“You are chosen by the gods, Your Highness,” he said, ashamed. “And I am a malfetto, lower than a dog. I am unworthy of your presence.” He hoped she couldn’t guess his dark secret. That strange, demonic powers had appeared in him recently.
Giulietta smiled. “If I forgive you for being a malfetto, little boy, would you pledge your undying devotion to me? Would you do anything for me?”
Teren looked up into her eyes with desperation and desire. She was so pretty. Delicate, heart-shaped face framed with dark curls. Royal blood. Not a hint of a marking on her. Perfection. “I would pledge anything to you, Your Highness. My life. My sword. I am yours.”
“Good.” She tilted her head toward him. “Tell me. Who do you think should rule this country next?”
Teren leaned into her touch. The question confused him. “The crown prince,” he said. “It is his birthright.”
Her eyes hardened. Wrong answer. “You said you are a malfetto, and lower than a dog. Do you really want a malfetto as your king?”
Teren hadn’t thought about it like that. He used to wrestle and spar with Enzo in the palace gardens, when Teren’s father was busy leading the Inquisition Axis. They were friends, even, or at least friendly, always paired up in afternoon sword practice. Teren hesitated, torn between the idea of Enzo as pure-blooded royalty and the reality of him being tainted by the blood fever’s markings. Finally, he shook his head. “No, Your Highness. I wouldn’t want that.”
Giulietta’s eyes softened, and she smiled again. Right answer. “I am the firstborn. It is my birthright to rule.”
For a fleeting moment, Teren wondered if she was the one who slipped poison into Enzo’s soup.
She leaned closer. Then she said the words that would ensnare him forever. “Do as I say, little Teren. Help me rid this world of all malfettos. And I will make sure the gods forgive you for your abomination.”
The memory fades. Teren raises the whip again and again.
To atone for my cursed magic, I devote myself to the Inquisition all the days of my life. I will serve the queen, rightful ruler of Kenettra. Not only will I rid this world of Young Elites, but I shall rid this world of malfettos.
Blood runs down the pulped flesh of his back as his body tries desperately to keep up in healing itself. He sways in place, dizzy from the agony. Tears drip from his unnaturally pale eyes. His marking. But Teren only grits his teeth and smiles. His thoughts return to Adelina. She couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air. She was here, somewhere. He would simply have to search harder. Pay off every street urchin and beggar in the city. For the price of a cheap meal, they’ll tell you anything. His eyes pulse in anticipation. Yes. Thousands of spies. I have plans for you, Adelina. If Teren could have his own way, he would kill every Elite he could find. Then he would throw every malfetto in the city—in the country—into the dungeons. He would burn every single one of them at the stake. Abominations. If only he could make them understand.
I will find you all. I will use everything in my power to save your souls. I was born to destroy you.
In the good years, they wine and dine, laugh and love.
In the bad years, they draw their swords and
slit each other’s throat.
—Excerpt from Relations between Kenettra and Beldain,
The Travels of Elaida Eleanore
Adelina Amouteru
My life at the Fortunata Court quickly falls into place.
For two solid weeks, Raffaele teaches me the subtle graces of moving around the court. The art of walking. Of smiling. Of avoiding unwanted client advances as an underage consort-in-training. Simple in theory—but Raffaele’s effortless elegance is made up of a thousand tiny gestures that are shockingly difficult to imitate.
“You are comparing two weeks of training with many years,” Raffaele tells me, laughing, when I complain about how clumsy my walk looks next to his own. “Do not worry so much. You know enough for a novice, and that will get you by.”
And so it does. I become used to wrapping my hair in silks every morning, putting on my glittering mask, and wandering the halls of the court. Few pay attention to me, as long as I follow Raffaele’s advice. You are underage. You have no name, as far as the court is concerned, and you are not permitted to speak to anyone who wants to be your client. This should give you protection if you ever feel you need to shake off unwanted advances.
The freedom is nice. I spend my mornings down in the cavern, observing the other Elites whenever they gather. Gradually, I learn more about each of them. After Enzo and Raffaele, for instance, the Star Thief was their next recruit. Enzo named her after the scribe Tristan Chirsley’s Stories of the Star Thief, a folk hero who could steal anything, because she could steal the minds of beasts. Her marking is a purple shape that stretches across part of her face.
After her came the Spider, who used to be a blacksmith apprentice. The dark, irregular markings on his neck extend down to his chest. The Windwalker was exiled here from the snowy Skyland nation of Beldain. I don’t know the story behind that. One of her arms is covered in dark, swirling lines. The last one, the Architect, is a boy currently apprenticed at the University of Estenzia to a master painter. Capable of touching anything—a rock, a sword, a human—and unwinding it, then re-forming it in a different spot. Enzo gave him his Elite name after he designed the gem-locked door to the cavern. His fingernails have stripes of discoloration on them, lines of deep black and blue.
Altogether, there are six of them. I hope I survive to be the seventh.
I take lunches in my chambers alone, and wander the halls and courtyards when I feel restless. The others don’t talk much to me yet. I rarely see Enzo. Even a banished prince must still have princely duties, I suppose, but whenever I don’t see his face down in the cavern, I leave disappointed. Some days, I feel like the only one in the court’s secret corridors.
