The Young Elites
Page 7
His hair, black and shining, drapes across one of his shoulders in a loose, silken braid. His olive skin is smooth, flawless, glowing. The faint musk of night lilies envelops him in a veil, intoxicating, promising something forbidden. I’m so distracted by his appearance that it takes me a moment to notice his marking—under canopies of long, dark lashes, one of his eyes is the color of honey under sunlight, while the other is the brilliant summer green of an emerald.
The maid nods a hurried farewell to us both, then disappears down the hall, leaving us alone. The boy smiles at me, exposing dimples. “It’s good to meet you, mi Adelinetta.” He takes my hands and leans down to kiss me on each cheek. I shiver at the softness of his lips. His hands are cool and smooth, his fingers slender and encircled with thin gold rings, his nails gleaming. His voice is as lyrical as it sounded through the door. “I’m Raffaele.”
A movement behind him distracts me. Despite the dimly lit bedchamber, I make out the smooth outlines of another person turning over in his bed, his short brown locks catching the light. I glance back at Raffaele. It’s a brothel, naturally. Raffaele must be a client.
Raffaele notices my hesitation, then blushes and lowers his lashes in a single sweep. Never in my life have I seen such a graceful gesture. “Apologies. My work frequently continues until morning.”
“Oh,” I manage to reply. I’m a fool. He isn’t the client at all. The man inside is the client, and Raffaele is the consort. With a face like his, I should have known immediately—but to me, a consort means a street prostitute. Poor, desperate workers selling themselves on the sides of roads and in brothels. Not a work of art.
Raffaele looks back at his bedchamber again, and when it seems like his client has fallen back into a deep slumber, he steps outside and closes the door without a sound. “Merchant princes tend to sleep late,” he says with a delicate smile. Then he nods at me to follow him. I marvel at the simple elegance of his movements, fine-tuned to perfection in the way I suppose a high-class consort would be. Does this entire sitting room and courtyard belong to him?
“Sensing your energy this close is a bit overwhelming,” he says.
“You can sense me?”
“I was the one who first discovered you.”
I frown at that. “What do you mean?”
Raffaele guides us out of the sitting room and into the hall, until we reach a large courtyard of fountains. The breeze combs through his hair, revealing several brilliant sapphire strands glistening under the black, jeweled lines moving against a night canvas. A second marking. “The night you ran away from home,” he says as we walk, “you paused in Dalia’s central market.”
I recoil at the memory. My father’s rain-washed face, split into a menacing grin, flashes before me. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Enzo sent me to southern Kenettra for several months, to find those like you. I could sense you the instant I arrived in Dalia. Your pull was faint, though, something that came and went, and it took me several weeks to narrow my search to your district.” Raffaele pauses before the largest fountain in the courtyard. “But the first time I saw you was in that market. I watched you ride off into the rain. Naturally, I sent word back to His Highness right away.”
Someone had indeed been watching me that night. A boy who can sense those like me—like us. That must be his ability, just like Enzo to fire, myself to illusion. “You recruit Young Elites for the Dagger Society, then?”
“Yes. They call me the Messenger, and the hunt is always an adventure. Of every thousand malfettos, there’s that one. After a potential recruit falls into the Inquisition’s hands, though, it’s difficult to save them in time. You’re the first we’ve pulled straight from their grasp.” Raffaele winks a jewel-toned eye at me. “Congratulations.”
The Reaper. The Messenger. A society full of double names and hidden meanings. I take a deep breath, wondering about the other names I’ve heard rumors of.
“No one told me this place was a . . . a brothel,” I say.
“A pleasure court,” Raffaele specifies. “Brothels are for the poor and tasteless.”
“A pleasure court,” I echo.
“Our clients come to us for music and conversation, beauty and laughter and wit. They dine and drink with us. They forget their worries.” He smiles demurely. “Sometimes outside the bedchamber. Sometimes within.”
