The Young Elites (26 page)

Perhaps I’d simply switched one dark prison cell for another. No one ever gives me their kindness without hoping for something in exchange.

Are they any different?

Are they all the same?

They all want to use you, use you, use you until they get what they want, and then they will toss you aside.

Everything Raffaele saw in me on my testing day is true. Together, my alignments with energy swirl inside me, shifting and powerful. I am shaking.

Raffaele feels the rising power in me, because a note of fear hovers over him. Still, he doesn’t move. He faces me with grim determination, refusing to back down.
Don’t. Concentrate. Control it.
The only way to clamp down on my energy is to erase my emotions, and so I fold them each away, one by one. My sorrow turns to anger, then to ice-cold fury. My soul curls in on itself in defense. I am gone. I am truly gone.

I am not sorry.

“You have no right to judge me,” I whisper, looking around at the others. “You belong to a society that thrives on murder. You’re no better.”

Raffaele only returns my look with his level gaze. He nods at the others to leave. Lucent starts to protest, then sighs and casts me one last glare before following Gemma and Michel out the door. Raffaele and I are the only ones left in the room. For a moment, however brief, the gentleness on his face fades away to reveal something hard and dark.

“Murder is a means to an end,” he finally says, tilting his head slightly at me. This time, the gesture looks more cunning than flirtatious. “Not an activity of pleasure.”

If you cast me out of the Dagger Society, then I will form my own. I am tired of losing. I am tired of being used, hurt, and tossed aside.

It is
my turn
to use.
My turn
to hurt.

My turn.

“You’re making a mistake,” I say. My voice emerges flat and cold. The voice of someone
new.
“By not killing me now.”

“No,” Raffaele replies. “I’m not.”

He finally stands. His hand separates from mine. He walks toward the door with his signature grace, then stops right before it.

“Adelina,” he says, turning. The look in his eyes threatens to break me. “I loved him too.”

Then he leaves me, and I am truly alone.

I pledge myself to the Rose Society until the end of my days,
to use my eyes to see all that happens, my tongue to woo others to
our side, my ears to hear every secret, my hands to crush my enemies. I will do everything in my power to destroy all who stand in my way.

—The Rose Society Official Initiation Pledge,
by Adelina Amouteru

N
ight has fallen, and it is quiet again. Out in the estate gardens, a few candles flicker in mourning for Enzo. I don’t know where the other Daggers are; perhaps they’ve long ago left this place. Perhaps they’ve fled to the Skylands, where Beldain might give them shelter. Tomorrow morning, things will be different—the uprising has been crushed, Giulietta will rule as the queen of Kenettra, and Teren will bring his wrath down on all
malfettos.
Enzo’s supporters have gone into hiding to lick their wounds. Violetta and I will flee Estenzia. Where we’ll go, I’m not sure. I’ll settle in another port capital, perhaps, one far from here. Maybe I’ll start my own society to strike back against Teren. Maybe we’ll run across other Young Elites. The Daggers can’t be the only ones.

I sit before the mirror of my vanity in my chamber, leaning weakly against my chair. My chest wound hurts every time I breathe. The knife tucked into my boot is my only remaining weapon, and now I take it out and set it on the vanity’s surface, its point facing me. Through the window, I can see the dark blue silhouettes of the estate gardens. Enzo walks down there, gliding through the grass surrounding the main fountains. His sapphire robes trail behind him. I know he’s not real, that it’s only another vision that I cannot control.

Everyone will talk about me. Word of the prince’s death is going to spread through the country like wildfire—Lucent has already sent doves to deliver the news to other Dagger patrons. People will say that the prince had fallen for me, and that I killed him in order to help Teren gain the throne. They will accuse me of tricking Enzo into loving me, and then trying to seize his position of power. I will be whispered about. I will have enemies lurking in every shadow.

Let them talk. Let their fear of me grow. I welcome it.

I stare silently at my reflection in the mirror, studying my long silver locks, the broken side of my face, all of it illuminated by the blue-white hue of moonlight. I think back to the night when I screamed at my reflection and shattered my mirror with my brush. Has anything changed since then? My father’s ghost blurs in and out of the mirror’s reflection, gliding behind me, his face a dark, menacing portrait. I try in vain to make him go away, but I can’t. My powers overwhelm me, creating visions of things I don’t want to see.

