Raffaele shifts his attention to the others in the clearing. Inside a circle of soldiers lining the edges are a handful of noblemen—princes, judging from their dark blue sleeves—and an enormous white tiger with stripes of gold. Its tail swishes lazily through the grass, and its eyes are narrowed into sleepy slits. Everyone’s attention is fixed on two dueling opponents in the center of the clearing. One is a prince with light blond hair and a frown on his face. He stabs forward with his sword.
His opponent is a young woman—a girl, even—with furs lining her cloak. A fierce smear of gold decorates one of her cheeks, and her hair, half black and half gold, is tied up into an elaborate series of braids that resemble the hackles running down an angry wolf’s back. She easily dodges the stab, flashes a grin at the prince, and swings her own sword to clash with his. The blade glints in the light.
Michel steps closer to Raffaele. “She is queen now,” he murmurs. “Her mother died several weeks ago. I accidentally addressed her as Her Royal Highness—don’t do the same.”
Raffaele nods. “Thank you for the reminder.” Her Majesty Queen Maeve of Beldain. He frowns as she duels. There is an energy around her, the unusual threads that must belong to an Elite. No one had ever mentioned this about the Beldish princess—but the signs are all there, glittering in a sheet of moving strings around her. Does she even know? Why would she keep such a thing secret?
Raffaele’s attention then shifts to one of the princes watching. The youngest one. His frown deepens. There is an energy about this one too. But it is not like an Elite’s energy, threads of vigor, of the world that is alive. He blinks, confused. When he reaches out to touch this strange force, his own strength immediately recoils, as if burned by something cold as ice.
The clash of swords brings him back to watching the duel. Maeve swings again and again at her older brother. She pushes him to the edge of their circle, where the soldiers stand guard—and then, all of a sudden, her brother starts striking back viciously, forcing her into the center again. Raffaele watches them closely. Even though the prince is taller than Maeve by a good foot, she doesn’t seem intimidated. Instead, she calls out a taunt as she pushes against his blade, laughs again, and spins. She tries to catch her brother off guard, but he sees her move first. He suddenly crouches down, aiming for her legs. She catches her mistake too late—and falls.
The prince stands over her, his sword pointing at her chest. He shakes his head. “Better,” he says. “But you still strike too eagerly before you can tell exactly where my attack will go.” He gestures to his arm, then makes a slow, swinging motion. “See this? This is what you didn’t catch. Look for the angle before you choose to strike.”
“She caught it, Augustine,” one of the other princes chimes in. He winks at Maeve. “She just didn’t react fast enough.”
“I would’ve reacted fast enough to dodge your attacks,” Maeve calls backward, pointing her sword at her second brother. Several of the other princes chuckle at her answer. “And you’d be limping home by nightfall.” She sheathes her sword, walks over to rub the tiger behind his ears, and nods at Augustine. “I’ll do better, I promise. Let’s practice again in the afternoon.”
Raffaele looks on as the prince gives his little sister a smile and a bow. “As you wish,” he replies.
Then, at her brothers’ gesturing, she turns her attention to the Daggers. Michel and Gemma kneel immediately. Her eyes fall first on Lucent—a flash of recognition darts across her face—and her lighthearted mood instantly transforms into something serious. She says nothing. Instead, she waits while Lucent kneels and bows her head, her curls tumbling forward. Maeve watches her for a moment longer. Then her piercing stare darts to Raffaele, and he lowers his lashes. He follows Lucent’s lead.
“Your Majesty,” he says.
She leans one hand on her sword’s hilt. Her cheeks are still flushed with excitement. “Look at me,” she commands. When he does, she continues, “Are you Raffaele Laurent Bessette? The Messenger?”
“I am, Your Majesty.”
Maeve regards him for a moment. She seems to study the summer green of his left eye, then the honey gold of his right. Her teeth flash at him in a wild smile. “You’re as beautiful as they say. A lovely name, for a lovely face.”
Raffaele lets himself blush, tilting his head in the familiar, subtle way he always did to his clients. “You honor me, Your Majesty. I’m flattered that my reputation has traveled as far as Beldain.”
