A familiar voice drifts over to us from outside. An instant later, something lands on the roof of the carriage with a thud. I lean out of the window and look up—just as a protester darts through the narrow street toward me.
Right away, Magiano’s head appears over the roof of the carriage. I have no idea where he came from, but I realize he was what had landed on top. He casts me a quick look before turning his attention to the crowd. Then he hefts a knife in one hand and leaps down from the carriage directly in front of the first protester, putting himself between me and the mob.
“I think you’re heading in the wrong direction,” Magiano says to him, giving him a dangerous smile.
The protester wavers briefly at the sight of Magiano’s dagger. Then he narrows his eyes and points a finger at me. “She’s starving us to death!” he shouts. “This demon, malfetto, false queen—!”
I shift focus to the protester and his words falter at the sight of my face. Then I smile at him, reach for his threads of energy, and weave.
A burning sensation along your arms and legs, a feeling that turns into fire. You look down, and what do you see? Spiders, scorpions, spiny-legged monsters, seething and crawling all over your body. There are so many that you cannot see your skin anymore.
The man looks down at himself. He opens his mouth in a silent scream and staggers back.
They are pouring into your mouth, out through your eyes. They will eat you alive, from the outside in.
“Now, tell me again,” I say as he finally finds his voice and shrieks. “What were you saying?”
The man collapses to the ground. His cries fill the air. Other protesters behind him pause at the sight of his writhing figure. I continue to weave, strengthening the illusion again and again until the man faints from the agony. Then my Inquisitors—white cloaks flying, blades drawn—descend on the rest of them, shoving those they catch to the ground. Ahead of us, I glimpse Sergio’s heavy cloak and grim face, angrily shouting orders at his patrol.
You can finish him now, the whispers roar, urging me to stare at the man I’d attacked. Come now, do it, you want to so badly. They’re dancing with glee in the air around me, their voices mixing together into one maelstrom. I close my eye, suddenly dizzy from their noise, and my sudden weakness only strengthens their shouts. You want to, you know you want to. A cold sweat breaks out on my arms. No, it’s too soon since I killed in Dumor. Ever since I took Dante’s life in that narrow alley not far from here, I’ve learned that the more I kill, the more my illusions grow, and the more they spiral out of my control as they feed on the strength of a dying man’s terror. If I take another life now, I know I will spend tonight drowning in my nightmares, clawing helplessly at a wall of my own illusions.
I should have heeded Sergio’s warning.
“Adelina.” Magiano is calling my name. He’s standing over the unconscious man, dagger still drawn, giving me a questioning look.
“Get him out of the street,” I command. My voice comes out weak and hoarse. “And have him sent to the Inquisition Tower.”
Magiano doesn’t hesitate. He drags the protestor to the side of the street, out of the way of the carriage, and then waves a hand at the two nearest Inquisitors. “You heard the queen,” he calls out. As he passes my window, I overhear him mutter something to one of the Inquisition soldiers behind my carriage. “Keep a better eye on our path,” he says, “or I’ll make sure you are all tried for treason.”
What if some of my own men are starting to slack on their responsibilities too? What if they want me dead? I turn back to the scene outside, refusing to show even a hint of insecurity, daring them to challenge me.
“That’s better.” Magiano’s voice drifts over again from outside, and an instant later he’s hopped through the window and seated himself right beside me in the carriage, bringing with him the scent of the wind. “I don’t remember protests happening quite this often,” he adds. His tone is lighthearted, but I recognize it as the one he takes on when he’s concerned.
My side is pressed against his, and I find myself hoping that he stays in here with me for the rest of the ride. “When we reach the palace,” I say softly, “have the Inquisitors brought to the tower for questioning. I don’t want a rat in my midst, plotting behind my back.”
Magiano watches me carefully. “It will be impossible to catch all the rats, my love,” he says. His hand brushes against mine. “Sooner or later, one will squeeze through the cracks. You need to be more careful.”
What a funny thing to say. Perhaps he is the rat. The whispers dissolve into laughter.
