The Young Elites
Page 16
For an instant, I dare to imagine myself up there on the balcony. The thought of such power leaves me trembling.
The announcer turns his attention back to the crowd. “Today, you will select from Estenzia the fastest riders to send to this summer’s Tournament of Storms. Three racers have been chosen from each of our city’s quarters. As tradition decrees, the top three racers from today’s roster of those twelve will continue on.” He grins widely, his teeth shining a brilliant white under his glittering half mask. He puts one hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. “Which quarter will come out on top?”
Here, the crowd’s enthusiasm erupts. They roar with the names of their quarters. Colored silks wave furiously through the air.
“I’m hearing the Red Quarter!” the announcer taunts, causing a fresh round of cheering as the other three quarters scream themselves hoarse. “Wait—now I’m hearing the Blue Quarter. But the Green Quarter has a strong crop of three-year-old colts this year, as does the Gold Quarter. Who will it be?” He waves his hands in a flourish. “Shall we see our riders?”
The crowd shrieks. I stay frozen in place. The Tournament of Storms. This is what Raffaele had been talking about earlier. This is why the Daggers are here—this is their mission. They are trying to get one of their own to qualify for the Tournament of Storms’ horse race, probably to get a shot at the king in a very public arena. My head feels fuzzy with the shock. And now I’ve alerted Teren to it.
Amid the chaos of cheers, the first three stallions parade out. Red Quarter citizens wave silks in the air, patting the horses’ sides as they trot through the masses and onto the track. I’m momentarily distracted. It takes only one look to know that these stallions have superior blood to the horses I remember from my father’s estate. These are Sunland purebreds, with perfectly arched necks and flared nostrils, their eyes still glowing with the wild temper that my horses had long ago lost. They toss their decorated manes adorned with red silks as their riders, similarly adorned, wave at their supporters.
Then, the Green Quarter’s riders and their steeds come trotting out. This is when I let out a small gasp.
One of the Green Quarter’s riders is Star Thief. The purple marking across her face is visible and prominent.
“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore, riding Master Aquino’s glorious stallion Keepsake!”
He goes on to list out the stallion’s past wins, but I’m no longer listening. In the midst of the roaring crowds, I realize that Gemma’s family must be a wealthy and powerful one, for a malfetto like her to be allowed to compete like this.
I should head back to the Fortunata Court, before they find me missing. But the spectacle is too much to resist, and my feet stay chained to the ground, my stare fixed on the girl I know as the Star Thief.
Gemma’s presence stirs a near riot in the crowd. I hear “Malfetto!” spat out in the air, mixing with a loud roar of boos, and when I take a good look at the crowd, I notice people who have put false markings on themselves, jeering and taunting Gemma with exaggerated purple patches painted on their own faces. One of them even flings rotten fruit at her. “Bastard child!” he screams, a cruel grimace twisting his face. Gemma ignores him, keeping her head high as her horse trots past. Other insults fly fast and thick.
A noble lady still gets insults like this? I bite my cheeks at the sharp twinge of anger that shoots through me—until I notice, with a start, that there are people defending her too. Loudly.
In fact, huge crowds of people are waving their flags in the air in her support, most from her Green Quarter, some even from the other quarters. I suck in my breath, and my anger changes to bewilderment—then to excitement. I look on in awe as Gemma nods in their direction. Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The tension between Gemma’s supporters and enemies crackles in the air, an early taste of potential civil war, and I take in a deep breath, as if to inhale the power it gives me. Not everyone hates malfettos, Enzo had said. My eye darts nervously to the Inquisitors, who look poised to act.
Gemma soaks in the attention. She tosses her dark hair and grins back at the spectators, focusing on the ones who shout out their support for her. Then she hops up onto her stallion’s back in one fluid motion. She balances there on both feet, nimble and petite, her arms crossed in satisfaction. Gemma waves, then jumps back down into a seated position. The entire time, her stallion stays perfectly calm. Of the competitors so far, she is the only malfetto.
The next two quarters’ competitors finally trot out, and the twelve organize themselves into a staggered line at one end of the track. The crowd’s roar is thunderous now. Gemma rubs her horse’s neck, and the stallion paws the ground in anticipation.
