The Young Elites, Page 5

  He nods. “Some manifest powers later than others, but our stories are the same. I know what it’s like to grow up marked, Adelina. All of us understand what it is like to be abominations.”

  “All of us?” I ask. My mind wanders again to the black market’s wooden carvings, to the growing rumors of the Young Elites. “There are others?”

  “Yes. From around the world.”

  The Windwalker. Magiano. The Alchemist. “Who are they? How many?”

  “Few, but growing. In the ten or so years since the blood fever died down in Kenettra, some of us have started making our presence known. A strange sighting here, an odd witness there. Seven years ago, villagers in Triese di Mare stoned a little girl to death because she had covered the local pond with ice in the middle of summer. Five years ago, people in Udara set fire to a boy because he had made a bouquet of flowers bloom right before his sweetheart’s eyes.” He tightens his gloves, and my eye again darts to the bloody flecks that coat the leather. “As you can see, I kept my abilities a secret for obvious reasons. It wasn’t until I met another who also possessed strange powers given to him by the fever that I changed my mind.”

  “So. You’re a Young Elite.” There. I’ve said it aloud.

  “A name the people invented to refer to our youth and our unnatural abilities. The Inquisition hates it.” Enzo smiles, a lazy expression of mischief. “I am the leader of the Dagger Society, a group of Young Elites who seek out others like ourselves before the Inquisition can. But we are not the only Elites—there are many others, I’m sure, scattered all across the world. My goal is to unite us. Burnings like yours happen every time the Inquisition thinks they’ve found a Young Elite. Some people abandon their own marked family members because they’re afraid of ‘bad luck.’ The king uses malfettos as an excuse for his poor rule. As if we are to blame for the state of his impoverished nation. If we don’t fight back, the king and his Inquisition Axis will kill us all, every child marked by the fever.” His eyes harden. “But we do fight back. Don’t we, Adelina?”

  His words remind me of the strange whispers that have accompanied my illusions—something dark and vengeful, tempting and powerful. A weight presses on my chest. I am afraid. Intrigued.

  “What will you do?” I whisper.

  Enzo leans back and looks out the window. “We will seize the throne, of course.” He sounds almost indifferent, like he’s talking about his breakfast.

  He wants to kill the king? What about the Inquisition? “That’s impossible,” I breathe.

  He gives me a sideways look, something simultaneously curious and threatening. “Is it?”

  My skin tingles. I peer closer at him. Then, suddenly, I cover my mouth with one hand. I know where I’ve seen him before.

  “You—” I stammer. “You’re the prince.”

  No wonder he looks familiar. I’d seen many portraits of Kenettra’s firstborn prince as a child. He was the crown prince back then, our future king. The word was that he had nearly died from the blood fever. He came out of it marked instead. Unfit to be heir to the throne. That was the last we all heard about him, really. After his father the king died, Enzo’s older sister stripped Enzo of his crown and banished him permanently from the palace, never again to set foot near the royal family. Her husband, a powerful duke, became king.

  I lower my gaze. “Your Royal Highness,” I say, bowing my head.

  Enzo replies with a single, subtle nod. “Now you know the real reason why the king and queen denounce malfettos. It makes malfettos look like abominations, and it keeps me unfit for the throne.”

  My hands start to tremble. Now I understand. He is assembling a team, a team to help him reclaim his birthright.

  Enzo leans close enough for me to see slashes of a brilliant red in his eyes. “I make you this offer, Adelina Amouteru. You can spend the rest of your life on the run, friendless and alone, always fearful of the Inquisition Axis finding you and bringing you to justice for a crime you did not commit. Or we can see if you belong with us. The gifts the fever left with you are not as unreliable as they might seem. There is a rhythm and science to controlling your power. There’s reason behind the chaos. If you wish, you can learn control. And you will be well paid for it.”

  When I stay silent, Enzo lifts one gloved hand and touches my chin. “How many times have you been called an abomination?” he whispers. “A monster? Worthless?”

