The Rose Society
Page 82
“Do your work,” he says, and turns in the direction of the palace gates.
Teren cannot set foot inside the gates if he looks like himself. He has been banished by the queen, after all, and if he reveals himself too soon, the palace’s soldiers will stop him. So I weave an illusion over him, changing his nose and the tilt of his eyes, the lines of his jaw and the arc of his cheekbones. His eyes shift from ice to something dark and murky. His patrols look on as I transform their leader into a complete stranger. Their fear is directed at me, and I cherish it. It will be useful later.
I finish disguising Teren. “Well done, illusion worker,” he says to me. Magiano steps closer to me at Teren’s words, but Teren only smiles at him. “Don’t fear for her,” he goes on. “We are allies, remember?”
Magiano does not smile back.
We head toward the palace. Above us, a flash of lightning punctuates the darkening dawn. The closer we get, the stronger the tether pulls between me and wherever Enzo is. We must be drawing near to the Daggers too. The feeling makes me restless, impatient for us to move faster.
The Inquisitors at the main gate don’t stop us. Neither do those in the palace’s front courtyard, or those lining the palace’s main entrance. We fool guard after guard. I walk beside Violetta, our steps in sync, the illusion of white cloaks trailing behind us. Teren does not turn around, but his Inquisitors press close beside us, ready to stop us if we give the faintest sign of moving against him. I stare at his back, fantasizing that I could reach out and twist him, that I could let pain wash over him. The thought fuels my powers further. We make our way down long corridors and halls lined with windows from floor to ceiling. The storm clouds gathering outside have thickened now into blankets so that I can no longer see the sky through its gaps.
Finally, we reach the hall leading to the throne room. The number of Inquisitors here would not be able to stop us now. So I reach out for Teren’s disguise and slowly unravel it. The illusion of his dark, murky eyes gives way once again to his pale ones; his blond hair and cold, chiseled face return. The Inquisitors standing at the throne room’s door stiffen at the sight of him. I smile at their confusion. They must be wondering where Teren suddenly appeared from, and how he had gotten past all of the other soldiers in the palace.
Teren stops before them. “Stand aside,” he orders.
The guards hesitate for a moment longer. Teren had been the Lead Inquisitor for long enough that it is hard for them to break the habit of obeying him. But then one shakes his head nervously. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, standing as straight as he can and putting his hand on his sword’s hilt. “I don’t know how you got this far, but we’ll have to escort you out of the palace. The queen has ordered you—”
Teren doesn’t wait for him to finish. He draws his own sword, steps forward, and slashes it across the man’s throat. The man’s eyes bulge, and his jaw drops. The second guard starts to raise the alarm, but I lash out with my illusions. A thousand imaginary hooks dig into his flesh, yanking hard, and he collapses to the floor. Teren crouches down and stabs him before he can scream. The man convulses, gurgling, on the ground. I stand and watch, remembering the Inquisitors I’d sentenced to die on the ship.
Teren steps over the bodies, pushes open the throne room doors, and goes in.
The first person I see is Queen Giulietta.
I have only caught glimpses of her from afar, but I recognize her immediately because of her resemblance to Enzo. On this dark morning, she has shed her long silk robes and replaced them with traveling gear—a heavy cloak drapes from her shoulders, and the hood covers her head, revealing only a sliver of her dark locks and the glint of a thin crown. My eye goes to the balcony. The shadow of an enormous ray-like wing glides past, and I realize that baliras are circling the palace, waiting to take the queen and her personal Inquisition guard out of the palace. They are preparing to escort her out of dangerous territory.
Raffaele is out on the balcony. He has already boarded a balira, and several Inquisitors are climbing upon the creature’s back with him. His eyes dart to me—he is the only one in the room who I know realizes who we really are. I can feel the wave of fear surge from him, and a burst of anxiety. The other Daggers.
Where is Enzo? I search frantically. No. The bond is still too far away. He isn’t here.
Giulietta turns in our direction as Teren strides toward her, Inquisitors trailing in his wake. She focuses her eyes on us menacingly. “What is this?” she says. “Guards.” Even the tenor of her voice, rich and deep and mysterious, reminds me of Enzo’s.
A beat later, her eyes dart to the chamber doors. She catches sight of the dead guards’ blood pooling on the floor. Her stare shifts to me. A faint recognition sparks there. Even though she has never met me, she knows who I am—and I want to drink the trickle of fear that appears over her. “The White Wolf,” she murmurs.
Teren smiles a broken smile at her. “Hello, Your Majesty,” he replies. He stops before her and drops into a deep bow.
Giulietta frowns, then tenses. She glances at me again before turning her attention back to him. “You shouldn’t be here, Master Santoro.”
Teren seems unconcerned with her words. “I live to serve your crown,” he says. He glances behind her—his eyes, gleaming with hatred, settle on Raffaele. “But you turned me away, Your Majesty, and let these other abominations near you.”
Giulietta lifts her head. “You do not serve me by being here,” she snaps. She starts to move in the direction of the balcony, where one of the baliras has slowed its circling to hover outside. She glances at Raffaele. “See to it that your Daggers take care of this.”
