The Rose Society, Page 9

  Violetta takes her hand off my shoulder and tightens her jaw so hard that I think it might break. “You said you wouldn’t kill anyone. That you only wanted to frighten them and show off our powers.”

  “I said that you wouldn’t kill anyone,” I snap, wiping sweat from my forehead.

  “You didn’t have to do it.” Violetta’s voice sharpens. “Now we will be hunted all throughout Merroutas. They will seal the ports, I’m sure of it. How will we leave? Why do you do this?”

  “You think they wouldn’t have hunted us if we just intimidated the Night King and stole his pin? Did you see the way his mercenaries looked at me after it was done?”

  Violetta looks sickly pale. “They are going to find us, and kill us for this.”

  “Not all of them. Some of them will be impressed by what we’ve done, and join us.”

  “This could have been done in a different way.”

  I glare at her. “Fine. Next time, you can ask them all nicely. Don’t worry. You still won’t have to dirty your hands with blood.”

  Our conversation halts as a figure steps into the alley, a dark silhouette with light from the market at his back. When he draws closer, I recognize the cat eyes looking at us from behind a half veil. A knot of braids sits high on his head.

  “You came back,” I whisper.

  Magiano leans close. “Okay,” he starts. The veil muffles his voice. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because he was charging at us with a sword.”

  “But—” Magiano sputters. “You were doing just fine. You could have both run away. That was the other option, you know, aside from murder. You should consider it sometime, because it works splendidly.”

  “Did you even make sure that you got your diamond pin?” I ask. Before he can give us a haughty smile and reach into his pocket, I nod at Violetta, who takes out the real diamond pin from within her silks.

  Magiano blinks. His brow furrows. Then he digs in his pocket for the false pin he thought he had stored safely away. As expected, his hands come up empty. He glances quickly back at us. A quiet moment passes.

  “We win,” I say, flashing the pin. My hand is still shaking from what happened, but I hope he doesn’t notice.

  “You have not told me of all your powers,” he says. He glances at Violetta again, and I imagine that he must be reaching out, trying to mimic her power. His eyes open wider as she pulls on his energy. He can’t, I realize. “You took my power away,” he whispers. His eyes dart back to me. “No wonder I couldn’t sense your illusions during your dance. You tricked me.”

  “Only for a moment,” Violetta admits. “I can’t hold it back for long.”

  I expect Magiano to be furious, or at least indignant. Instead, his pupils turn round, and a small grin plays underneath the fabric of his veil. “You tricked me,” he says again.

  I’m silent. Everything seemed so crystal clear in the middle of the action. Now that we are here, and my body is weak and spent, I’m having trouble remembering all that took place. The same dizziness washes over me that I’d felt after Dante’s death, and Enzo’s. I close my eye and lean against the wall, trying not to think about the Night King’s blood spilling across the ground. If I’m not careful, I will conjure the illusion of him right here, his snarling face still pointed up at me.

  After a while, Magiano folds his arms. “The Night King has ruled here for decades. I don’t think you understand the true weight of what you’ve done.” He pauses and lifts the veil to look more closely at us. “Or perhaps you do understand. By morning, every person in Merroutas will have heard your name. They will wonder and whisper over the White Wolf. They will fear you.” He shakes his head again, and this time, it is in admiration. “You may have just earned yourself an army of mercenaries.”

  My heart starts to pound. No look of disgust from Magiano for what I did. No pitying gaze or wary expression. Admiration. After I killed a man. I don’t know how to feel. A sense of horror? Pride?

  Violetta hands him the diamond pin. “Take it. You’re the one who wanted it.”

  Magiano turns the pin over in his hands with a look of reverence.

  “Why did you come back to help us?” I ask. “Does that mean . . .” I can’t quite bring myself to say it without hearing it first from him.

  Magiano leans back against the wall and pulls his veil down. He gives us a wry look. “Do you know how much more notorious I could have been, if you were always close enough for me to mimic your power? Do you know what I could do, if we traveled together? And your sister, with her ability to take away an Elite’s power?” He looks curiously at her, and she coughs uncomfortably under his gaze. “Very interesting,” he murmurs. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  I stand there and listen, still lost in a haze. I find myself wondering what he aligns with. Ambition. Greed. Something wicked, perhaps, like me. Again, I find myself wondering what’s going through his thoughts.

