The Young Elites (24 page)

“Has he always hated us so much?” I murmur.

Enzo gives me a wry smile. “No. Not always.”

I wait for a moment, and soon Enzo begins talking again. He unveils the story of them as children, sparring together, and as I listen, the world around me fades until I feel as if I were standing in the palace courtyard from years ago, looking on as a young prince and a Lead Inquisitor’s son faced each other on a sunny afternoon. They were very young; Enzo was eight, Teren nine, both of them still unmarked. The blood fever had not yet hit Estenzia. Teren’s eyes were a deeper blue back then, but lit with the same intensity. Beside them, the old Lead Inquisitor looked on and called out instructions as the boys dueled. He was careful not to criticize the crown prince, but his words landed harshly on his own son, hardening him. Enzo shouted at the man sometimes, defending Teren’s skills. Teren would bow to Enzo after every match, complimenting him.

As I listen, I picture the difference between the two boys. Enzo himself must have still fought like a young boy, but Teren . . . his intensity sounded unlike a child’s, even frightening.

“He struck as if to kill,” Enzo says. “I liked training with him, because he was so much better than me. But he was not
cruel.
He was just a boy.”

Enzo pauses, and the scene fades. “Years later, the fever swept through,” he continues. “We both emerged marked. Teren’s father died. After, I would wander into the courtyard and Teren would no longer be there, eager for afternoon sparring sessions. Instead, he spent his days muttering in the temples, mourning his father, building his self-loathing, taking in the Inquisition’s doctrine that
malfettos
were cursed demons. I don’t think he hated us, not yet, because neither of us knew yet about our powers. But I saw the shift in him, and so did my sister.” His jaw tightens. “Ever since he became Lead Inquisitor, he’s hunted Elites, as well as those who help Elites.”

Something in the way he says it sparks a memory. It takes all my strength to ask. “Daphne?” I say hesitantly.

Enzo looks up at me. A hint of something familiar dances in his eyes—and I wish I didn’t know what it meant. The pain that comes from him, an emotion of darkness and anger and guilt and grief, glitters in the air as countless threads of energy.

“Her name was Daphne Chouryana,” he says. “Tamouran girl, as you can tell. She was an apprentice at a local apothecary.”

His words pick away at my heart, piece by piece, reminding me that the things he loved about me might not have been me at all. He must have seen her in my face, in the olive of my skin. He must have seen her every time he looked at me.

“She would sneak illegal herbs and powders from the apothecary to help
malfettos
hide their markings,” he goes on. “Dyes that temporarily changed hair color, creams that temporarily erased dark markings on skin. She was a friend to us. When we first discovered Dante, still wounded from battle, she nursed him back to health.”

“You loved her,” I say gently, sad for his loss and bitter for mine.

Enzo doesn’t acknowledge this directly. He doesn’t need to. “A
malfetto
prince is still a prince. I couldn’t marry her. She wasn’t from a noble family. It didn’t matter, in the end.”

I don’t want to ask the details of what happened to her. Instead, I bow my head in respect. “I’m sorry.”

Enzo nods back, accepting my condolence. “So it may go for all of us. We must move forward.” He seems weary, and I wonder whether it has to do with thoughts of Daphne or grief over Teren. Perhaps both.

In the silence that follows, he leans toward me until we are separated only by inches. The glow in his eyes beckons me. There is a heaviness about them, a dark depth that I might never understand. He touches my chin. His heat flows through me again, and I realize how much I’ve missed it right as he bends toward me.

“I know who you are,” Enzo whispers, as if he can sense the thought in my head.
Do you care for me only because of Daphne?

No. He knows me. He cares for me because of who I am.
The thought floods me with exhilarating speed, awakening all of my senses. His kisses are gentle this time, one after another, patient and exploring. His hands brush against mine, running up my arms, drawing me in. Nothing separates us except the thin fabric of my nightgown and his linen shirt, and when he pulls me into his embrace, his heat sparks against my skin. My alignment to passion roars, sending my energy hurtling through me, desperate to weave its dark threads into Enzo’s own, ensnaring him. It makes me dizzy, the same way I felt the night in the alley, the night I am forcing myself not to remember. It is out of control. I can’t stop it.

He pulls away. Then he leans his head against mine and sighs. “Stay,” he whispers. And I know that the aura of fear around him is fear of tomorrow, of what might happen to all of us, that perhaps he cannot save Raffaele’s life, he cannot win against Teren, that in the morning he may step out of this place and never return. He is afraid, and it leaves him vulnerable tonight. I try to forget my own fears by putting my hands on his face, then running them down to clasp his neck.

