help or don’t you?” Without waiting for a response, he tosses her a cloak he’d taken from his wardrobe and pulls his own around himself. “Come on.”

  As they pass Mercy’s bedroom door, he can’t keep himself from asking, “Did she come back?”

  The huntress shakes her head. “Cassia and the guards promised to keep an eye on her so I could check on Niamh. Since we learned about the attack in Sapphira, she’s been keeping to herself too much. She feels the nobles’ hatred of our people more acutely now than ever. I hope to the gods that they’re not somehow involved with her absence.”

  “She’s immortal, though. If someone did take her, he can’t hurt her, right?” he asks as they stride down the carriageway and through the castle gates, gravel crunching underfoot. He can see fairly well by the light of the moon and the few lampposts they pass, but he still allows Nynev, with her quick pace and strange Cirisian night-vision, to take the lead as they start toward Blackbriar. When they turn onto the next street and the massive manor appears before them, the white limestone seeming to glow in the moonlight, Nynev unsheathes one of her knives.

  “The nobles can hurt her; they just can’t kill her.” Her irises shine gold when she looks at him. “And I’m not sure she’d do anything to stop them if they tried.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She tried to kill herself more times than I care to remember after she realized what Firesse had done to her—what I let Firesse do to her the night she nearly died.” Nynev’s voice tightens, turning raw with guilt and fear, and Tamriel instantly regrets the question. “I’m terrified that if someone tries to hurt her for Firesse’s crimes, she’ll just sit there and take it. Her soul straddles the line between the realms of the living and the dead, and sometimes I think she wishes someone would find a way to tip her over the edge. That’s why I’ve been so protective of her. That’s why I agreed to come here with her. I love her too damn much to let her destroy herself.”

  When they reach Blackbriar, they wander along the front of the house, peering through the slats of the closed shutters and examining the front door for signs of forced entry. The inside is dar
k. The door and windows are untouched. A search of the back of the house yields no leads.

  “My mother’s house, then the Church,” Tamriel suggests as Nynev lets out a growl of frustration. The former isn’t very likely, but it’s on the way to the Church, rundown, and private.

  Ten minutes later, they search the dilapidated manor the same way and come up with nothing. The padlock the guards had placed on the front door after Calum’s attack is intact. The garden is so overgrown that they’d be able to see a clear path through the vegetation had anyone been desperate enough to break in as Calum had.

  Nynev slams a hand against the front door, rattling the padlock on its chain. “On to the Church?” she asks, clearly struggling to keep a rein on her temper. Without waiting for a response, she bounds down the steps and jogs down the street, stomping through a puddle in the process. Tamriel hurries after her, silently debating whether to try and calm her or to weather the storm. He settles on the latter. She’d likely bite his head off before he could get two words out.

  He stares through the gaps between the rooftops at the tall spires of the Church, just visible against the backdrop of the starry night sky, as he falls into step behind her. Creator save them all; she’ll tear the city apart brick by brick if they do not find her sister soon.

  When the groggy-faced High Priestess closes the door of the Church in their faces half an hour later—having informed them that Lethandris has not returned since she left that evening to work in the castle—Nynev kicks the door over and over and over again, spitting curses in Cirisian and the common tongue. When no response comes, her shoulders slump and she sinks to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I don’t know where she is,” she whispers, looking up at Tamriel with pure panic in her eyes. “I don’t know where they could have gone.”