The Young Elites

  In fact, huge crowds of people are waving their flags in the air in her support, most from her Green Quarter, some even from the other quarters. I suck in my breath, and my anger changes to bewilderment—then to excitement. I look on in awe as Gemma nods in their direction. Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The tension between Gemma’s supporters and enemies crackles in the air, an early taste of potential civil war, and I take in a deep breath, as if to inhale the power it gives me. Not everyone hates malfettos, Enzo had said. My eye darts nervously to the Inquisitors, who look poised to act.

  Gemma soaks in the attention. She tosses her dark hair and grins back at the spectators, focusing on the ones who shout out their support for her. Then she hops up onto her stallion’s back in one fluid motion. She balances there on both feet, nimble and petite, her arms crossed in satisfaction. Gemma waves, then jumps back down into a seated position. The entire time, her stallion stays perfectly calm. Of the competitors so far, she is the only malfetto.

  The next two quarters’ competitors finally trot out, and the twelve organize themselves into a staggered line at one end of the track. The crowd’s roar is thunderous now. Gemma rubs her horse’s neck, and the stallion paws the ground in anticipation.

  “Riders, prepare your horses!” the announcer calls out. The crowd’s roar dies down for a brief second as everyone hushes to watch the start.

  The trumpeter lifts a bright yellow silk weighted down with a stone. He flings it skyward. “Go!” he screams.

  The horses break. The crowd explodes.

  A cloud of dust showers the track as the riders race their first lap around the track. I squint through the haze, then finally catch sight of Gemma’s green silks flying in the pack. She’s among the last half, but she wears a grin that could split her face.

  First lap. A Red rider’s ahead, and Gemma is ninth. I find myself cheering for her silently.

  All around me is screaming and shouting as each person calls out the names of their favorites. The chaos reminds me of my execution day, and with that, I feel darkness gathering within me. Raffaele had told me to watch the empty space, to look for threads of energy in the air.

  The horses thunder around the bend and past me. Gemma has her head thrown back in a wild laugh, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a curtain. I focus on the space between her and the other riders. There’s the flicker of something shining in the corner of my eye. It vanishes when I try to look directly at it.

  The horses storm down the track again, nearing the end of the second lap. Only one more lap to go. Gemma is still in ninth. Then suddenly, she makes her move—she pulls on her stallion’s mane, leans close to his neck, and whispers to him. At the same time, a gust of wind blows through the square. Windwalker. She must be watching from a vantage point.

  Gemma starts moving up. Fast. Ninth to seventh, then seventh to sixth. Then fifth. Fifth to fourth, to third. The cheers of the Green Quarter’s onlookers turn fever pitched. My heart thuds furiously. With Windwalker’s help, and her own abilities, Gemma pulls gradually into second. I hold my breath. Concentrate. I stare hard at Gemma.

  For a split second, I think I see threads glittering in the air, a thousand different colors, moving and shifting like strings on a loom.

  The Red riders in first and third place try to block her, forcing her between them. But Gemma pushes harder—the two other riders’ horses toss their heads, startled, when dust kicks up near their hooves. Windwalker must’ve sent a curtain of wind to their legs, pushing them back.

  A quarter of a lap to go. Gemma’s horse suddenly pulls ahead in a burst of speed—right into first place. The others try to catch her, but it’s too late. She crosses the finish line. The trumpeter flings the yellow silk in the air again, and shrieks fill the air. The Green Quarter is a sea of dancing silks.

  She won.

  I can’t resist a smile of relief, even as I pretend to be as subdued as the rest of the Blue Quarter I’m standing with. Perhaps all Teren can do with the information I gave him is to post more Inquisitors to the Tournament when it happens. Perhaps I didn’t affect the Daggers’ plans. All around the square are boos, furious shouts of “Disqualify her!” and “Malfetto,” accusations that she is one of the Young Elites. Still, no one can argue. We saw her win the race.