  Too many times.

  “Then let me tell you a secret.” He shifts so that his lips are close to my ear. A shiver dances down my spine. “You are not an abomination. You are not merely a malfetto. That is why they fear you. The gods gave us powers, Adelina, because we are born to rule.”

  A million thoughts run through my mind—memories of my childhood, visions of my father and my sister, of the Inquisition’s dungeons, the iron stake, Teren’s pale eyes, the crowd chanting against me. I remember how I always crouched at the top of my stairs, pretending to rule from on high. I can rise above all of this, if I become one of them. They can keep me safe.

  Suddenly, in the presence of this Young Elite, the power of the Inquisition Axis seems very far away.

  I can tell that Enzo is watching how my hair and lashes shift colors ever so slightly with the light. His gaze lingers where my hair hides the scarred side of my face. I blush. He reaches out a hand. It falters there, as if waiting for me to shy away, but I stay very still until he finally touches my hair and tucks it carefully away from my face, exposing my imperfections. Heat rushes instantly from his fingertips through my body, a thrilling sensation that sends my heart pounding.

  He says nothing for a while. Then, he pulls the glove off one of his hands. I gasp. Underneath the leather, his hand is a mass of burned flesh, most of it healed over in thick layers of hideous scar tissue that must have accumulated over the years, while a few spots still remain red and angry. He replaces the glove, transforming the awful sight into one of black leather and flecks of blood. Of power.

  “Embellish your flaws,” he says softly. “They will turn into your assets. And if you become one of us, I will teach you to wield them like an assassin wields a knife.” His eyes narrow. His subtle smile turns dangerous. “So. Tell me, little wolf. Do you want to punish those who have wronged you?”

  Teren Santoro

  Late afternoon in Estenzia.

  Teren waits behind a pillar lining the palace’s main courtyard, his heart in his throat, the white of his Lead Inquisitor cloak blending in with the marble. Shadows and sunlight play on his face. Farther up the courtyard’s path and partially hidden from view by rose vines, the queen of Kenettra walks alone, her dark hair piled high on her head in a tumble of curls, her skin a warm hue under the sun. Her Majesty, Queen Giulietta I of Kenettra.

  Teren waits until she’s close enough. When she walks past, he grabs her wrist and pulls her gently into the shadows behind the pillar.

  The queen lets out a soft gasp, then smiles at the sight of him. “You’re back from Dalia,” she whispers. “And up to your boyish antics, I see.”

  Teren presses her tightly against the pillar. His lips brush against the skin of her neck. Her dress seems cut particularly low today, emphasizing the swell of her breasts, and he wonders with a surge of jealousy whether she wears it as temptation for the king—or for him. The king is a grown man, well into his forties. Teren is nineteen. Does she like me for my youth? Perhaps she sees me as a boy, four years too young for her. He marvels again at how lucky he is, to have drawn the attention of royalty.

  “I returned last night,” he whispers back. He kisses her deeply. “You asked to see me, Your Majesty?”

  The queen lets out a sigh as he kisses the line of her jaw. Her fingers run along the grooves of his silver belt, and he arcs toward her in longing. “Yes.” She stops him for a moment to give him a level look. Her eyes are very dark, so dark that sometimes they seem wholly empty. Like he could
fall to his death in them. “So. Did they take her?”

  “They did.”

  “And will you be able to find her again?”

  Teren nods once. “I don’t know what curse the gods have brought down on us, to give us demons like this, but I promise you—she will be our advantage. She’ll lead me to them. I’ve already gathered five patrols of my best men.”

  “And the girl’s sister? You mentioned her in your report.”

  Teren bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Violetta Amouteru is in my custody.” He smiles briefly. “She’s unharmed.”

  The queen nods in approval. She reaches out and undoes a clasp on his uniform’s collar, exposing the hollow of his throat, then traces it with one slender finger. A breath escapes him. Gods, I want you. I love you. I’m not worthy of you. She tightens her lips, lost in her own thoughts, and then meets his eyes again. “Let me know when you find the girl. I dislike the embarrassment these Elites are making of the crown.”

