The Midnight Star (4 page)

They're mocking you behind your back,
the whispers say.
You heard them laughing, didn't you? What makes you think your precious thief will stay by your side?
As they talk, the scene I'd just witnessed morphs in my memory so that, instead, I imagine seeing the maid run her hand through Magiano's braids, kissing his lips, and him responding by squeezing her arm,
murmuring a secret in her ear. My chest burns, filling with fire and pain.

Perhaps you should show them what you're capable of. They won't make a fool of you again.

“It's not real,” I say under my breath. “It's not real.” Gradually, the illusion fades, and the true scene replaces it again. My heart hammers in my chest as the whispers retreat, chuckling at me.

“The dungeon keeper tells me that they've prepared Teren for your visit today,” Sergio says, jerking me out of my thoughts. I turn to him in relief. Based on his expression, he's saying this for the second time. “He's been cleaned, beard shaved off, given a new set of clothes.”

“Good,” I answer. Teren had killed several Inquisition guards over the past few months, those who had not been careful in his presence. Now they approach him very rarely, leaving him unkempt. “How is he now?”

“Calm,” Sergio says. He pats the hilt at his side. “Weak.”

Weak? We fall into silence again as we enter the palace and make our way down a poorly lit corridor. The ground slopes slightly until we reach a set of stairs winding into darkness, and here, Sergio takes the lead. I follow him, while other soldiers trail me. Our steps echo down into the depths.

“Rumor has it that the Daggers may be hiding in the Skylands,” Sergio says after a while.

I look at him, but his eyes avoid mine. “Beldain?” I ask. “Is Queen Maeve planning to strike us again?”

“I've heard nothing.” Sergio is quiet for another beat, and his face is drawn with a strange expression. “Although some say your sister may be in their company too.”

Violetta. I grip the edges of my dress more tightly. Of course Sergio misses her—he has been making subtle remarks for months about where she might be. My pattern of conquests—Merroutas, Domacca, northern Tamoura, Dumor—is no coincidence. It is the order of countries where Sergio has heard that Violetta might be. “Send a scout and a balira in Beldain's direction,” I finally say.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sergio replies.

The original Inquisition Tower still stands, the very same one that Teren had once used to hold my sister captive, where I'd gone on several occasions to see him in my desperation. I was tempted to keep him in the same quarters—but the palace itself has a lower level of dungeons meant for the most important of prisoners, the ones to be kept close.

And I want Teren very, very close.

The dungeons are a cylinder spiraling into darkness, barely lit by slivers of light peeking through gratings from above. The farther down we go, the damper the stones and walls get. I wrap my cloak tighter around me as cold air prickles my skin. The steps turn narrower, and through their cracks grow strange mosses and weeds, plants that feed somehow on the dim light and trickling water. Survivors. I am reminded of my early days with the Dagger Society, the old cavern where we all used to train.
We
, as if there were still such a thing. I cast out the memory of Raffaele's gentle guidance, his smile.
The memory of Michel teaching me how to sculpt a rose out of thin air, of Gemma showing me her power with animals. Of Enzo, wiping a tear from my cheek.
Don't cry. You are stronger than that.

He's luring you there so that Teren can slit your throat.

The memory of Enzo fades, claimed by the whispers, and morphs instead into the image of him confronting me on Maeve's ship, sword pointed straight ahead, wishing me dead. My heart ices over.
You are only a ghost,
I remind myself, pushing against the familiar tether between us with an illusion of ice, snow, cold. I hope he feels it, wherever he is.
You are already dead to me.

A man is waiting for us on the lowest level, a marked soldier with a pale streak in his dark blond hair, grease glossy on his face, his Inquisition uniform stained and dirty with ash. He nods to Sergio and then bows low at me.

“Your Majesty,” he says. Then he holds an arm out toward the dungeons and ushers us along.

The palace's cells are each their own space, with no bars and no windows. He leads us down a wide hall with iron doors lining either side of it, each one guarded by two Inquisitors. Some of the doors are spaced farther apart than others. When we near the end, we reach several that are spaced so far apart that I cannot see the next door from the one we've just passed. Finally, the dungeon keeper stops at the very last door on our right.

There are six Inquisitors outside this one, instead of two. They line up in formation when I approach, bow, and make
way for the keeper. He takes out one key while the senior Inquisitor takes out a second. Undoing this lock requires inserting two keys simultaneously.

Sergio and I exchange a brief glance. The last time I saw Teren was several months ago, before our expedition to conquer Dumor. I wonder how Teren looks now.

The lock squeaks, then clicks—and the door edges open. I enter behind the Inquisitors.

