The Young Elites, Page 27

  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

  Maeve Jacqueline Kelly Corrigan

  Far 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 a
ll.”

  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.”

  Acknowledgments

  The Young Elites began as a hero’s journey—a boy takes on the task of mastering his powers and vanquishing the villain. The story didn’t work, though, and I was left struggling in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out why. One day, as I mulled this over with my agent, Kristin Nelson, she said, “Hey, what about this Adelina girl? She’s an interesting side character.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I replied, distracted. “She’s a fun bad girl to write. I hope I can keep her around if I redo this.”

  Kristin said, “Maybe she should be the star.”

  Sometimes, all it takes to see the right path is a flash of brilliant insight from someone else. I realized the problem was that I didn’t want to tell a hero’s journey; I wanted to tell a villain’s.

  So thank you, Kristin, for your wit, wisdom, and wonderful friendship. The book would not exist without you.

  Subsequently, I never would have been able to turn that lopsided first draft into a proper story without the steady guiding hand of my editor and friend, Jen Besser. You are awesome in every possible way.

  For your razor-sharp feedback—thank you JJ, Amie, and Jess Spotswood, for pushing me to become a better storyt
eller. I love your brains, and I love your books.

  I never would have saved myself from many, many embarrassing copyediting mishaps without the incredibly smart Anne Heausler at my side. If I don’t know something, I know that you will.

  Thank you to the lovely folks of Team Putnam and Team Penguin, for tirelessly championing the book and getting it into the right hands. Shenanigans with you guys are better than a thousand Lil Jon concerts.

  Writing can be a lonely, underestimated, and often haphazard profession. I’m lucky to be surrounded by friends who not only empathize but comfort and cheer. Beth, Jess, and Andrea, you are my forever sisters/elementals. Margie, Mel, Kami, Tahereh, Ransom, Leigh, and Josie—that is a lot of awesome in one sentence. Jess Brody, Morgan, Jess Khoury, Brodi, Jen Bosworth, Jenn Johansen, and Emmy, long live the mighty Steamboat 8. Amie, I crave your awesomeness like I crave cake. Which is all the time.

  Finally, I cannot be a happy person without my daily support system. Thank you, friends, fam, Mom and Andre. And thanks, Primo. I still feel weird calling you my husband. Good-weird. Really good-weird. Love you.