  I would do anything for you. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

  Giulietta touches his cheek affectionately. Her hand is cold. “The king will be pleased to hear it, as soon as he climbs out of his mistress’s bed.” She emphasizes her last words.

  Teren’s mood darkens at that. The king is supposed to be meeting with his council right now—not frolicking in bed with a lover. He’s no king. He’s a duke the queen was forced to marry. A loud, arrogant, disrespectful duke. He lowers his lips to hers, then steals another long kiss. His voice turns tender and aching. “When can you come to me again? Please.”

  “I’ll come to you tonight.” She gives him a careful smile, one full of calculated secrets. It is the smile of someone who knows exactly what to say to a boy soldier madly in love. She pulls him close enough to whisper in his ear. “I’ve missed you too.”

  There are four places where the spirits still wander . . .

  the snow-covered Dark of Night, the forgotten paradise of

  Sobri Elan, the Glass Pillars of Dumon, and the human mind,

  that eternally mysterious realm where ghosts shall forever walk.

  —An Exploration of Ancient and Modern Myths, by Mordove Senia

  Adelina Amouteru

  For a week, I never leave my bedchamber. I float in and out of consciousness, waking up only to eat the pastries and roasted quail brought daily into my room, and to let the maid change my robe and bandages.

  Sometimes Enzo checks in on me, his face expressionless and his hands gloved, but no one aside from him and the maid visit. No more information about the Dagger Society. What they’ll do with me now, I have no idea.

  More days pass. Prosperiday. Aevaday. Moraday. Amareday. Sapienday. I imagine what Violetta is doing right now, and whether she’s wondering the same about me. Whether she’s safe or not. Whether she’s searching for me, or moving on with her life.

  By the time Prosperiday comes around again, I’ve recovered enough to go without bandages. The chafing on my wrists and ankles has faded into faint bruises, and the swelling in my cheek has disappeared, returning my face to normal. I’m thinner, though, and my hair has turned into a mess of knots, the spot where my father pulled at my scalp still tender. I study myself in front of the mirror every night, watching how the candlelight splashes orange on my face, how it illuminates the scarred skin over my missing eye. Dark thoughts swim in the far corners of my mind. Something is alive in those whispers, clawing for my attention, beckoning me deeper into the shadows, and I am afraid to listen to it.

  I look the same. I also look like a complete stranger.

  Voices outside my bedchamber pull me out of my sleep and into the gold of morning light. I lie very still, listening to the conversation that drifts in through the door.

  I recognize the speakers immediately. Enzo and my maid.

  “—business to attend to. Mistress Amouteru. How is she?”

  “Much better.” A pause. “What should I do with her today, Your Highness? She is well now, and growing restless. Shall I take her around the court?”

  A brief pause. I imagine Enzo tightening his gloves, his face turned away from the maid, looking as disinterested as he sounds. Finally:

  “Bring her to Raffaele.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  The conversation ends there. I hear footsteps echoing down the hall outside, then fading away and disappearing altogether. A strange disappointment hits me at the thought that Enzo won’t be around. I’d hoped to ask him more questions. The court, that’s what the maid had called this building where we’re all staying. What kind of court? A royal estate? Who is Raffaele?

  I stay in bed and wait until the maid bustles in. “Good morning, mistress,” she says from behind an armful of silks and a bowl of steaming water. “Look at that! So much pink in your cheeks. Lovely.”

  How odd, someone complimenting me all the time and catering to my every whim. But I smile my thanks. As she scrubs me all over and then dresses me in the white and blue shift, I comb strands of hair across my missing eye. I wince when she runs a brush along the injured part of my scalp.

  Finally, we’re ready. She guides me toward the door, and I take a deep breath as I step out of my bedchamber for the first time.

