A Born Assassin Series Books 0.5-3
Jacqueline Pawl
Also by Jacqueline Pawl
Defying Vesuvius
A BORN ASSASSIN SERIES
Nameless (prequel novella)
Helpless (prequel novella)
Merciless
Heartless
Ruthless
Fearless
Copyright © 2019 by Jacqueline Pawl
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
A Note for Readers
Helpless (Book 0.5)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Merciless (Book 1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Heartless (Book 2)
1. Mercy
2. Tamriel
3. Mercy
4. Calum
5. Mercy
6. Tamriel
7. Mercy
8. Mercy
9. Calum
10. Tamriel
11. Mercy
12. Calum
13. Mercy
14. Tamriel
15. Mercy
16. Mercy
17. Calum
18. Mercy
19. Calum
20. Mercy
21. Calum
22. Calum
23. Tamriel
24. Mercy
25. Mercy
26. Tamriel
27. Mercy
28. Calum
29. Mercy
30. Mercy
31. Calum
32. Calum
33. Mercy
34. Tamriel
35. Calum
36. Tamriel
37. Mercy
38. Mercy
39. Calum
40. Mercy
41. Mercy
42. Calum
43. Tamriel
44. Mercy
45. Calum
Ruthless (Book 3)
1. Mercy
2. Mercy
3. Calum
4. Tamriel
5. Mercy
6. Tamriel
7. Tamriel
8. Calum
9. Tamriel
10. Mercy
11. Mercy
12. Calum
13. Tamriel
14. Tamriel
15. Calum
16. Calum
17. Mercy
18. Tamriel
19. Mercy
20. Mercy
21. Tamriel
22. Mercy
23. Calum
24. Mercy
25. Tamriel
26. Mercy
27. Calum
28. Tamriel
29. Tamriel
30. Mercy
31. Calum
32. Calum
33. Tamriel
34. Mercy
35. Mercy
36. Calum
37. Calum
38. Tamriel
39. Mercy
40. Tamriel
41. Calum
42. Mercy
43. Tamriel
44. Niamh
45. Calum
46. Tamriel
47. Mercy
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A Note for Readers
The books in this volume are organized in chronological order. Helpless, Ghyslain’s prequel novella, takes place twenty years before the events of Merciless, the first book in the Born Assassin saga, and delves into many of the secondary characters in the main series.
Start with the novella if you want to learn more about King Ghyslain and the events leading up to Mercy’s arrival at the Guild.
If you want to dive straight into the main story, you can start with Merciless and read Helpless anytime during the series.
Happy reading!
~ Jacqueline
Helpless (Book 0.5)
1
Ghyslain’s crown sits low on his brow, the smooth, overly-polished gold rim digging into his forehead. The metal stinks of the floral oil one of the castle slaves had used to clean it, a cloying perfumey stench which does nothing but magnify the headache pounding behind his eyes. He half believes the pretentious thing will snap his neck if he turns his head too quickly; the ornate work of gold, rubies, sapphires, and onyx is massive compared to his father’s much more practical silver diadem, but Ghyslain hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of seeing it, let alone wearing it. One day soon, he’ll be expected to wear it, just . . . not yet.
“Your Highness, have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Hm? No. What?”
Pierce LeClair rolls his eyes. He is only a few years older than Ghyslain, having just turned twenty-two, but his narrow face and thinning brown hair make him look nearly a decade older. He’s nothing more than a steward—despite his father’s position as treasurer, his family holds no noble title—but he has been one of Ghyslain’s closest friends since childhood. Pierce pushes away from the long table in the middle of the council chamber and clasps his hands in front of him as he strides to Ghyslain’s side.
“The king’s funeral begins in less than an hour.” The clicking of his footsteps stops, and he leans forward to peer at the prince. “Although you rather look like the one being sent to your grave.”
“I know.” Ghyslain rubs his face wearily. Not for the first time, the smoothness of his cheeks surprises; he hadn’t bothered to shave in days, until his queen mother had cornered him earlier that morning, wielding a straight razor the way a warrior would his sword. He had fought her at first—why should he care about something as trivial as facial hair when his entire world is collapsing around him?—but he had finally given in when he had seen the desperation in his mother’s eyes. She had needed to do something, needed to move, needed to be needed, so he had dismissed his servants, sat down at the vanity table in his bedroom, and allow
ed his mother to shave him. He hadn’t said a word when her shaky hand had slipped and cut his cheek.
Pierce sighs. “Will you take that ridiculous thing off now? It pains me just to watch you try to hold it up.”
“With pleasure,” Ghyslain says gratefully. Pierce helps him remove the crown and return it to the velvet pillow sitting on the table. The gemstones inlaid in the gold sparkle in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Thank you.” He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the dark curls to hide the line that the rim of the crown had imprinted. “Tell me, does anyone care that I don’t actually want the damn thing? We’d be better off melting it down and using the funds to feed the people of Beggars’ End.”
“Your Highness—my friend—the king’s funeral at the Church begins in an hour, and you are expected to ride in the carriage beside Her Majesty . . . looking slightly more lively than you do right now. Your coronation will take place immediately afterward, in the throne room. You remember all this, don’t you? I’m not wasting my breath?”
Ghyslain nods, taking a deep breath. “I do. But Pierce . . . how am I supposed to just stand there and watch them put my father into the ground? I’m not ready to say goodbye.” He winces. Simply admitting the words causes him to flush with embarrassment. His father had raised him to be strong, but the gaping void his absence has left in Ghyslain’s life has left him feeling off-kilter.