I give him a wary, sidelong look. “And I’m hoping I don’t have to become a consort to join the Dagger Society? Not to offend you, of course,” I add in a hurry.
Raffaele’s gentle laugh answers me. Like everything else about him, his laughter is perfectly refined, as lovely as summer bells, a sound that fills my heart with light. “Where you sleep is not who you are. You aren’t of age, mi Adelinetta. No one at the Fortunata Court will force you to service clients—unless, of course, such work interests you.”
My face burns at the suggestion.
Raffaele leads us around the side of the courtyard. Out here, the wind brings with it the sweet scent of spring. I can tell that the brothel—pleasure court—is situated on the side of a rolling hill, and when we reach a good outlook, I glimpse the city below. I catch my breath.
Estenzia.
Redbrick domes and wide, clean roads. Curving spires, sweeping archways. Narrow side streets overgrown with colorful flowers and vines. Towering monuments that gleam in the sun. People bustling from building to building, horses pulling carts loaded with casks and crates. Marble statues of the twelve gods and angels, their feet draped with flowers, line the main squares. Hundreds of ships pull into and out of the harbor, fat galleons and thin, quicksilver caravelas, their shining sails brown and white against the deep blue of the sea, their flags a rainbow of kingdoms from all over the world. Floating gondolas glide between them, fireflies among giants. A bell chimes somewhere in the distance. Off at the horizon, the misty outlines of a chain of islets appear before the flatness of the Sun Sea. And up in the sky—
I gasp in delight as an enormous creature resembling an ocean ray glides lazily across the city’s harbor, its fleshy wings smooth and translucent in the light, its tail stretched out behind it in a long line. Someone—a tiny speck nearly lost from sight—rides on its back. The creature lets out a haunting note that echoes across the city.
“A balira!” I exclaim.
Raffaele glances over his shoulder at me, his gesture so smooth and regal that one could mistake him for royalty. He smiles at my joy. “I would think you’d often see them shipping cargo in Dalia, given your location near the waterfall arc.”
“Never this close.”
“I see. Well, we have warm, shallow waters, so they gather here in the summer to give birth. You’ll see your fill, trust me.”
I shake my head and continue to take in the scene. “The city’s beautiful.”
“Only to a newcomer.” His smile fades. “We are not like the Skyland nations, where the blood fever was mild and where their few marked people are celebrated. Estenzia was devastated by the fever. She has suffered ever since. Trade is down. Pirates plague our routes. The city grows poorer, and the people are hungry. Malfettos are the scapegoats. A malfetto girl was killed just yesterday, stabbed to death in the streets. The Inquisition turns a blind eye.”
My excitement wanes. When I look again at the city below us, I notice the many boarded-up shops, the beggars, the white cloaks of Inquisitors. I turn away uncomfortably. “The story’s not much different in Dalia,” I mutter. A brief silence. “Where are the other Elites?”
We come upon a blank wall of stone behind a narrow corner of the courtyard, situated in such a way that you’d never think to stop here unless you knew better. Raffaele runs his fingers along the wall before pushing against it—and to my surprise, it slides silently open. A cold rush of air greets us. I peer inside. Stairs of weathered stone wind their way down into the darkness. “Don’t think of them,” he replies. “Today, it is just you and me.” A strange, pleasant tingle runs down my neck. He says no more, and I decide not to press him for more information.
We head into the gloom. Raffaele pulls a small lantern from the wall and lights it, and the dim glow cuts black and orange shapes into the darkness. All I can see are the steps right before me and the folds of Raffaele’s robes. A pleasure court with so many secret spaces.
After a while, the stairs come to an end in front of another blank wall. Raffaele unlocks this one too. It opens with a heavy groan. We step into a room lit by patches of light from a grating in its ceiling, the glow illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Moss covers the grating’s bars. In one corner, a table is overflowing with parchments and maps, strange orreries depicting the paths of the moons, and illuminated books. The space smells cool, damp.