  If you were able to kill a king, then perhaps you really can strike back against the Inquisition.

  “Are you going to join us?” I ask.

  He studies my face. Then he holds out a hand to me.

  Raffaele Laurent Bessette

  Raffaele sits atop a horse and enters the Estenzian gates behind Queen Maeve. With them are three of her brothers. Two of them, Augustine and Kester, ride beside her. Kester is an Elite, although Raffaele has yet to see his power in action. And the third brother is the youngest, the prince with the eerie energy, Tristan. Maeve’s white tiger prowls in front of her horse.

  Raffaele keeps his head high and eyes level. A long blue cape trails behind him and spills down the hindquarters of his steed. Gold shackles adorn his wrists and neck. Inquisitors have fenced off a wide path for Maeve and her companions. People have turned out in droves to see her. They bow their heads, but with Inquisitors lining the path, they seem too afraid to cheer or applaud the malfetto queen. When they do dare to look up, they take in the sight of her enormous white cat with awe.

  Raffaele stares at Tristan’s back. The entire two weeks they’d been at sea, the youngest prince had not said a word. Even now, whenever Maeve leans over to murmur something to him, he remains silent. His energy pulses in a strange, dark pattern. It distracts Raffaele. He shakes his head to clear it.

  The prince is alive, he reminds himself. His strange energy is nothing to worry about. Enzo can live too. Isn’t that what I want?

  The procession finally reaches the sprawling main square of Estenzia, directly in front of the palace. Today, the square is decorated with a series of white tents, their canvases billowing in the wind, and flags of both Kenettra and Beldain fly side by side over each tent. Under the largest tent, Queen Giulietta is seated on her makeshift throne, a large, ornately carved chair. The tent across from her has a second, empty throne. Reserved for Maeve. Between them is a wide stretch of pavement, where two lines of Inquisitors stand as a guard between the two queens.

  Raffaele’s eyes fall on the Lead Inquisitor at Giulietta’s side. Teren. He stares back. Raffaele knows he recognizes him.

  They make their way through the path until they reach the tents. Teren approaches. His pale eyes flick to Raffaele, settling there for a moment. Raffaele forces himself to look back. Teren seems surprised to see him. The Inquisitor would probably kill him, if the Beldish queen were not here. Instead, Teren stops before Maeve’s horse. He holds out a hand. Beside him, the white tiger growls but keeps his distance.

  “Your Majesty,” he says. “A little help?”

  Maeve gives him a cold stare. Her black and gold braids are woven in a high blade down the middle of her head, trailing down in tassels over her back. Gold slashes decorate her face. She hops down in one easy swing and pushes past Teren. She strides toward Giulietta’s tent as Raffaele and the others dismount.

  “Your Majesty,” Maeve calls out to Giulietta. Her hand rests on the s
word hilt at her hip. She does not bow her head.

  Silence in the square. Then Giulietta smiles and spreads her arms. “Your Majesty,” Giulietta replies. “Welcome to Kenettra. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  At that, the crowd finally cheers. Raffaele looks to see many of them waving Kenettran flags. Giulietta’s smile remains, but it is cold. Raffaele studies her face and imagines Enzo beside her. He shivers at how closely she and Enzo resemble each other, one the more delicate version of the other, both fiercely ambitious.

  Maeve tilts her head in acceptance of Giulietta’s greeting, then turns to take a seat on her own throne. Her brothers settle in chairs beside her, while Raffaele stands behind her. He folds his arms, and his gold wrist shackles clink against each other.

  “It has been a long time since we hosted a Beldish royal,” Giulietta calls across the distance. Raffaele notices it is far enough so that both young rulers can feel safe from each other.

  “A Beldish queen,” Maeve corrects her, her smile vicious. “I’ve come to congratulate you.” She bows her head low.

  “Thank you,” Giulietta replies. She nods at Teren, who turns to whistle at his men. “We will throw a great feast in your honor. I have a gift for you.”