After a moment, I nod without a word. He settles down beside me as I curl up on one side of the bed, and then he brushes my silver hair away from my forehead. Instinctively, I shrink away when his eyes settle on the broken side of my face, but he doesn’t react. His fingers trail gently across my scars. They leave a path of warmth in their wake. It soothes me, leaving me drowsy. His eyes close eventually, and his breathing turns even. I find myself sinking into the comfort of early sleep too. I concentrate on the sensation until I feel nothing anymore, until I fall into a restless nightmare of demons, sisters, fathers, and words from a young Inquisitor with pale blue eyes.

I heard my sisters wailing through the night. They knew
what I had done, and they hated me for it.

—
Dantelle
,
by Boran Valhimere

T
oday is supposed to be the first day of the Tournament of Storms. Instead, it’s an endgame with the Inquisition.

The main Estenzian square, usually left open and uncluttered, has been transformed into a sprawling marketplace of makeshift wooden stalls and colorful flags, a sea of shops and people that surrounds the main arena looming at the harbor. But with today’s Tournament now a funeral for the king and a challenge to the Daggers, the atmosphere is ominous and eerily quiet considering how many people are flooding in. Here and there, lines of Inquisitors observe the masses. Teren wants the public to see us dead, right before their eyes.

I walk with Violetta through the crowds. No invisibility right now; it’s too hard for me to hold such a shifting illusion for as long as we’ll need it—and with this many people, we’d draw suspicion the instant others bump shoulders with us. I have to save my energy for our attack. Instead, I’ve woven the illusion of different faces over each of ours. I changed my dark eye and the ruined side of my face into a flawless visage with bright green eyes, each of them framed with blond lashes instead of silver. I adjusted my skin color from dark olive to light cream, my lips to a pale pink blush. My hair looks red-gold, and my bone structure is different. Violetta, too, now has skin as fair as a Beldish girl’s, and her dark hair is instead a coppery blond.

We are still not perfect images. I never had time to train myself in mastering the illusion of faces, and even though I’m improving rapidly, there are little things that seem off and unnatural. It should work, if no one stares too hard—but people who linger too long on our faces will frown, because they will know that something is off about us. So we move on.

By the time we’ve reached the general vicinity of the arena, sweat is running down my back.

The arena is enormous, perhaps the largest structure I’ve ever seen, rows and rows of archways stacked upon one another in a giant ring of stone. The number of Inquisitors grows as we near the arena. Teren has stationed an army of enforcers here. I try to keep my face down as much as I can, to imitate the rest of the crowd, and shuffle past the Inquisitors without looking at them. I half expect them to recognize me, to see through my shimmering illusion, but they seem to buy my appearance whenever they peer down at my face. They are searching for the Daggers’ allies. Threads of fear blanket the entire square, thickening right in the center of the arena.

“Stop,” an Inquisitor says to me. I pause, remembering to look bewildered, and peer up at the Inquisitor. He stares down at my face. Beside me, Violetta stops moving. I suck in my breath and focus all my concentration on solidifying my illusion, emphasizing the subtle movements of my face, the pores of my skin and the details of my eyes.

The Inquisitor frowns. “Name?” he grunts.

I lift my chin and give him my most confident look. “Anne of House Tamerly,” I answer. I nod at Violetta, who curtsies prettily. “My cousin.”

“Where are you staying?”

I rattle off the name of a local inn I’d seen during the qualifying races. “My father is doing business in Estenzia for several months,” I add. “We heard this morning that the king’s funeral may also involve an excecution. Is it true?”

The Inquisitor casts me another dubious look, but people are crowding behind us and he has no time to waste. He finally grunts his approval at us and waves for us to continue. “Nothing you Beldish would appreciate,” he answers. “Carry on.”

I don’t dare look back, but behind us, I hear him turn his attention to questioning the next person.

The arena had been built to hold tens of thousands of people. The archways stretch up toward the sky and down into the ground, so that even though we entered the space from ground level, we now stand along a row of stone benches looking down at dozens of rows below us, benches that wrap around the arena in circles before ending at the bottom in a wide, central space. Hordes of people mill in the aisles.
Among them are our patrons’ soldiers.
I can’t tell which ones they are, but they are here, scattered and hidden among the masses. Waiting for Enzo’s signal. I crane my neck, searching for him. Violetta shakes her head, letting me know she doesn’t sense him nearby.

