The Young Elites (3 page)

I have no idea how long I stayed there. All I know is that, eventually, I staggered to my feet. I picked up the scattered silverware with trembling fingers, retied the sack, and pulled myself onto my stallion’s saddle. Then I rode away, leaving behind the carnage I’d created. I ran from the father I’d murdered. I escaped so quickly that I never stopped to wonder again whether or not someone had been watching me from a window.

I rode for days. Along the road, I bartered my stolen silverware to a kind innkeeper, a sympathetic farmer, a softhearted baker, until I’d collected a small pouch of talents that would keep me in bread until I reached the next city. My goal: Estenzia, the northern port capital, the crowning jewel of Kenettra, the city of ten thousand ships. A city large enough to be teeming with
malfettos.
I’d be safer there. I’d be so far away from all of this that no one would ever find me.

But on the fifth day, my exhaustion finally caught up to me—I was no soldier, and I’d never ridden like this before. I crumpled in a broken, delirious heap before the gates of a farmhouse.

A woman found me. She was dressed in clean brown robes, and I remember being so taken by her motherly beauty that my heart immediately warmed to her in trust. I reached a shaking hand up to her, as if to touch her skin.

“Please,” I whispered through cracked lips. “I need a place to rest.”

The woman took pity on me. She cupped my face between her smooth, cool hands, studied my markings for a long moment, and nodded. “Come with me, child,” she said. She led me to the loft of their barn, showing me where I could sleep, and after a meal of bread and hard cheese, I immediately fell unconscious, safe in the knowledge of my shelter.

In the morning, I woke to rough hands dragging me from the hay.

I startled, trembling, and looked up to see the faces of two Inquisition soldiers staring down at me, their white armor and robes lined with gold, their expressions hard as stone.
The king’s peacekeepers.
In desperation, I tried to summon the same power I’d felt before my father died, but this time the energy did not course through me, and the world did not turn black and white, and no phantoms rose from the ground.

There was a girl standing beside the Inquisitors. I stared at her for a long moment before I finally believed the sight. Violetta. My younger sister. She looked as if she’d been crying, and dark circles under her eyes marred her perfection. There was a bruise on her cheek, turning blue and black.

“Is this your sister?” one of the Inquisitors asked her.

Violetta looked silently at them, refusing to acknowledge the question—but Violetta had never been able to lie well, and the recognition was obvious in her eyes.

The Inquisitors shoved her aside and focused on me. “Adelina Amouteru,” the other Inquisitor said as they hauled me to my feet and bound my hands tightly behind my back. “By order of the king, you are under arrest—”

“It was an accident”—I gasped in protest—“the rain, the horse—”

The Inquisitor ignored me. “For the murder of your father, Sir Martino Amouteru.”

“You said if I spoke for her, you would let her go,” Violetta snapped at them. “I spoke for her! She’s innocent!”

They paused for a moment as my sister clung to my arm. She looked at me, her eyes full of tears. “I’m so sorry, mi Adelinetta,” she whispered in anguish. “I’m
so sorry.
They were on your trail—I never meant to help them—”

But you did.
I turned away from her, but I still caught myself gripping her arm in return until the Inquisitors wrenched us apart. I wanted to say to her,
Save me. You have to find a way.
But I couldn’t find my voice. Me, me, me. Perhaps I was as selfish as my father.

That was weeks ago.

Now you know how I ended up here, shackled to the wall of a wet dungeon cell with no windows and no light, without a trial, without a soul in the world. This is how I first came to know of my abilities, how I turned to face the end of my life with the blood of my father staining my hands. His ghost keeps me company. Every time I wake up from a feverish dream, I see him standing in the corner of my cell, laughing at me.
You tried to escape from me,
he says,
but I found you. You have lost and I have won.
I tell him that I’m glad he’s dead. I tell him to go away. But he stays.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m going to die tomorrow morning.

T
he dove arrives late in the night. It lands on his gloved hand. He turns away from the balcony and brings it inside. There, he removes the tiny parchment from the dove’s leg, caresses the bird’s neck with one blood-flecked glove, and unfurls the message. It is written in a beautiful, flowing script.

I’ve found her. Come to Dalia at once.

