The Young Elites (16 page)

Raffaele’s sessions with me evoke gentle passion—but nothing I do with anyone comes close to my training sessions with Enzo himself.

Enzo pushes my emotions hard. He teaches me how to create a convincing illusion of fire, how a flame flickers, how the color of it changes from red to gold to blue to white. I weave and weave until I exhaust myself.

“Your strikes are unfocused,” he snaps one night as he teaches me the basics of sparring with a wooden sword. “Concentrate.” Our clashes echo in the empty cavern. He knocks the weapon out of my hand with one effortless blow, then kicks it up in the air and flings it back at me. I scramble to catch it, but my weak vision means I miss it by a good several inches. The wood hits my wrist. I wince. At this hour, all I want to do is go to bed.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” I retort, ignoring the pain. Curse him to the Underworld—he always attacks on my blind side. I know he tries to anger me on purpose, to strengthen my power, but I don’t care. “I’m a merchant’s daughter. I haven’t exactly trained for dueling.”

“You’re not dueling. You’re learning basic defense. Young Elites have enemies.” Enzo points his sword at me. “Again.”

I strike. I conjure a dark silhouette of a wolf and fling it at him, hoping to throw him off. It doesn’t. He dodges my blow with ease, then lunges back, clashing with me twice until we’re close to the cavern’s wall. He whirls and yanks a dagger straight out of his boot. This second blade stops a hairsbreadth from my neck.

My fury heightens. What’s the point of pitting a lamb against an expert assassin? I conjure an illusion of smoke that explodes around us. Then I do a move he taught me—I grab his dagger and aim for his throat.

His hand clamps hard on my wrist before I can make contact. Heat rushes through me. Something sharp taps against my chest. When I look down, I see a sword point hovering over my ribs. “Don’t forget one weapon just because of another,” he says. A flicker of approval flashes in his eyes. “Or you’ll find yourself skewered in no time.”

“Then maybe you should know which weapons are real,” I reply. The dagger I’m holding near his throat vanishes in a puff of smoke. The real dagger I’d taken from him is in my other hand, which I now press against his side.

Enzo studies me with a thoughtful expression. Then he smiles—a genuine smile, full of surprise and amusement. It warms his entire face. My fear is abruptly replaced by joy, the satisfaction of finally pleasing him. He carefully drops the wooden sword, pushes my hand away from his side, and fixes my grip on the dagger’s handle. Heat rushes through me. His chest presses against my shoulder and side; his gloved hand covers mine. A surge of passion cuts through my darkness, and the color of the smoke around us changes from black to red.

“Like this,” he murmurs, molding my hand into the correct grip. He says nothing about the shifting color of the smoke.

I stay silent and do as he says. The warmth trickling from his fingers to mine feels as delicious as hot water over an aching body.

“Create a dagger again,” he whispers. “I want a good look at it.”

With my anger still churning and his touch sending shivers through me, I gather my concentration. The pull is easier now. Before our eyes, the outline of a dagger appears. It wavers and shimmers, not quite whole, and then I fill it with details, painting in the crimson handle, the grooves on the hilt, the smooth shine of the blade and the blood channel that cuts down its center. Solidifying it. The blade’s edge sharpens to a severe point. I rotate it in midair until the point faces us.

There’s hardly a difference between the illusion and the reality.

I look to my side to see Enzo’s gaze fixated on the false dagger. His heart beats through the fabric of his robes, rhythmic against my skin. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. Somehow, I think I hear two meanings behind the word.

He releases me, then sheathes his daggers with one flourish. The smile is gone. “Enough for today,” he says. He doesn’t bother meeting my gaze, but his voice is different now. Softer. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”

A sudden impulse hits me. Teren’s face swims in my thoughts, then shifts to a vision of my sister. I don’t know where this impulse comes from, whether it’s my alignments with passion or ambition, but I reach out to him with my energy before I can stop myself. Enzo pauses, then glances back at me with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?” he says simply.

Silence. All of my pent-up tension from the past two weeks now comes to a head, and I find myself struggling to get the words out.
Tell him. This is your chance.

Tell him the truth.

Enzo watches me with a patient, piercing look.

The words are right there, right on the tip of my tongue.
The Inquisition has forced me to spy on you. Master Teren Santoro is holding my sister hostage. You have to help me.

And then, as I stare into Enzo’s eyes, I remember the heat of his power. I try again to speak. Again, the words halt.

Finally, I manage to say something. But what comes out is, “When do I go on a mission?”

