Born Assassin Saga Box Set Page 3

  He clasps his hands behind his back and bows. “High Priestess.”

  A tiny slip of a girl—a priestess a few years younger than Ghyslain, donning similar garb to the High Priestess—trails after Ilissia, the massive crown sitting on the velvet pillow in her hands. Her arms tremble slightly under the weight. Tucked in the crook of her elbow is a copy of the Book of the Creator. Ilissia takes it from the girl and holds it out in front of her, the gold imprint of the Creator’s holy eye shimmering on the leather cover.

  “We gather on this, the fifth day of Harvestfall in the Year of the Creator 1306, to witness the coronation of Prince Ghyslain Myrellis, soon to be the twenty-third monarch of Beltharos and the fifteenth of the Myrellis name.” Her voice rings out across the room, clear as a bell. Her eyes sweep across the crowd. “Will you, the people of Beltharos, accept this man as your sovereign under the eye of the Creator from this day unto his last?”

  A cheer rises from the crowd. Ghyslain tries to listen for Elisora and Pierce, but the shouts are too jumbled to make out distinct voices. After a few moments, the High Priestess raises a hand and silence falls once more.

  Ilissia’s gaze meets his. She smiles. “Kneel and place your hands upon the Book of the Creator, Your Highness, that you may swear your oath to your country and your people.”

  He swallows painfully and obeys. The leather cover of the Book is smooth and well worn, but the Creator’s unblinking eye is as bright and shiny as a newly minted coin.

  “Ghyslain Myrellis, do you swear to govern your subjects fairly in accordance with the laws of Beltharos?”

  Dear Creator, please don’t let my nerves show. “I swear I shall.”

  “Do you promise to protect, guide, and provide for the people of your kingdom, in times of prosperity and in times of adversity, to the best of your ability for as long as you are able?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you uphold the values of the Church of the Creator and to your power ensure justice and mercy be executed in all your judgments?”

  “I will.”

  The High Priestess hands the Book to the priestess and reaches into her pocket for a vial of shimmering silver oil. She recites a prayer from the Book of the Creator as she breaks the seal and dips a finger inside. Ghyslain closes his eyes, and she swipes her fingertip across his left lid, then his right, then, finally, she draws the holy eye symbol of the Creator on his forehead. “Open your eyes,” she says when she finishes.

  He does, blinking quickly when some of the oil drips from his lashes and stings his eyes. Over the High Priestess’s shoulder, he sees his mother wipe the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her gown.

  “Alexia, the crown, please.”

  The priestess scuttles forward and extends the velvet pillow to the High Priestess. Ilissia lifts the crown from the pillow and holds it over Ghyslain’s head. The gemstones cast flecks of colored light across her dark skin. “By my power as most holy servant and hand of the Great Creator, I crown this man King Ghyslain Myrellis, fifteenth of his line and twenty-third sovereign of Beltharos. May your reign be prosperous, your life long and joyful, and your country the better because of it.”

  The second she sets the crown upon his head, the crowd roars, “LONG LIVE KING GHYSLAIN!”

  Ghyslain jumps, nearly knocking the damn thing right off his head. Ilissia grins at him as the younger priestess, Alexia, stifles a giggle.

  “Rise and greet your people as their king,” Ilissia shouts over the cacophony.

  He does as she says and, despite the grief weighing heavily upon his heart, he can’t help but laugh with incredulity. Hundreds upon hundreds of people had come to the castle to see him crowned king, while thousands more had gathered outside the castle walls. They’re celebrating me. His mother disappears into the hallway through which Ilissia and Alexia had come earlier, then returns a moment later with a thick black cloak. Almost every inch of the fabric is covered in gold, red, and midnight blue thread. The Myrellis family crest is proudly emblazoned across the back.

  “Your father would be so proud,” Queen Guinevere murmurs as she replaces Ghyslain’s cloak with the new one. She glances at the sky through the enormous wall of windows behind the throne. “Creator willing, he’s watching us right now.”