Maeve watches him thoughtfully. “You were Prince Enzo’s most trusted adviser. He spoke very fondly of you. And now I see you have taken his place as the leader of the Daggers. Congratulations.”
Raffaele’s heartbeat quickens as he tries to ignore the familiar pang that Enzo’s name brings. “It is not something I celebrate,” he replies.
Maeve’s eyes soften for a moment, perhaps in remembrance of her own mother’s death. There seems to be something else about Enzo’s death that intrigues her, a fleeting emotion that Raffaele senses in her heart, but she decides against mentioning it, leaving him to wonder. “Of course not,” she says in the end.
Augustine whispers something in her ear. The young queen leans toward him—and although she focuses her attention on Raffaele, he can tell by the shift of her energy that she really wants to pay attention to Lucent. “Prince Enzo’s death is not in my favor, as I’d hoped he would open trade between Kenettra and Beldain. Nor is it in your favor, Messenger, because he has left you leaderless. But the king, too, has died. Giulietta rules in his place now, you say, and new malfetto refugees arrive in my country every day.”
“You are kind for taking us in, Your Majesty.”
“Nonsense.” Maeve waves a hand impatiently, motioning for all of them to rise. When they do, she whistles for her horses. Her white tiger rises from his resting spot and saunters over to her side. “The gods created the blood fever, Raffaele,” she says as they all pull themselves into saddles, “and so they also created the marked and the Elite. It is blasphemy to kill the children of the gods.” She taps her horse’s hindquarters with her heels, then starts leading them up a higher hill. “I didn’t take you in out of kindness, though. Your Daggers are weakened now. Your leader is dead, and I hear rumors that one of your own turned her back on you, that she was working with the Inquisition. Your patrons have either given up and fled or have been captured and killed.”
“Except you,” Raffaele says. “Your Majesty.”
“Except me,” she agrees. “And I am still interested in Kenettra.”
Raffaele rides in silence as the young queen guides them along the side of a sharp cliff, waves crashing against the rocks far below. “What have you sent us here for?” he asks.
“Let me show you something.” Maeve leads them along the edge for a while, until they reach an area where the land curves in on itself, forming a shelter from the wild winds. Here, they ride up so close that Raffaele can see the entire bay.
The sight below is astonishing. Behind him, Lucent sucks in her breath.
Hundreds of Beldish warships dot the beaches of the bay. Sailors bustle up and down gangplanks to the decks, loading crates on board. The ships stretch far down and out along where the cliffs trail off into the distance.
Raffaele turns to Maeve. “You’re planning to invade Kenettra?”
“If I can’t have your malfetto crown prince sitting on the throne, then I will do it myself.” Maeve pauses, studying Raffaele’s face for his reaction. “But I’d like your help.”
Raffaele just sits quietly. The last time Beldain went to war with Kenettra was over a hundred years ago. If Enzo could see all this, what would he think? Handing over his crown to a foreign queen? It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself harshly. Because Enzo is dead.
“What help do you need?” Raffaele says after a moment.
“I hear that Master Teren Santoro was behind the king’s death,” Maeve re
plies. “Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he want the king dead?”
“Because he is in love with Queen Giulietta. She keeps Teren at her side precisely for his help, among other reasons.”
“Ah. A lover,” Maeve says. At that, Lucent’s eyes flick briefly to the queen, then dart away again. “She’s young, new, and vulnerable. I need the Inquisition and her army weakened. What can you do to help me in this?”
Raffaele’s expression is one of concentration. “Giulietta is powerful with Teren at her side,” he says. He exchanges looks with each of his Daggers as he goes on. “But Teren answers to something even more powerful than his queen—his belief that he has been ordained by the gods to destroy malfettos. If we can break their trust and separate them, then this invasion will have a better chance at success. And in order to break their trust, we’ll have to make Teren disobey his queen.”
“He’ll never do such a thing,” Lucent chimes in. “Have you seen Teren around Giulietta? Have you heard him talk about her?”