Enzo narrows his eyes at that. He takes several slow steps forward until we are separated by a couple of feet. My heart beats furiously. I’m a fool.
Why did I say that?

“If you have to ask,” Enzo replies, “then you’re not ready.”

“I—” The moment is lost. The truth that had sat so closely on my lips now shrinks away again, buried underneath my fears. My cheeks burn with shame. “I’d think you’d want me to come,” I manage to finish.

“Why would I want you with me on a mission, little wolf?” he says quietly.

A surge of my passion courses through me, cutting through the tension warring inside my chest. “Because I impress you,” I reply.

Enzo stays quiet. Then, one of his gloved hands touches my chin, tilting it gently up, while the other rests against the stone wall beside my head. I tremble in his grasp. What is this strange light in his eyes? He looks at me like he has known me before. I fight my urge to cover up the hideous, scarred side of my face.

“Is that so?” he whispers back. He leans closer, so close that his lips now hover right over mine, suspended in the space before a kiss, taunting me. Perhaps he’s testing me again. If I move at all, we will touch. Heat rushes through me from his hand, flooding every vein in my body and filling my lungs with fire. My energy roars in my ears. I am in the middle of the ocean, buffeted on all sides by hot currents. At the same time, I feel a rush of something new, something I’ve only felt a hint of during my first test with the Daggers. The part of me that responded to the roseite gem, to passion and desire, awakens now. The energy from it rushes up into my chest, threatening to burst out of my skin, making my grasp on my powers unstable. Random illusions appear around us, flashes of forest and night and dark ocean. I’m grateful for the wall behind me. If I didn’t have that to lean against, I’m sure I would crumple to my knees.

Is there something I need to know?
I imagine Enzo asking. And for a moment, I’m so convinced he says this aloud that I nearly confess everything.

Then Enzo steps away. The heat running through me dissipates as he pulls his energy back, leaving me cold and aching. My illusions vanish. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s not the cool, confident, deadly Reaper . . . There is a flicker of vulnerability in him, even guilt. I stare back with the same confusion. My cheeks are still hot. What happened between us? He’s the leader of the Dagger Society, the crown prince, a notorious killer, the potential future king. And yet, I’ve somehow managed to unsettle him. He has unsettled
me.
The unspoken secret sits heavily between us, a dark abyss.

Then his moment of vulnerability fades, and he resumes the aloofness that I’m so familiar with. “We will see about your missions,” he says, as if nothing has happened. Maybe nothing has—perhaps our little moment has been nothing more than an illusion I accidentally conjured, like everything else that popped up around us. Like my father’s ghost.

My shoulders sag at the close call. I say nothing in return. Perhaps I’ve narrowly avoided certain death.

Enzo gives me a courteous nod, then turns his back and exits the cavern, leaving me alone with my pounding heart. When I look to my side, I notice that the wall where he had rested his hand is now blackened and charred with his handprint.

A
ny changes in opinion about her?” Enzo asks in a low voice.

Raffaele turns away from the prince. Today they both stand at the entrance of the caverns, looking on as several of the Daggers train. Both of their gazes are focused on the same thing: Adelina, who sits in a corner with Michel and practices weaving threads of her energy into small, familiar objects. A golden ring. A knife. A piece of lace. With each gesture, Raffaele feels her energy shift. Watching her learn to create illusions reminds him of the energy he feels when he watches Michel at work. Trying to imitate life. As she goes, Michel critiques her work with a string of halfhearted insults, but Raffaele can tell that the young painter is impressed with her. Nearby, Lucent stops training now and then to shout out challenges for Adelina.
Make a gold talent! Make a bird! Make a statue!
Adelina obliges, her illusions growing in complexity. Lucent nods in admiration.

“Adelina was right,” Raffaele finally replies, noting the growing friendships. Perhaps he had misjudged her in the beginning. “I was training her too slowly for her to work with her powers.”

Enzo nods once in agreement. “She’s learning at a pace I’ve never seen.”

The words make Raffaele uneasy. He thinks back to the way she reacted to the amber and nightstone, how he warned Enzo that night to get rid of her. He thinks of the alarming shifts in her darkness lately, how the new speed of her training is affecting her energy, how frequently she seems anxious, scared, and alone. The emotions seep from her. Something about Adelina . . . there is a frailty underneath the dark shell she has started to build around herself, a small remaining light. A light that wavers precariously from day to day.

“There is a reason I trained her too slowly, you know,” Raffaele says after a moment.

Enzo looks at him. “You were holding her back on purpose.”