  Just as she says it, a bright beam of sunlight breaks through the clouds and illuminates the room. The gold of Ghyslain’s crown glows in the light.

  “See?” his mother says, shielding her eyes. “His grin is so wide we can see it from here.”

  He takes his mother’s hand. “He would be proud of you, too, Mother. You’ve done well without him.”

  “I’ve done my best.” She pulls her hand from his and gestures to the rest of the room. “Go, now, Ghyslain. Celebrate with your subjects.”

  The second after he descends the steps from the platform, Elisora breaks through the clamoring crowd and throws her arms around his neck, laughing. She kisses his cheek. “I told you that you’d do fine.”

  Still stung by her earlier dismissal, Ghyslain backs out of her embrace under the guise of straightening his cloak. The hurt which flashes through her eyes pains him, but she quickly blinks it away. “I might’ve looked confident up there, but you should have heard my thoughts. I was praying to the Creator the whole time to keep me from doing something foolish.”

  “You didn’t need it. You were magnificent.”

  “Thank you, Elisora.”

  “I sent Liselle to fetch us drinks from the great hall,” Elisora says, frowning as she cranes her neck to see over the sea of faces. “Ah, there she is.” A thin young woman makes her way through the crowd toward them, her white slave sash draped across the bodice of her simple lavender gown. Her black curly hair is pulled into a high updo which leaves the pointed tips of her elven ears exposed. When she reaches them, she hands Elisora and Ghyslain each a flute of sparkling wine.

  She curtsies to Ghyslain. “Congratulations on your coronation, Your Majesty,” she says stiffly, as if the words are being forced out of her. When she straightens, she offers him a perfunctory smile, then looks away.

  “I’m sorry, do you have a problem with me?” he asks.

  “No, not at all.”

  Ghyslain frowns. “You know, you look familiar. Have we met?”

  “At our betrothal celebration last year,” Elisora cuts in. “She had been working the kitchens, but my father gifted her to me on my sixteenth birthday. She’s my most trusted handmaid now.”

  “I see. Well, she is certainly lucky to have as gracious and lovely an owner as yourself.”

  “Your Majesty, you flatter me.” Elisora holds up her glass in a toast. “To a long and prosperous reign—”

  “With you at my side,” Ghyslain finishes. They clink their glasses and sip.

  “Mmph.” Elisora makes a face and hands her drink to Liselle. “I don’t care for this. Find me something else—an ale or a red wine.”

  “But you hardly even sipped—”

  “Liselle—”

  “Yes, my lady.” Liselle curtsies again and slips into the crowd.

  Ghyslain frowns. “I thought you like—”

  “I just needed to distract her. My father wants me to sell her,” Elisora interrupts, “but I don’t think I can bring myself to do it. We’ve developed something of a friendship, you know? It’s hard not to when I spend so much time with her. That, plus I don’t think she’d fetch a fair price.”

  “Why not?” When a group of his father’s councilmembers tries to wave Ghyslain over, he grabs Elisora’s elbow and steers her to the corner of the room, out of sight of most of the nobles vying for his attention.

  “She’s trouble, or so my father thinks. He says she’s too outspoken with her opinions. She’s popular among the slaves in my household, too, which brings its own problems. He’s worried she’ll organize some sort of revolt against us in the middle of the night and escape to freedom.”

  He raises his brows. “Truly?”

  “It’s mo
stly him being paranoid, but . . . there could be something to it, I fear. She’s . . . not like most. She’s pretty—for an elf—and she’s smart enough to know how to use that to her advantage.” She sighs. “I’d hate to lose her. After a year and a half together, she knows exactly how to serve me. Sometimes I needn’t even speak—it’s like she can read my mind. It would be a waste to start all over again with a new slave, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I’m sorry she was short with you. I’ll speak to her about respect, but I’m not sure it will do much good. You know how the elves chafe against their chains from time to time.”

  Ghyslain dismisses her with a wave of a hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. She can be a little rough around the edges, but I assume that’s because she comes from Beggars’ End. From what little I was able to glean from her, her family still lives there, and she sends what little money she makes seamstressing on the side back to them.”