  The trumpeter approaches Gemma, who is taking a bow from where she’s standing balanced on her stallion’s back, and hands her the weighted yellow silk with a ceremonial flourish. Even though he stays festive, I notice him avoid contact with her, jerking his hand away so that he can’t be dirtied by her touch. Gemma’s smile wavers, the first sign that she’s bothered by the treatment—but she still lifts her head high and masks her discomfort behind a widening grin. Then the trumpeter goes around to the other riders, handing each of them a length of green silk. The tradition is the same as it is in Dalia: The losing riders must wear the color of the winner’s quarters on their arms for the next three days, to show their good sport.

  “Lady Gemma of House Salvatore!” the trumpeter shouts.

  “Order! Order!” one of the Inquisitors calls out from where they’re fencing in the people, but only a few seem willing to listen to him. The Green Quarter in particular is a frenzy of color and sound. The other quarters murmur indignantly among themselves. I start pushing my way out of the crowd, the way I’d come. If the races are over, then I should head back before anyone notices I’m gone.

  “Order, I say!” the Inquisitor barks out.

  I halt where I am. More Inquisitors block the square’s exits, forcing me to stay put. One Inquisitor calls the trumpeter aside, says something to him that the crowd can’t hear—and then, to my surprise, calls two other Inquisitors over to force Gemma to dismount from her horse. The other riders hurriedly make their way off the track and into the crowd. The crowd stirs as one Inquisitor rides his steed into the middle of the square.

  He holds his hands up for quiet. “Ladies and noblemen,” he begins, “I congratulate the Green District and their malfetto on her spectacular win.”

  Gemma stands uncomfortably alone in the square, suddenly unhappy with all the attention. I have to get out of here. Now.

  “However, I bring news from the palace. His Majesty has decreed that malfettos are no longer eligible for the Tournament of Storms.”

  Immediately, the Red and Blue Districts cheer—while the Green erupts into angry shouts. Out in the square, Gemma remains on the track, uneasy and tense.

  I swallow hard. A wave of guilt hits me. This is my doing.

  The trumpeter exchanges a few more bewildered words with the Inquisitors. Then, he goes around to each of the other riders, collects their green sashes back, and hands them a red one instead, silently acknowledging the second place finisher’s win. The Green Quarter roars their fury. Already, scuffles are breaking out in the crowd.

  My gaze stays on Gemma’s lone figure out in the square, bewildered and helpless, and for a moment I’m reminded of Violetta. The Inquisitors hold her there, as if they think she’d throw a fit. The trumpeter hands her a red sash. My hands grip the edges of my silks so tightly that I swear my nails are cutting open the skin of my palms. Threads of energy glitter in the air, signs of the crowd’s—of my own—rising fear. My fingertips tingle, humming with the growing power. Through the masses, my father’s ghost appears and disappears. He glides through the people, his haunting smile fixated on me.

  Gemma’s cheeks burn with shame. The crowd falls into complete silence. One of the Inquisitors holding her now wraps the red sash around her upper right arm. She bites her lip, keeping her eyes turned downward. The Inquisitor winds it three times, then yanks it viciously tight. Gemma gasps out loud and winces.

  “Sir Barra of the Red Quarter!” the trumpeter calls out, as the new winner holds his arms up. Gemma’s eyes stay down. Get out of there, I suddenly think at her, wishing she could hear me. A million threads hang over t
he square.

  Suddenly, someone in the crowd hurls a rock at the Inquisitor’s head.

  The Inquisitor blocks it with his sword before it can reach him, and it clatters off the metal and falls harmlessly to the ground. His eyes search the crowd for his attacker, but all he sees is a sea of stricken faces, suddenly silent and pale. I tense along with the crowd. In Dalia, attacking an Inquisitor is punishable by death.

  The Inquisitor nods at his companions. Gemma lets out a cry of protest as they force her to her knees. The crowd gasps. Even the troublemakers, the ones who had insulted Gemma so freely earlier, now look uncertain. To my shame, excitement instead of horror wells up in my chest, and my fingertips tingle. My darkness is a building storm, black as the sky, the threads wound tight with tension and filling every crevice of my mind. The Daggers must be preparing to make a move. They must be ready to save her. Right? Raffaele said that Gemma’s powers scatter when she’s frightened.