I come to look forward to the performances that happen almost every night, elaborate dances put on by the consorts that draw potential clients from every corner of the city. Almost all of the other consorts are marked. They wear decorative masks like me—many with their hair also woven into elaborate headpieces. Works of art.
My only goal now is to master my power, to be included in the Daggers’ missions, their secretive comings and goings. I start to forget that the Inquisition is hunting for me. I start to forget that I ever had a sister.
I only think of these things late at night, when everything is quiet. Perhaps she’s moved on without me, anyway.
Teren Santoro
Master Santoro.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“This is a street urchin who begs near the edge of the Red Quarter. He says he saw something at the Fortunata Court that might interest you.”
“Oh? Is that so? Speak up, boy—you’ll have a hot supper and place to sleep if I like your answer.”
“Y-yes, sir. Um. It was yesterday. I heard from other urchins that the Inquisition’s—s-searching for a girl with a scar across her left eye.”
“We are. And?”
“Well—I can’t be sure—but I saw—”
“You’re either sure or you’re not. What did you see?”
“I’m sorry, Master Santoro. I—I’m sure. Sure I saw such a girl, walking along the upper courtyards of the Fortunata Court. That fancy one—up on the hill—”
“Yes, I know the one. Get on with it.”
“Y-yes, sorry, sir. The girl’s hair was wrapped up in cloth, though, so I don’t know what color it was.”
“Wrapped, in a Tamouran fashion?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
Teren sits back in his chair. He studies the filthy, shivering boy kneeling before him for a long moment. Finally, he smiles. “Thank you.” He waves a hand at the Inquisitors who’d brought the boy in. “A gold talent, a hot meal, and a room at an inn.” He nods once as the
boy’s face lights up. “Never let it be said that I’m not generous.”
Once upon a winter
I met a man in the woods
The man beckoned me over
To see a satchel of goods
He offered three wishes
I asked for beauty, love, riches
And he froze me in stone where I stood.
—“The Greedy Ghost of Cypress Pass,” common folk song
Adelina Amouteru
Another night at the Fortunata Court. Another night of glistening robes and sensual dances.
Raffaele helps me prepare until I am breathtaking in silks and jewels, and then leads me out of the secret halls and toward the main lounging chamber. The chamber is lavishly decorated tonight, dotted with velvet divans, plates of jasmine sitting on low, round tables, arching curtains of silks hanging across tall windows. Vases of night lilies stand in each corner of the room, their dark purple petals open, their rich, musky scent filling the air. Consorts dressed in their finest gather in clusters. Some already have clients with them, while others giggle among themselves.
In the center of the chamber is a low, raised circular platform, ringed with thick scarlet cushions for guests to sit on. They are already half filled with people.
“I’ll leave you here,” Raffaele says as we stop behind the silk veil leading into the main chamber. “You know the routine.”
“Are you performing tonight?” I ask.
Raffaele gives me a small smile. Then he kisses me on both cheeks. “Look for me.” Then he leaves without another word.
The instant I step past the veil and into the chamber, I make my way toward where other consorts-in-training are already lounging on the cushions near the back. As I go, several clients catch sight of me, their eyes lingering before they glide on to available consorts. One man in particular, clad from head to toe in dark, glittering velvet, his face hidden entirely behind a black mask, watches me for a long moment, only half interested in his conversation with his companions. I keep my gaze determinedly forward. It always takes me a moment before I let down my guard at these events.
The other consorts-in-training exchange eye contact with me, but none of us speak. I choose a cushion at one end, then look on as more masked clients and consorts swirl in the room, until it fills to capacity.
Finally, servants extinguish several of the lanterns lining the walls. The room dims, and the conversation hushes. Other servants light the lanterns that circle the raised platform. I straighten, wondering what Raffaele will look like. After a few minutes, the court’s madam sweeps through the crowd and stops before the platform’s edge. She is tall and regal, still beautiful in her golden years, with lines of gray in her hair. She spreads her arms wide. I’ll have to ask Raffaele next time if she’s a patron to the Daggers. She must be.
“Welcome to the Fortunata Court, my guests,” she says. Her voice is rich and warm, and everyone in the audience leans forward, drawn in. “It is a cool, calm night, a lovely time for us to gather. And I know why you all have come.” She pauses to smile. “You want to see our court’s shining jewel perform.”
A round of low applause answers her.
“I won’t delay it any longer, then,” she continues. “Abandon yourselves to an evening of desire, my guests, and dream of us tonight.”
With that, the rest of the wall’s lanterns go out, leaving only the platform illuminated. Deep drumbeats echo, one after another. They send a tremor through me, stirring my alignment to passion, and I feel my energy churn. A young consort glides through the darkness of the crowd. When he reaches the platform and steps into the light of the lanterns, I stifle a gasp.