“In good time,” I reply, “we won’t have to use violence to get our way. The people will eventually realize that the marked are here now, that we will remain in power. Then we can live in peace.”
“Peace,” Magiano replies, still lighthearted. He hops back up and crouches on the seat. “Of course.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “No one is forcing you to stay here, of course, in service to me. You are free to come and go as you wish. You’re an Elite, after all. The greatest of mankind.”
Magiano frowns. “No,” he agrees. “No one is forcing me to stay.”
There’s another emotion buried in his words. I blush. I’m about to add something, but then he nods politely and hops through the window again. “Happy ride, Your Majesty,” he calls. “I’ll be in the baths, soaking off the dirt of this journey.”
I’m tempted to get out of the carriage with him, and let him take us both away to the baths—but instead I slump back in my seat. There is a tightness in my chest now that I work to unknot. I’ll find Magiano later, apologize to him for dismissing his companionship so carelessly, thank him for always watching me from a distance.
Perhaps it’s not you he’s protecting, the whispers taunt, but his own fortune. Why hurt the queen who holds the strings of his purse? Why else does he stay?
Maybe they’re right. The whispers burrow into my mind, digging their little claws in deeper, and the rest of the ride passes in silence. Finally, we reach the gates at the back of the palace, and the carriages roll into the royal grounds.
I have been the Queen of Kenettra for a year. And yet, entering the palace grounds still feels strange and surreal. This had once been where Enzo, as a child, had dueled with a young Teren in the courtyards, where Teren had watched the princess Giulietta from his hiding place in the trees. Enzo’s steps had graced these paths, had been pointed at the throne room where he was meant to sit, what I had once wanted to help him achieve. Now he is gone, an abomination somewhere on the other side of the ocean. Even his sister has long passed into the Underworld, and Teren is my prisoner.
I am the one sitting in the throne room.
Alone. Just the way you like it. I have to force away the image of my sister’s face, the tears I’d seen on her cheeks as she turned her back on me for the last time. I push aside a vision of Enzo and his look of utter hatred as we faced each other on the deck of Queen Maeve’s ship. As if in response, the tether between us pulls taut for a moment, making me gasp.
Sometimes I wonder if it is Enzo trying to reach out through the miles separating us, attempting to control me. I do the same back. But he is too far away.
Sergio opens my carriage door, offering me his arm as I step down. Several Inquisitors are waiting to greet us, and when they see me, they lower their heads. I pause for a moment before we enter the palace to look at each of them. “We’ve won a stunning victory. Go bathe, drink, and rest. I will tell your captains to clear your training schedules for today. Remember, you are a part of my personal guard now, and you will be afforded every luxury. If anyone fails to meet your expectations, report them to me, and I will see to their immediate removal.”
Their eyes light up at that. I leave them before they can respond. Let them know me as their benefactor, the one who gave them everything they could ever desire. It should keep th
em loyal.
As the Inquisitors scatter, I walk with Sergio toward a small side entrance. He waves two of his former mercenaries over to follow me. We pass the front of the procession, and as we go, I see Magiano lounging near the back entrance of the palace, dressed as if ready to head for the baths, while one of the royal maids hands him his cloak. She’s a girl I’ve seen talking to him on several occasions. Today, something she says is making him laugh. Magiano smiles and shakes his head at her before heading off in the direction of the baths.
They’re mocking you behind your back, the whispers say. You heard them laughing, didn’t you? What makes you think your precious thief will stay by your side? As they talk, the scene I’d just witnessed morphs in my memory so that, instead, I imagine seeing the maid run her hand through Magiano’s braids, kissing his lips, and him responding by squeezing her arm, murmuring a secret in her ear. My chest burns, filling with fire and pain.
Perhaps you should show them what you’re capable of. They won’t make a fool of you again.
“It’s not real,” I say under my breath. “It’s not real.” Gradually, the illusion fades, and the true scene replaces it again. My heart hammers in my chest as the whispers retreat, chuckling at me.
