The Rose Society
Marie Lu
Violetta’s eyes open wider as she understands my plan. She starts to smile. “How will Maeve tell the difference between the real Raffaele and a false one?”
Magiano lets out a bark of laughter, while Sergio smiles wide enough to show a glimpse of teeth. “Brilliant!” Magiano exclaims, clapping his hands together once. He leans toward me. “If we can meet them in the arena at the same time they arrive, you can disguise yourself as Raffaele.”
Sergio shakes his head in admiration. “Maeve will tether Enzo to you. And we will have a reborn prince on our side. It is a good plan, Adelina. A very good one.”
I smile at their enthusiasm. But deep down, something still tugs at my conscience. Memories flicker through my thoughts. I am the White Wolf, not a Dagger, and they are no longer my friends. But then I saw Gemma, and the old pull returned. I hadn’t felt it since I left them. No matter how they betrayed me, I still remember Gemma offering me her necklace in friendship. No matter how often my father abused me, I still remember the day he showed me the ships at the harbor. No matter how Violetta abandoned me in childhood, I still protect her. I don’t know why.
You’re so stupid, Adelina, the whispers say with disdain, and I want to agree.
“You’re still loyal to the Daggers,” Magiano murmurs as he studies me, his joy subdued. “You miss the way things used to be. You’re hesitant to break them apart like this.”
My jaw tightens as I stare back at him. I hesitate. There’s no question that I want revenge against the Inquisition. The burning whispers return, their hisses sharp and disapproving. You want the crown, they remind me. It will be your ultimate revenge. It is why your new Elites follow you, and you cannot let them down. So why do you keep protecting the Daggers, Adelina? Do you really think they will accept you again, that they will let you have your throne? Can you not see that they are even willing to use and abuse their own former leader?
Enzo can take his place properly on the Kenettran throne—at your side. You can rule together.
Violetta speaks up. “Malfettos in this country are still dying every day,” she adds quietly. “We can save them.”
In the silence that follows, Sergio leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know what you experienced when you were with the Daggers,” he says. He hesitates, as if not sure whether to share this with us, but then he scowls and goes on. “But I considered them my friends, until they weren’t.”
Until they weren’t. “How are we different?” I say, meeting Sergio’s eyes. “You are a mercenary.” My gaze shifts to Magiano. “What happens to our alliance if we fail to get the throne?”
Sergio gives me a bitter smile. “You think too far ahead,” he says. “This is nothing personal. But at least we’re not pretending with you. You and I both know what we’re doing, and why. I gather mercenaries for you, and you put us to good use. You reward us as you have promised. I have no reason to betray you.” He shrugs. “And I have no desire to work with the Daggers. It gives me great pleasure to know that we will take their prince from them.”
“And where will your mercenaries be, when we need them?”
Sergio gives me a sidelong look and takes a swig of water. “They will be waiting for us in Estenzia. You’ll see when we get there.”
I lower my head and close my eye. Why shouldn’t I have as much of a right to rule Kenettra—as much as Giulietta, or Enzo, or Maeve and the nation of Beldain? Raffaele is a gentle soul, but he has his darkness too. He can be a traitor, just like me, and untrustworthy. Should he be the one controlling Enzo? My old affection for Raffaele starts to bend, fueled by Sergio’s story and my own memories, curving until it turns into bitterness. Into ambition. Into passion.
I think of Enzo back in the world of the living, of what it will be like to see him again. To rule, side by side. The thought of such a future makes my heart ache with longing. This is right, the two of us. I can feel it.
I pull myself upright and lean forward from my pillows. My stare lingers first on Violetta, then Magiano and Sergio. “The Daggers failed because I didn’t trust them,” I say. “But I have to trust you. We have to trust one another.”
Sergio nods. There is a brief silence. “Then perhaps we need something to solidify our plans. We are a force as much as the Daggers are.”