“Riders, prepare your horses!” the announcer calls out. The crowd’s roar dies down for a brief second as everyone hushes to watch the start.
The trumpeter lifts a bright yellow silk weighted down with a stone. He flings it skyward. “Go!” he screams.
The horses break. The crowd explodes.
A cloud of dust showers the track as the riders race their first lap around the track. I squint through the haze, then finally catch sight of Gemma’s green silks flying in the pack. She’s among the last half, but she wears a grin that could split her face.
First lap. A Red rider’s ahead, and Gemma is ninth. I find myself cheering for her silently.
All around me is screaming and shouting as each person calls out the names of their favorites. The chaos reminds me of my execution day, and with that, I feel darkness gathering within me. Raffaele had told me to watch the empty space, to look for threads of energy in the air.
The horses thunder around the bend and past me. Gemma has her head thrown back in a wild laugh, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a curtain. I focus on the space between her and the other riders. There’s the flicker of something shining in the corner of my eye. It vanishes when I try to look directly at it.
The horses storm down the track again, nearing the end of the second lap. Only one more lap to go. Gemma is still in ninth. Then suddenly, she makes her move—she pulls on her stallion’s mane, leans close to his neck, and whispers to him. At the same time, a gust of wind blows through the square. Windwalker. She must be watching from a vantage point.
Gemma starts moving up. Fast. Ninth to seventh, then seventh to sixth. Then fifth. Fifth to fourth, to third. The cheers of the Green Quarter’s onlookers turn fever pitched. My heart thuds furiously. With Windwalker’s help, and her own abilities, Gemma pulls gradually into second. I hold my breath. Concentrate. I stare hard at Gemma.
For a split second, I think I see threads glittering in the air, a thousand different colors, moving and shifting like strings on a loom.
The Red riders in first and third place try to block her, forcing her between them. But Gemma pushes harder—the two other riders’ horses toss their heads, startled, when dust kicks up near their hooves. Windwalker must’ve sent a curtain of wind to their legs, pushing them back.
A quarter of a lap to go. Gemma’s horse suddenly pulls ahead in a burst of speed—right into first place. The others try to catch her, but it’s too late. She crosses the finish line. The trumpeter flings the yellow silk in the air again, and shrieks fill the air. The Green Quarter is a sea of dancing silks.
She won.
I can’t resist a smile of relief, even as I pretend to be as subdued as the rest of the Blue Quarter I’m standing with. Perhaps all Teren can do with the information I gave him is to post more Inquisitors to the Tournament when it happens. Perhaps I didn’t affect the Daggers’ plans. All around the square are boos, furious shouts of “Disqualify her!” and “Malfetto,” accusations that she is one of the Young Elites. Still, no one can argue. We saw her win the race.
The trumpeter approaches Gemma, who is taking a bow from where she’s standing balanced on her stallion’s back, and hands her the weighted yellow silk with a ceremonial flourish. Even though he stays festive, I notice him avoid contact with her, jerking his hand away so that he can’t be dirtied by her touch. Gemma’s smile wavers, the first sign that she’s bothered by the treatment—but she still lifts her head high and masks her discomfort behind a widening grin. Then the trumpeter goes around to the other riders, handing each of them a length of green silk. The tradition is the same as it is in Dalia: The losing riders must wear the color of the winner’s quarters on their arms for the next three days, to show their good sport.
“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore!” the trumpeter shouts.
“Order! Order!” one of the Inquisitors calls out from where they’re fencing in the people, but only a few seem willing to listen to him. The Green Quarter in particular is a frenzy of color and sound. The other quarters murmur indignantly among themselves. I start pushing my way out of the crowd, the way I’d come. If the races are over, then I should head back before anyone notices I’m gone.
“Order, I say!” the Inquisitor barks out.
I halt where I am. More Inquisitors block the square’s exits, forcing me to stay put. One Inquisitor calls the trumpeter aside, says something to him that the crowd can’t hear—and then, to my surprise, calls two other Inquisitors over to force Gemma to dismount from her horse. The other riders hurriedly make their way off the track and into the crowd. The crowd stirs as one Inquisitor rides his steed into the middle of the square.