  He steps closer and brushes a kiss to her temple. “Put it out of your mind. Today’s a day of celebration, haven’t you heard?” He takes her hand and twirls her around so quickly she lets out a surprised yelp. He pulls her close and rests his forehead against hers, staring deeply into her mesmerizing blue eyes. “As much as I’d like to remain here with you, I’m afraid I must see to the rest of my subjects. Pierce will get jealous.”

  She laughs. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, I’m fairly certain that would be embarrassing for every party involved.” He glances to the back of the room. Two guards hold the doors wide open, and the celebration has begun to spill out into the great hall, where the slaves have prepared banquet tables of food and drink. “The band will arrive soon. Save me a dance?”

  “If you’re not too busy with all the pretty little noblemen’s daughters fighting for your attention.”

  “Please,” he scoffs. “My heart belongs to you, my dear. No one could ever change that.”

  5

  As the afternoon drags into the evening, Ghyslain is stopped by noble after noble after noble, all wishing him the same congratulations and the same hopes for a long reign and the same condolences, and on and on and on until the words become nothing but a jumble in Ghyslain’s head, a constant onslaught of meaningless noise. His head aches where the metal rim of the crown bites into his forehead. His neck protests every time he turns his head too quickly and the weighty, ridiculous thing nearly tumbles to the ground. It’s nothing short of a miracle when Pierce suddenly appears before him and clamps a hand around his wrist, excusing him from the dull conversation a half dozen Rivosi dignitaries had roped him into half an hour ago.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he hisses as he drags him across the great hall.

  “Really? You couldn’t spot this thing from a mile away?” Ghyslain gestures to the crown. “Perhaps they should have made it larger. And heavier.”

  “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

  “Extremely. I’m also charming, and dashing, and funny, and whatever other adjectives the nobles have tossed around tonight. Oh—don’t forget devastatingly handsome,” he adds as they pass a group of young women who blush and smile demurely at him. He waves, and they giggle. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Anywhere that these nobles aren’t is good enough for me.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Pierce steers him through the sea of bodies, and when they pass through the doorway leading from the great hall into an empty corridor, the temperature drops ten degrees. Ghyslain takes what feels like his first full breath all night and removes the crown from his head. He tucks it under one arm as he fixes his hair with the other. “How bad does it look?”

  “A bit as if you’ve been wearing an extremely heavy bagel atop your head for the past few hours.” Pierce traces the line the crown had imprinted into Ghyslain’s hair with a finger. When Ghyslain sticks his tongue out at him, he claps a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Now, that’s not a very kingly response, is it?”

  “It is when I’m speaking to a fool.”

  “Don’t forget said fool just saved you from a night of listening to ass-kissing courtiers and fawning young women.”

  “Why would I object to the women?”

  Pierce rolls his eyes. “Because your woman is in there, you dolt.” He points to a doorway farther down the hall. The sounds of laughter and partying leak through the closed doors, muffled by the wood. “Drake managed to sneak into the kitchen and swipe some stronger spirits than your sparkling wine. He and the others slipped out for their own celebration as soon as they could.” Pierce leads him down the hall and raps on the heavy redwood door. There’s a bump and a muffled curse, then the door swings open to reveal a slightly disheveled, remarkably inebriated Drake Zendais.

  “Took you long enough,” he says to Pierce. He peers out into the hallway, then opens the door wider for them. “Thought it might’ve been my father coming to chastise me as he so frequently does, but that would have been too predictable, don’t you think? Every so often, he has to change it up a little, find something besides my drinking to pick on.” He closes the door behind them, chuckling to himself.

  Elisora, lounging on the velvet settee in the center of the room, rolls her eyes at her brother. “If you don’t want him to criticize you, might I suggest you stop doing things of which he disapproves?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Haven’t you a newborn at home? What does your wife think of you partying so often?”

  “Eydis has the slaves for help. I’m worthless when it comes to children.”

