The Young Elites
Page 25
I reach my chamber, lock my door, release the illusion, and crouch against the foot of my bed. Here, I finally unleash my emotions. Tears run down my face. So much for thinking that I can tell them everything. Time passes. Minutes, an hour. Who knows? The moonlight shifts its slant through my windows. I am back again in my childhood bedchamber, running away from my father. I am back against the railings of my old home’s stairway, listening to my father sell me to his guest. Or maybe I’m listening to Dante denouncing me before Enzo. They’re talking about me. They are always talking about me. I have made a full circle and I have not escaped my fate at all.
My father’s ghost appears through the wall beside me. He kneels before me and cups my face in his hands. I can almost feel the whisper of his touch, the cold shiver of death. He smiles. Don’t you see, Adelina? he says gently. Don’t you see how I have always looked out for you? Everything I’ve ever taught you is true. Who will ever love a malfetto like you?
I clutch my head and squeeze my eye shut. Enzo is not like them. He believed in me. He took me in and stood up for me. I recall the way he had danced with me at the Spring Moons, the way he protected me from Teren. All our days training together, the gentleness in his kiss, his affectionate laugh. I repeat this to myself until the words blur together into something unrecognizable.
But did he really do those things for you? my father whispers. Or for himself?
I have no idea how late the night has turned. For all I know, dawn could be arriving soon. Or perhaps only a few minutes have passed. All I know is that, as the time drags on, the true part of me is slowly but surely giving way to something bitter. What was once sadness is making way for anger. The darkness creeps in. Exhausted, I welcome it.
I rise from my crouch. My feet move toward the door. I head out into the hallway again, but this time I don’t go in the direction of the others. My feet point instead toward the opposite path, the one that leads me out of the court, into the streets, and down to the canals.
Toward the Inquisition Tower.
Teren Santoro
The lights in the palace burn low tonight. Teren makes his way down the empty halls, tracing a very familiar path. His boots echo faintly against the floors, but he steps lightly, and the sound is almost imperceptible. At the end of the hall is the king’s private bedchambers. But guards are always posted outside of the doors. Teren takes a detour instead, wandering down a narrower hall and pushing through an invisible panel in the wall that will take him directly into the bedroom.
The secret door swings open without a sound. Teren’s eyes go immediately to the bed. By the light of the moons, he can see the king’s snoring figure rising and falling under the blankets. Beside him, Queen Giulietta sits upright in bed. She so rarely visits the king’s chambers that the sight of her in here feels foreign to Teren. She meets his eyes and motions him closer.
The smell of wine is a pungent cloud around the king.
Teren steps closer. He gives the queen a questioning look.
She stares at him levelly in return.
Teren removes a knife tucked at his waist. It is an unusual weapon—so small and thin that it looks like something a doctor would use in surgery. He hoists it in one hand. With his other hand, he produces a heavy wooden mallet from within his cloaks.
Teren learned this as a child, when his father lay on his deathbed and he stood by, crying, while a doctor put his dying father out of his misery. It had been quick and painless. Most important, it had been free of blood or obvious wounds. When the Inquisition buried his father, it was as if he simply died in his sleep, his body intact and seemingly untouched.
Now, Teren positions the needlelike knife over the inside corner of the king’s right eye. He hoists the wooden mallet over the end of the knife, then pulls the mallet back. Giulietta watches him in silence.
Giulietta is the rightful ruler of Kenettra. The gods ordained it by marking Prince Enzo, cursing him as a malfetto. The gods gave Kenettra this weak king, the Duke of Estenzia, a nobleman not even of the royal bloodline. But Giulietta is pure. She should rule Kenettra. With Adelina’s help, Teren will destroy the Young Elites. And with Giulietta’s support, they will rid the entire country of malfettos. Teren smiles at the thought. Tonight, Giulietta will cry out for her guards and tell them the king has stopped breathing beside her. They will pronounce the king dead of natural causes, of excessive wine or of heart attack. And tonight, Teren will begin a true purge of the city’s malfettos.