Your faithful Messenger

He remains expressionless, but he folds the parchment and tucks it smoothly inside his armguard. In the night, his eyes are nothing but darkness and shadow.

Time to move.

They think they can keep me out, but it does not matter how many locks they hang at the entrance. There is
always
another door.

—
The Thief Who Stole the Stars,
by Tristan Chirsley

F
ootsteps in the dark corridor. They stop right outside of my cell, and through the gap in the door’s bottom, an Inquisitor slides in a pan of gruel. It careers into a black puddle in the cell’s corner, and dirty water splashes into the food. If you can call it such a thing.

“Your final meal,” he announces through the door. I can tell that he’s already walking off as he says, “Better eat up, little
malfetto.
We’ll come for you within the hour.”

His footsteps fade, then disappear altogether.

From the cell next to mine, a thin voice calls out for me. “Girl,” it whispers, making me shiver. “
Girl.
” When I don’t respond, he asks, “Is it true? They say you’re one of them. You’re a Young Elite.”

Silence.

“Well?” he asks. “Are you?”

I stay quiet.

He laughs, the sound of a prisoner locked away for so long that his mind has begun to rot. “The Inquisitors say you summoned the powers of a demon.
Did
you? Were you twisted by the blood fever?” His voice breaks off to hum a few lines of some folk song I don’t recognize. “Maybe you can get me out of here. What do you think? Break me out?” His words dissolve again into a fit of laughter.

I ignore him as best as I can. A Young Elite. The idea is so ridiculous, I feel a sudden urge to laugh along with my crazy dungeon mate.

Still, I try once again to summon whatever strange illusion I’d seen that night. Again, I fail.

Hours pass. Actually, I have no idea how long it’s been. All I know is that eventually I hear the footsteps of several soldiers coming down the winding stone steps. The sound grows nearer, until there is the scrape of a key in my cell’s door and the creak of a rusty hinge.
They’re here.

Two Inquisitors enter my cell. Their faces are hidden in shadows beneath their hoods. I scramble away from them, but they grab me and pull me to my feet. They unlock my shackles, letting them fall to the floor.

I struggle with what little strength I have left.
This isn’t real. This is a nightmare.
This isn’t a nightmare. This is real.

They drag me up the stairs. One level, two levels, three. That’s how far underground I was. Here, the Inquisition Tower comes into better view—the floors change from wet, moldy stone into polished marble, the walls decorated with pillars and tapestries and the Inquisition’s circular symbol, the eternal sun. Now I can finally hear the commotion coming from outside. Shouts, chanting. My heart leaps into my throat, and suddenly I push back with my feet as hard as I can, my ruined riding boots squeaking in vain against the floor.

The Inquisitors yank harder on my arms, forcing me to stumble forward. “Keep moving, girl,” one of them snaps at me, faceless under his hood.

Then we’re stepping out of the tower, and for an instant, the world vanishes into blinding white. I squint. We must be in the central market square. Through my tearing vision, I make out an ocean of people, all of whom have come out to see me executed. The sky is a beautiful, annoying blue, the clouds blinding in their brightness. Off in the distance, a stake of black iron looms in the center of a raised wooden platform, upon which a line of Inquisitors wait. Even from here, I can see their circular emblems shining on their breastplates, their gloved hands resting on their sword hilts. I try harder to drag my feet.

Boos and angry shouts come from the crowd as the Inquisitors lead me closer to the execution platform. Some throw rotten fruit at me, while others spit insults and curses at my face. They wear rags, torn shoes, and dirty frocks. So many poor and desperate, come to see me suffer in order to distract themselves from their own hungry lives. I keep my gaze down. The world is a blur, and I cannot think. Before me, the stake that looked so far away now draws steadily nearer.

“Demon!” someone yells at me.

I’m hit in the face with something small and sharp. A pebble, I think. “She’s a creature of evil!”

“Bringer of bad fortune!”

“Monster!”

“Abomination!”

I keep my eye closed as tightly as I can, but in my mind, everyone in the square looks like my father and they all have his voice.
I hate you all.
I imagine my hands at their throats, choking, silencing them, one by one. I want peace and quiet. Something stirs inside me—I try to grab at it—but the energy disappears immediately. My breath starts to come in ragged gasps.