  Teren waves at his Inquisitors. Raffaele sees them leading something out into the space between the two queens’ tents. It’s a stallion—a beautiful one, tall and powerfully muscled, with a glossy black coat and white mane. Feathered black hair adorns his lower legs. The horse tosses his head as the Inquisitors lead it out front and center.

  Teren gives Maeve a bright smile as he shows off the horse. “A magnificent Sunland stallion,” he announces. “Just one example of the beauty of our nation, generously given to you, Your Majesty, by our queen.”

  “He was my husband’s favorite,” Giulietta adds.

  Raffaele listens carefully. This is a veiled insult—a hand-me-down gift from a dead king, a king Maeve knows was likely murdered by Giulietta. On either side of Maeve, Augustine and Kester exchange a dark look. But Maeve keeps her eyes on the horse. “A beautiful beast,” she replies. “Thank you.”

  Then she nods at Raffaele to step forward.

  Do not be afraid, Raffaele reminds himself. He walks slowly down the tent’s steps until he stands in the center, between the two tents. Teren draws his sword. Other Inquisitors follow his lead.

  “I have also brought you a gift,” Maeve replies.

  Silence. Not a sound is heard. Raffaele focuses his eyes on Giulietta, his long dark lashes sweeping his cheeks, and then falls into a graceful kneel. His blue robes pool around him in a circle. He lowers his head and brushes his shining hair across one shoulder so that Giulietta can see the gold shackle shining around his neck.

  “I know this malfetto,” Giulietta says with ice in her voice. “He was a rumored Dagger, a friend to my traitor brother.”

  “He was once the greatest consort in your nation,” Maeve replies. “He was found hiding in exile in my country.”

  Giulietta stares at her, suspicion plain on her face. Raffaele waits quietly. “I hope you are not starting our first meeting with lies,” she says. “The Beldish love malfettos, while we do not. Why would you give one back to me as a prisoner?”

  “You think I’m lying,” Maeve says, her voice even.

  “I think you may be playing me for a fool, yes.”

  “The Beldish believe that your malfettos, as you call them, are children of the gods, marked by their hands and blessed with their powers. But I know you have been hunting the Daggers,” Maeve tells her. “When we found their leader in our midst, we wanted to bring him back to you. Know the sacrifice I make for you, our customs against yours, for the sake of our joint peace and prosperity.”

  Raffaele waits, marveling at Maeve’s calmness.

  “He has no powers that can harm you,” Maeve continues. “He is the leader of a society that you despise, but he is alone here. Do you fear a defenseless boy, Giulietta, just because he is marked?”

  Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Raffaele keeps his head down, but from the corner of his eye, he can see Teren’s mouth twisting into a snarl. Giulietta doesn’t seem to react to Maeve’s words. When Raffaele turns his head up to look at her, he finds her looking back. She is admiring his face, and he feels tiny tendrils of attraction coming from her.

  Maeve lets out an audible sigh. “I didn’t come here as your enemy, Your Majesty,” she calls out to Giulietta. “My mother has died, and I have taken the throne in grief. You and I are both new rulers. I know our nations have fought for hundreds of years, but I am tired of it. We have gained little from it. And the blood fever has hurt Kenettra deeply.”

  Maeve leans forward. “I’ve come here because I want us to develop a new relationship from which we can both benefit. Giulietta, let us talk of how we can open our nations to each other. How we can both prosper again. I am very thankful for the beautiful gift you’ve brought me.” She nods at the stallion. “And I hope you see my gift to you not as something of suspicion, but as a gesture of my good faith.” She motions to Raffaele. “In return, I do humbly ask that you give this malfetto the grace of a trial, if you choose to judge him, and a fair punishment. Or, Your Majesty, perhaps you can pardon him.”

  More murmurs from the crowd. Raffaele is awed by such excellent lying. Maeve’s declaration in front of who she knows must be families suffering from the loss of their own malfetto loved ones.

  Teren sneers at Maeve. “You cannot ask our queen to show respect for a disgusting dog of a demon.”