He gathers his strength. Then he slams the mallet down on the knife’s handle. The knife strikes true. The body goes rigid, twitching. Then, gradually, the movements fade.
The king is dead. Long live the queen.
To love is to be afraid. You are frightened, deathly terrified, that something will happen to those you love. Think of the possibilities. Does your heart clench with each thought? That, my friend, is love. And love enslaves us all, for you cannot have love without fear.
—A Private Thesis on the Romancing of Three Kings, by Baroness Sammarco
Adelina Amouteru
I haven’t been out in Estenzia often enough to know, but I would have guessed that at such a late hour, the city would be quieter. No such luck tonight. The streets are teeming with Inquisition guards. In fact, I can’t turn a single corner without seeing a patrol making its way down the street. Their presence forces me to slow down. Something has happened. What is going on?
I pass through the shadows, my silver mask tucked neatly under my arm. I cloak myself in an illusion of invisibility, but the act exhausts me quickly, allowing me to do it only for a few moments at a time. I pause frequently in dark alleys to gather my strength. Invisibility is hard, as hard as disguising myself as another person. With each step, my surroundings change, and I have to shift my illusion to change with it. If I don’t shift quickly or accurately enough, I look like a ripple moving through air. The consequence of invisibility, therefore, is constant concentration, to the point where I can barely remember what my real self looks like. At least it’s nighttime. A more forgiving hour.
I hide again as more Inquisition patrols hurry past. Somewhere distant in the night, a few shouts go up. I listen intently. At first, I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then, moments later, the words become clear.
“The king is dead!”
The distant cry freezes me in place. The king . . . is dead?
A moment later, another voice joins in, repeating the phrase. Then another. Among them, I hear another phrase. Long live the queen!
The king is dead. Long live the queen. I steady myself against the wall. Did the Daggers make their move tonight? No, they wouldn’t have. They didn’t plan for it. The king had died before they could get to him.
What happened?
Teren, a whisper in my head suggests. But that doesn’t seem right. Why would he want the king dead?
Without risking a gondola ride, it takes me a full hour before I can even sight the Inquisition Axis’s tower looming in the distance. Beyond it lies the palace—and if I’m not mistaken, the clusters of Inquisitors seem to be heading in that general direction.
By the time I’m in the same square as the tower, a cold sheen of sweat has broken out on my brow. I stop in the shadows of a nearby shop, then let down my invisibility illusion, remove my mask for a moment, and take a deep breath. This is easily the longest I’ve ever held an illusion in place, and the result is a wave of dizziness that leaves me swaying in place. When I was nine, I went into my father’s study and ripped apart a letter he had been writing to a local doctor, asking advice on medicines to subdue my temper. My father found out what I’d done, of course. He told Violetta to lock me in my bedchamber for three days without food or water. When Violetta found me nearly unconscious at the end of the second day, she begged him to release me. He did. Then he smiled and asked me if I’d enjoyed the rush of thirst and hunger. If it had woken anything in me.
The dizziness I felt back then, leaning against my locked door and shouting myself hoarse for my sister to release me, is not unlike how I feel now. The memory gives me some strength, though. After a few minutes, I swallow and straighten myself. My gaze focuses on the tower.
A short walkway leads from the main square up to the tower’s looming doors, and Inquisitors line this path. A large, round lantern hangs at the tower’s entrance, illuminating the door’s dark wood. I start to cover myself up again—then stop. Why should I drain my energy now? If I get to the door successfully with an invisibility illusion, I will still need to pull it open in order to enter. No way for me to disguise that.
So, instead, I walk up to the guards. The memory of the last time I did this, in a city gone wild with the qualifying races, comes back to me.
Two of them immediately draw their swords. I force myself to stare straight back at them. “I’m here to see Master Santoro,” I reply. “He asked for me personally.”