I don’t know how long it takes for us to reach the platform, but it startles me when we do. I’m so weak at this point that I can’t go up the stairs. One of the Inquisitors finally picks me up and swings me roughly over his shoulder. He sets me down at the top of the platform, and then forces me toward the iron stake.

The stake is made of black iron, a dozen times as thick as a man’s arm, and a noose hangs from its top. Chains for hands and feet dangle from the stake’s sides. Piles of wood hide the bottom from view. I see it all in a cloudy haze.

They shove me against the stake—they clap the chains onto my wrists and ankles, and loop the noose around my neck. Some in the crowd continue to chant curses at me. Others throw rocks. I glance uneasily at the roofs that surround the square. The chains feel cold against my skin. I reach out in vain, again and again, in an attempt to call on something that can save me. My chains rattle from my trembling.

As I look at the other Inquisitors, my gaze settles on the youngest of them. He stands front and center on the platform, his shoulders squared and chin high, his hands folded behind his back. All I can see of his face is his profile.

“Master Teren Santoro,” one of the other Inquisitors now introduces him with formal flair. “Lead Inquisitor of Kenettra.”

Master
Teren Santoro? I look at him again. The Lead Inquisitor of Kenettra has come to see me die?

Teren approaches me now with calm, confident steps. I shrink away from him until my back is pressed solidly against the iron stake. My chains clink against each other. He lowers his head to meet my gaze. His white robes are embellished with more gold than the others I’ve seen, definitely clothing befitting his status, and an elaborate chain of gold winds from shoulder to shoulder. He’s surprisingly young. His hair is the color of wheat, pale for a Kenettran, and cut in a stylish fashion I haven’t seen much in southern Kenettra—shorter on the sides, fuller on the top, with a slender tail wrapped in gold metal trailing down the nape of his neck. His face is lean and chiseled as if from marble, handsome in its coldness, and his eyes are pale blue.
Very
pale blue. So pale that they seem colorless in the light. Something about them sends a chill down my spine. There is madness in those eyes, something violent and savage.

He uses one delicately gloved hand to brush bloody strands of my hair from my face, and then lifts my chin. He studies my scar. The edges of his mouth tilt up into a strange, nearly sympathetic grin.

“What a shame,” he says. “You would have been a pretty little thing.”

I jerk my chin out of his grasp.

“A temperamental one too.” His words drip with pity. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Then quietly, his face close to mine, “You will find your redemption in the Underworld.”

He steps away from me, turns to the crowd, and raises his arms to call for silence. “Settle now, my friends! I’m sure we’re all excited.” When the crowd’s noise fades to a hush, he straightens, then clears his throat. His words ring out across the square. “Some of you may have noticed a recent rash of crimes on our streets. Crimes committed by people—twisted imitations of people—that feel more than . . . human. Some of you have taken to calling these new outlaws ‘Young Elites,’ as if they’re exceptional,
worth
something. I’ve come here today to remind you all that they are
dangerous
and demonic. They are murderers, eager to kill their own loved ones. They have no regard for law and order.”

Teren glances back at me. The square has fallen deathly silent now. “Let me reassure you: When we find these demons, we bring them to justice. Evil must be punished.” He scans the crowd. “The Inquisition is here to protect you. Let this be a warning to you all.”

I struggle feebly against my chains. My legs are shaking violently. I want to hide my body from all of these people, hide my flaws from their curious eyes. Is Violetta somewhere in this crowd? I scan the faces for her, then look up toward the sky. It’s such a beautiful day—how can the sky possibly be this blue? Something wet rolls down my cheek. My lip quivers.

Gods, give me strength. I am so afraid.

Teren now takes a lit torch from one of his men. He turns to me. The sight of the fire sends a greater terror through my veins. My struggles turn frantic. I’d fainted when the doctors removed my left eye with fire.
What kind of pain must it be to let fire consume your entire body?

He touches his fingers to his forehead in a formal gesture of farewell. Then he tosses the torch onto the pile of wood at my feet. It sends up a shower of sparks, and immediately the dry kindling catches fire. The crowd erupts with cheers.

Rage surges through me, mixing with my fear.
I’m not dying here today.

This time, I reach deep into my mind and finally grasp the strange power I’ve been searching for. My heart closes desperately around it.

The world stops.

