The Midnight Star, Page 24

  “Where is Adelina?” It is Magiano’s voice now. He looks around frantically, trying to find her. Raffaele frowns. He had seen Adelina—he was sure of it. Her silver hair, glinting in the black mist; her white lashes, scarred face; her chin, always up. She had been in the Underworld with them. Raffaele scans the landscape, a knot tightening in his stomach, as Magiano calls for her again.

  There she is.

  There is a girl stirring nearby, her hair is dusted silver and white with snow, and it falls across her face. Raffaele feels immediate relief at the sight of her—until she lifts her head.

  No, it is not Adelina. It is Violetta, with the snow hiding the color of her dark hair. The markings that had blemished her skin are now gone, and the color has returned to her cheeks. She shakes her head, blinking, and looks around. Her eyes are red from crying, but she is here and whole, alive.

  Raffaele can only stare in silence. Impossible. How did she come here?

  Where is Adelina?

  Magiano has already struggled to his feet and is making his way through the snow toward her. “Violetta,” he calls. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated. He looks as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. Then he embraces her, lifting her clear off the snow. Violetta makes a surprised sound. “What happened? How are you . . . ?”

  Impossible, Raffaele repeats to himself. How did Violetta return from the Underworld? She does not look like Enzo did when Maeve pulled him out, with pools of black in his eyes and an energy about him that felt like death. No, Violetta looks healthy and alive, even radiant, the way she had once looked when Raffaele first met her. He wants to cheer, to be joyous for her return—

  —but her expression tells him otherwise.

  Magiano puts her down and holds her at arm’s length. He furrows his brow at her. “How are you here?” he exclaims. “Where’s Adelina?”

  Violetta returns his stare with an unbearable look in her eyes. At that, Magiano’s smile wavers. He shakes her once. “Where’s Adelina?” he asks again.

  “She made a deal with Moritas,” Violetta finally says, her voice cracking.

  Magiano frowns, still not understanding. “We all made a deal with Moritas,” he replies. “I was there in the Underworld—we were there, with the gods and goddesses.” He looks to where Maeve and Lucent stand, still dazed, and pauses to hold up one palm. He turns his hand over. “Like stripping a layer of my heart.”

  Violetta looks toward the sky. She can’t seem to bear meeting Magiano’s eyes. “No,” she says. “Adelina traded her life.”

  Even when the realization hits Magiano, he doesn’t dare acknowledge it aloud. Instead, they all stand frozen in the snow, trying to grasp the weight of Violetta’s words, hoping that Violetta is wrong and that Adelina will somehow emerge from the forest and rejoin them. But she doesn’t.

  Magiano gives an imperceptible nod, then releases Violetta. He slowly slides down to sit in the snow.

  The first time Raffaele ever saw Adelina, it was a storm-wracked night that changed her life and, indeed, the world. He recalls looking down from a window in his Dalia lodging to see a girl with silver-bright hair, conjuring an illusion of darkness such that he had never seen. He remembers the day she first came to his chambers in Estenzia, when Enzo was still alive and she was still innocent, and the way she looked up at him with her uncertain, damaged gaze. He remembers her test, and what he said to Enzo that night. How long ago that had been. How he had judged her wrongly.

  Raffaele looks around the clearing, searching for one last figure. He looks high and low, hoping for footprints in the snow or shadows in the forest line. He wishes he could still sense the energy of the living, could pinpoint where she is. But even then, he knows that he would arrive at the same answer as the others.

  Adelina is gone.

  After she was gone, I sheathed her sword at my belt, draped her cloak over my shoulders, carried her heart in my arms, and, somehow, went on.

  —The Journey of a Thousand Days, by Lia Navarra

  Violetta Amouteru

  My name is Violetta. I am the sister to the White Wolf, and I am the one who returned.

  It is a quiet journey back through the Karra passages. Raffaele had said that time in the immortal realms passes differently from time in our own world. What felt like a flash of lightning to us had been months for Maeve’s soldiers—but even so, they stayed, faithfully waiting for her all this time. I look on as she smiles and greets her troops, as they cheer her in turn. Raffaele stands with the rest of us, his expression solemn and sober. Our return did not come easily.

  There is an empty space between Magiano and me that pains both of us, a lingering silence that neither of us can break. We walk without talking. We look without seeing. We eat without tasting. I want to say something to him, to reach out to him during evenings around our fire, but I don’t know what. What difference would it make? She is gone. All I can do is turn my eyes skyward, starward, searching for my sister. Time may be different here, but my goddess made me a promise. A bargain of our own. I search and search the skies until sleep claims me, until I can search again the next night, and the night after that. Magiano watches me quietly when I do. He does not ask what I am searching for, though, and I cannot bear to tell him. I am too afraid to raise his hopes.

