The Midnight Star (6 page)

And they say she loathed everyone in the whole wide world,
except for the boy from the bell tower.

—Lady of Dark Days,
by Dahntel

I
t is only early afternoon, but a cold drizzle has settled over the city, bringing with it a layer of mist that dampens the light. Sergio has retired to his chambers, complaining of dizziness and thirst, his lips parched. I step out into the city streets alone, clad in a white hooded cloak shielding my hair from the elements. I'm completely hidden behind an illusion of invisibility. The rain dots my face with tiny pinpricks of ice, and I close my eye, savoring the feeling.

I've made it a habit to visit the bathhouse after my visits with Teren, so that I can wash away the flecks of his blood on my skin and cleanse myself of the memory of his presence. Even so, the look in his pale eyes lingers long after I leave his cell. Now I point my boots in the direction of the palace's bathhouse. I could reach it from the corridors within
the palace—but out here, the grounds are peaceful, and I can be alone with my thoughts under a gray sky.

A pair of men are standing across the bridge that leads to the palace's entrance, their eyes fixed on the main gates. They are whispering something to each other. I slow my steps, then turn to watch them. One is tall and blond, perhaps too blond to be Kenettran, while the other is short and dark-haired, with olive skin and a weak chin. Their clothes are damp in the drizzle, as if they've been standing outside for a long time.

What are they whispering?
The words creep out of the shadows of my mind, their claws clicking.
Perhaps they are whispering about you. About how to kill you. Even your sweet thief warned you of rats that could slip through the cracks.

I turn away from the path leading to the bathhouse and decide to follow the men. As I cross the bridge, still hidden behind my invisibility, they finish their conversation and continue on their way. My White Wolf banners, the new flags of the country, hang from windows and balconies, the white-and-silver cloth stained and soaked. Only a smattering of people walk the streets today, all huddled under cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, kicking up mud as they go. I watch them suspiciously, even as I trail behind the two men.

As I walk, the world around me takes on a glittering sheen. My whispers grow louder, and as they do, the faces of people I pass start to look distorted, as if the rain has blurred my vision and smeared wet streaks across their features. I blink, trying to focus. The energy in me lurches, and for a moment I wonder if Enzo is pulling on our tether from across the seas.
The two men I'm following are close enough now that bits of their conversation drift to me, and I quicken my steps, curious to hear what they have to say.

“—to send her troops back to Tamoura, but—”

“—that difficult? I'd hardly think she would care if—”

They
are
talking about me.

The blond man shakes his head, one hand held out as he explains something in obvious frustration. “—and that's it, isn't it? The Wolf couldn't care less whether the markets sold us rotting vegetables. I can't remember the taste of a fresh fig. Can you?”

The other man nods sympathetically. “Yesterday, my littlest daughter asked me why the fruit merchants have two piles of produce now—and why they hand the fresh food to
malfetto
buyers, the rotten food to us.”

A cold, bitter smile twists my lips. Of course I had designed this law precisely to make sure that the unmarked suffered. After the ordinance first came into effect, I'd spent time walking the markets, relishing the sight of unmarked people grimacing at the rotten food they brought home, forcing it into their mouths out of hunger and desperation. How many years have we waited for our own fair treatment? How many of us have been pelted in the streets by blackened cabbage and meat filled with maggots? The memory of my own burning so long ago comes back to me, and along with it, the smell of the spoiled food that had once struck me.
Take back your rotting weapons,
I vow silently,
and fill your mouths with them. Eat it until you love it.

The men continue on, oblivious that I'm listening to every word. If I revealed myself to them now, would they fall to their knees and beg forgiveness? I could execute them here, spill their blood right in the streets, for daring to use the word
malfetto
. I let myself indulge in the thought as we turn a corner and enter the Estenzian piazza where the annual horse races of the Tournament of Storms are held. The square is mostly empty this morning, painted gray by the clouds and rain.

“If I saw her right now,” one of the men says, shaking water from his hood, “I'd shove that rotten food back in her mouth. Let her taste that for herself, and see if it's worth eating.”