Raffaele walks over to the table and pushes some of his papers aside. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says.
I suddenly tense. “Why? What are we doing here?”
Raffaele doesn’t look at me. Instead, he opens a drawer in the table and takes out several different kinds of stones. Stones actually isn’t the best word. These are gems, raw and unpolished, freshly broken from the earth. Something seems familiar about this setup. Yes, I remember now—operators on the streets will, for two copper lunes, place painted stones before a child and then tell him about his personality.
“Are we playing some kind of game?” I ask.
“Not quite.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Before you can become one of us, you must pass a series of tests. Today is the first of those tests.”
I try to look calm. “And what’s the test?”
“Every Elite responds to energy in a unique way, and every Elite has a different strength and weakness. Some people respond to strength and bravery. Others are wise and logical. Still others are ruled by passion.” He glances down at the gems. “Today, we’re going to figure out who you are. How your specific energy connects to the world.”
“And what are the gemstones for?”
“We are the children of gods and angels.” A kind smile touches Raffaele’s face. “It’s said that gems are lingering reminders of where the gods’ hands touched the earth during creation. Certain gems will call to the specific type of energy that flows in you. They work best in their natural form.” Raffaele holds up one of the gems. In the light, it looks jagged and clear. “Diamond, for instance.” He puts it down and picks up another, this one with a blue tint. “Veritium too. There’s prase quartz, moonstone, opal, aquamarine.” He lays out one after another. Finally, twelve different gems sit on the table, each glinting a different color under the light. “And nightstone,” he finishes. “One for each of the gods and angels. Some will call to you more than others.”
I look on, now more confused than wary. “Why do you tell me not to be alarmed?”
“Because in a moment, you’re going to feel something very strange.” Raffaele holds out a hand to me, gesturing for me to stand in the center of the room. Then he starts placing the gemstones in a careful circle around me. “Don’t fight it. Just calm yourself and let the energy flow.”
I hesitate, then nod.
He finishes placing the gems. I turn in place, looking at each of them with rising curiosity. Raffaele steps back, observes me for a moment, and then crosses his arms with a sweep of silk sleeves. “Now, I want you to relax. Clear your mind.”
I take a deep breath, then try to do as he says.
Silence. Nothing happens. I still my thoughts, thinking of calm water, of night. Nearby, Raffaele lowers his head in a nearly imperceptible nod.
I feel an odd tingling in my arms and at the back of my head. When I look down at the stones, I now see that five of them have started to glow, as if lit from within, in shades of crimson, white, blue, orange, and black.
Raffaele glides around me in a slow circle, his eyes alight with curiosity. The way he’s circling me feels almost predatory, especially when he passes to the weak side of my vision and I have to turn my face in order to keep him in view. He lifts one foot slightly, his bejeweled slipper pushing away each stone that did not glow. He picks up the five remaining stones, returns to the desk, and lays them carefully out.
Diamond, roseite, veritium, amber, nightstone. I bite my lip, impatient to find out what the five mean.
“Good. Now, I want you to look at the diamond.” For a moment, Raffaele doesn’t move. All he does is stare straight at me, his gaze calm and level, his hands slack at his sides. The distance between us seems to hum with life. I try to concentrate on the stone and keep myself from trembling.
Raffaele tilts his head.
I gasp. A rush of energy courses through me, something strong and light that threatens to carry me off my feet. I steady myself against the wall. A memory rushes through my mind, so vivid and bright that I could swear I was reliving it:
I am eight years old, and Violetta is six. We run out to greet our father, who has just returned from a monthlong trip to Estenzia. He picks up Violetta, laughs, and spins her in a circle. She squeals in delight as I stand by. Later that afternoon, I challenge Violetta to a race through the trees behind our home. I pick a route that is full of rocks and crevices, knowing full well that she has just recovered from a fever and is still weak. When Violetta trips over a root, skinning her knees, I smile and don’t stop to help her. I keep running, running, running until the wind and I become one. I don’t need my father to spin me in a circle. I can already fly. Later that night, I study the scarred, eyeless side of my face, the strings of my silver hair. Then I pick up my hairbrush and smash the mirror into a thousand pieces.