  “Perhaps we need a harsher reminder for this audience,” the Inquisitor snaps, “on the etiquette of good sport.” He presses his sword against her neck hard enough to draw blood.

  Where are you, Enzo?

  I can’t hold back any longer. I have to do something. Before I can stop myself, I reach out with my mind and pull on the strings of energy inside me. The ease hits me with a thrill. There is so much tension to feed on here—so much unease and ugliness, such dark feelings. Raffaele’s words flash through my thoughts. I focus, gathering all my concentration on the specific threads I’m pulling, knowing what I want to make. The threads push back, protesting the change, but I force them to bend to my will.

  Up on the roofs, shadowy silhouettes rise.

  Sweat beads on my forehead, but I force myself to keep my focus. I struggle to hold on to the threads, but there are so many of them. Clenching my teeth, I force the shape of the silhouettes to change. And for the first time—they listen to me. The silhouettes take on the shapes of Daggers, their dark hoods and silver masks intact, crouching by the dozens on the rooftops like silent sentinels, black against the stormy sky. I hold them all in position there. My breaths turn ragged. I feel like I’ve been running for hours. Some of the silhouettes quiver, barely able to retain their shape. Hold on. They stabilize. I catch my breath at how real they look.

  The Inquisitors glance up at the roofs. The sword falls away from Gemma.

  “The Elites!” several in the crowd shriek, pointing up at my illusion. “They’re here!”

  The crowd bursts into screams. The horses startle. Gemma hops to her feet, her eyes wide, and seizes the moment to scamper back into the crowd. The rush of darkness through me is intoxicating and irresistible, and I find myself embracing it, letting it cover my insides like ink. Such power over these little masses. I love it.

  I’m not strong enough to hold the illusion in place. The silhouettes scatter into nothingness as soon as I pull them back below the roofline. I shove my way frantically out of the square with the others. My sudden burst of bravado is replaced with anger at myself. Now Enzo will know for certain that I was here—they might find out why I was really in the streets. They might find out about my meeting with Teren, and what I told him. Nausea churns in me. I have to leave here.

  All around me, people try to flood out of the square. Some Inquisitors are blocking the exits, but there are too many of us and not enough of them. I’m careful to stay close to the walls of the buildings as people shove past me. All around me is a blur of chaos and colors, masked faces and the sensation of others’ fear. Threads of energy glitter in the air.

  Then, out of nowhere—an arrow comes flying from the sky and hits an Inquisitor in the chest. It hits him so hard that it knocks him off his horse.

  The people near him shriek, scattering in all directions. Another arrow comes flying, and then another. The Inquisitors turn their attention to their invisible attackers—and as they do, the people finally break past the blocked paths and free themselves from the square. My heart hammers in my chest at the sight of blood.

  The Daggers.

  I stumble out of the square, then retrace my steps as I rush along with others. Behind me, I hear Inquisitors shouting for order—the sounds of scuffles tell me that they’re making arrests as they go. I rush on. Energy courses through me in relentless waves, feeding me even as I try to ignore the flood of power in my veins. In spite of everything, I feel a strange sense of glee.

  All this chaos is of my own creation.

  By the time I reach the court, I’m soaked in sweat. My breaths come hard. I round a corner to the side wall of the court facing a narrow street, then climb on the ivy and hoist myself over the low ledge. I collapse inside the courtyard. Then I pick myself up, dust off my hands, and pull open a side gate that leads to the inner chambers. Finally, I reach the secret wall. I push on it, step through, and rush toward my room. There. I’ve made it back before the others. I’ll head to my room and—

  But someone’s already waiting for me in the hall. It’s Enzo.

  The sudden sight of him catches me by surprise. Any hope of being spared his wrath is dashed when I see the expression on his face. His eyes are alight, the scarlet in them brighter than usual.

  “You were to stay here,” he says. His voice is deadly quiet. “Why did you leave?”