“Yes,” Michel agrees. “Teren obeys the queen like a dog. He’d sooner die than insult her.”
Even Gemma, who has been quiet until now, speaks up. “If you want to turn them against each other, we’ll have to get into the city,” she says. “Right now, it’s nearly impossible to enter Estenzia. All malfettos have been forced outside the city walls. The Inquisition guards every street. We can’t get over the walls or through the gates, even with Lucent’s powers. There are too many soldiers.”
Maeve’s furs brush against her cheeks. “Kenettra has a new ruler,” she says. “According to tradition, I must sail for Estenzia and see her in person, offer her gifts and a welcome. A promise of goodwill.” At that, she raises an eyebrow and smiles. Behind her, Augustine laughs a little. Her eyes turn back to Raffaele. “I will get you into the city, my Messenger, if you can place a wedge between the queen and her Inquisitor.”
“I am a consort,” Raffaele replies. “I’ll find a way.”
Maeve stares in silence for a moment at her preparing fleet. “There is something else,” she says, without looking at him.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Tell me, Raffaele,” she goes on, turning her head slightly in his direction, “that you can sense my power.” She says it loudly enough for the other Daggers to hear. Michel, the closest, stiffens at her words. Gemma inhales sharply. But Raffaele notices Lucent’s reaction the most—the sudden, sickly paleness of her face, the surprise in her eyes. She glances at Raffaele.
“Her power?” she asks, forgetting for the first time to refer to Maeve by her title.
Raffaele hesitates, then bows his head to the young queen. “I do,” he replies. “I’d thought it rude to ask until you decided to share it.”
Maeve smiles a little. “Then it will be no surprise to you when I tell you that I, too, am an Elite.” She doesn’t seem to react to Lucent’s shock—although her eyes do dart briefly to her.
Raffaele shakes his head. “Not a surprise to me, Your Majesty. You may have had a different effect on my Daggers, though.”
“And can you guess what I do?”
Raffaele reaches out once again to study the energy that surrounds her. It is a familiar feeling, one that leaves him with a chill. Something about her aligns with darkness, with the angels of Fear and Fury, the goddess of Death. The same alignments he felt in Adelina. The mere memory of her makes Raffaele clench his horse’s reins. “I cannot guess, Your Majesty,” he replies.
Maeve looks over her shoulder at the youngest prince, with his dueling mask still on, and nods. “Tristan,” she says. “Let us see your face.”
Her other brothers grow quiet at her command. Raffaele senses Lucent’s heart lurch forward, and when he glances at her, he notices that her eyes have turned wide. The youngest prince nods, reaches up, and pulls the mask off his face.
He resembles Maeve, as well as his brothers. But while the others seem natural and whole, this prince is not—the eerie energy about him remains, haunting Raffaele.
“My youngest brother, Prince Tristan,” Maeve says.
It is Lucent who finally breaks the silence. “You said in your letters that he had managed to pull through,” she chokes out. “You told me he never died.”
“He did.” Maeve’s expression turns harder. “But I brought him back.”
Lucent goes pale. “That’s impossible. You said—he almost drowned—and your mother—the Queen Mother—banished me for the near death of her son. This is impossible. You—” She turns to Maeve. “You never told me. I heard nothing about this in your letters.”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Maeve answers sharply. Then she continues, in a quieter voice, “My mother screened every letter that left the palace, particularly those I meant for you. I could not risk her finding out about my power. She, like you, like everyone, assumed that Tristan never died, because I brought him back on the same night she banished you.”
Raffaele only stares, hardly able to believe what he is witnessing. Threads of energy that do not belong in the land of the living. He understands it now, the unsettling, unnatural bond. He also understands immediately why Maeve is telling them this.
“Enzo,” he whispers. “You want—”
“I want to bring back your prince,” Maeve finishes for him. “Tristan, as you can see, is able to enjoy life again. Even more than that, though, he has brought some part of the Underworld with him. He has gained the strength of a dozen men.”