I suddenly seize the knife on my table. Then I grab a lock of my hair and frantically begin to cut it off. Strands glitter across my vision—for a moment, I can’t tell if they are strands of energy or strands of my hair—and then fall, shining, to the floor. A strange fever seizes me; my wound twists in protest under my bandages, tearing open again, but I don’t care. I hate everything about my markings, I want them gone, they have brought upon me all of the pain and suffering in my life, they have taken from me everything that matters. In this instant, none of my powers give me joy. I am still alone, broken and small, the butterfly fighting for life in the grass. Maybe it will be for the best if Teren wins. Let him destroy us all. Let our markings die out from this world and end our fight.

I have to get rid of this marking.
Again and again I slice away, chopping off locks of my hair and spilling the broken strands all around me. In my frenzy, the blade nips at my fingers and my scalp, leaving cuts as it goes. I sway in my chair, then fall to the floor. Red blurs across my vision, mixing with the gray.

“Adelina!”

Somewhere in the midst of my frenzy is a small, clear voice. Then Violetta is here in my room, her smooth hands reaching for mine, her pleas falling on deaf ears. I jerk away from her grasp, jump to my feet, and continue to slash away at my hair. “Let go of me,” I hiss, tasting salt and water on my lips.

Someone seizes the blade from my hands, leaving me helpless. In blind fury, I lash out at my sister with my illusions, trying to force her to return the knife to me—but Violetta wrenches my power away. The sudden rush of energy leaving my body robs me of my breath. I gasp, then brace myself against my table as my knees crumple. Violetta’s arms are around me; she’s lowering me carefully to the floor. All around us are locks of my hair, painted silver and gray by the moons. Violetta pulls me into a tight embrace. I cling desperately to her, terrified.

“I can feel myself losing,” I whisper, my voice cut by broken sobs. “The darkness seeps in a little more every day. What have I done? How can I be like this?”

“I can make it stop. I can eventually learn to take it away from you forever.” Her soft words cut through the angry voices poisoning my mind. She hesitates. “I can save you.”

Teren’s exact words come out of my sister’s mouth. I flinch away. “
No,
” I snap. “Give it back.”

Violetta’s eyes glow with tears. “It will destroy you.”

Let it. I don’t care. “Give my power back, I beg you. I can’t live without it.”

Violetta studies my face. It is not often that I see our resemblance . . . but here, in this pale moonlight, her eyes become mine, my hair becomes hers, and the sadness on her face breaks my heart as surely as mine must break hers.

Finally, Violetta lets go; my energy comes rushing back to me, giving me life and freedom. I seize the threads and hold them close. This is all I have that is mine. “Just leave me alone,” I mutter over and over again. “Just leave me alone—”

My words cut off when Violetta wraps her arms around me again.

“Mi Adelinetta,” she whispers in my ear. “Do you remember how we used to lie in the long grass, counting the stars as they emerged in the evening sky?” I nod against her shoulder. “Do you remember how we used to dance in Mother’s old bedchamber? Do you remember how we used to hide in the closet and pretend we lived far, far away?” Her voice starts to tremble. “Do you remember how I sat up with you late into the night, binding your broken finger as best as I could? Do you remember?”

I nod, biting back my tears.
Yes.

“You are not alone.” She tightens her embrace. “All my life, I have tried to protect you.”

And then I realize that all I ever wanted, kindness with no strings attached, had only ever come from Violetta. I do not know why I never saw it. In all this world, only she has done things for me, bad or good, with no thought of her own gain. We are sisters. Despite all we’ve been through, all that we have held against each other, we are sisters until death comes for us.