  “And everything else,” Elisora mutters under her breath. “Ghyslain, my dear, have a drink. Relax.” She points to a platter containing a crystal decanter of whiskey and several matching glasses on the table beside her. “You’d better have some before your future brother-in-law drinks it all.”

  “I haven’t drunk that much,” Drake objects.

  “I highly doubt that,” Ghyslain says. He nods to the lit candelabrum on the desk beside the platter. “Don’t step too close to those candles or you’ll go up in flames.”

  “You’ll be reduced to ash before we can do anything to help you,” Elisora adds. “We’ll be sure to give Eydis our sympathies at your funeral.”

  “Oh, lighten up, all of you.” Drake takes the crown from Ghyslain and places it on the desk. Then he drapes an arm around Ghyslain’s shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. “What better way is there to celebrate a coronation than to get obnoxiously, magnificently drunk?”

  Pierce pours a glass of whiskey and hands it to Ghyslain. He raises a brow. “The man’s got a point.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Ghyslain agrees. He tosses back the drink, coughing a bit when it burns the back of his throat, but . . . it’s a good burn—surprisingly enjoyable. Pierce refills his glass when he holds it out.

  “A king who knows how to party,” Drake declares, nodding approvingly. “I like you.”

  “Watch it, brother.” Elisora rises from the couch and slips an arm around Ghyslain’s waist, tugging him close. He buries his face in her neck, breathing in the clean scent of her perfume. “He’s mine.”

  “Want some, Oliver?” Pierce asks, startling Ghyslain. Despite Oliver being the largest man in the room—he’s only in his early twenties, but Oliver towers over most of the men in the guard—Ghyslain hadn’t spotted him until then. The guard is standing in the corner of the room, smirking as he watches Drake drink and slur his words.

  “When did you get here?”

  “I was the one who caught Drake raiding the kitchen.” He shrugs his wide shoulders. “I figured someone ought to make sure he doesn’t drink himself into a stupor.”

  “Oh, but I’m so very good at it.” Drake attempts to perch on the back of the couch, but he misjudges the width and loses his balance. He tumbles over the back, bounces off the cushions, and lands in a heap on the floor between the couc
h and the coffee table. “You see?” he asks, his words muffled by the rug. “Imagine trying to do that while sober.”

  Elisora rolls her eyes, while Ghyslain, Pierce, and Oliver chuckle.

  “Anyhow, I don’t know how you aren’t drunk twenty-four hours a day, Oliver.” Drake stands and flops onto the couch. “If I had a face as ugly as that, I’d be drinking my body weight in liquor each morning.”

  “Don’t be rude!” Elisora crosses the room and places a hand on Oliver’s arm. “I think he’s very handsome.”

  “I think you’d better keep an eye on your betrothed, Your Majesty,” Pierce says. “Seems she’s got a fondness for the guard.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Never could resist a man in a uniform,” she teases. She reaches up and traces the puckered scar which runs along Oliver’s jaw. Then she lifts into her toes—even with the extra few inches, Oliver must bend down for her to reach—and presses a kiss to his mess of a nose, broken and reset so many times that even he has lost count. “He received these injuries in service to King Alaric. How can you fault him for that?”

  At the mention of the late king, they fall into a mournful silence until Drake groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Way to ruin a party, sis.”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .” she trails off and looks at Ghyslain helplessly. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right,” Ghyslain assures her. When no one speaks, he glances around the room. “Seriously. Today’s a day of celebration, isn’t it? Well, my mother is going to track me down eventually, so I say let’s not waste another minute feeling sad.”

  “Hear, hear!” Pierce clinks glasses with Ghyslain and Elisora, then throws his head back and downs his drink in one gulp. He coughs and sputters. “By the Creator, Zendais, how do you drink this stuff?”

  “I’ll give you a hint, my friend: most people don’t drink it for the taste. You know—the ends justify the means, that sort of thing.”

  “If the end you seek is liver disease and an early grave, you’re well on your way.” Elisora frowns, then gives up and giggles when Drake raises his arm and makes a rude gesture. “Now, that’s not very gentlemanly, especially in front of a king.”