  Panic rises in my throat. He knows.

  Something stirs behind him. I glance over his shoulder to see Windwalker, her mask off. Spider lurks farther down the hall, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall. He looks smug, eager to see me punished. “Huh,” he says. “Little lamb’s in trouble.”

  I keep my focus on Enzo and try to think of some clever comeback. Anything to protect myself.

  “I—” I start to say. “I wanted to help—”

  “You caused a riot out there,” Spider interrupts me. “Ever stop to think of what might happen if you lost control of your powers?”

  “I stepped in for Gemma,” I reply, suddenly angry. “I wasn’t about to wait around and see her killed.”

  Spider’s lips curl up. “Maybe it’s time you keep your words locked inside that pretty little mouth, where they belong.”

  My voice flattens. “Careful. Lest I hurt you.” I don’t even know where the words come from until they’ve already left me.

  Enzo hushes us both with a shake of his head. “Dante,” he says, without bothering to glance over his shoulder. It takes me a second to realize that Enzo has revealed the Spider’s real name to me. “You’re dismissed.”

  The boy’s rage changes to disbelief—at the use of his name in front of me, or at his dismissal, maybe both. “You’ll let this girl have her way?” he spits out. “She could have gotten one of us killed. She could have ruined the entire mission—”

  “The Inquisition ruined the mission,” Enzo interrupts. His eyes stay on me, and I feel the familiar shudder pulse through my heart. “You’re dismissed. Do not make me say it again.”

  Dante hesitates for a moment. Then he pushes away from the wall. “Watch your back, little lamb,” he snaps at me before stalking off down the hall. Windwalker watches him go, shrugs, and regards me with a suspicious look.

  “Now what, Reaper?” she says. “A whole new plan for the Tournament of Storms?”

  “No need.”

  She snorts. “But they’ve disqualified Gemma,” she says. “She can’t get close to the royals if she won’t be able to race.”

  Enzo studies me with a gaze so intense that it leaves my cheeks red. “Not if someone disguises her,” he replies.

  I blink, my mind spinning with the new information they’re feeding me. First, Spider’s real name. Now, this. Is he . . . pleased with me? Permitting me to participate in the Daggers’ plans? I could learn to disguise Gemma. I could disguise any one of them to ride in the race.

  Enzo steps closer until he’s now barely a foot away from me. The heat emanating from
him burns my skin through the fabric of my clothes. He reaches out one hand and touches the clasp that pins my cloak at my neck. The metal turns white hot. When I look down, I see threads fraying on the cloak’s cloth, their ends blackened and singed. My fear rises up into my throat.

  “You want to train faster,” he says.

  I keep my chin up, refusing to let him see my anxiety. “Yes.”

  He’s silent. A second later, he removes his hand from my cloak’s clasp, and the heat is sucked out of the melting metal as if it were never there. I’m shocked it didn’t burn straight through to my skin. When I look back up at Enzo, I notice a tiny spark of something else behind his rage. Something in his eyes that sends a different kind of warmth tingling through me.

  “So be it,” he replies.

  My heart jumps.

  “But I warn you, Adelina. Dante is right. There is one line you do not cross with me.” His eyes narrow as he folds his hands behind his back. “You do not recklessly endanger my Elites.”

  His words sting, labeling me as someone separate from them. I am separate from them. I am a spy and a traitor. Besides, what if things had gone horribly wrong when I used my powers? If I hadn’t been there, the other Daggers would surely have made a move to protect her, and they are certainly more skilled than I am. What if Gemma had instead been harmed during my antics, because I didn’t know what I was doing? What if the Inquisition had chosen to blame her for the false Elites on the roofs?

  What if Teren had seen me out there?

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur at the ground, hoping he doesn’t hear in my voice all the reasons why.

  Enzo makes no indication that he has accepted my apology. His stare feels like it can burn straight through my skin. “This will be the last time you disobey me.” He says it without a single hesitation, and I realize, with a horrible shudder, that he means exactly what he says. If he finds out about Teren, he really will kill me.