“I was holding her back to protect us.” Raffaele chooses his next words carefully. “It’s true, she may become the most powerful of us all. She can already create illusions that trick the eyes and ears. Eventually, she’ll realize that she can also trick one’s taste, smell, and touch.” He casts Enzo a sideways glance. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“She will be able to fool a thirsty man into drinking liquid metal. She will be able to make someone feel pain that isn’t there.”

Raffaele shivers at the possibilities. “Make sure the control she learns doesn’t eclipse her loyalties to you. Adelina may have aligned the strongest with fear and hatred, but she also aligned with passion and ambition. The combination drives her to recklessness, makes her unreliable and hungry for power.”

Enzo looks on as Adelina slowly conjures a detailed illusion of a wolf, so realistic that it looks as if the animal were really standing there on the cavern floor. Michel claps his hands in approval. “She will be magnificent,” he replies.

This time, Raffaele feels Enzo’s energy shift at the mention of Adelina, flickers of an emotion not usually associated with the Reaper. Not for years.
Something happened between them,
he realizes. Something dangerous.

“She’s not Daphne,” Raffaele reminds him gently.

Enzo looks at him, and in that moment, Raffaele feels a pang of deep sympathy for the young prince. A memory comes back to him of the afternoon when he’d accompanied Enzo to the apothecary to see the shop’s young assistant. When he’d witnessed Enzo’s proposal. Even though quiet rain fell outside the shop, the sun still shone through, painting the world in a glittering haze of light. Daphne had laughed at the affection in Enzo’s eyes, teased the gentleness in his voice, and he’d laughed with her. Raffaele had glimpsed her touching Enzo’s cheek and pulling him close.

Marry me,
Enzo had said to her. She’d kissed him in reply.

After she died, Raffaele never again sensed that emotion in Enzo’s heart.

Until now.

Finally, Enzo nods a brief farewell and turns to leave. “Prepare her,” he tells Raffaele before he goes. “She’s coming with us to the Spring Moons.”

I joined the Spring Moons festivities for the first time,
and it was as if I had come into a strange land. The people have transformed into visions of faeries and ghouls. I cannot decide
if I want to stay or leave.

—Letter from Amendar of Orange to his sister,

on his second voyage to Estenzia

T
here was a time during my childhood, a brief time, when my father was kind to me. I dream of it tonight.

I am thirteen. My father wakes up in a cheery mood, then comes to my bedchambers and pulls my curtains open to let the light in. I watch him warily, uncertain what has brought about this sudden change. Did Violetta say something to him?

“Get dressed, Adelina,” he says, smiling at me. “Today I am taking you to the port with me.” Then he leaves, humming to himself.

My heart lurches in excitement. Can this be happening? Father always takes Violetta to the ports, to watch the ships and buy her presents. I have always stayed home. I sit in bed for a moment longer, still unsure, and then I hop to the floor and rush to my dresser. I choose my favorite outfit, a blue-and-cream Tamouran silk dress, and tie two long strips of blue cloth around my hair, securing it high behind my head. Maybe Violetta is coming with us, I thought. I skip out of my room to hers, expecting her to be ready too.

Violetta is still in bed. When I tell her where we’re going, she looks surprised, then worried. “Be careful,” she says.

But I’m so happy that I just sneer at her. She
seems
kind here, but that is only because she’s jealous that she isn’t coming. I turn away. Violetta’s warning fades from my thoughts.

The day is wonderful, full of bright colors. My father takes me on a canal ride. He helps me out of the gondola. The port is bustling with people, merchants calling for their wares to be shipped to the appropriate addresses, shopkeepers standing behind their stands, calling out at curious passersby, children chasing after dogs. My father
holds my hand.
I hurry alongside him, laughing at his jokes, smiling when I know I should smile. Deep inside, I am frightened. This is not normal. My father buys us each a bowl of sweet ice flavored with milk and honey, and together we sit to watch the woodmen and caulkers work on a new ship. He chats animatedly, telling me how strict Estenzia is about the quality of her ships, how every rope and sail and bobbin is tagged with labels and colors identifying the craftsman responsible. I don’t understand everything he says, but I don’t dare interrupt him. I wait for him to turn violent. But today my father looks so carefree that I can’t help but fall under the spell, letting myself believe entirely that he is finally happy with me.

Maybe things will be different from now on. Maybe I had just been making mistakes up until now.

Finally, when the sun begins making its way down the sky, we return to the gondolas and head for home. “Adelina,” he says as we sit together, swaying and creaking with the current. He takes my face in his hands. “I know who you really are. You needn’t be afraid.”