“A name, then,” Magiano adds. “Names give weight, reality, to an idea. Sergio, my friend, what did the Daggers call you when you stayed with them?”
Sergio frowns a little, reluctant to remember, but still decides to answer Magiano’s question. “They called me the Rainmaker.”
“Ah, the Rainmaker.” Magiano plucks a note in reply. “I suppose it’s as good a name as any.”
The Rainmaker. A beautiful name, actually, one that makes me smile. Magiano is right. Knowing Sergio’s Elite name somehow makes him feel like a true Elite, a force to be reckoned with. My Elite. “A good name,” I agree. “And what about you, Magiano?”
He shrugs, plucking a few final notes before putting his lute down. His eyes meet mine, and there, again, is that mixture in his gaze of admiration and wariness. “Magiano is already my Elite name,” he says after a while. “I don’t think any of us doubt the effect it has on people.” Then he gives us his savage smile, and doesn’t add anything more about it. He may think he knows little of my past, but I know even less of his. I want to ask him more, about where he came from, and what his real name is, but he looks away, and I let it drop again.
“What about you?” Sergio says to Violetta. She blushes a little at his expression. “No one has ever given you an Elite name.”
“I . . . I was never trained in anything,” Violetta replies. She turns her eyes down in a way that only I recognize, a look that can melt hearts.
“You are a puppet master,” I say to her. “For taking life, and then gifting it back.” For knowing how to use and gain the affections of others.
“Puppet Master,” Magiano repeats, laughing. “I like it, our sweet mistress of strings.” His smile fades as his expression turns serious. “And our little wolf, who will lead us all to glory. Tell us, Adelina, how we should take an oath of loyalty. You’re right. We must trust one another. So, let us do that here. Now.”
I blink at him. Of all of us, I’d least expected Magiano to be the first to pledge his loyalty to my cause. Why he’s followed us this long already, I’m not sure. He must see something in me—in all of this. When he notices my expression, he leans forward and brushes my chin with his fingers, tilting it up. “Why so surprised, White Wolf?” he murmurs, smiling a little. There is something in the way he says my Elite name, a secret sweetness.
Why so surprised that you are worthy?
I lift one hand and hold my palm out. A black stem gradually weaves into existence, sprouting dark thorns and spiked leaves. The stem grows until it blossoms into a dark red rose. It hovers in the center of us, not quite a solid object, still shimmering from the newness of its own creation.
“A pledge,” I say, looking at each of them in turn. My stare settles on Violetta. She stares silently at me, looking straight through the rose and into my heart, as if seeing something that no one else can see. My voice hardens. “A pledge,” I say again. “To drive fear into those who will confront us.”
Violetta hesitates—only for a moment. “To bind us together.”
“I pledge myself to the Rose Society,” I begin. “Until the end of my days.”
One by one, the others call out the same thing, murmurs at first that turn into firm words.
“To use my eyes to see all that happens,” says Sergio.
“My tongue to woo others to our side,” says Magiano, with his savage smile.
“My ears to hear every secret,” Violetta continues.
“My hands,” I finish. “To crush my enemies.”
“I will do everything in my power to destroy all who stand in my way.”
Raffaele Laurent Bessette
The first time Raffaele ever set foot inside the royal palace of Estenzia was when he turned eighteen. The palace had hired the Fortunata Court for a Spring Moons masquerade in their gardens. He could still remember the gardens lit by twilight, the fireflies and laughing guests, the masks, the whispers he drew wherever he went, the flood of client requests that followed.
But Raffaele has never been inside the palace itself, until now.
The first three nights in the dungeons, Raffaele sits alone against a cold, damp wall, shivering, and waits for the Inquisition to come. His manacles clink against each other. He can barely feel them against his numb hands.
On his fourth night as prisoner, the queen finally sends for him.