The maid nods a hurried farewell to us both, then disappears down the hall, leaving us alone. The boy smiles at me, exposing dimples. “It’s good to meet you, mi Adelinetta.” He takes my hands and leans down to kiss me on each cheek. I shiver at the softness of his lips. His hands are cool and smooth, his fingers slender and encircled with thin gold rings, his nails gleaming. His voice is as lyrical as it sounded through the door. “I’m Raffaele.”
A movement behind him distracts me. Despite the dimly lit bedchamber, I make out the smooth outlines of another person turning over in his bed, his short brown locks catching the light. I glance back at Raffaele. It’s a brothel, naturally. Raffaele must be a client.
Raffaele notices my hesitation, then blushes and lowers his lashes in a single sweep. Never in my life have I seen such a graceful gesture. “Apologies. My work frequently continues until morning.”
“Oh,” I manage to reply. I’m a fool. He isn’t the client at all. The man inside is the client, and Raffaele is the consort. With a face like his, I should have known immediately—but to me, a consort means a street prostitute. Poor, desperate workers selling themselves on the sides of roads and in brothels. Not a work of art.
Raffaele looks back at his bedchamber again, and when it seems like his client has fallen back into a deep slumber, he steps outside and closes the door without a sound. “Merchant princes tend to sleep late,” he says with a delicate smile. Then he nods at me to follow him. I marvel at the simple elegance of his movements, fine-tuned to perfection in the way I suppose a high-class consort would be. Does this entire sitting room and courtyard belong to him?
“Sensing your energy this close is a bit overwhelming,” he says.
“You can sense me?”
“I was the one who first discovered you.”
I frown at that. “What do you mean?”
Raffaele guides us out of the sitting room and into the hall, until we reach a large courtyard of fountains. The breeze combs through his hair, revealing several brilliant sapphire strands glistening under the black, jeweled lines moving against a night canvas. A second marking. “The night you ran away from home,” he says as we walk, “you paused in Dalia’s central market.”
I recoil at the memory. My father’s rain-washed face, split into a menacing grin, flashes before me. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Enzo sent me to southern Kenettra for several months, to find those like you. I could sense you the instant I arrived in Dalia. Your pull was faint, though, something that came and went, and it took me several weeks to narrow my search to your district.” Raffaele pauses before the largest fountain in the courtyard. “But the first time I saw you was in that market. I watched you ride off into the rain. Naturally, I sent word back to His Highness right away.”
Someone had indeed been watching me that night. A boy who can sense those like me—like us. That must be his ability, just like Enzo to fire, myself to illusion. “You recruit Young Elites for the Dagger Society, then?”
“Yes. They call me the Messenger, and the hunt is always an adventure. Of every thousand malfettos, there’s that one. After a potential recruit falls into the Inquisition’s hands, though, it’s difficult to save them in time. You’re the first we’ve pulled straight from their grasp.” Raffaele winks a jewel-toned eye at me. “Congratulations.”
The Reaper. The Messenger. A society full of double names and hidden meanings. I take a deep breath, wondering about the other names I’ve heard rumors of.
“No one told me this place was a . . . a brothel,” I say.
“A pleasure court,” Raffaele specifies. “Brothels are for the poor and tasteless.”
“A pleasure court,” I echo.
“Our clients come to us for music and conversation, beauty and laughter and wit. They dine and drink with us. They forget their worries.” He smiles demurely. “Sometimes outside the bedchamber. Sometimes within.”
I give him a wary, sidelong look. “And I’m hoping I don’t have to become a consort to join the Dagger Society? Not to offend you, of course,” I add in a hurry.