My smile stays on, even though my heart wavers. What does he mean?

“Show me what you can do, Adelina. I know there must be something inside of you.”

I stare back in confused silence, my foolish smile still planted on my lips. When I don’t answer, my father’s gentle expression starts to fade.

“Go on,” he coaxes. “You needn’t be afraid, child.” His voice lowers. “Show me that you are no ordinary
malfetto.
Go on.”

Slowly, I start to realize that he has been using kindness to coax my power out of me. Perhaps he’s even made a wager with somebody already, somebody who would pay my father for me if I could demonstrate some strange ability. My smile trembles along with my heart. He has tried violence and failed to provoke a power in me. Now he wants to try affection.
Be careful,
Violetta had told me. Do you see what a fool I am?

Still, I try. I want so badly to please him.

The next day, we repeat the same routine. My father is curiously gentle and attentive, treating me as if he saw Violetta before him instead of me. Violetta says nothing more, and I’m relieved. I know what he wants from me. And I am so hungry to accept this false kindness that I try every day, as hard as I can, to conjure something to please my father.

It never happens.

Finally, weeks later, my father’s good humor wanes. He takes my face into his hands one last time on that carriage ride home. He asks me to show him what I can do. And again, I fail. The carriage lurches along in an awkward, uncomfortable silence.

After a while, my father’s hands leave my face. He edges away from me, sighs, and looks out the window at the moving landscape.

“Worthless,” he mutters, his voice so quiet that I barely hear him.

The next morning, I lie in bed and anticipate my father coming in again with a smile on his face.
Today is the day,
I tell myself. This time, I am determined to please him, and his kindness will be able to coax something useful out of me. But he doesn’t come. When I finally get out of bed and find him, he ignores me. He has given up his quest to find me useful. Violetta sees me in the hallway. The distance between us feels overwhelming. Her eyes are large and dark, pitying. Her face, as usual, is perfect. I look away from her in silence.

My two weeks have come and gone.

Throughout it all, I haven’t found a single chance to visit Teren at the Inquisition Tower. Maybe I’ve been avoiding it on purpose. I don’t know. All I know is that my time is now up, and he will be expecting me. I know what will happen if I don’t show my face soon.

And tonight is my first official mission with the Daggers.

Their plan for tonight, as far as I understand, goes something like this:

The Spring Moons, Kenettra’s annual celebration of the season, is made up of three nights of festivals and parties, one night in honor of each of our three moons. Each night, a huge masquerade ball will take place at the water’s edge in Estenzia’s largest harbor. At midnight, six ships laden with fireworks will put on a dazzling display of lights over the water.

But the Daggers are going to set fire to the ships before that can even happen, destroying the fleet in a spectacular explosion of fireworks. It will be a display of power, defiance against the king, to show his weakness. And I’m going to help them do it.

“The city is quickly turning into a powder keg,” Raffaele explains to me as we head out from his chambers. Tonight he’s a vision in green and gold robes, part of his face hidden behind an intricate gold half mask, his cheekbones and brows dusted with glitter. “If the king wants to burn us at the stake, then the Daggers are going to respond.” He smiles at me. It is an expert expression—secretive, shy, trained. “The people are tired of a weak king. When Enzo seizes the throne, they will be ready for the change.”

I listen, distracted by my own thoughts. For a moment, I fantasize about myself in such a position—instead of being trapped by the whims of others, what would it be like to have others bowing to
me,
obeying
my
every command? What must it feel like to have that kind of power?

It’s the first time I’ve stepped out into Estenzia at night. Soon, gondolas arrive on the canal that the court’s street lines, and the court’s consorts split into groups as we step into our individual boats. I join Raffaele and two others in the same boat, the seats creaking as I gently lower myself in. My movement sends ripples across the water. We pull away, gliding off to the harbor. I gape at the city.

No nights are as lovely as the nights of the Spring Moons, and no city is as breathtaking as Estenzia, which has transformed into a wonderland of light.

Lanterns hang along all the bridges, their glow bouncing off the water’s surface in waves of orange and gold. Gondolas drift through the waterways, and music and laughter ripple through the masked crowds that have gathered out in the warm evening air. Overhead, the three moons hang large and luminous in a near-perfect triangle. Baliras glide past them, their glittering, translucent wings illuminated by moonlight. This close view of them is still a startling contrast to the faraway figures I’d seen before I’d arrived in Estenzia, and the sight of their long, ray-like bodies passing before the moons takes my breath away.

