Heartless (A Born Assassin Book 2) by Jacqueline Pawl

Author:Jacqueline Pawl [Pawl, Jacqueline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-05-21T16:00:00+00:00

They leave the camp an hour later, walking in a long line behind Firesse. Kaius takes up the rear with a cautious hand on his bow, scanning the trees for the mysterious intruder. Anyone without a weapon carries either a pack or a child. The children who are old enough to walk on their own carry the folded, sun-bleached tents, giggling when one of them trips and spills the white canvas in the dirt. Semris half-heartedly chastises the boy. He seems too excited about Ialathan to put much bite behind the reprimand.

Mercy, Tamriel, Calum, and the guards walk in the middle of the group, carrying their few belongings and packs full of presents for the Firsts of the other clans—jewelry, clothing, weapons, bits and baubles seized from the soldiers’ outpost and the battlefield. With Mercy, Tamriel, and Calum bestowing the gifts, the other Firsts will be more welcoming of the humans into their celebration, according to Firesse. Calum had joked behind her back that she’d made all that up simply to force them to carry everything. Mercy begrudgingly admits that it’s good to see Calum’s sense of humor returning. She wants him to revert to his usual self, the smart-mouthed, charming young man he’d been at Kismoro Keep, not the terrified boy she had come to pity.

It makes it so much harder to hate him.

When they reach the eastern border of the island, a half-dozen wooden canoes wait for them on the shore. Beyond them, the next island sits across the water, a mess of tall trees and hanging vines and exposed roots. Halfway across the beach, gaping at them like an open mouth, the vegetation has been cut away to form a trail to what Mercy assumes is the heart of the island, where Ialathan will be held tonight.

Tamriel sits beside Mercy in the canoe, gripping her hand tightly. His expression is a mix of eagerness and caution, anxiousness and curiosity. His foot taps on the bottom of the canoe until one of the Cirisians shoots him an annoyed look. He stills.

When their canoe strikes the sandy shore of the next island, Tamriel’s eyes meet Mercy’s, bright with hope. He mouths, So close, and grins.

Firesse leads them along the trail at a quick pace. The ground here is mostly dirt, the grass worn away by use, and the trail is nearly as wide as a road. They walk for a few hours under the hot sun, stopping once in a while to pass around canteens of water, dried fruits, and strips of meat. Then they trek some more, until the forest falls away and they emerge into a huge valley, white canvas tents dotting the landscape. Everywhere Mercy looks, there are elves—tall, short, young, old. They cluster together and talk or sing songs in their ancient language, greeting each other with hugs and cries of joy. Based on the patterns of their tattoos, there must be four or five different clans gathered here, hundreds of elves milling about in celebration.

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