“Come on,” I whisper, tugging her hand. “Let’s get closer.” We head down the rows until we are almost at the very bottom, then take our seats in the first row.

Before us stretches the arena’s center. It is flooded with water, a deep lake with channels that filter out into the Sun Sea; the dark shapes of baliras swirl underneath the surface. Cutting above the lake is a wide strip of stone path stretching from where Violetta and I sit to the other side of the arena, with a larger round platform in the very center. During a typical celebration, balira riders will wait along the platform and call for their baliras, and when the enormous creatures burst from the water, the riders jump onto their backs and perform stunning acrobatics to a cheering audience. Masked revelers in elaborate costumes would parade along the path, magnificent in their glittering colors.

Not today. Today, white-cloaked Inquisitors line both sides of the stone path. In the water, baliras circle, their calls muted, haunting and ghostly. I turn away, then scan the rest of the filling arena. There’s a cloak of fear and anxiety that blankets the entire space. Some of the onlookers seem excited, restless for the promise of blood. Others stay seated, with their mouths pulled into grim lines, whispering among themselves. My restlessness rises with them. Threads glitter in the air, tempting me.

My breaths are starting to come in shallower gasps as I continue to hold our illusions steady across our faces. Violetta touches my shoulder. She nods toward the opposite end of the arena. “There,” she whispers. I follow her gaze.
Enzo is somewhere in the crowd.

The Daggers should all be in position by now, along with their supporters.

Finally, after what seems like hours, all the Inquisitors lining the arena draw their swords and hoist them into the air for a traditional salute. The crowds hush. I look toward the royal pavilion, where the king would have once appeared with his crown and golden cloak.

Instead, the pavilion stays empty. And at the far end of the arena, Teren strides in with Inquisitors flanking him. A helmet shields his eyes from view, transforming him into the fearful image of someone not quite human. Right in front of him, weighed down in chains and guarded by more soldiers, with a blindfold over his eyes and a gag in his mouth, is Raffaele. My heart begins to pound.

Teren stops in the middle of the arena, then holds up his hands to the crowd. “My fellow citizens!” His voice echoes around the central structure. “It is with a heavy heart that we gather here today, not in celebration, but in mourning of our king’s death.” Not far from him, Inquisitors force Raffaele to his knees, draw their swords, and press the blades against his neck. “Your queen leads you now, Kenettrans. And with this new era, you will witness a historic moment, when our great and glorious nation is cleansed of the demons that have haunted us. That have tried to bring terror down on us.”

Beside me, Violetta grips my hand tighter. I look down and see that her knuckles have turned white.

Teren turns in a grand circle, his white cloak trailing, and smiles at the quiet audience. “Reaper!” he shouts. “A deal is a deal. I have your little consort-friend here”—he pauses to bow tauntingly in Raffaele’s direction—“and we are both waiting for you. Come out, demon.” His smile fades, replaced with a chilling blankness. “Come out, so we can play.”

I hold my breath. For a moment, nothing but silence blankets the crowd. The people shift uneasily, their eyes roaming for a sign of Enzo. My attention shifts to the long row of Inquisitors lining either side of the stone path over the water.

One of the Inquisitors near Teren breaks from the formation, then walks forward until the two stand barely ten feet apart. Some of the Inquisitors draw their swords—but most hesitate, thinking that the man is still one of them.

I grit my teeth and release the illusion of disguise on the newcomer. A sense of relief glides through me. Before everyone’s eyes, the Inquisitor gradually transforms from a white-cloaked figure to a tall boy in dark robes, his face hidden behind a silver mask and his hood pulled low over his face. Enzo.

Inquisitors lining the platform draw their swords, but Teren holds up a hand. He turns toward where Enzo now stands up. The crowd ripples with shouts, and I close my eye, savoring the wave of their fear. My strength builds.

The two face each other for a moment, neither speaking. Finally, Teren tilts his chin up. “How do I know this is your true self?” he shouts. “Is your little illusion worker hiding the other Elites here too?” Behind him, the Inquisitors press their swords tighter against Raffaele’s throat.

“You know who I am,” Enzo replies in a clear voice.

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why should
I
?” Enzo’s tone turns mocking.

Then, Teren reaches up and removes his helmet, revealing his wheat-blond hair. He tosses the helmet away. “Show me who you really are, Reaper,” he calls out, nodding at Enzo’s silver mask. “Or your friend dies.”