“The dungeon keeper tells me that they’ve prepared Teren for your visit today,” Sergio says, jerking me out of my thoughts. I turn to him in relief. Based on his expression, he’s saying this for the second time. “He’s been cleaned, beard shaved off, given a new set of clothes.”
“Good,” I answer. Teren had killed several Inquisition guards over the past few months, those who had not been careful in his presence. Now they approach him very rarely, leaving him unkempt. “How is he now?”
“Calm,” Sergio says. He pats the hilt at his side. “Weak.”
Weak? We fall into silence again as we enter the palace and make our way down a poorly lit corridor. The ground slopes slightly until we reach a set of stairs winding into darkness, and here, Sergio takes the lead. I follow him, while other soldiers trail me. Our steps echo down into the depths.
“Rumor has it that the Daggers may be hiding in the Skylands,” Sergio says after a while.
I look at him, but his eyes avoid mine. “Beldain?” I ask. “Is Queen Maeve planning to strike us again?”
“I’ve heard nothing.” Sergio is quiet for another beat, and his face is drawn with a strange expression. “Although some say your sister may be in their company too.”
Violetta. I grip the edges of my dress more tightly. Of course Sergio misses her—he has been making subtle remarks for months about where she might be. My pattern of conquests—Merroutas, Domacca, northern Tamoura, Dumor—is no coincidence. It is the order of countries where Sergio has heard that Violetta might be. “Send a scout and a balira in Beldain’s direction,” I finally say.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sergio replies.
The original Inquisition Tower still stands, the very same one that Teren had once used to hold my sister captive, where I’d gone on several occasions to see him in my desperation. I was tempted to keep him in the same quarters—but the palace itself has a lower level of dungeons meant for the most important of prisoners, the ones to be kept close.
And I want Teren very, very close.
The dungeons are a cylinder spiraling into darkness, barely lit by slivers of light peeking through gratings from above. The farther down we go, the damper the stones and walls get. I wrap my cloak tighter around me as cold air prickles my skin. The steps turn narrower, and through their cracks grow strange mosses and weeds, plants that feed somehow on the dim light and trickling water. Survivors. I am reminded of my early days with the Dagger Society, the old cavern where we all used to train. We, as if there were still such a thing. I cast out the memory of Raffaele’s gentle guidance, his smile. The memory of Michel teaching me how to sculpt a rose out of thin air, of Gemma showing me her power with animals. Of Enzo, wiping a tear from my cheek. Don’t cry. You are stronger than that.
He’s luring you there so that Teren can slit your throat.
The memory of Enzo fades, claimed by the whispers, and morphs instead into the image of him confronting me on Maeve’s ship, sword pointed straight ahead, wishing me dead. My heart ices over. You are only a ghost, I remind myself, pushing against the familiar tether between us with an illusion of ice, snow, cold. I hope he feels it, wherever he is. You are already dead to me.
A man is waiting for us on the lowest level, a marked soldier with a pale streak in his dark blond hair, grease glossy on his face, his Inquisition uniform stained and dirty with ash. He nods to Sergio and then bows low at me.
“Your Majesty,” he says. Then he holds an arm out toward the dungeons and ushers us along.
The palace’s cells are each their own space, with no bars and no windows. He leads us down a wide hall with iron doors lining either side of it, each one guarded by two Inquisitors. Some of the doors are spaced farther apart than others. When we near the end, we reach several that are spaced so far apart that I cannot see the next door from the one we’ve just passed. Finally, the dungeon keeper stops at the very last door on our right.
There are six Inquisitors outside this one, instead of two. They line up in formation when I approach, bow, and make way for the keeper. He takes out one key while the senior Inquisitor takes out a second. Undoing this lock requires inserting two keys simultaneously.
Sergio and I exchange a brief glance. The last time I saw Teren was several months ago, before our expedition to conquer Dumor. I wonder how Teren looks now.
The lock squeaks, then clicks—and the door edges open. I enter behind the Inquisitors.