His companion lets out a bark of laughter.

So brave, when they think no one else is listening. I stop in the square, but before I let them go about their day, I open my mouth and speak.

“Careful. She is always watching.”

Both of them hear me. They freeze in their steps and whirl around, their faces taut with fear. They search for who might have said it. I stay invisible in the center of the piazza, smiling. Their fear spikes, and as it does, I inhale deeply, relishing the spark of power behind their energy. I'm tempted to reach out and seize it. Instead, I just look on as the men turn pale as ghosts.

“Come on,” the blond man whispers, his voice choking with terror. He has begun to tremble, although I doubt it's from the cold, and a hint of tears beads in his eyes. His face
blurs in my vision, smearing like the rest of the world, and for an instant, all I can see are streaks of black where his eyes should be, a slash of pink where his mouth once was. The two hurry off through the piazza.

I look around, amused by my little game. Rumors have spread throughout the city about how the White Wolf haunts the air, that she can see straight into your homes and into your souls. It has left a permanent sense of disquiet in the city's energy, a constant undercurrent of fear that keeps my belly full. Good. I want the unmarked to feel this perpetual unease under my rule, to know that I am always watching them. It will make any rebellions against me harder to organize. And it will make them understand the fear that the marked suffered for so long.

Other people pass me by, unaware of my presence. Their faces look like ruined paintings. I try to push past the blurriness, but a dull headache creeps in, and suddenly I feel exhausted. A patrol of my white-cloaked Inquisitors march by, their eyes searching for unmarked people who might be breaking my new laws. Their armor looks like an undulating wave in my vision. I grimace, clutching my head, and decide to return to the palace. The rain has soaked through my own cloak, and a warm bath sounds enticing.

By the time I arrive at the steps leading up to the bathhouse, the drizzle has turned into a steady rain. My bare feet create a faint slapping sound against the marble floor as I go inside. There, I finally drop my invisibility. Usually, two maidens are trailing behind me when I come here, but I just
want to sink myself into warm waters and let my mind wander away.

As I approach the bath hall, I hear a pair of voices drifting out from within. My steps slow for a moment. The bathhouse isn't empty, as I had thought. I should've sent a servant ahead of me to clear the halls. I hesitate a moment longer, then decide to continue on. After all, I am queen—I can always order whoever they are to leave.

The pool stretches out in a long rectangle from where I stand to the other side of the hall. A fog of warmth hangs in the air, and I can smell the moisture. At the other end of the pool come the voices I'd heard a moment earlier. As I slip off my damp robes and dip my toes into the warm water, I hear a low rumble of laughter that makes me pause. Suddenly, I recognize who it is—Magiano. He
did
say he was going to be at the baths.

He has his back turned to me, and it's difficult to see him clearly through the warm mist in the air. But it's unmistakably him. His brown back is bare and slick, his muscles gleaming, and his braids are piled high on his head in a knot. He leans casually over the edge of the pool, and standing nearby on the stones is the same maiden I'd seen with him by the palace. She is kneeling down, her hair falling over one shoulder, a shy smile on her face as she hands him a glass of spiced wine.

Ah,
the whispers say, stirring.
And here we thought he was
your
plaything.

Again, bitterness rises in my chest—and my illusions
weave an image before me once more. The maiden, no longer dressed, bathing with Magiano, water glistening on her skin, him reaching for her, running his hands along the outline of her body.
Illusion.
I close my eye, take a deep breath, and count in my head, trying to still my thoughts. It takes so much more effort than it once did. I feel a violent urge to get out of the pool, throw my clothes back on, and rush to my chambers, to leave them here to whatever they want to do. But I also feel an overwhelming need to hurt the maiden. My pride pushes back.
You are the Kenettran queen. No one should force you to leave.
So instead, I lift my chin and wade into the water, letting the warmth envelop my body.