Raffaele’s gentle laugh answers me. Like everything else about him, his laughter is perfectly refined, as lovely as summer bells, a sound that fills my heart with light. “Where you sleep is not who you are. You aren’t of age, mi Adelinetta. No one at the Fortunata Court will force you to service clients—unless, of course, such work interests you.”
My face burns at the suggestion.
Raffaele leads us around the side of the courtyard. Out here, the wind brings with it the sweet scent of spring. I can tell that the brothel—pleasure court—is situated on the side of a rolling hill, and when we reach a good outlook, I glimpse the city below. I catch my breath.
Estenzia.
Redbrick domes and wide, clean roads. Curving spires, sweeping archways. Narrow side streets overgrown with colorful flowers and vines. Towering monuments that gleam in the sun. People bustling from building to building, horses pulling carts loaded with casks and crates. Marble statues of the twelve gods and angels, their feet draped with flowers, line the main squares. Hundreds of ships pull into and out of the harbor, fat galleons and thin, quicksilver caravelas, their shining sails brown and white against the deep blue of the sea, their flags a rainbow of kingdoms from all over the world. Floating gondolas glide between them, fireflies among giants. A bell chimes somewhere in the distance. Off at the horizon, the misty outlines of a chain of islets appear before the flatness of the Sun Sea. And up in the sky—
I gasp in delight as an enormous creature resembling an ocean ray glides lazily across the city’s harbor, its fleshy wings smooth and translucent in the light, its tail stretched out behind it in a long line. Someone—a tiny speck nearly lost from sight—rides on its back. The creature lets out a haunting note that echoes across the city.
“A balira!” I exclaim.
Raffaele glances over his shoulder at me, his gesture so smooth and regal that one could mistake him for royalty. He smiles at my joy. “I would think you’d often see them shipping cargo in Dalia, given your location near the waterfall arc.”
“Never this close.”
“I see. Well, we have warm, shallow waters, so they gather here in the summer to give birth. You’ll see your fill, trust me.”
I shake my head and continue to take in the scene. “The city’s beautiful.”
“Only to a newcomer.” His smile fades. “We are not like the Skyland nations, where the blood fever was mild and where their few marked people are celebrated. Estenzia was devastated by the fever. She has suffered ever since. Trade is down. Pirates plague our routes. The city grows poorer, and the people are hungry. Malfettos are the scapegoats. A malfetto girl was killed just yesterday, stabbed to death in the streets. The Inquisition turns a blind eye.”
My excitement wanes. When I look again at the city below us, I notice the many boarded-up shops, the beggars, the white cloaks of Inquisitors. I turn away uncomfortably. “The story’s not much different in Dalia,” I mutter. A brief silence. “Where are the other Elites?”
We come upon a blank wall of stone behind a narrow corner of the courtyard, situated in such a way that you’d never think to stop here unless you knew better. Raffaele runs his fingers along the wall before pushing against it—and to my surprise, it slides silently open. A cold rush of air greets us. I peer inside. Stairs of weathered stone wind their way down into the darkness. “Don’t think of them,” he replies. “Today, it is just you and me.” A strange, pleasant tingle runs down my neck. He says no more, and I decide not to press him for more information.
We head into the gloom. Raffaele pulls a small lantern from the wall and lights it, and the dim glow cuts black and orange shapes into the darkness. All I can see are the steps right before me and the folds of Raffaele’s robes. A pleasure court with so many secret spaces.
After a while, the stairs come to an end in front of another blank wall. Raffaele unlocks this one too. It opens with a heavy groan. We step into a room lit by patches of light from a grating in its ceiling, the glow illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Moss covers the grating’s bars. In one corner, a table is overflowing with parchments and maps, strange orreries depicting the paths of the moons, and illuminated books. The space smells cool, damp.
Raffaele walks over to the table and pushes some of his papers aside. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says.
I suddenly tense. “Why? What are we doing here?”