Teren cannot set foot inside the gates if he looks like himself. He has been banished by the queen, after all, and if he reveals himself too soon, the palace’s soldiers will stop him. So I weave an illusion over him, changing his nose and the tilt of his eyes, the lines of his jaw and the arc of his cheekbones. His eyes shift from ice to something dark and murky. His patrols look on as I transform their leader into a complete stranger. Their fear is directed at me, and I cherish it. It will be useful later.
I finish disguising Teren. “Well done, illusion worker,” he says to me. Magiano steps closer to me at Teren’s words, but Teren only smiles at him. “Don’t fear for her,” he goes on. “We are allies, remember?”
Magiano does not smile back.
We head toward the palace. Above us, a flash of lightning punctuates the darkening dawn. The closer we get, the stronger the tether pulls between me and wherever Enzo is. We must be drawing near to the Daggers too. The feeling makes me restless, impatient for us to move faster.
The Inquisitors at the main gate don’t stop us. Neither do those in the palace’s front courtyard, or those lining the palace’s main entrance. We fool guard after guard. I walk beside Violetta, our steps in sync, the illusion of white cloaks trailing behind us. Teren does not turn around, but his Inquisitors press close beside us, ready to stop us if we give the faintest sign of moving against him. I stare at his back, fantasizing that I could reach out and twist him, that I could let pain wash over him. The thought fuels my powers further. We make our way down long corridors and halls lined with windows from floor to ceiling. The storm clouds gathering outside have thickened now into blankets so that I can no longer see the sky through its gaps.
Finally, we reach the hall leading to the throne room. The number of Inquisitors here would not be able to stop us now. So I reach out for Teren’s disguise and slowly unravel it. The illusion of his dark, murky eyes gives way once again to his pale ones; his blond hair and cold, chiseled face return. The Inquisitors standing at the throne room’s door stiffen at the sight of him. I smile at their confusion. They must be wondering where Teren suddenly appeared from, and how he had gotten past all of the other soldiers in the palace.
Teren stops before them. “Stand aside,” he orders.
The guards hesitate for a moment longer. Teren had been the Lead Inquisitor for long enough that it is hard for them to break the habit of obeying him. But then one shakes his head nervously. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, standing as straight as he can and putting his hand on his sword’s hilt. “I don’t know how you got this far, but we’ll have to escort you out of the palace. The queen has ordered you—”
Teren doesn’t wait for him to finish. He draws his own sword, steps forward, and slashes it across the man’s throat. The man’s eyes bulge, and his jaw drops. The second guard starts to raise the alarm, but I lash out with my illusions. A thousand imaginary hooks dig into his flesh, yanking hard, and he collapses to the floor. Teren crouches down and stabs him before he can scream. The man convulses, gurgling, on the ground. I stand and watch, remembering the Inquisitors I’d sentenced to die on the ship.
Teren steps over the bodies, pushes open the throne room doors, and goes in.
The first person I see is Queen Giulietta.
I have only caught glimpses of her from afar, but I recognize her immediately because of her resemblance to Enzo. On this dark morning, she has shed her long silk robes and replaced them with traveling gear—a heavy cloak drapes from her shoulders, and the hood covers her head, revealing only a sliver of her dark locks and the glint of a thin crown. My eye goes to the balcony. The shadow of an enormous ray-like wing glides past, and I realize that baliras are circling the palace, waiting to take the queen and her personal Inquisition guard out of the palace. They are preparing to escort her out of dangerous territory.
Raffaele is out on the balcony. He has already boarded a balira, and several Inquisitors are climbing upon the creature’s back with him. His eyes dart to me—he is the only one in the room who I know realizes who we really are. I can feel the wave of fear surge from him, and a burst of anxiety. The other Daggers.
Where is Enzo? I search frantically. No. The bond is still too far away. He isn’t here.
Giulietta turns in our direction as Teren strides toward her, Inquisitors trailing in his wake. She focuses her eyes on us menacingly. “What is this?” she says. “Guards.” Even the tenor of her voice, rich and deep and mysterious, reminds me of Enzo’s.
A beat later, her eyes dart to the chamber doors. She catches sight of the dead guards’ blood pooling on the floor. Her stare shifts to me. A faint recognition sparks there. Even though she has never met me, she knows who I am—and I want to drink the trickle of fear that appears over her. “The White Wolf,” she murmurs.
Teren smiles a broken smile at her. “Hello, Your Majesty,” he replies. He stops before her and drops into a deep bow.
Giulietta frowns, then tenses. She glances at me again before turning her attention back to him. “You shouldn’t be here, Master Santoro.”
Teren seems unconcerned with her words. “I live to serve your crown,” he says. He glances behind her—his eyes, gleaming with hatred, settle on Raffaele. “But you turned me away, Your Majesty, and let these other abominations near you.”
Giulietta lifts her head. “You do not serve me by being here,” she snaps. She starts to move in the direction of the balcony, where one of the baliras has slowed its circling to hover outside. She glances at Raffaele. “See to it that your Daggers take care of this.”