At the sound of my approach, the maiden glances in my direction. Then she freezes as she recognizes me. I can tell that her gaze goes immediately to the scarred side of my face. A surge of fear comes from her, and I have to push down my desire to frighten her even more, to taunt her with my power. Instead, I just smile. She jumps to her feet and drops into a bow.

“Your Majesty,” she calls out.

At that, Magiano shifts slightly in my direction. He must have sensed my energy the instant I entered the hall, I realize—he must have known I was here. But he pretends to be surprised. “Your Majesty,” he says, echoing the maiden. “I'm sorry, I didn't hear you enter.”

I flick one hand at the maiden. She needs no second urging. She scurries off toward the closest door, not daring to bid Magiano farewell.

Magiano watches her go, then turns to me. His gaze goes from my face to the water lapping around my bare shoulders.

“Do you wish to bathe alone, Your Majesty?” he asks. He makes a move to get out, and as he does, he rises halfway out of the pool. Water runs down his taut stomach.

I have never seen Magiano undressed before. My cheeks warm. I also notice, for the first time, his marking fully exposed. It's a dark red patch that runs along the length of his side, where Sunland priests had so long ago tried to cut off his marking, an attempt to fix him. The first time I saw a glimpse of that old scar, it was the night we sat together by the campfire, when Violetta was still with me. I remember Magiano's lips on mine, the silence surrounding the crackle of the fire.

“Stay,” I reply. “I could use some company.”

Magiano smiles, but there is a certain wariness in his eyes. “Just
some
company?” he teases. “Or mine?”

I shake my head once, trying to keep the smile off my own face as we both move to the edge of the pool. “Well,” I say. “You're certainly better company than Teren.”

“And how is our favorite madman doing?”

“He's . . . not healing like he used to. There are chafes on his wrists that are constantly bleeding.”

At that, Magiano's carefree attitude shifts. “Are you sure?”

“I saw it myself.”

Magiano is silent, even though I know he's thinking the same thing I am. Raffaele's prediction for us all.

“And how have you felt lately?” Magiano asks me quietly. “Your illusions?”

The whispers in my head murmur amongst themselves.
We aren't a weakness, Adelina. We are your strength. You shouldn't resist us so much.
I look away and concentrate on the water lapping around us. “I'm fine,” I reply. “We will sail for Tamoura in a few weeks' time, and as always, I want you at my side.”

“Invading the great empire of Tamoura already,” Magiano replies. “Restless so soon? I've barely had the chance to unpack all of my possessions.”

I can tell immediately that the lightness in his voice is not real. “You're not excited. I thought the great Magiano would be intrigued by all the gold that the Sunlands hold.”

“I
am
intrigued by it,” he says. “And, apparently, so are you. I only hesitate, my love, because of how soon it has been since we were in Dumor. Tamoura's not a weak nation, even after losing their northern territory to you. They are an empire, with three kings and a strong navy. Are your men rested enough for another invasion?”

“Tamoura will be my crown jewel,” I reply. Then I frown at him. “You still pity Dumor, for what I did to them.”

Magiano's smile finally drops away, and he gives me a serious look. “I pitied them for losing their country. But I do not pity them for looking down on the marked. The fire in you burns as fiercely as it did when I first met you. You'll make Dumor a better place.”

“When did your heart turn so soft?” I ask him as I skim the surface of the water with my fingers, creating tiny ripples. “When I first met you, you were a hardened thief who delighted in taking others' belongings.”

“I stole from vain noblemen and arrogant queens. Drunkards and fools.”

“And do you miss that life?”

Magiano is silent. I can feel his nearness, the warmth of his skin barely brushing against mine. “I have everything I could ever want here, Adelina,” he finally says. “You've handed me what feels like the world's riches, a palace, a life of luxury.” He draws closer. “I get to be at your side. What more do I need?”

But I
have
taken something away from him. It is on the tip of his tongue, and I can hear it as surely as if he'd said it aloud.
Everyone needs a purpose, and I have taken away his. What can he do, now that he has been given everything?
There is no more thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the chase.