The chamber is large and circular, with a high ceiling, lit by eight torches along the walls. There is a moat in here, with dirty water fed down from the pipes of the bathhouse. Soldiers line the walls. The moat surrounds an island of stone, and upon this island lies a figure, chained by a dozen heavy links anchored at the very edges and guarded by two soldiers who rotate out once an hour, assigned to raise and lower a rope bridge between the island and the rest of the chamber. The figure stirs when he hears us gather at the far side of the moat. In the torchlight, his hair shines gold, and when he lifts his face in our direction, his eyes glint a familiar madness. Pale, pulsing, colorless. Even now, with our roles reversed, his stare sends a surge of energy through me, a mix of fear and hate and excitement.

Teren smiles at me. His voice echoes in the chamber, low and smoky. “Mi Adelinetta.”

A
letter from Raffaele should have arrived by dove today, but it didn't. Maeve wonders whether the bird has been killed in flight or delayed by storms. The seas
have
been strange lately. Whatever the reason, she didn't receive an answer yet on Lucent's current condition—so she stays in the training yard long after midnight, restlessly swinging her wooden practice sword.

A few of her guards are scattered around the yard's perimeter. Her brother Augustine is here too, helping her practice. He gives her a sympathetic look as she slowly swings her sword and stumbles in the dirt.

“You must be tired enough now to sleep,” Augustine says as he gently nudges Maeve back a step and waits for her to switch her stance. He uses his sword to gesture at the
apartments. “Go, Your Majesty. You're no good to anyone out here like this.”

Maeve shakes her head and scowls. She hefts her sword again. “I'll stay,” she replies.

Augustine lunges at her. She blocks his attack, sidesteps, and swings her weapon high over her head. She brings it down at him and he stops it with his wooden blade. As Maeve grits her teeth, Augustine leans closer to her and frowns. “You need to go to Lucent,” he says. “I'm tired of seeing you like this.”

Maeve's eyes flash in irritation. “I'm not going to leave my country behind just to visit an old riding companion.”

Augustine's lips tense into a line. “Oh, for the gods' sakes, Little Jac,” he snaps. “We know Lucent wasn't just your riding companion.” At her stunned expression, Augustine laughs. “You are good at many things, but you are horrible at keeping your love interests a secret.”

Maeve's temper flares. She pushes Augustine away and swings her sword at him again. The wooden blade hits him squarely in his side before he can block her attack. He grunts at the hit and doubles over. Maeve seizes the opportunity, knocks him flat on his back, and shoves her knee against his chest. She presses the sword roughly against his neck and Augustine holds his hands up in defeat. “I'm not leaving my country,” Maeve repeats through gritted teeth, “to visit an
old riding companion
. Not after our last battle. Adelina is on the move. She
will
come north.”

Augustine pushes her sword away. “So are you just going to wait for her to arrive on our shores?” he argues back. “Word is that she has taken Dumor. She may have set her sights on Tamoura for now, but soon she
will
turn her attention to the Skylands.”

Maeve sighs, lowering her sword. She hops back up and watches as Augustine struggles to his feet. “I can't leave,” she repeats, quieter this time. “Tristan.”

At the mention of their youngest brother's name, Augustine's mood softens. “I know.”

“Did you see him yesterday?”

“Still the same, the doctors say. No change.”

Maeve forces herself to lift her sword and concentrate on Augustine again. She needs the distraction. Tristan has not said a word for weeks now—the longest he has ever gone—and his gaze these days is always fixed toward the sea, pointed in some direction to the south. What little spark of light that was left in his eyes has disappeared entirely, leaving behind flat pools and a vacant, lifeless stare. Once, when she'd brought him out to the winter carnivals with her, he'd attacked her in a state of confusion. He'd done it halfheartedly, like some part of him knew he didn't want to, but even then, it had taken Augustine and another man to subdue him. Since then, he has not slept. He has instead stayed by his window, eyes turned to the sea.

The rumors about him swirl around Hadenbury.
Prince Tristan is mad. He attacked the queen, his own sister.

Maeve charges Augustine again with her wooden sword, and the clash rings out across the yard. She'd tried reaching out to the Underworld last night, searching for clues. But the energy there was too strong, even for her, the darkness of it scalding her fingers, leaving a coating of ice on her heart. She knows, by some instinct of survival, that if she tried to use her power, it would kill her.

“We will have four more ships completed in just a few weeks,” Maeve says, shifting subjects as she fends off Augustine's parry. “Our navy will recover fully by the end of the year. Then we can think about Adelina again.”

“She doesn't have Enzo at her disposal anymore,” Augustine reminds her. “He is with the Daggers in Tamoura. She'll be weaker.”