  At Maeve’s side, Kester places a hand on the hilt of his sword. His Elite energy stirs. Raffaele’s attention shifts first to him, then to Tristan, as he moves ever so slightly. It is the first time Raffaele has ever seen the youngest prince frown—and something in the expression chills Raffaele to his core. Maeve had said that bringing Tristan back from the Underworld increased his strength tenfold. For the first time, Raffaele believes it. Maeve waves a subtle hand, and Tristan stands down.

  Teren looks as if he wants to continue, but Giulietta shakes her head once, stopping him. Raffaele takes it in—a small moment of disagreement between the two. He stores the image away.

  Finally, Giulietta addresses Maeve. “I can promise you nothing. But I will consider your request.”

  Sudden movement distracts Raffaele. It is Teren, stepping away from Giulietta’s side and marching toward him. A knot of dark, frustrated energy churns in the Inquisitor’s chest, and Raffaele tenses. Behind Teren, Giulietta watches him with stony eyes. She didn’t tell him to move, Raffaele thinks. He’s acting without her permission?

  Teren pauses a few steps from Raffaele. He smiles at Maeve. “Your Majesty, Beldain considers such marked survivors sacred, you say.” He turns in a circle so that the entire crowd can hear him. “We are privileged to have a Queen of Beldain in our nation, and are thrilled to honor your stay here. But in Kenettra, we have different customs.”

  “Master Santoro.” Giulietta’s voice is not loud, but Raffaele hears the sharp warning in her tone. She doesn’t want to shout it, because she doesn’t want to look like she has no control over her Inquisition. Teren ignores her. “In Kenettra,” Teren continues loudly, “a malfetto, gift or otherwise, is not to set foot inside Estenzia.”

  Good, Raffaele thinks. They had chosen to gift Raffaele precisely to anger Teren. Is he angry that he didn’t capture me first, or that his queen is looking at me instead of him?

  “In Kenettra,” Teren says, “a malfetto who has committed treason against the crown must be executed. My Inquisition is grateful to Your Majesty for bringing this criminal back to us, so that we can carry out the appropriate punishment.”

  “Master Santoro.” This time Giulietta’s voice is a furious whip. Teren finally turns to face her, and she narrows her eyes at him. Her mouth is set in a firm line. “Cease.”

  As the crowd
stirs restlessly, she holds her hands up for silence. “We have enough bloodshed in our past,” she says. “Let there be none today.”

  Teren opens his mouth, then quickly closes it. He bows his head to Giulietta, shoots Raffaele one last withering glare, and stalks back to Giulietta’s tent. Giulietta doesn’t look at him. While Inquisitors grab each of Raffaele’s arms, Giulietta approaches.

  “Do you always let your Lead Inquisitor speak for you, Queen of Kenettra?” Maeve asks in a low voice.

  “Would you have stepped in to save your gift, Queen of Beldain?” Giulietta replies, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. There is a coldness in her voice, a challenge, and suddenly, it seems the polite words exchanged only moments ago will be for nothing.

  Then, Giulietta shakes her head. “Forgive my Lead Inquisitor’s actions,” she finally says in a loud, clear voice. “He defends his country fiercely, that is all.”

  Raffaele looks on as Maeve rises, bows a farewell to Giulietta, and takes the reins of her new horse. She leads the stallion down the path, toward the Estenzian palace, as the crowd watches her go.

  Giulietta studies Raffaele awhile longer. Beside her, Teren notices the way she admires Raffaele’s features. He scowls.

  Raffaele’s thoughts spin. Never has he heard of such conflict between the queen and Teren. More so, Giulietta’s attitude toward malfettos seems to have shifted since the time when she wanted Enzo dead. Now that she has her throne, has she given up on her supposed war against malfettos? Had it all been part of her plan to both secure Teren’s support and get rid of her brother? Raffaele studies her energy, wondering. Will Giulietta punish Teren for defying her?

  Finally, Giulietta stands up. Her Inquisition gathers to escort her. She walks down the steps, stops before Raffaele, and walks once around him. She kneels down to his eye level. “Rise, consort,” she murmurs, lifting his chin. Her touch is firm, even harsh. Raffaele trembles and does as she says.

  “Come,” she commands. Then she turns away, toward the palace.