Something breaks inside me, dissipating the ugly whispers that plagued me moments earlier, and the gates holding back my tears break down. I hug Violetta fiercely, as if I might die were I to let go. Grief envelops me. I begin to weave. I form an illusion all around us, a vision of things that I dream of and things that don’t exist. The room shimmers and then disappears, replaced instead with the sun-drenched gardens of our old family home. My hair and lashes are no longer silver, but dark like my sister’s and mother’s, and my face is unbroken and perfect. Violetta giggles at me and tucks a flower behind my ear. Our father comes to greet us from inside the house—he is a whole and healthy vision, a fantasy of someone I never knew, with laughter in his voice, the scent of wind and wood on his coat instead of the familiar perfume of wine. Beside him is our mother, an amused smile on her lips, a vision of the women we will grow into. I run into their arms. My mother puts her hands on my cheeks and kisses me. My father hugs me and lifts me high in the air. He spins me around in a wide circle. I throw my head back and laugh with him, because I am his daughter and he is my father, and he is not ashamed of me. He loves me wholly, the way it should have been.

I hold the vision for as long as I can. I would have held it forever, happy to lose myself in it for the rest of my life.

Finally, I release the illusion. It slowly fades away around us, the sun and grass replaced with moonlight and wooden floors, my mother and father replaced with Violetta, her arms still wrapped tightly around me, her skin warm. I lean against her, weak and exhausted, bleeding, my energy spent. Neither of us speaks.

Tomorrow morning, I will lead us out of Estenzia. I will find others like ourselves. I will turn us against Teren with such fury that he will beg for forgiveness. Tomorrow, I will take on all of these things. I will be unstoppable.

But tonight, we stay where we are, holding on, lost in the dark.

E P I L O G U E

City of Hadenbury

Northern Beldain

The Skylands

F
ar north of the island nation of Kenettra, on the high Skyland plains of the nation of Beldain, Crown Princess Maeve dips her hands in holy water in preparation for a prisoner’s execution. She squints up at the clouds covering the sky, then out at the long length of bridge that leads from her and the Hadenbury Palace gates out into the city. The winds are strong, for a summer day. They whistle against the gates behind her, singing some haunted tune, and the smattering of people who have gathered for the executions huddle closer together on either side of the gates, braving the cold and peering curiously over the heads of soldiers.

Maeve gathers her furs higher around her neck, bracing herself against the winds in front of the gates, and then turns her attention to the chained man groveling at her feet. Tiny ornaments dangling in her hair clink together in the wind. Third prisoner today. She sighs.
If I’m going to spend a day killing people, I should at least be on the battlefield.
Shooting arrows into weak, staggering prisoners is no fun at all.

Behind her, in a perfect line, stand her six older brothers. At her side, her white Beldish tiger sits languidly, staring at the prisoner with lazy golden eyes, her fur long and thick and slashed with gold stripes. They match the fierce lines of gold painted across Maeve’s own face. Amazing, really, how much a skinny adolescent tiger taken from the forests of the northern Skylands can grow in a year.

She leans a hand against the hilt of her sword. “Do you have a confession?” she says to the prisoner. Her voice rings out low, harsh, and grating, just like her mother’s, loud enough for the audience to hear. “Speak, so that I may decide whether you are deserving of a swift death.”

Maeve can barely understand the prisoner’s reply through his sobs. He crawls as close to her as he can, until the guards flanking him shove him back. He manages to brush dirty fingers against the edges of her boots. “Your Highness,” he manages to say through his shaking voice. He turns his head up to her, eyes wet and pleading, and wipes at the lines of dirt and blood painting his face. Maeve wrinkles her nose in disgust. Hard to believe this man was once nobility. “I have my confession. I—I have shamed this land which Holy Fortuna has blessed. I do not deserve to live. I—Your Royal Highness, I am your humble—”

“Your confession, Sir Briadhe,” she interrupts, her tone bored. She wears her braids high in warrior fashion today, fierce ropes of entwined locks that run along either side of her head, pushing her hair up like the hackles on a wolf’s back. Half of her hair is dark blond; the other half is midnight black. The great goddess Fortuna, keeper of Beldain, had blessed her with this marking, among other things.

The prisoner’s sobbing continues. He confesses through trembling lips, something about adultery and affairs, rage and murder, how he had killed his fleeing wife with a dagger in her back. How he kept stabbing her even after she was dead.