  One starlit midnight, as we at last begin our voyage back to Kenettra, I find Magiano standing alone on deck, his head bowed. He stirs, then looks away as I join his side. “The ship is too still,” he mutters, as if I had asked him why he is awake. “I need some waves to sleep properly.”

  I shake my head. “I know,” I reply. “You are searching for her too.”

  We stand for a moment, staring out at the stars mirrored in the calm seas. I know why Magiano doesn’t look at me. I remind him too much of her.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, after a long pause.

  “Don’t be.” A small, sad smile touches his lips. “She chose it.”

  I turn away from him to study the constellations again. They are particularly bright this evening, visible even as the three moons hang in a great and golden triangle. I find Compasia’s Swan, the delicate curve of stars standing out in the blackness like torchlight. I had knelt at the feet of my goddess, begging with a voice choked by tears, and she had made me a promise. Had she not? What if none of it were real? What if I dreamed it?

  Then, Magiano straightens beside me. His eyes focus on something far away.

  I look too. And I finally see what I have been waiting for.

  There, prominently in the sky . . . is a new constellation. It is made of seven bright stars, alternately blue and orange-red, forming a slender pair of loops that aligns with Compasia’s Swan.

  My hands cover my mouth. Tears well in my eyes.

  When Compasia took pity on her human lover, she saved him from the drowning world and placed him in the sky, where he turned to stardust.

  When Compasia took pity on me, she reached down into the Underworld, touched the shoulder of Moritas, and asked her forgiveness. Then Compasia took my sister in her arms and placed her in the sky, where she, too, turned to stardust.

  Magiano looks at me, his eyes wide. It seems as if he already, somehow, understands.

  “My goddess made me a promise,” I whisper.

  Only now do I realize that I have never seen him cry before.

  In the stories, Compasia and her human lover would descend each night from the stars to walk the mortal world, before vanishing with the dawn. So, together, we stare at the sky, waiting.

  Over the span of a few months, the color of Magiano’s remarkable golden eyes fade into hazel. His pupils stay round, unchanging. Raffaele’s sapphire strands grow out raven black, blending in with the rest of his hair. His jewel-toned eyes, one the color of honey under sunlight, settle into an identical pair of emerald green. Maeve’s hair, half black and half gold, gradually becomes pale blond.
Michel’s nails, once striped deep black and blue, have changed into the color of flesh. Sergio’s eyes transition from gray to a forest brown. And the dark, swirling lines on Lucent’s arm fade, lighter and lighter, until one day they are gone altogether.

  The Young Elites were the flash of light in a stormy sky, the fleeting darkness before dawn. Never have they existed before, nor shall they ever exist again.

  Across Estenzia, Kenettra, and the rest of the world, the last touches of the blood fever and the immortal world fade, leaving little difference between the marked and the unmarked. But you can never truly forget. I can hear it in our voices, the sound of another age, the memories of darker times, when immortal power walked the world.

  Six months after we return to Kenettra, when twilight is descending on the day, I stop in the palace gardens to see Magiano swinging two canvas packs over the back of a horse. He pauses when he notices me. After a brief hesitation, he bows his head.

  “Your Majesty,” he says.

  I fold my hands in front of me and approach him. I knew this day would come, although I did not think he would leave so soon. “You can stay, you know—” I start to say, knowing my words will be in vain. “There is always a place for you in the palace, and the people love you. If there is something you want, tell me, and it will be yours.”

  Magiano laughs a little and shakes his head. The gold bands in his braids clink musically. “Lucent has already returned to Beldain with her queen. Perhaps it is my turn now.”

  Lucent. Across the oceans, Queen Maeve had decreed her eventual successor to be her niece, the newborn daughter of her brother Augustine. Thus, finally, she was free to wed Lucent, returning the Windwalker to the birth nation that had exiled her for so long.

  “I’ve always been a wanderer,” Magiano adds in the silence. “I grow restless here in the palace, even among such fine company.” He pauses, and his smile softens. “It is time for me to go. There are adventures waiting for me.”

  I will miss the sound of his lute, the ease of his laughter. But I don’t try to persuade him to stay. I know whom he misses, whom we both miss; I’ve seen him walking alone in the gardens at sunset, perched on the roofs at midnight, standing at the piers at dawn. “The others—Raffaele, Sergio—they will want to see you before you leave,” I say instead.

  Magiano nods. “Don’t worry. I’ll say my proper farewells.” He reaches out and lays his hand on my shoulder. “You are kind, Your Majesty. I imagine Adelina could have ruled like you, in a different life.” He studies my face, as he often does now, searching for a glimpse of my sister. “Adelina would want to see you carry this torch. You will be a good queen.”

  I lower my head. “I’m afraid,” I admit. “There is still so much broken, and so much to fix. I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You have Sergio at your side. You have Raffaele as your adviser. That’s quite a formidable team.”

  “Where will you go?” I ask.