The flames freeze, their trails of fire left painted, unmoving, stripped of color, hanging black and white in the air. The clouds in the sky stop floating by, and the breeze against my skin dies. Teren’s smile wavers as he whirls around to look at me. The crowd stills, confused.

Then something rips open inside my chest. The world snaps back into place—the flames roar against the wood. And overhead, the bright blue sky collapses into darkness.

The clouds turn black. Their outlines take on strange, frightening shapes, and through it all, the sun still shines, an eerie, bright beacon against a midnight canvas. The crowd screams as night falls on all of us, and the Inquisitors draw their swords, their heads tilted upward like the rest of ours.

I can’t catch my breath. I don’t know how to make it stop.

In the midst of the darkness and panic, something moves in the sky. And just like that, the black clouds twist—they scatter into a swarm of a million moving flecks that swirl across the sky and then dive down, down, down at the crowd. A nightmare of
locusts.
They descend on us with merciless efficiency, their buzzing drowning out the people’s cries. The Inquisitors swing their swords uselessly at them.

The flames lick my feet, their heat searing me.
It’s coming for me—it’s going to devour me.

As I struggle to keep away from the flames, I notice the strangest thing. The locusts come near, then pass straight through my body. As if they aren’t really there at all. I watch the scene before me—the insects pass right through the Inquisitors too, as well as the crowd of people below.

This is all an illusion,
I suddenly realize.
Just like the phantom silhouettes that attacked Father. None of it is real.

One Inquisitor has staggered to his feet, his eyes burning from the smoke, and points his sword in my direction. He lurches toward me. I find my last reserves of strength and pull as hard as I can against my chains. Hot blood trickles down my wrists. As I struggle, he draws closer, materializing from a sea of locusts and darkness.

Suddenly—

A rush of wind. Sapphire and silver. The fire at my feet flickers out into curls of smoke.

Something streaks across my vision. A figure appears between me and the oncoming Inquisitor, moving with deadly grace. It’s a boy, I think.
Who is this?
This boy is
not
an illusion—I can sense his reality, the solidity of his figure that the black sky and the locusts don’t have. He is clad in a whirlwind of hooded blue robes, and a metallic silver mask covers his entire face. He crouches in front of me, every line of his body tense, his focus entirely on the Inquisitor. A long dagger gleams in each of his gloved hands.

The Inquisitor skids to a halt before him. Uncertainty darts across his eyes. “Stand aside,” he snaps at the newcomer.

The masked boy cocks his head to one side. “How impolite,” he mocks, his voice velvet and deep. Even in the midst of chaos, I can hear him.

The Inquisitor lunges at him with his sword, but the boy dances out of its path and strikes with one of his daggers. It buries itself deep into the Inquisitor’s body. The man’s eyes bulge—he lets out a squeal like a dying pig. I’m too stunned to utter a sound. Something in me sparks with strange delight.

Inquisitors see the battle and rush to their fallen comrade. They draw their swords at the boy. He just nods at them, taunting them to come closer. When they do, he slips through them like water between rocks, his body a streak of motion, blades flashing silver in the darkness. One of the Inquisitors nearly cuts him in half with a swing of his sword, but the boy slices the man’s hand clean off. The sword clatters to the ground. The boy kicks the fallen sword up into the air with one flick of his boot, then catches it and points it at the other Inquisitors.

When I look harder, I notice that other masked figures flicker among the soldiers—others dressed in the same dark robes as the boy. He didn’t come here alone.

“It’s the Reaper!” Teren shouts, pointing at the boy with a drawn sword. He starts heading toward us. His pale eyes are mad with glee. “Seize him!”

That name.
I’d seen it before on the Young Elite carvings.
The Reaper.
He’s one of
them.

More Inquisitors rush up the platform. The boy pauses for a moment to look at them, his blades dripping with blood. Then he straightens, lifts one arm high over his head, and sweeps it down again in a cutting arc.

A column of fire explodes from his hands, slicing a line across the platform and dividing the soldiers from us with a wall of flame stretching high into the blackened sky. Shouts of terror come from behind the fiery curtain.

The boy approaches me. I stare in fright at his hooded face and silver mask, the outline of his features lit by the inferno behind him. The only part of his face not hidden by his mask are his eyes—hard, midnight dark, but alight with fire.