The audience murmurs in low voices as he speaks. When he finishes, Maeve’s eyes sweep the scene, pondering the appropriate punishment. After a moment, she looks back down at the prisoner. “Sir Briadhe,” she says. She pulls the heavy crossbow from her back. “I will make you a deal.”

The man glances up at her, a sudden rush of hope lighting his eyes. “A deal?”

“Yes. Look behind you. Do you see this long bridge that we stand on? How it leads beyond the palace grounds and into the city?” Maeve nods off into the distance as she starts to notch an arrow to her crossbow. “Make it to the end of the bridge before I count to ten, and I will strip you of your title and let you live in exile.”

The prisoner gasps. Then he crawls to Maeve again and starts to kiss her boots. “I will,” he says in a rush. “I will, thank you, Princess, thank you, Your Highness.”

“Well?” Maeve says as the man’s guards haul him up onto his feet. She tightens her grip on the crossbow. The guards step aside, leaving the man to sway on his own. “You had better get going.”

She hefts the crossbow to her shoulder and begins to count. “One. Two.”

The prisoner panics. He whirls around, picks up his chains, and starts to run as quickly as he can. He stumbles over his chains in his haste, but manages to catch himself in time. The crowd starts to chant, then shout. Maeve squints down the line of her crossbow. She continues to count.

“Seven. Eight. Nine.”

The prisoner is too slow. Maeve lets her arrow fly.
Equal crime,
her mother always said,
equal punishment.

It hits him squarely in his calf. He screams, then collapses in a heap. Frantically he pushes himself back onto his feet, then staggers onward. Maeve calmly notches another arrow, then lifts it and shoots again. This time, she aims for his other leg. It strikes true. The man falls hard. His sobbing pierces the air. The crowds cheer. The prisoner is a few yards from the last post—he starts to drag himself on his elbows.

Prisoners are always so damn desperate when they stare death in the face.

Maeve watches him crawl for a moment. Then she kneels down to her tiger. “Go,” she commands.

The tiger pounces from her side. Moments later, the prisoner’s wails change into high-pitched screams. Maeve looks on as the audience cheers. The sight brings her no joy. She holds up her hands for silence, and the shouts cut off sharply. “This is no occasion for applause,” she calls out in disapproval. “The queen does not tolerate cold-blooded murder in the great nation of Beldain. Let this be a lesson to you all.”

One of her brothers straightens from his casual stance and taps her on her shoulder. Augustine. He hands her a parchment. “News from Estenzia, Little Jac,” he says over the noise. “The dove arrived this morning.” The nickname lifts Maeve’s heart for an instant. It always reminded her of her childhood with her band of brothers, trailing after them in her furs and dresses, mimicking their swagger and hunting stances. Then her heart tenses. Lately, Augustine has only called her Little Jac when troubling news arrived, like when their mother first fell ill.

Maeve reads the letter in silence. It’s from Lucent, and addressed not to the palace but directly to Maeve herself. She stays quiet for a long moment. Then she sighs in frustration. “Kenettra has a new ruler, it seems,” she finally replies. She clicks her tongue in disapproval, then whistles for her tiger to return.

Her brother leans closer. “What happened?”

“The king was assassinated,” Maeve replies. “Not by the crown prince, but by Kenettra’s Lead Inquisitor. And the prince is dead.”

Augustine leans back and rests his hand on his sword’s hilt. “That changes our plans, doesn’t it?”

Maeve nods without answering, her lips tight. She had hoped that being one of the Daggers’ biggest patrons would mean that after Enzo took the throne, he would carry out his promise of reigniting trade between Kenettra and Beldain.
If I’m to gradually win control of Kenettra, I’d rather do it without sacrificing thousands of soldiers.
Besides, she preferred to see someone who supported
malfettos
on the island nation’s throne. But now the crown prince is dead. “It’s a complication,” she finally says. “Still, perhaps it will be easier this way.”

“And what’s this mention of a White Wolf?”

“Some new Elite,” Maeve mutters, distracted, as she rereads the letter. Killing off Fortuna’s chosen ones? Those Kenettrans get more barbaric every year. She turns around and hands the parchment back to her brother. “Give this to the queen.”