A flicker of doubt appears on one of the men’s faces at the mention of Teren’s name. My energy stirs at the emotion, strengthening. I frown at them. This time, I take advantage of their obvious unease. From my cloak, I produce the silver mask. “I have information for him on the Young Elites.” My voice is surprisingly smooth. “Do you really want to risk turning me away?”
The guard’s eyes widen in recognition at the sight of the mask, and my energy strengthens again as I feel myself winning control over this soldier, forcing him to do something against his will.
Finally, the first Inquisitor gestures for two of the others to seize me. “Let her in.” Then he growls at me. “You’ll wait until he returns.”
Teren’s not in the tower tonight. Their hands on my arms remind me of my execution day in Dalia. As they lead me away, I look over my shoulder as more Inquisitors run by on the streets. The energy of fear seems high tonight. It pulses through me, stimulating my senses.
We step inside the tower. They usher me into a small chamber branching off from the main hall, and here they seat me on the floor. Then they surround me in a circle, each of their spears pointed straight at me. Outside the door, more wait. I stare back at them, determined not to show them any hint of emotion. The dungeons should be somewhere below us, if this tower is anything like the one I was once kept in. Where is Teren keeping Violetta . . . if he has her at all?
I don’t know how long I’m in here, counting the minutes away. The Inquisitors stay unmoving. Is this what they go through in training—standing motionless for hours at a time? I can sense their unease around me, a persistent, underlying emotion that peeks through from the stern, unfeeling shell they try to pull over it. I smile at them. Their fear grows. My excitement grows with it.
Suddenly, from outside the windows comes the sound of shattering glass. Then, screams. I turn in the direction of the sound. The guards all hoist their swords at my movement, but I continue to look toward the windows. The sound of running feet, hundreds of them, then more voices, then chaos. A faint glow of yellow and orange flickers against the windows’ dark glass. The king’s death. Is this related? Do the Daggers know what happened? Does Enzo know I’ve run away yet?
The door bursts open. A new Inquisitor comes hurrying in, then whispers something in the ear of the closest guard. I try in vain to catch what he’s saying. Outside, more shouts and shrieks ring out in the night.
And then I hear it—a familiar voice from down the hall. My head jerks in its direction. Teren has returned.
He strides into my room, a swagger in his step, his head held high, and a cold smile on his lips. He pauses at the sight of me. I suck my breath in sharply. Suddenly my entire mission—all my powers—seem to pale in his presence.
“You came,” he finally says, stopping before me. “It’s about time. I was sure I’d have to kill you tonight.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You saved me the trouble.”
“I hear the king has died,” I whisper.
Teren bows his head once, but his words are stripped of empathy. “A sudden illness. We are all in mourning.”
I shiver. Are you, Teren? His matter-of-fact answer is confirmation enough that the Daggers weren’t the ones responsible. But just because the Daggers didn’t assassinate the king . . . doesn’t mean he wasn’t assassinated. A sudden illness sounds suspicious.
“You promised me my sister,” I say, my eye focused on his bloody cloak. “And her safety.” For a moment, I consider using my powers on him. But then what? All I can create are illusions. I can’t hurt him. Not even Enzo can hurt him.
“My word is as good as yours,” he replies, eyeing me pointedly. “But it may not be good for long.”
Whatever it is that Teren has ordered done to the city tonight, it has brought with it a cloud of terror. I study him, sensing the swirling darkness in his heart, the madness glinting in his eyes.
Collect yourself. Concentrate. I steel my heart, sharpening my fear into a razor-sharp blade. “Take me to my sister. Or I’ll tell you nothing.”
Teren tilts his head. “Demanding, aren’t we?” His eyes narrow. “Something has happened to you since the last time we crossed paths.”
In my chest, my alignment with ambition surges. “Are you interested in capturing the Young Elites, or not?”
My answer coaxes a single laugh out of him. His smile wavers for a moment, diminishing his madness, and he gives me a more serious look. “What made you turn your back on them?”
I withdraw. I don’t want to revisit what I heard. “Isn’t it enough that you threatened my sister’s life? That you threw me against a wall?”