Raffaele is dressed in pale silks that make him stand out, his chest is bared, and a glittering gold line is painted down the middle of his torso. He stops in the center of the raised platform, eyes lowered, and then kneels in a fluid gesture, his arms folded before him, wide sleeves trailing. His robes pool in a circle around him. He stays there for a moment as the drumbeats thicken, and then he rises back to his feet and walks in a slow, hypnotic circle. I have never seen a composed, delicate dance like this, paired with a song that is nothing but drums—I may never see such a thing again. I glance at the clients filling the room. They are stunned into silence. Gradually, as the tempo increases, two other consorts join Raffaele on the platform, a girl and a boy, and together they glide in circles around one another, eyes both shy and piercing, movements flowing like water. The other two consorts are beautiful, but they pale next to Raffaele. There is no question whom the audience’s eyes follow. I watch, mesmerized. Then Raffaele’s moment of deep sadness comes back to me, and the performance chills me to the bone.
Someone new sits behind me. I don’t think much of it at first—the room is crowded with patrons, at any rate, all focused on the platform. It is only when the person speaks that my heart stops.
“I won’t hurt you, Adelina. Just listen.”
The voice is very close to my ear, close enough that I can feel the speaker’s breath, soft on my skin. He’s so quiet, I barely hear him over the drums. But I do. I’ve heard this voice only once in my entire life, but I would recognize it anywhere.
Teren.
The energy in my heart spikes, and I have a sudden urge to scream in the middle of the performance. He found me. From the corner of my eye, I can see that he’s not dressed in his Inquisitor armor and robes, but in black velvet, his face hidden behind a mask just like everyone else here. He is the man I saw earlier, the one whose gaze lingered on me. How did he find me? I’ve been too careless. Did he spot me wandering around the court? Did he recognize me from the balconies? Is he alone? Are there other Inquisitors in the crowd? My heart beats frantically. Are they waiting to strike?
“You have no reason to trust me, I know,” he murmurs as the performance continues. “But I did not track you down to arrest you. I’ve come to make a deal with you. This can work out strongly in your favor, if you want it.”
I stay quiet. My hands are trembling violently in my lap, and I clutch them together harder so that no one will notice. My gaze stays fixed straight ahead at Raffaele’s performance. Does anyone else notice him? Does Raffaele? Someone help me, I think, my eye darting around the room. If I make a commotion now, Teren will be revealed—but what will stop him from dragging me back to the Inquisition Tower, or killing me on the spot? The other Daggers aren’t here to protect me, and Raffaele can’t. I’m on my own.
“Tell me,” Teren whispers. “Have the Young Elites taken you under their wing?”
Drumbeats pound in my ears. I stay frozen, unable to answer his question.
“Seeing as how you’re alive and well, I’ll assume yes.” I don’t even have to see Teren’s face to know that he’s smiling. “Are you so sure about their intentions? Do you trust your rescuers so easily?”
If I weren’t terrified, I would laugh at his words. As if I had a reason to think the Inquisitors would be any more trustworthy.
“Speak, Adelina,” Teren warns me. “I would hate to make a scene and arrest you.”
My voice startles to life. I turn my head slightly, then whisper back in a tiny, choked voice drowned out by the drums. “What do you want?” I stammer.
The beat of the drums changes. Teren whispers to me through their thundering rhythm. “I know you are new to them. You probably don’t know everything about their inner workings. But I suspect you will, and soon.” He shifts closer as the drums grow steadily more frantic. “So here’s how we can help each other out.”
Why would I want to help you? I suck in my breath in a vain attempt to calm myself, and in the dark corners of the room I can see memories of my burning day, the way Teren’s pale eyes had pulsed at me.
“Observe everything,” he whispers in my ear. “Look, listen, and remember. I know where you are now. I will check in on you from time to time. And I expect you to share w
hat you learn with me.”
My heart keeps time with the frenzied drumbeats. I can’t breathe.
“If you do, not only will I spare your life, but I will shower you with riches. I can grant you your every desire.” He smiles. “Just think of it. You can redeem yourself, change from an abomination in the gods’ eyes to a savior.” He pauses, and his voice deepens. On the platform stage, Raffaele pulls the young female consort to him. The two twirl. He spins away from her and does the same with the male consort. “If you don’t, not only will I destroy you, but I will destroy everything you care about.”
Tides of fear and anger rise in my chest, fusing into one, filling my mind with whispers. “What do you know of what I care about?” I murmur harshly.
“Have you already forgotten your little sister? What a cold heart.”
Violetta. An icy claw grips my heart. Suddenly I’m back in my nightmare, putting my arm around my frail sister as a thunderstorm rages outside, then turning her around to find that she is not there at all.
No. He’s just trying to bait you. “What could you possibly know about my sister?” I snap.
“Plenty enough. On the morning of your burning, she came to me to beg for your life. Did you know that? Now it’s your turn to return her favor.”
He’s lying.
“You don’t have her,” I mutter.
Teren’s reply is one full of amusement. “Do you really want to play that game with me?”
My resolve quivers. She had gone to him? What if Teren is telling the truth—what if she did, and he kept her? Whispers swirl in my mind, their words incomprehensible, filling me with the buzz of terror. And I thought she had moved on, perhaps promised to marry some wealthy man. What if she’d instead been with the Inquisition for weeks?
Why would you do that for me, Violetta?