There is a space between their words, where neither wants to mention the rumors of Adelina's descent into madness. “She might be assassinated before we even reach her,” Maeve finally says. “One can hope.”

Both of them look up at the sound of a gate opening. At first, Maeve thinks it is a messenger coming to bring her a parchment from Raffaele—and her spirits lift immediately. She starts walking toward the figure. “Augustine,” she calls over her shoulder at her brother. “Fetch the torch on the fence. We have a message.”

Then the figure takes a step into the moonlight, and she hesitates. Several of the guards along the wall move toward him too, although none of their swords are drawn. Maeve squints, trying to recognize him.

“Tristan?” she whispers.

It
seems
like Tristan. She can feel the tug between them, the faint tether that binds their two energies. Maeve frowns.
Something's not right.
His walk is strange and disjointed, and a sickening feeling rises in her stomach. Tristan has his own patrol of a dozen men that rotate around his cell, ensuring he stays safely where he can be watched.
How did he get out?

As one guard reaches him, Tristan turns while one arm shoots out and grabs the man's neck, squeezing. The guard stiffens, shocked at the attack. Choking, he grabs for the sword at his side, but Tristan is squeezing his neck too tightly. The guard struggles desperately against his grasp. Maeve barely notices that she has already dropped her wooden sword and drawn her real blade.

Behind Tristan appear two guards, running breathless out to the yard. Maeve knows what happened before they even shout it.
Tristan has killed his guards.
She points her sword at her youngest brother. “Stand down!” she calls out.

Beside her, Augustine hops to his feet and draws his real sword too. Tristan doesn't make a sound—instead, he flings aside the man by the throat and then lunges at the next guard closest to him. He twists the man's arm around his back so hard that it breaks.

“Tristan!” Maeve shouts, breaking into a run toward him. “
Stop!
” She reaches out through their tether, seeking to control him. But somehow, this time, he resists her. His eyes swivel to her in a way that sends chills down her spine.
The darkness churning in him lashes out, shoving her power away, and Maeve feels the familiar touch of cold and death on her heart. The effect is so powerful that she freezes in place for a moment from the numbness.
This is not right.

Maeve pushes forward and reaches Tristan before he can attack another guard. She hefts her sword, but the sight of his eyes frightens her. There is no white to be seen anywhere. Instead, his eyes are pools of blackness, completely devoid of life. She hesitates for a split second—and in that moment, Tristan bares his teeth as if they were fangs and lunges for her with hands outstretched.

Maeve manages to bring her sword up in time—the blade cuts deep into one of his hands. Tristan snarls and lunges at her again and again. He is shockingly strong. It is as if all the force of the Underworld has now crawled under his skin, aching to throw itself at her. The tether between them tugs painfully tight, and Maeve shudders.

When Tristan strikes again, Augustine appears between them and brings his sword up to protect his sister. Tristan growls—his arm moves in a blur of motion, grabbing the dagger tucked at Augustine's belt—and he turns on his older brother. Despite the younger's smaller frame, his attack knocks Augustine off balance. Both fall to the ground in a shower of dirt.

Maeve winces as the threads between her and Tristan pull taut again. The pain makes her light-headed. Through her blurry vision, she sees Augustine fighting desperately
to keep away Tristan's dagger. She reaches within, searching for the strings binding them that are hooked within her heart, the strings that keep Tristan alive and under her control. She hesitates again. A memory of Tristan, before his accident, before she brought him back, flashes in her mind—a smiling, laughing boy, the brother who could never seem to stop talking even when she would shove him lovingly away, the brother who liked to surprise her in the tall grasses and go on long hunts with her and Lucent.

This is not Tristan,
she suddenly allows herself to think as she looks at the creature attacking Augustine.

Finally, Augustine manages to flip Tristan down to the ground. He takes his sword and aims it over his brother's heart. Tristan spits at him, but even then, Augustine hesitates. His sword trembles in midair.

Taking advantage of the moment, Tristan stabs up with his blade.

No.
Maeve moves before she can even think. She lunges forward, shoving Augustine out of danger's way, and plunges her own sword straight into Tristan's chest.

Tristan lets out a terrible gasp. The dark pools of his eyes shrink away in an instant, leaving a wide-eyed, confused boy. He blinks twice, looks down at the blade protruding from his chest, and then follows it up to where Maeve stands above him, his stare settling on her for the first time.

Maeve reaches out instinctively for the tether that links them, but now, she senses it fading away. Tristan continues
to stare at her for what seems like forever. She feels as if she could read the look in his eyes. Her lips part in a silent sob.

Then, with a sigh, Tristan closes his eyes—the glimmer of light remaining in his soul, the imitation of a life that once was, finally flickers out—and he falls dead to the ground.