  At that, Magiano puts his hand down and turns his eyes up to the sky. It is a habit now that my eyes instinctively turn skyward, too, to where the first stars have begun to appear. “I’m going to follow her, of course,” Magiano says. “As the night sky turns. When she appears on the other side of the world, I will be there, and when she returns here, so will I.” Magiano smiles at me. “This farewell is not forever. I will see you again, Violetta.”

  I smile back at him, then step forward and wrap my arms around his neck. We embrace each other tightly. “Until you return, then,” I whisper.

  “Until I return.”

  Then we move apart. I leave Magiano alone to prepare for his journey, his boots already turned in the direction where Adelina’s constellation will appear in the sky. I hope, when he comes back, she will return with him, and we might see each other once again.

  The tale is told by royalty and vagabonds alike, nobles and peasants, hunters and farmers, the old and the young. The tale comes from every corner of the world, but no matter where it is told, it is always the same story.

  A boy on horseback, wandering at night, in the woods or on the plains or along the shores. The sound of a lute drifts in the evening air. Overhead are the stars of a clear sky, a sheet of light so bright that he reaches up, trying to touch them. He stops and descends from his horse. Then he waits. He waits until exactly midnight, when the newest constellation in the sky blinks into existence.

  If you are very quiet and do not look away, you may see the brightest star in the constellation glow steadily brighter. It brightens until it overwhelms every other star in the sky, brightens until it seems to touch the ground, and then the glow is gone, and in its place is a girl.

  Her hair and lashes are painted a shifting silver, and a scar crosses one side of her face. She is dressed in Sealand silks and a necklace of sapphire. Some say that, once upon a time, she had a prince, a father, a society of friends. Others say that she was once a wicked queen, a worker of illusions, a girl who brought darkness across the lands. Still others say that she once had a sister, and that she loved her dearly. Perhaps all of these are true.

  She walks to the boy, tilts her head up at him, and smiles. He bends down to kiss her. Then he helps her onto the horse, and she rides away with him to a faraway place, until they can no longer be seen.

  These are only rumors, of course, and make little more than a story to tell around the fire. But it is told. And thus they live on.

  —“The Midnight Star,” a folktale

  Acknowledgments

  I’m frequently asked if Adelina was inspired by anyone, and I’m always a bit embarrassed to admit that—while Adelina and I share very different life circumstances—she is absolutely molded from myself. My stories are all a piece of who I was and who I am. They are what I regret being, what I’m proud to be, and what I want to be more like. So, Adelina is me. She is a memory of all the times I’ve been angry or sad, bitter or disillusioned, and all the times the best people in my life have pulled me out of it with patience and kindness.

  I won’t lie—this series was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever written. I want to thank the many people in my life who helped me along this path, professionally and personally:

  To my agent and champion, Kristin Nelson—thank you for always traveling alongside me, ever since that first writer’s conference so many years ago! Adelina would not exist in her final form without your early input; I’m forever grateful to know you. To my incredible editor and friend Jen Besser, thank you for always guiding my girl Adelina even through her darkest moments. You’re an inspiration in a million ways. To Kate, editor extraordinaire—I can’t exaggerate how grateful I am for all of your attention and insight! To my genius copyeditor Anne, you are the opposite of Jon Snow—you know everything, especially how to put a smile on my face. To Marisa, I don’t know how you always manage to accomplish so much, but you do, and I can’t thank you enough for it. To the inimitable and tireless and badass Team Putnam, Team Penguin, Team Speak, my international publishers, my wonderful, wonderful film agent Kassie Evashevski, my incredible producer Isaac Klausner and Team Temple Hill, the bookstore community and librarians and teachers, and everyone who puts stories into as many hands as possible, who fight every day to break down barriers: thank you. I owe you all more than I can say.

  Thank you, darling Amie, for reading the early drafts of this final book and for being an incredible friend, always, without question. Onsenmosis!! To JJ, my very first writing friend, I’m forever grateful for your encouragement and intelligence and awesomeness. To Tahereh and Ransom, thank you for your laughter and warmth and themed dates and endless kindness. To Leigh—some people just light up a room, and that’s you; thank you for always knowing exactly how to cheer me up and make me laugh. To Cassie, Holly, Sarah, and Ally: I remember struggling through the muddy waters of this draft on retreat with you all, and am forever grateful for your help, wisdom, insight, and hilarious wit (and K-dram
as). To Sandy—I think you might have seen the earliest draft ever of The Young Elites; thank you for all of those early words (and for being awesome). To Kami, Margie, and Mel—you set the bar for goodness in this world. I’m so honored to know all of you, and I’m inspired by you every day.

  To my husband, Primo—I love you for every wonderful moment. To my mom, Andre, and my fam bam, for your unwavering support and love. To my friends, without whom I don’t know what I would do. I’m reminded every moment how lucky I am.

  Finally, to my readers: thank you so, so, so much for following me on this journey, and for the gift of telling you stories.

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