  We head down a narrow hallway that branches into two. I study the walls. Paintings of the gods adorn them, tales of beautiful Pulchritas emerging from the sea and young Laetes falling from the heavens, the colors as vivid as if they had been commissioned only a week ago. Veined marble outlines the ceiling’s arch. I stare at the hall for so long that I start to fall behind, and only when the maid calls for me to hurry do I turn my gaze away and quicken my steps. As we walk, I try to think of something to say to her—but every time I open my mouth, the maid smiles politely at me and then looks away in disinterest. I decide to stay quiet. We take another turn, and then abruptly stop before what seems like a solid wall and a line of pillars.

  She runs a hand along one side of a pillar, then pushes against the wall. I watch, stunned, as the wall swings aside to reveal a new hall behind it. “Come, young mistress,” the maid says over her shoulder. Dumbstruck, I follow her. The wall closes behind us, as if nothing had ever existed beyond it.

  The longer we walk, the more curious I grow. The layout makes sense, of course. If this is a place where the Young Elites stay—assassins wanted by the Inquisition—then they wouldn’t have a door you could simply enter and exit straight from the street. The Elites are a secret hidden behind the walls of another building. But what is this court?

  The maid finally stops at a tall set of doors at the end of a hall. The double doors are elaborately engraved with an image of Amare and Fortuna, god of Love and goddess of Prosperity, locked in an intimate embrace. I suck in my breath. Now I know where I am.

  This place is a brothel.

  The maid pulls the double doors open. We step into a gloriously decorated sitting room with a door along its walls that likely leads into a bedchamber. The thought reddens my cheeks. Part of the room is open to a lush courtyard. Translucent lengths of silk drape low from the ceiling, stirring slightly, and trails of silver chimes sing in the breeze. The scent of jasmine hangs on the air.

  The maid knocks on the bedchamber door.

  “Yes?” someone answers. Even muffled through the doorway, I can tell how unusually lovely the voice is. Like a minstrel’s.

  The maid bows her head, even though there’s no one but me to witness it. “Mistress Amouteru is here to see you.”

  Silence. Then I hear the soft shuffle of feet, and a moment later, the door opens. I find myself staring up at a boy who leaves me speechless.

  A famous poet from the Sunlands once described a beautiful face as “one kissed by moon and water,” an ode to our three moons and the loveliness of their light on the ocean. He gave exactly two people this compliment: his mother, and the last princess of the Feishen empire. If he were al
ive to see who I’m now looking at, he would add him as a third. Moon and water must love this boy desperately.

  His hair, black and shining, drapes across one of his shoulders in a loose, silken braid. His olive skin is smooth, flawless, glowing. The faint musk of night lilies envelops him in a veil, intoxicating, promising something forbidden. I’m so distracted by his appearance that it takes me a moment to notice his marking—under canopies of long, dark lashes, one of his eyes is the color of honey under sunlight, while the other is the brilliant summer green of an emerald.

  The maid nods a hurried farewell to us both, then disappears down the hall, leaving us alone. The boy smiles at me, exposing dimples. “It’s good to meet you, mi Adelinetta.” He takes my hands and leans down to kiss me on each cheek. I shiver at the softness of his lips. His hands are cool and smooth, his fingers slender and encircled with thin gold rings, his nails gleaming. His voice is as lyrical as it sounded through the door. “I’m Raffaele.”

  A movement behind him distracts me. Despite the dimly lit bedchamber, I make out the smooth outlines of another person turning over in his bed, his short brown locks catching the light. I glance back at Raffaele. It’s a brothel, naturally. Raffaele must be a client.

  Raffaele notices my hesitation, then blushes and lowers his lashes in a single sweep. Never in my life have I seen such a graceful gesture. “Apologies. My work frequently continues until morning.”

  “Oh,” I manage to reply. I’m a fool. He isn’t the client at all. The man inside is the client, and Raffaele is the consort. With a face like his, I should have known immediately—but to me, a consort means a street prostitute. Poor, desperate workers selling themselves on the sides of roads and in brothels. Not a work of art.