Farther out at the harbor, the silhouettes of six ships with their fireworks sit on the water.

Inquisitors, some on horseback and some on foot, patrol the bridges. They are the only ones not adorned with bright, glittering colors and sparkling masks, and their white and gold figures look harsh against the festivities. They are everywhere tonight, adding to a uniform tension in the air. I turn my face carefully away from them.
The city is a powder keg,
Raffaele had said, and we are going to light it tonight.

By the time we arrive at the main harbor, the celebrations are in full swing. The statues of the angels and gods that line the square are all covered from head to toe in flowers. A few masked revelers, already drunk this early in the night, have climbed on top of the statues to wave at the cheering crowds. I inhale deeply, catching the scents of ocean, sweet and savory pastries, roasting pig and fish.

Raffaele waits until the others have left our gondola. Then he steps gracefully out and offers me a hand. I join him on land. The other consorts eventually scatter, each of them joining clients waiting for them along the edge of the harbor. Raffaele guides me through a section of the crowd. Then he squeezes my hand once. “Go,” he whispers. “Remember the paths back down to the catacombs if you lose yourself during the mission.”

Then he’s gone, making his way through the crowd. For a beat, I’m all alone, lost among swirling colors. I look around; my heart pounds. I’ve grown so dependent on Raffaele’s guidance that his absence always leaves me short of breath.

A sudden hand on my waist makes me look to my side. It’s Enzo.

If I didn’t know to meet him here, I wouldn’t have recognized him tonight. His hair is covered beneath a mask that transforms him from a young prince into a forest fae with glittering horns twisting up over his head, the structure adorned with dangling silver strings that gleam in the light. All I can see of his face are his lips and, if I look past the shadows the mask casts, his eyes. Even through his disguise, I can sense him taking in my new appearance, my elaborate Tamouran headwrap and my gold reveler’s silks, the glittering white porcelain hiding the scarred side of my face. His lips part slightly, ready to say something.

Then he bows to me. “A lovely evening,” he says. I return his smile as he kisses me gently on the cheek and offers his arm. I gasp at the brief flush of heat from the touch of his lips to my skin.

He leads us through the throngs. He keeps a respectful distance between us, our only contact being my arm looped through his . . . but even so, I can feel the warmth radiating from his robes, a soft, pleasing feeling, reaching for me. I force myself to stay calm. Through my mask, I focus on the silhouettes of ships at the harbor.

We enter an area full of dancers. Here and there are other consorts, swirling with their clients and patrons and other onlookers in a sea of glitter, laughing uproariously as they move in time with the beat of drums and serenade of strings. I catch a glimpse of Raffaele with a richly dressed noblewoman on his arm, but neither he nor Enzo acknowledges each other. Inquisitors watch the scene from atop their steeds.

Enzo gives me a sidelong glance. Then he pulls me closer and puts one hand on the small of my back. Around us, the world turns into a frenzy of cheering and bright colors. He smiles his warm, genuine smile—it’s a lovely expression he so rarely makes as the Reaper.

“Dance with me,” he murmurs.

All part of our act. All part of the disguise.
I tell myself this repeatedly, but it doesn’t change the way I lean into his touch, how his words stir the longing in my chest. If he notices, he doesn’t show it . . . but he does seem to stand closer than he needs to, and look at me with an intensity that I don’t remember seeing before.

We spin with the others in a large circle. More join in, until we are all a tightly packed whirl of bodies. The minutes fly by. Enzo’s movements are flawless, and somehow I find myself moving in sync with him, my steps as accurate as his. Enzo releases me as we dance into the arms of new partners, then switch off again and again in a widening circle. The drums keep time with my heartbeat. I spin until I’m paired once again with Enzo. He smiles at me from behind his mask. I want to reach up and touch his face. Then I remember that I’m disguised as his consort, and such a gesture wouldn’t be strange. So I do. I laugh, draw closer to him, and brush his cheek with my hand. It might be my imagination, but his eyes soften at my touch. He doesn’t stop me.
He’s just playing along.
I don’t mind.

It takes me a moment to realize that the dance has ended. Around us, the others all give their dancing partners a quick kiss, the gesture of harmony between love and prosperity. Laughter and whistles go up from the crowd.
All part of the custom.
I glance at Enzo, suddenly shy—am I love, or am I prosperity?

He smiles, draws me close, and leans down. The elaborately carved grooves of his mask brush against my skin, and I wonder if it will leave a touch of glitter behind. I close my eye. A moment later, his lips touch my own. Only a touch.