He holds his hands up for quiet. “Ladies and noblemen,” he begins, “I congratulate the Green District and their malfetto on her spectacular win.”
Gemma stands uncomfortably alone in the square, suddenly unhappy with all the attention. I have to get out of here. Now.
“However, I bring news from the palace. His Majesty has decreed that malfettos are no longer eligible for the Tournament of Storms.”
Immediately, the Red and Blue Districts cheer—while the Green erupts into angry shouts. Out in the square, Gemma remains on the track, uneasy and tense.
I swallow hard. A wave of guilt hits me. This is my doing.
The trumpeter exchanges a few more bewildered words with the Inquisitors. Then, he goes around to each of the other riders, collects their green sashes back, and hands them a red one instead, silently acknowledging the second place finisher’s win. The Green Quarter roars their fury. Already, scuffles are breaking out in the crowd.
My gaze stays on Gemma’s lone figure out in the square, bewildered and helpless, and for a moment I’m reminded of Violetta. The Inquisitors hold her there, as if they think she’d throw a fit. The trumpeter hands her a red sash. My hands grip the edges of my silks so tightly that I swear my nails are cutting open the skin of my palms. Threads of energy glitter in the air, signs of the crowd’s—of my own—rising fear. My fingertips tingle, humming with the growing power. Through the masses, my father’s ghost appears and disappears. He glides through the people, his haunting smile fixated on me.
Gemma’s cheeks burn with shame. The crowd falls into complete silence. One of the Inquisitors holding her now wraps the red sash around her upper right arm. She bites her lip, keeping her eyes turned downward. The Inquisitor winds it three times, then yanks it viciously tight. Gemma gasps out loud and winces.
“Sir Barra of the Red Quarter!” the trumpeter calls out, as the new winner holds his arms up. Gemma’s eyes stay down. Get out of there, I suddenly think at her, wishing she could hear me. A million threads hang over the square.
Suddenly, someone in the crowd hurls a rock at the Inquisitor’s head.
The Inquisitor blocks it with his sword before it can reach him, and it clatters off the metal and falls harmlessly to the ground. His eyes search the crowd for his attacker, but all he sees is a sea of stricken faces, suddenly silent and pale. I tense along with the crowd. In Dalia, attacking an Inquisitor is punishable by death.
The Inquisitor nods at his companions. Gemma lets out a cry of protest as they force her to her knees. The crowd gasps. Even the troublemakers, the ones who had insulted Gemma so freely earlier, now look uncertain. To my shame, excitement instead of horror wells up in my chest, and my fingertips tingle. My darkness is a building storm, black as the sky, the threads wound tight with tension and filling every crevice of my mind. The Daggers must be preparing to make a move. They must be ready to save her. Right? Raffaele said that Gemma’s powers scatter when she’s frightened.
“Perhaps we need a harsher reminder for this audience,” the Inquisitor snaps, “on the etiquette of good sport.” He presses his sword against her neck hard enough to draw blood.
Where are you, Enzo?
I can’t hold back any longer. I have to do something. Before I can stop myself, I reach out with my mind and pull on the strings of energy inside me. The ease hits me with a thrill. There is so much tension to feed on here—so much unease and ugliness, such dark feelings. Raffaele’s words flash through my thoughts. I focus, gathering all my concentration on the specific threads I’m pulling, knowing what I want to make. The threads push back, protesting the change, but I force them to bend to my will.
Up on the roofs, shadowy silhouettes rise.
Sweat beads on my forehead, but I force myself to keep my focus. I struggle to hold on to the threads, but there are so many of them. Clenching my teeth, I force the shape of the silhouettes to change. And for the first time—they listen to me. The silhouettes take on the shapes of Daggers, their dark hoods and silver masks intact, crouching by the dozens on the rooftops like silent sentinels, black against the stormy sky. I hold them all in position there. My breaths turn ragged. I feel like I’ve been running for hours. Some of the silhouettes quiver, barely able to retain their shape. Hold on. They stabilize. I catch my breath at how real they look.