Enzo doesn’t hesitate. He reaches up and pulls the dark hood of his cloak from his face, exposing his bloodred hair. Then he puts his hand on his mask, pulls it away, and unveils his identity to the crowd. He, too, tosses the mask aside.

“A deal is a deal,” Enzo calls back.

Teren stares at him with a stony face. The crowd looks on. Everyone around us is stunned into silence. I sway, dizzy from the building tension. Our illusion of disguise shimmers at the edges of my vision.

“It’s the prince!” someone shouts from the arena.

Others take up the cry, and the revelation rips through the audience. Even though I can feel the overwhelming fear darkening the people, I can also sense the crackle of excitement, the emotions from
malfetto
supporters in the crowd and our own patrons’ fighters. Through the confusion, Teren nods at Enzo.

“No one will interfere,” he shouts. “I will face you alone, as long as you are bold enough to do the same.”

Enzo bows his head once in response.

Teren is lying.
But so are we. This is a battle poised to erupt.

“It’s been a long time, Your Highness,” Teren says, pointing his sword at Enzo. I would have expected his tone to be mocking, but instead he’s serious. Not a hint of amusement is in his voice. To my surprise, he bows his head at Enzo in genuine respect. “Let’s see if you’ve gotten any better.”

Enzo pulls long, gleaming daggers from the sheaths on his back. The metal of each weapon turns red, then white hot. Fire explodes from Enzo’s hands and wraps both of them in a large ring, separating them from everyone else. The audience screams.

Teren lunges forward.

Enzo strikes out with his daggers, aiming for the eyes, but Teren puts up his shoulder and shields his face—the blow deflects harmlessly off his hard skin. Enzo rolls away, hops back to his feet, and whirls on his enemy again. They circle each other in a slow arc. Enzo twirls a dagger in one of his gloved hands.

“You seem hesitant this morning,” Teren calls out. He strikes at Enzo with unnerving speed. Enzo dances out of the way, spins, and lashes out as hard as he can with both daggers. One of them manages to make impact, striking Teren somewhere on his side—but it looks as if someone were trying to stab through soft wood. Teren grunts, but the instant the blade leaves his side, he grins.

“Use your fire, Reaper,” he taunts. “Give me a challenge.”

Enzo attacks again. This time, his blades burst into flames, carving streaks of fire in the air as he lunges for Teren. He feints left, then twists in midair and slashes out at Teren’s face. Sure enough, Teren jerks his head away from the blow—but Enzo moves along with him, twin blades burning, anticipating where he’ll turn, and brings his second dagger viciously up toward Teren’s eyes. The Inquisitor darts away barely in the nick of time. Enzo’s blade scrapes against the side of Teren’s cheek, leaving a gash that closes right up.

Teren smiles. “Better.”

My turn. With a deep breath, I drop the disguises on Violetta and myself, then immediately cloak us in invisibility. Around us, people gasp in shock—but we are already on the move. I hurry to the small gate at the edge of the row, which leads into the lake’s pathway. We cross over. Inquisitors line the pathway, poised to attack if given the command. I carefully make our way forward.

“Tell me,” Enzo calls out over the roar of the flames. “Why do you turn your back on others like yourself?”

Teren doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he draws his sword and strikes out at Enzo. Enzo leaps to the side, but not before the sword’s blade nicks a line in his arm. He conjures a burst of fire that swallows Teren whole—but Teren doesn’t show any sign of pain. He steps out of the flames with a wicked smile, his skin crisping, darkening, and then returning to normal. The edges of his cloak fray and burn from the heat, but the clothes in contact with his skin stay untouched, as if behind some shield of protection.

“I never turned my back,” Teren calls out. “I am the only one willing to help. Look at what we’re doing right now, Reaper—our powers are curses from the Underworld, and we use them to destroy everything we touch.”

“Destruction is a choice.” Enzo raises one hand, calling the flames hotter, brighter, until the fire turns blinding white and engulfs Teren entirely.
If Teren can’t see, he can’t attack.
Enzo hefts a dagger. The fire suddenly vanishes—and in the abrupt absence, Enzo flings the dagger at Teren’s eyes.

Teren deflects the dagger with his sword, then catches the dagger in midair and throws it back. Enzo ducks to the ground in a graceful sweep. “I am cursed, just as you are. Yet, while
you
continue to defend those born from the leftovers of the blood fever,
I’m
doing what the gods always intended.” Teren’s pale eyes seem to soak in the flames that surround them, shading them a terrifying color. His lips curl into a snarl.