Raffaele doesn’t look at me. Instead, he opens a drawer in the table and takes out several different kinds of stones. Stones actually isn’t the best word. These are gems, raw and unpolished, freshly broken from the earth. Something seems familiar about this setup. Yes, I remember now—operators on the streets will, for two copper lunes, place painted stones before a child and then tell him about his personality.
“Are we playing some kind of game?” I ask.
“Not quite.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Before you can become one of us, you must pass a series of tests. Today is the first of those tests.”
I try to look calm. “And what’s the test?”
“Every Elite responds to energy in a unique way, and every Elite has a different strength and weakness. Some people respond to strength and bravery. Others are wise and logical. Still others are ruled by passion.” He glances down at the gems. “Today, we’re going to figure out who you are. How your specific energy connects to the world.”
“And what are the gemstones for?”
“We are the children of gods and angels.” A kind smile touches Raffaele’s face. “It’s said that gems are lingering reminders of where the gods’ hands touched the earth during creation. Certain gems will call to the specific type of energy that flows in you. They work best in their natural form.” Raffaele holds up one of the gems. In the light, it looks jagged and clear. “Diamond, for instance.” He puts it down and picks up another, this one with a blue tint. “Veritium too. There’s prase quartz, moonstone, opal, aquamarine.” He lays out one after another. Finally, twelve different gems sit on the table, each glinting a different color under the light. “And nightstone,” he finishes. “One for each of the gods and angels. Some will call to you more than others.”
I look on, now more confused than wary. “Why do you tell me not to be alarmed?”
“Because in a moment, you’re going to feel something very strange.” Raffaele holds out a hand to me, gesturing for me to stand in the center of the room. Then he starts placing the gemstones in a careful circle around me. “Don’t fight it. Just calm yourself and let the energy flow.”
I hesitate, then nod.
He finishes placing the gems. I turn in place, looking at each of them with rising curiosity. Raffaele steps back, observes me for a moment, and then crosses his arms with a sweep of silk sleeves. “Now, I want you to relax. Clear your mind.”
I take a deep breath, then try to do as he says.
Silence. Nothing happens. I still my thoughts, thinking of calm water, of night. Nearby, Raffaele lowers his head in a nearly imperceptible nod.
I feel an odd tingling in my arms and at the back of my head. When I look down at the stones, I now see that five of them have started to glow, as if lit from within, in shades of crimson, white, blue, orange, and black.
Raffaele glides around me in a slow circle, his eyes alight with curiosity. The way he’s circling me feels almost predatory, especially when he passes to the weak side of my vision and I have to turn my face in order to keep him in view. He lifts one foot slightly, his bejeweled slipper pushing away each stone that did not glow. He picks up the five remaining stones, returns to the desk, and lays them carefully out.
Diamond, roseite, veritium, amber, nightstone. I bite my lip, impatient to find out what the five mean.
“Good. Now, I want you to look at the diamond.” For a moment, Raffaele doesn’t move. All he does is stare straight at me, his gaze calm and level, his hands slack at his sides. The distance between us seems to hum with life. I try to concentrate on the stone and keep myself from trembling.
Raffaele tilts his head.
I gasp. A rush of energy courses through me, something strong and light that threatens to carry me off my feet. I steady myself against the wall. A memory rushes through my mind, so vivid and bright that I could swear I was reliving it:
I am eight years old, and Violetta is six. We run out to greet our father, who has just returned from a monthlong trip to Estenzia. He picks up Violetta, laughs, and spins her in a circle. She squeals in delight as I stand by. Later that afternoon, I challenge Violetta to a race through the trees behind our home. I pick a route that is full of rocks and crevices, knowing full well that she has just recovered from a fever and is still weak. When Violetta trips over a root, skinning her knees, I smile and don’t stop to help her. I keep running, running, running until the wind and I become one. I don’t need my father to spin me in a circle. I can already fly. Later that night, I study the scarred, eyeless side of my face, the strings of my silver hair. Then I pick up my hairbrush and smash the mirror into a thousand pieces.