“Of course.”

“And gather the others,” she adds. Time to call her Elites into action. “If we still want to make a move, we’ll need to do it soon.”

Augustine folds his arms across his chest and smiles. “With pleasure, Your Highness.”

Maeve watches him go.
Lucent.
She misses Lucent desperately, their intimate conversations and their friendly duels and their wild forest adventures. Lucent would track the deer; Maeve would deliver the killing shots. Lucent would scowl; Maeve would tease. Lucent would kneel to pledge her loyalty to the crown; Maeve would help her to her feet. Lucent would shy away from her kisses; Maeve would pull her back.

Lucent fled to Kenettra after the queen banished her; Maeve grew quiet and cold in her absence.

As the guards clean up after the execution, Maeve heads back into the Hadenbury Palace. Her brothers continue on to their mother’s bedchamber, their voices excited as they talk about the news, but Maeve takes a different route that steers her away from the palace’s apartments, out across the courtyards, and toward a small, separate manor. Her mother married two husbands and birthed seven sons before finally getting a daughter. Maeve has waited her whole life to step into her birthright . . . but becoming the queen of Beldain means that her mother will first have to pass away. She winces at the thought.

Still, she chooses to avoid visiting the dying queen with her brothers. Maeve was not in the mood for another lecture on choosing a husband so she could start birthing an heir.

Two soldiers standing guard at the manor house bow low to her. They escort her up the familiar halls until they finally reach a quiet floor. Here, Maeve takes the lead while the nervous guards stay several feet behind her. She approaches a narrow door with iron bars stretching across its wood, then pulls out a key strung around her neck. On the other side of the door, she hears someone stir. The keepers back away. Even her pet tiger refuses to get closer.

The lock clicks open. Maeve pushes aside the iron gratings and swings the door open with a faint screech. She enters alone, closing the door securely behind her.

The room is dark; shafts of blue light beam in from between the windows’ iron gratings. In the chamber’s bed, a figure stirs at her entrance and sits upright. He looks tall and thin, his hair rumpled. Her youngest brother.

“It’s me,” Maeve calls out gently. The young man in bed squints sleepily at her. In the light, his eyes shine like two glowing disks, the color not quite of this world. He doesn’t reply.

Maeve stops a few feet before the end of the bed. They stare at each other. She knows that if she opened his chamber door and gave a command, his eyes would turn black and he could very well kill everyone in the palace yard. But she doesn’t, and so he remains quiet.

“Sleep well, Tristan?” she says.

“Well enough,” the young man finally replies.

“Do you know what I heard today? Kenettra has a new ruler, and the country’s Young Elites are at war.”

“Tragic,” Tristan replies. Somehow, over the last few months, his conversations had finally faded away into brief sentences. Every day, the light in his eyes grew more distant.

She swallows, trying to ignore the way his silence twists her heart. They were only a year apart, she and Tristan, and he used to be so talkative, to the point where she’d shout at him to leave her alone. They spent such long days in the forest with Lucent. She closes her eyes and thinks back five years. The accident. Tristan’s death. Lucent’s banishment. Maeve’s discovery.

She still remembers how she visited the Underworld in her nightmares, shortly after Tristan was killed. She’d had dreams of the realm of the dead before, but that night’s was different. She was there,
physically
there, swimming through the dark waters in an attempt to find her brother. She’d found him. And she pulled him back to the surface. A miracle, a power from the gods.
Magic,
people would call it now, the gift of the Young Elites. But she never told anyone what she did—everyone simply assumed that Tristan had never truly died in the first place. She kept her power a secret, even to her mother, even in her rare letters to Lucent. Only her society of Elites knew. If word got out, the palace gates would swarm with people from all over the world, begging her to revive their loved ones. Better to keep a low profile.

For the first few years after he returned, Tristan was himself again. Alive. Normal.

Then, slowly, he began to change.

Maeve smiles sadly at her brother’s silence, then touches his cheek. She can feel his strength even now, a strange, unnatural power coursing through his body that she alone, who chose to bring him back, has the power to unleash on the enemy of her choice.

“Come,” she says. “I need to pay Kenettra a visit.”