His eyes pulse with curiosity. “There’s more.”
The heat of Enzo’s kiss springs unbidden to my mind, the way his eyes had softened at the sight of me, the way he’d pushed me against the wall . . . the conversation between him and Dante. I push the emotion away and shake my head at Teren. “Let me see my sister first,” I repeat.
My father’s ghost appears through the wall beside me. He kneels before me and cups my face in his hands. I can almost feel the whisper of his touch, the cold shiver of death. He smiles. Don’t you see, Adelina? he says gently. Don’t you see how I have always looked out for you? Everything I’ve ever taught you is true. Who will ever love a malfetto like you?
I clutch my head and squeeze my eye shut. Enzo is not like them. He believed in me. He took me in and stood up for me. I recall the way he had danced with me at the Spring Moons, the way he protected me from Teren. All our days training together, the gentleness in his kiss, his affectionate laugh. I repeat this to myself until the words blur together into something unrecognizable.
But did he really do those things for you? my father whispers. Or for himself?
I have no idea how late the night has turned. For all I know, dawn could be arriving soon. Or perhaps only a few minutes have passed. All I know is that, as the time drags on, the true part of me is slowly but surely giving way to something bitter. What was once sadness is making way for anger. The darkness creeps in. Exhausted, I welcome it.
I rise from my crouch. My feet move toward the door. I head out into the hallway again, but this time I don’t go in the direction of the others. My feet point instead toward the opposite path, the one that leads me out of the court, into the streets, and down to the canals.
Toward the Inquisition Tower.
Teren Santoro
The lights in the palace burn low tonight. Teren makes his way down the empty halls, tracing a very familiar path. His boots echo faintly against the floors, but he steps lightly, and the sound is almost imperceptible. At the end of the hall is the king’s private bedchambers. But guards are always posted outside of the doors. Teren takes a detour instead, wandering down a narrower hall and pushing through an invisible panel in the wall that will take him directly into the bedroom.
The secret door swings open without a sound. Teren’s eyes go immediately to the bed. By the light of the moons, he can see the king’s snoring figure rising and falling under the blankets. Beside him, Queen Giulietta sits upright in bed. She so rarely visits the king’s chambers that the sight of her in here feels foreign to Teren. She meets his eyes and motions him closer.
The smell of wine is a pungent cloud around the king.
Teren steps closer. He gives the queen a questioning look.
She stares at him levelly in return.
Teren removes a knife tucked at his waist. It is an unusual weapon—so small and thin that it looks like something a doctor would use in surgery. He hoists it in one hand. With his other hand, he produces a heavy wooden mallet from within his cloaks.
Teren learned this as a child, when his father lay on his deathbed and he stood by, crying, while a doctor put his dying father out of his misery. It had been quick and painless. Most important, it had been free of blood or obvious wounds. When the Inquisition buried his father, it was as if he simply died in his sleep, his body intact and seemingly untouched.
Now, Teren positions the needlelike knife over the inside corner of the king’s right eye. He hoists the wooden mallet over the end of the knife, then pulls the mallet back. Giulietta watches him in silence.
Giulietta is the rightful ruler of Kenettra. The gods ordained it by marking Prince Enzo, cursing him as a malfetto. The gods gave Kenettra this weak king, the Duke of Estenzia, a nobleman not even of the royal bloodline. But Giulietta is pure. She should rule Kenettra. With Adelina’s help, Teren will destroy the Young Elites. And with Giulietta’s support, they will rid the entire country of malfettos. Teren smiles at the thought. Tonight, Giulietta will cry out for her guards and tell them the king has stopped breathing beside her. They will pronounce the king dead of natural causes, of excessive wine or of heart attack. And tonight, Teren will begin a true purge of the city’s malfettos.
He gathers his strength. Then he slams the mallet down on the knife’s handle. The knife strikes true. The body goes rigid, twitching. Then, gradually, the movements fade.
The king is dead. Long live the queen.