The announcer turns his attention back to the crowd. “Today, you will select from Estenzia the fastest riders to send to this summer’s Tournament of Storms. Three racers have been chosen from each of our city’s quarters. As tradition decrees, the top three racers from today’s roster of those twelve will continue on.” He grins widely, his teeth shining a brilliant white under his glittering half mask. He puts one hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. “Which quarter will come out on top?”
Here, the crowd’s enthusiasm erupts. They roar with the names of their quarters. Colored silks wave furiously through the air.
“I’m hearing the Red Quarter!” the announcer taunts, causing a fresh round of cheering as the other three quarters scream themselves hoarse. “Wait—now I’m hearing the Blue Quarter. But the Green Quarter has a strong crop of three-year-old colts this year, as does the Gold Quarter. Who will it be?” He waves his hands in a flourish. “Shall we see our riders?”
The crowd shrieks. I stay frozen in place. The Tournament of Storms. This is what Raffaele had been talking about earlier. This is why the Daggers are here—this is their mission. They are trying to get one of their own to qualify for the Tournament of Storms’ horse race, probably to get a shot at the king in a very public arena. My head feels fuzzy with the shock. And now I’ve alerted Teren to it.
Amid the chaos of cheers, the first three stallions parade out. Red Quarter citizens wave silks in the air, patting the horses’ sides as they trot through the masses and onto the track. I’m momentarily distracted. It takes only one look to know that these stallions have superior blood to the horses I remember from my father’s estate. These are Sunland purebreds, with perfectly arched necks and flared nostrils, their eyes still glowing with the wild temper that my horses had long ago lost. They toss their decorated manes adorned with red silks as their riders, similarly adorned, wave at their supporters.
Then, the Green Quarter’s riders and their steeds come trotting out. This is when I let out a small gasp.
One of the Green Quarter’s riders is Star Thief. The purple marking across her face is visible and prominent.
“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore, riding Master Aquino’s glorious stallion Keepsake!”
He goes on to list out the stallion’s past wins, but I’m no longer listening. In the midst of the roaring crowds, I realize that Gemma’s family must be a wealthy and powerful one, for a malfetto like her to be allowed to compete like this.
I should head back to the Fortunata Court, before they find me missing. But the spectacle is too much to resist, and my feet stay chained to the ground, my stare fixed on the girl I know as the Star Thief.
Gemma’s presence stirs a near riot in the crowd. I hear “Malfetto!” spat out in the air, mixing with a loud roar of boos, and when I take a good look at the crowd, I notice people who have put false markings on themselves, jeering and taunting Gemma with exaggerated purple patches painted on their own faces. One of them even flings rotten fruit at her. “Bastard child!” he screams, a cruel grimace twisting his face. Gemma ignores him, keeping her head high as her horse trots past. Other insults fly fast and thick.
A noble lady still gets insults like this? I bite my cheeks at the sharp twinge of anger that shoots through me—until I notice, with a start, that there are people defending her too. Loudly.
In fact, huge crowds of people are waving their flags in the air in her support, most from her Green Quarter, some even from the other quarters. I suck in my breath, and my anger changes to bewilderment—then to excitement. I look on in awe as Gemma nods in their direction. Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The tension between Gemma’s supporters and enemies crackles in the air, an early taste of potential civil war, and I take in a deep breath, as if to inhale the power it gives me. Not everyone hates malfettos, Enzo had said. My eye darts nervously to the Inquisitors, who look poised to act.
Gemma soaks in the attention. She tosses her dark hair and grins back at the spectators, focusing on the ones who shout out their support for her. Then she hops up onto her stallion’s back in one fluid motion. She balances there on both feet, nimble and petite, her arms crossed in satisfaction. Gemma waves, then jumps back down into a seated position. The entire time, her stallion stays perfectly calm. Of the competitors so far, she is the only malfetto.
The next two quarters’ competitors finally trot out, and the twelve organize themselves into a staggered line at one end of the track. The crowd’s roar is thunderous now. Gemma rubs her horse’s neck, and the stallion paws the ground in anticipation.