The thought of Enzo alive again leaves Raffaele short of breath. The world spins for a moment. No. Wait. There is something else about Prince Tristan that the queen isn’t telling him. “And what of Elites who are revived?” he asks.
Maeve smiles again. “Bringing an Elite back from the dead must amplify his powers too. And someone as powerful as Enzo was may prove nearly invincible once revived. I want his power at our side when we attack Kenettra. It will be a test, my creation of an Elite among Elites.” She leans toward Raffaele. “Think of the possibilities—of the other deceased Elites I could revive, of the unbridled power on our side.”
Raffaele shakes his head. He should be overjoyed at the thought of seeing the prince again. But he senses the stain of the Underworld hovering over Tristan’s energy.
“You doubt that it works,” Maeve says after a moment. “Those I bring back must always be tied to someone from the living world. They need living threads to hold them away from the Underworld’s constant pull. Tristan is tied to me, giving me a certain level of control—protection—over him. Enzo will need to be tethered to someone too.”
Tethered to me. Raffaele’s eyes narrow as he looks at her. That is what she means to do. “I cannot be a part of this,” he finally says. His voice is firm, even in its hoarseness. “This violates the order of the gods.”
Maeve’s voice hardens now. “I am a child of the gods,” she snaps. “I was gifted with this power. The gods bless it—it violates no order.”
Raffaele bows his head. His hands are shaking. “I cannot agree to this, Your Majesty,” he says again. “Enzo’s soul has gone to rest in the Underworld. Pulling him back, away from the side of Holy Moritas, and into the real world again . . . he does not belong here anymore. Let him rest.”
“I am not asking your permission, consort,” Maeve replies firmly. When Raffaele looks up at her again, she lifts her chin. “Remember, Raffaele, that Enzo was the Crown Prince of Kenettra. A malfetto, an Elite, your former leader. He did not deserve to die. He deserves to return, to see his country’s malfettos safe. I will rule Kenettra, but I will reinstate him in my absence.” Her eyes are hard as stone. “Is this not what you and your Daggers have long fought for?”
Raffaele is silent. He is seventeen again, standing before a sea of nobility at the Fortunata Court, sensing Enzo’s energy in the crowd for the first time. He is in the undergro
und training cavern of the Daggers’ former home, watching the prince duel with others. Raffaele looks at Michel, then Gemma, then Lucent. They look back, grave and silent. This should be what they all want.
But Enzo died. They grieved, and made their peace with it. And now . . .
“I will bring him back,” Maeve continues, “and I will tether him to anyone I please.” Then, her voice turns gentler. “But I’d rather tie him to those who care the most for him. The bond with the living is strongest that way.”
Still, Raffaele doesn’t reply. He closes his eyes, willing himself to silence his mind. To force away the churning sensation of wrongness in this idea. Finally, he opens his eyes and meets the queen’s gaze. “Will he be the same?”
“We won’t know,” Maeve says slowly, “until I try.”
SCENE VII
(Exeunt all but Boy.)
BOY. Are you an ogre?
(Enter Ogre.)
OGRE. Are you a knight?
BOY. I am not a knight! Nor am I a king, scout, or priest. Therefore, you can be sure I am not here to steal the jewel.
—Original translation of The Temptation of the Jewel, by Tristan Chirsley
Adelina Amouteru
The Little Baths of Bethesda turn out to be a set of ruins at the edge of Merroutas.
Early the next morning, as the sun crests the horizon and fishing boats set out into the bay, Violetta and I make our way down the dirt path leading out of the city-state’s main gates and to a smaller cluster of abandoned domed houses, all situated beneath the stone arches of a former aqueduct.
It looks like a place that once bustled with activity. But the bathhouse itself—or what’s left of it—was built on soft ground, which must have sealed its fate. As people abandoned the bathhouse, so must they have abandoned the small settlement of homes around it. Or perhaps the aqueduct delivering its water crumbled first. The once-glorious pillars at its entrance have now collapsed, and the stone foundation has sunk into the marshy soil. Vines crawl up the stone, their flowers vibrant green and yellow. I feel a strong attraction to this place’s ruined beauty.