Pierce sinks into the chair beside him and grabs Ghyslain’s hands, forcing the prince to meet his gaze. “Your people mourn for your father. He was a great king. You must allow them to say farewell before he is laid to rest—I think it will be good for you, too. Today more than ever, the Myrellis family must appear strong—you must appear strong.” He rises and waves to the guards standing beside the doors, who pull them open for him. He pauses on the threshold and glances back. “Have no fear, Your Highness. I know you will make an excellent king.”
As his friend’s footsteps fade down the hallway, Ghyslain leans forward in his chair, shooting another disgusted look at the crown. “I suppose I can’t delay this any longer, can I?” he murmurs. He stands and leaves the room, ordering the guards to return the crown to the throne room on his way out.
The halls of Myrellis Castle are tall and bathed in warm light from torches burning in sconces every few yards. The dancing flames leave smears of dark soot on the gray stone walls. Elven slaves dart from room to room with brooms, feather dusters, platters of food and drink, and various other objects as they struggle to keep the castle from falling to complete disarray; the king’s sudden death has left the country in chaos, and nowhere is it more obvious than his home. Every day, nobles arrive from across Beltharos to pay respect to King Alaric’s legacy, quickly filling the castle’s guest rooms with their family and staff. Courtiers and advisors flit from meeting to meeting to arrange everything for the funeral and coronation, and many of the guards are working double or triple shifts to keep the peace with the massive influx of visitors to the capital.
Today is no different. Men and women in suits of armor rush past Ghyslain with a murmured “Your Highness” and a quick bow. Elves in black linen shifts scrub the floors and walls, their white slave sashes stark against their dark mourning clothes. The courtiers Ghyslain passes are the worst: they pause in their conversations and watch him until he is out of earshot, offering him the same wordless sympathies they had since the day his father had collapsed from a heart attack outside his study, dead before he had hit the floor. Ghyslain gives them a curt nod as he marches past, his eyes trained steadfastly on the dark red wood door at the end of the hall. With so many pitying gazes on him, it feels as if a million years pass before his hand closes around the iron doorknob to his bedchambers.
“G-Good morning, Your Highness,” Jett, the taller of the two, blurts when Ghyslain enters. “Her Majesty has sent a special shipment from the tailors. You are to dress and meet her downstairs immediately, she said.” He gestures to the clothes laid out on the bed: a cloth-of-gold doublet with black embroidery and tiny rubies inlaid on the buttons, black fitted pants, and a crimson cloak with a gold brooch embossed with his family’s crest. Ghyslain pales at the sight. These aren’t the lightweight silks and crepes and linens of summertime. These aren’t the clothes of a prince; they’re the clothes of a king.
Dear Creator, please let me be as great a ruler as my father was.
“And, um, if you wouldn’t mind . . .” the other—Orson—begins hesitantly, waving to the vanity. Several silver containers of creams and powders are lined up meticulously in front of the polished metal mirror. My mother sent me makeup, Ghyslain thinks sullenly, but he nods anyway. His people will never respect him as their leader if they can read the pain on his face.
Ghyslain sighs. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
2
Sitting ramrod straight in the uncomfortable pews of the Church an hour later, Ghyslain doesn’t hear a single word of his father’s funeral service. He had done as his mother asked and dressed, smeared on the various creams and powders Orson had given him, and climbed into the large carriage awaiting him and Queen Guinevere at the front of the funeral procession. They had ridden through the city at a snail’s pace, the black horse drawn-carriage which contained King Alaric’s body making slow progress through the hundreds of thousands of people who had swarmed the streets. A few people had hung out of the open second-story windows of their houses or shops and thrown brightly-colored flowers, small toys and trinkets, and coins bearing the king’s profile onto the carriage.
During their procession through the ancient city’s winding streets, Ghyslain had scanned his people’s faces in the crowd, searching for . . . something. He hadn’t been quite sure for what he was looking. Perhaps something more than the bottomless void he feels inside, the numbness which has plagued him since the moment he found his father lying lifeless outside his study. With the shouts of the crowd and the intermittent plink plink plink of coins against the top of the carriage carrying the king’s body filling the air, it had taken longer than Ghyslain cares to admit for him to realize his mother had been silently sobbing on the carriage bench beside him. It was the first time he had seen her cry since they had learned of the king’s death. That terrible day, she had simply shut down. She had locked herself in their bedchambers and refused food, water, even the company of her only son. The next morning, she had joined him in the dining hall for their daily breakfast together, back to her usual self except for the missing spark of life in her eyes.
As their carriage had clattered and rocked along the cobbled streets to the Church, Ghyslain had taken his mother’s hand in his, and she had squeezed it so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Her lace-trimmed handkerchief had been soaked through with tears. When someone on the street had shouted, “Creator’s peace be with King Alaric!” Queen Guinevere had let out a choked sob and thrown her arms around Ghyslain’s neck, burying her face in his shoulder.
Eventually, they had arrived at the Church of the Creator, where the coffin was carried in by several high-ranking soldiers. The High Priestess had opened the coffin, anointed the king’s body with the holy oils, and said some words to which Ghyslain hadn’t pretended to listen. He’d been too busy staring at his father. Before that day, he had had the luxury of never having seen a dead body, and he had been assured by the embalmers that it would simply look as if his father were sleeping.
King Alaric doesn’t look like he is sleeping. He looks . . . dead.
He looks like a corpse.
Where is the man who had taken Ghyslain on his knee when he was young to read stories together beside the massive, roaring fireplace in the royal library? Ghyslain still remembers his father’s beard tickling his head when he spoke, the way the firelight reflected in his dark eyes which crinkled in the corners when he smiled. He had grown up listening to the deep rumble of his father’s voice, breathing in the spicy herbal scent which clung to the king’s clothes after smoking Rivosan
pipes with his ambassadors.