“Riders, prepare your horses!” the announcer calls out. The crowd’s roar dies down for a brief second as everyone hushes to watch the start.
The trumpeter lifts a bright yellow silk weighted down with a stone. He flings it skyward. “Go!” he screams.
The horses break. The crowd explodes.
A cloud of dust showers the track as the riders race their first lap around the track. I squint through the haze, then finally catch sight of Gemma’s green silks flying in the pack. She’s among the last half, but she wears a grin that could split her face.
First lap. A Red rider’s ahead, and Gemma is ninth. I find myself cheering for her silently.
All around me is screaming and shouting as each person calls out the names of their favorites. The chaos reminds me of my execution day, and with that, I feel darkness gathering within me. Raffaele had told me to watch the empty space, to look for threads of energy in the air.
The horses thunder around the bend and past me. Gemma has her head thrown back in a wild laugh, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a curtain. I focus on the space between her and the other riders. There’s the flicker of something shining in the corner of my eye. It vanishes when I try to look directly at it.
The horses storm down the track again, nearing the end of the second lap. Only one more lap to go. Gemma is still in ninth. Then suddenly, she makes her move—she pulls on her stallion’s mane, leans close to his neck, and whispers to him. At the same time, a gust of wind blows through the square. Windwalker. She must be watching from a vantage point.
Gemma starts moving up. Fast. Ninth to seventh, then seventh to sixth. Then fifth. Fifth to fourth, to third. The cheers of the Green Quarter’s onlookers turn fever pitched. My heart thuds furiously. With Windwalker’s help, and her own abilities, Gemma pulls gradually into second. I hold my breath. Concentrate. I stare hard at Gemma.
For a split second, I think I see threads glittering in the air, a thousand different colors, moving and shifting like strings on a loom.
The Red riders in first and third place try to block her, forcing her between them. But Gemma pushes harder—the two other riders’ horses toss their heads, startled, when dust kicks up near their hooves. Windwalker must’ve sent a curtain of wind to their legs, pushing them back.
A quarter of a lap to go. Gemma’s horse suddenly pulls ahead in a burst of speed—right into first place. The others try to catch her, but it’s too late. She crosses the finish line. The trumpeter flings the yellow silk in the air again, and shrieks fill the air. The Green Quarter is a sea of dancing silks.
She won.
I can’t resist a smile of relief, even as I pretend to be as subdued as the rest of the Blue Quarter I’m standing with. Perhaps all Teren can do with the information I gave him is to post more Inquisitors to the Tournament when it happens. Perhaps I didn’t affect the Daggers’ plans. All around the square are boos, furious shouts of “Disqualify her!” and “Malfetto,” accusations that she is one of the Young Elites. Still, no one can argue. We saw her win the race.
The trumpeter approaches Gemma, who is taking a bow from where she’s standing balanced on her stallion’s back, and hands her the weighted yellow silk with a ceremonial flourish. Even though he stays festive, I notice him avoid contact with her, jerking his hand away so that he can’t be dirtied by her touch. Gemma’s smile wavers, the first sign that she’s bothered by the treatment—but she still lifts her head high and masks her discomfort behind a widening grin. Then the trumpeter goes around to the other riders, handing each of them a length of green silk. The tradition is the same as it is in Dalia: The losing riders must wear the color of the winner’s quarters on their arms for the next three days, to show their good sport.
“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore!” the trumpeter shouts.
“Order! Order!” one of the Inquisitors calls out from where they’re fencing in the people, but only a few seem willing to listen to him. The Green Quarter in particular is a frenzy of color and sound. The other quarters murmur indignantly among themselves. I start pushing my way out of the crowd, the way I’d come. If the races are over, then I should head back before anyone notices I’m gone.
“Order, I say!” the Inquisitor barks out.
I halt where I am. More Inquisitors block the square’s exits, forcing me to stay put. One Inquisitor calls the trumpeter aside, says something to him that the crowd can’t hear—and then, to my surprise, calls two other Inquisitors over to force Gemma to dismount from her horse. The other riders hurriedly make their way off the track and into the crowd. The crowd stirs as one Inquisitor rides his steed into the middle of the square.