He goes in chains. Shackles clang together as he keeps his wrists in front of him. Inquisitors hold his arms and walk beside him. Raffaele knows the limits of his powers, but the Inquisition doesn’t, and he feels a faint sense of satisfaction at their unease around him. They make their way from the dark, dank corridors of the dungeons to the ornate bath halls. Servants bathe him until he smells of rose and honey, and his hair is once again a sleek, shining river of black and sapphire.
Memories of the court come back to Raffaele, flashes of nights and mornings filled with the scent of rich soaps. As much as he despised being a helpless consort, he still finds himself thinking about the court with nostalgia, missing the golden afternoons and the musk of night lilies.
Finally, the servants dress him in a velvet robe. The Inquisitors lead him on. The halls grow more intricate as they go, until they finally reach a set of double doors blocked by four guards. The doors are painted with an image of Pulchritas emerging from the sea in all her pristine beauty. Raffaele trembles as the guards push them open now, ushering him inside the royal bedchamber. The doors close behind him with the finality of a coffin.
High, intricately carved ceilings. A canopy bed draped with sheer silks. Candlelight illuminates the entire space as Raffaele looks around the walls of the bedroom. Inquisitors stand shoulder to shoulder along each wall, their white cloaks blending into one another’s. All of them have swords at their belts and crossbows hoisted in Raffaele’s direction. As he steps slowly into the chamber, the arrowheads follow his every movement.
His gaze pauses on the Inquisitor standing at the head of them all, closest to the canopied bed. Teren. The Lead Inquisitor’s face tightens as he meets his eyes. Raffaele lowers his lashes, but he still notices Teren’s energy stir with anger, and the way his hand grips the hilt of his sword so strongly that his knuckles turn white.
An uneasy tingling runs down Raffaele’s spine. Will these soldiers stay in here all night? Will Teren stand by and watch his queen?
“You look well.” Giulietta’s voice comes from where she sits at a small writing desk. She rises, then walks over and stops before him. The fabric of her robes glide behind her in smooth trains of silk. She is paler than Enzo, Raffaele thinks.
She looks him up and down. Then she makes a spinning gesture with one finger. “Turn around,” she commands. “Let me see you.”
Raffaele lets a faint blush touch his cheeks, and does as she says. His velvet robe sweeps the floor, the candlelight revealing swirls and slashings of gold. His hair flows over one shoulder, straight and glossy, tied past his shoulder with a thin gold chain. A few of his sapphire strands glitter in the low light. He looks at her through eyes rimmed with black lines and shimmering silver powder.
Raffaele feels the queen’s energy stir. He reaches out to tug gently on her heartstrings. He studies the shift of her emotions. He can sense her distrust and suspicion of him . . . but underneath it, he also senses something else. A note of something calculating. And beyond that . . . a small, singular touch of desire.
“Is Her Majesty pleased with me?” he says when he turns back to her again. His eyes stay downcast.
Giulietta smiles. Her eyes roam over him. She touches his chin with one cool hand. “Hard to say. You haven’t done anything yet.”
He holds his breath, drawing on his familiar exercises to block out a client’s unwanted advances, to escape from his body and do his duties as if he were someone else. Numbing his mind. He goes by the motions, returning Giulietta’s smile with his own trained one, leaning into her touch as if he ached for more, tugging gently on her energy until her pupils dilate. He can almost fool himself.
Beside the bed, Teren looks away.
“You had quite the reputation at the Fortunata Court,” Giulietta says, retracting her hand abruptly and stepping away again. She gives him a curious look. “I can see why. Rumor has it that when my brother was alive, he visited you frequently. He was fond of you, wasn’t he?”
She is baiting him, toying with his emotions. Careful. Raffaele keeps his lashes down and his grief tightly at bay. “He enjoyed my singing and wit,” he replies in a calm, humble voice.
“Your singing and wit,” she echoes, a small smile on her lips. “Is that what the pleasure courts call it now?” A brief pause follows before she continues, “I’ve heard about your power, Messenger. That you can find other Elites like yourself. Is this true?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“What else can you do?”