The chamber is large and circular, with a high ceiling, lit by eight torches along the walls. There is a moat in here, with dirty water fed down from the pipes of the bathhouse. Soldiers line the walls. The moat surrounds an island of stone, and upon this island lies a figure, chained by a dozen heavy links anchored at the very edges and guarded by two soldiers who rotate out once an hour, assigned to raise and lower a rope bridge between the island and the rest of the chamber. The figure stirs when he hears us gather at the far side of the moat. In the torchlight, his hair shines gold, and when he lifts his face in our direction, his eyes glint a familiar madness. Pale, pulsing, colorless. Even now, with our roles reversed, his stare sends a surge of energy through me, a mix of fear and hate and excitement.
Teren smiles at me. His voice echoes in the chamber, low and smoky. “Mi Adelinetta.”
Maeve Jacqueline Kelly Corrigan
A letter from Raffaele should have arrived by dove today, but it didn’t. Maeve wonders whether the bird has been killed in flight or delayed by storms. The seas have been strange lately. Whatever the reason, she didn’t receive an answer yet on Lucent’s current condition—so she stays in the training yard long after midnight, restlessly swinging her wooden practice sword.
A few of her guards are scattered around the yard’s perimeter. Her brother Augustine is here too, helping her practice. He gives her a sympathetic look as she slowly swings her sword and stumbles in the dirt.
“You must be tired enough now to sleep,” Augustine says as he gently nudges Maeve back a step and waits for her to switch her stance. He uses his sword to gesture at the apartments. “Go, Your Majesty. You’re no good to anyone out here like this.”
Maeve shakes her head and scowls. She hefts her sword again. “I’ll stay,” she replies.
Augustine lunges at her. She blocks his attack, sidesteps, and swings her weapon high over her head. She brings it down at him and he stops it with his wooden blade. As Maeve grits her teeth, Augustine leans closer to her and frowns. “You need to go to Lucent,” he says. “I’m tired of seeing you like this.”
Maeve’s eyes flash in irritation. “I’m not going to leave my country behind just to visit an old riding companion.”
Augustine’s lips tense into
a line. “Oh, for the gods’ sakes, Little Jac,” he snaps. “We know Lucent wasn’t just your riding companion.” At her stunned expression, Augustine laughs. “You are good at many things, but you are horrible at keeping your love interests a secret.”
Maeve’s temper flares. She pushes Augustine away and swings her sword at him again. The wooden blade hits him squarely in his side before he can block her attack. He grunts at the hit and doubles over. Maeve seizes the opportunity, knocks him flat on his back, and shoves her knee against his chest. She presses the sword roughly against his neck and Augustine holds his hands up in defeat. “I’m not leaving my country,” Maeve repeats through gritted teeth, “to visit an old riding companion. Not after our last battle. Adelina is on the move. She will come north.”
Augustine pushes her sword away. “So are you just going to wait for her to arrive on our shores?” he argues back. “Word is that she has taken Dumor. She may have set her sights on Tamoura for now, but soon she will turn her attention to the Skylands.”
Maeve sighs, lowering her sword. She hops back up and watches as Augustine struggles to his feet. “I can’t leave,” she repeats, quieter this time. “Tristan.”
At the mention of their youngest brother’s name, Augustine’s mood softens. “I know.”
“Did you see him yesterday?”
“Still the same, the doctors say. No change.”
Maeve forces herself to lift her sword and concentrate on Augustine again. She needs the distraction. Tristan has not said a word for weeks now—the longest he has ever gone—and his gaze these days is always fixed toward the sea, pointed in some direction to the south. What little spark of light that was left in his eyes has disappeared entirely, leaving behind flat pools and a vacant, lifeless stare. Once, when she’d brought him out to the winter carnivals with her, he’d attacked her in a state of confusion. He’d done it halfheartedly, like some part of him knew he didn’t want to, but even then, it had taken Augustine and another man to subdue him. Since then, he has not slept. He has instead stayed by his window, eyes turned to the sea.