To love is to be afraid. You are frightened, deathly terrified, that something will happen to those you love. Think of the possibilities. Does your heart clench with each thought? That, my friend, is love. And love enslaves us all, for you cannot have love without fear.
—A Private Thesis on the Romancing of Three Kings, by Baroness Sammarco
Adelina Amouteru
I haven’t been out in Estenzia often enough to know, but I would have guessed that at such a late hour, the city would be quieter. No such luck tonight. The streets are teeming with Inquisition guards. In fact, I can’t turn a single corner without seeing a patrol making its way down the street. Their presence forces me to slow down. Something has happened. What is going on?
I pass through the shadows, my silver mask tucked neatly under my arm. I cloak myself in an illusion of invisibility, but the act exhausts me quickly, allowing me to do it only for a few moments at a time. I pause frequently in dark alleys to gather my strength. Invisibility is hard, as hard as disguising myself as another person. With each step, my surroundings change, and I have to shift my illusion to change with it. If I don’t shift quickly or accurately enough, I look like a ripple moving through air. The consequence of invisibility, therefore, is constant concentration, to the point where I can barely remember what my real self looks like. At least it’s nighttime. A more forgiving hour.
I hide again as more Inquisition patrols hurry past. Somewhere distant in the night, a few shouts go up. I listen intently. At first, I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then, moments later, the words become clear.
“The king is dead!”
The distant cry freezes me in place. The king . . . is dead?
A moment later, another voice joins in, repeating the phrase. Then another. Among them, I hear another phrase. Long live the queen!
The king is dead. Long live the queen. I steady myself against the wall. Did the Daggers make their move tonight? No, they wouldn’t have. They didn’t plan for it. The king had died before they could get to him.
What happened?
Teren, a whisper in my head suggests. But that doesn’t seem right. Why would he want the king dead?
Without risking a gondola ride, it takes me a full hour before I can even sight the Inquisition Axis’s tower looming in the distance. Beyond it lies the palace—and if I’m not mistaken, the clusters of Inquisitors seem to be heading in that general direction.
By the time I’m in the same square as the tower, a cold sheen of sweat has broken out on my brow. I stop in the shadows of a nearby shop, then let down my invisibility illusion, remove my mask for a moment, and take a deep breath. This is easily the longest I’ve ever held an illusion in place, and the result is a wave of dizziness that leaves me swaying in place. When I was nine, I went into my father’s study and ripped apart a letter he had been writing to a local doctor, asking advice on medicines to subdue my temper. My father found out what I’d done, of course. He told Violetta to lock me in my bedchamber for three days without food or water. When Violetta found me nearly unconscious at the end of the second day, she begged him to release me. He did. Then he smiled and asked me if I’d enjoyed the rush of thirst and hunger. If it had woken anything in me.
The dizziness I felt back then, leaning against my locked door and shouting myself hoarse for my sister to release me, is not unlike how I feel now. The memory gives me some strength, though. After a few minutes, I swallow and straighten myself. My gaze focuses on the tower.
A short walkway leads from the main square up to the tower’s looming doors, and Inquisitors line this path. A large, round lantern hangs at the tower’s entrance, illuminating the door’s dark wood. I start to cover myself up again—then stop. Why should I drain my energy now? If I get to the door successfully with an invisibility illusion, I will still need to pull it open in order to enter. No way for me to disguise that.
So, instead, I walk up to the guards. The memory of the last time I did this, in a city gone wild with the qualifying races, comes back to me.
Two of them immediately draw their swords. I force myself to stare straight back at them. “I’m here to see Master Santoro,” I reply. “He asked for me personally.”
A flicker of doubt appears on one of the men’s faces at the mention of Teren’s name. My energy stirs at the emotion, strengthening. I frown at them. This time, I take advantage of their obvious unease. From my cloak, I produce the silver mask. “I have information for him on the Young Elites.” My voice is surprisingly smooth. “Do you really want to risk turning me away?”
The guard’s eyes widen in recognition at the sight of the mask, and my energy strengthens again as I feel myself winning control over this soldier, forcing him to do something against his will.