She fears me, Raffaele thinks. He lowers his eyes and his voice. “I bring comfort and calm,” he replies simply. “I soothe.”
“Then give me some peace of mind, Messenger, and answer me this,” she says. Her eyes harden. “Where are the other Daggers?”
Raffaele doesn’t hesitate. “In Beldain.”
At that, a spark of pleasure lights in Giulietta. She smiles a little and makes a sympathetic sound in her throat. “Ran away after your prince died, didn’t you? If I spared your life, would you betray your fellow Daggers and lure them here?”
Raffaele keeps his eyes downcast, and doesn’t answer.
Giulietta gives him a cold smile. “I didn’t think so,” she murmurs. She nods at her Inquisitors, and they hoist their crossbows higher. Raffaele stays very still, careful not to make a move that will set off one of the Inquisitors. His heart pounds. The queen tilts her head at him. “Are you afraid of death, Messenger?”
Raffaele can hear the breath of string against wood, the tightening of the Inquisitors’ grips on their crossbows. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he answers in a tight voice.
“Then tell me why I shouldn’t execute you right here. What do you want, Messenger? Or did you really become so incompetent as to be captured like this? Why did the Beldish queen bring you here?”
Raffaele stays silent for a moment. “I let myself get captured,” he says, “because I knew you would never agree to an audience with me otherwise. You are too clever a queen to meet Elites out in the open. This is the only way to talk to you and make you feel safe in the process.”
Giulietta raises an eyebrow. “How considerate of you. And what do you need to tell me that is worth risking your life?”
“I came to ask your mercy for the malfettos in Kenettra.”
Teren stiffens at that. Raffaele can feel the surge of his temper. This is a good test. How will Giulietta react to his request? What will Teren do?
Giulietta gives Raffaele an amused smile. “Malfettos were traitors to my crown. They tried to put my brother on my throne.”
“But now your brother is dead,” Raffaele replies. He moves closer to Giulietta and leans toward her, letting his lips brush her cheek. His eyes dart briefly to Teren. “And the leader of your Inquisition is an abomination. You are a practical queen, Your Majesty, not a radical one. I can see this quite plainly.”
Giulietta searches his face, looking for evidence that Raffaele feels pain at talking about Enzo’s death. She do
esn’t find it.
“The Daggers have always fought for security,” he continues. “For survival. It is the same thing you fight for.” His eyes harden for a moment. “Your husband was the one that the Daggers wanted gone. He was a fool—we all knew this. If you show mercy to malfettos in your kingdom, then what reason would we have to fight you?”
“Mercy,” Giulietta muses. “Do you know what I do to those who betray me?”
“I have seen it, yes.”
“So, what makes you think I will grant the Daggers or the malfettos mercy?”
“Because, Your Majesty,” Raffaele replies, “the Dagger Society is a group of powerful Elites. We can bend the wind to our will, can control the beasts, can create and destroy.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her. “Wouldn’t you like to have that power at your command?”
Giulietta laughs once. “And why would I trust you to pledge me your powers?”
“Because you can give us the one thing we want, the only thing we have ever fought for,” Raffaele replies. “Spare your malfettos. Let them live peacefully, and you may gain for yourself a society of Elites.”
Giulietta looks serious now. She studies Raffaele, as if searching to see whether or not he’s lying. A long silence passes. Behind them, Teren’s energy churns, a dark blanket across the room. He stares at Raffaele with eyes full of hate.
“This whore is a liar,” Teren says in a low voice. “They will turn on you the instant—”
Giulietta holds up a lazy hand to stop him. “You told me you would find the White Wolf and bring me her head,” she says over her shoulder. “And yet, I received word this morning that Adelina Amouteru overpowered a ship of my Inquisitors in Campagnia. Left them dead. Rumor has it that she has gathered supporters, that she is sending us a message of her approach. So, does that not also make you a liar, Master Santoro?”