He holds his hands up for quiet. “Ladies and noblemen,” he begins, “I congratulate the Green District and their malfetto on her spectacular win.”
Gemma stands uncomfortably alone in the square, suddenly unhappy with all the attention. I have to get out of here. Now.
“However, I bring news from the palace. His Majesty has decreed that malfettos are no longer eligible for the Tournament of Storms.”
Immediately, the Red and Blue Districts cheer—while the Green erupts into angry shouts. Out in the square, Gemma remains on the track, uneasy and tense.
I swallow hard. A wave of guilt hits me. This is my doing.
The trumpeter exchanges a few more bewildered words with the Inquisitors. Then, he goes around to each of the other riders, collects their green sashes back, and hands them a red one instead, silently acknowledging the second place finisher’s win. The Green Quarter roars their fury. Already, scuffles are breaking out in the crowd.
My gaze stays on Gemma’s lone figure out in the square, bewildered and helpless, and for a moment I’m reminded of Violetta. The Inquisitors hold her there, as if they think she’d throw a fit. The trumpeter hands her a red sash. My hands grip the edges of my silks so tightly that I swear my nails are cutting open the skin of my palms. Threads of energy glitter in the air, signs of the crowd’s—of my own—rising fear. My fingertips tingle, humming with the growing power. Through the masses, my father’s ghost appears and disappears. He glides through the people, his haunting smile fixated on me.
Gemma’s cheeks burn with shame. The crowd falls into complete silence. One of the Inquisitors holding her now wraps the red sash around her upper right arm. She bites her lip, keeping her eyes turned downward. The Inquisitor winds it three times, then yanks it viciously tight. Gemma gasps out loud and winces.
“Sir Barra of the Red Quarter!” the trumpeter calls out, as the new winner holds his arms up. Gemma’s eyes stay down. Get out of there, I suddenly think at her, wishing she could hear me. A million threads hang over the square.
Suddenly, someone in the crowd hurls a rock at the Inquisitor’s head.
The Inquisitor blocks it with his sword before it can reach him, and it clatters off the metal and falls harmlessly to the ground. His eyes search the crowd for his attacker, but all he sees is a sea of stricken faces, suddenly silent and pale. I tense along with the crowd. In Dalia, attacking an Inquisitor is punishable by death.
The Inquisitor nods at his companions. Gemma lets out a cry of protest as they force her to her knees. The crowd gasps. Even the troublemakers, the ones who had insulted Gemma so freely earlier, now look uncertain. To my shame, excitement instead of horror wells up in my chest, and my fingertips tingle. My darkness is a building storm, black as the sky, the threads wound tight with tension and filling every crevice of my mind. The Daggers must be preparing to make a move. They must be ready to save her. Right? Raffaele said that Gemma’s powers scatter when she’s frightened.
“Perhaps we need a harsher reminder for this audience,” the Inquisitor snaps, “on the etiquette of good sport.” He presses his sword against her neck hard enough to draw blood.
Where are you, Enzo?
I can’t hold back any longer. I have to do something. Before I can stop myself, I reach out with my mind and pull on the strings of energy inside me. The ease hits me with a thrill. There is so much tension to feed on here—so much unease and ugliness, such dark feelings. Raffaele’s words flash through my thoughts. I focus, gathering all my concentration on the specific threads I’m pulling, knowing what I want to make. The threads push back, protesting the change, but I force them to bend to my will.
Up on the roofs, shadowy silhouettes rise.
Sweat beads on my forehead, but I force myself to keep my focus. I struggle to hold on to the threads, but there are so many of them. Clenching my teeth, I force the shape of the silhouettes to change. And for the first time—they listen to me. The silhouettes take on the shapes of Daggers, their dark hoods and silver masks intact, crouching by the dozens on the rooftops like silent sentinels, black against the stormy sky. I hold them all in position there. My breaths turn ragged. I feel like I’ve been running for hours. Some of the silhouettes quiver, barely able to retain their shape. Hold on. They stabilize. I catch my breath at how real they look.