Finally, the first Inquisitor gestures for two of the others to seize me. “Let her in.” Then he growls at me. “You’ll wait until he returns.”
Teren’s not in the tower tonight. Their hands on my arms remind me of my execution day in Dalia. As they lead me away, I look over my shoulder as more Inquisitors run by on the streets. The energy of fear seems high tonight. It pulses through me, stimulating my senses.
We step inside the tower. They usher me into a small chamber branching off from the main hall, and here they seat me on the floor. Then they surround me in a circle, each of their spears pointed straight at me. Outside the door, more wait. I stare back at them, determined not to show them any hint of emotion. The dungeons should be somewhere below us, if this tower is anything like the one I was once kept in. Where is Teren keeping Violetta . . . if he has her at all?
I don’t know how long I’m in here, counting the minutes away. The Inquisitors stay unmoving. Is this what they go through in training—standing motionless for hours at a time? I can sense their unease around me, a persistent, underlying emotion that peeks through from the stern, unfeeling shell they try to pull over it. I smile at them. Their fear grows. My excitement grows with it.
Suddenly, from outside the windows comes the sound of shattering glass. Then, screams. I turn in the direction of the sound. The guards all hoist their swords at my movement, but I continue to look toward the windows. The sound of running feet, hundreds of them, then more voices, then chaos. A faint glow of yellow and orange flickers against the windows’ dark glass. The king’s death. Is this related? Do the Daggers know what happened? Does Enzo know I’ve run away yet?
The door bursts open. A new Inquisitor comes hurrying in, then whispers something in the ear of the closest guard. I try in vain to catch what he’s saying. Outside, more shouts and shrieks ring out in the night.
And then I hear it—a familiar voice from down the hall. My head jerks in its direction. Teren has returned.
He strides into my room, a swagger in his step, his head held high, and a cold smile on his lips. He pauses at the sight of me. I suck my breath in sharply. Suddenly my entire mission—all my powers—seem to pale in his presence.
“You came,” he finally says, stopping before me. “It’s about time. I was sure I’d have to kill you tonight.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You saved me the trouble.”
“I hear the king has died,” I whisper.
Teren bows his head once, but his words are stripped of empathy. “A sudden illness. We are all in mourning.”
I shiver. Are you, Teren? His matter-of-fact answer is confirmation enough that the Daggers weren’t the ones responsible. But just because the Daggers didn’t assassinate the king . . . doesn’t mean he wasn’t assassinated. A sudden illness sounds suspicious.
“You promised me my sister,” I say, my eye focused on his bloody cloak. “And her safety.” For a moment, I consider using my powers on him. But then what? All I can create are illusions. I can’t hurt him. Not even Enzo can hurt him.
“My word is as good as yours,” he replies, eyeing me pointedly. “But it may not be good for long.”
Whatever it is that Teren has ordered done to the city tonight, it has brought with it a cloud of terror. I study him, sensing the swirling darkness in his heart, the madness glinting in his eyes.
Collect yourself. Concentrate. I steel my heart, sharpening my fear into a razor-sharp blade. “Take me to my sister. Or I’ll tell you nothing.”
Teren tilts his head. “Demanding, aren’t we?” His eyes narrow. “Something has happened to you since the last time we crossed paths.”
In my chest, my alignment with ambition surges. “Are you interested in capturing the Young Elites, or not?”
My answer coaxes a single laugh out of him. His smile wavers for a moment, diminishing his madness, and he gives me a more serious look. “What made you turn your back on them?”
I withdraw. I don’t want to revisit what I heard. “Isn’t it enough that you threatened my sister’s life? That you threw me against a wall?”
His eyes pulse with curiosity. “There’s more.”
The heat of Enzo’s kiss springs unbidden to my mind, the way his eyes had softened at the sight of me, the way he’d pushed me against the wall . . . the conversation between him and Dante. I push the emotion away and shake my head at Teren. “Let me see my sister first,” I repeat.
