I realize I’ve been holding my breath. My darkness stirs in me, and I let it churn. I have no idea what they were talking about. Obviously they’re off on another mission without me.
This is my chance to meet with Teren.
The shock of that thought leaves me weak at the knees. My week is almost up. If the Daggers will be gone for a while, busy with whatever it is they have planned, then I need to take advantage of this moment. I suddenly look around the chamber, terrified that somehow one of them managed to overhear my silent thoughts. The malfetto murder I saw days earlier comes back to me. Then, Spider’s threat.
Then, thoughts of my sister.
I’ll just go near the tower. If it looks suspicious, I’ll leave. I’m not going inside. I’ll just. . . My thoughts fade away, drowned out by the beat of my heart.
I stand. I start to move. I’m not even sure if I’m in control of myself anymore, or if my body has decided to let my instincts take over. I ascend the stairs and make my way past the main courtyard. There, I glimpse the streets—and see them teeming with festivities. The sky overhead looks dark and menacing. Something important is going on in the city today.
The Daggers are on the move. So am I.
Give a Kenettran gold, and he will do business with you.
Give a Kenettran a purebred stallion, and he will kill for you.
—Commission on the Prosecution of Maran and Accomplice,
High Court of Beldain
Adelina Amouteru
The instant I sneak out of the Fortunata Court and into the main street, I sense that something’s off.
Sure—people in colorful silks fill the road, and vendors selling masks are everywhere, clogging the street and hawking their wares like they would at a spring masquerade in Dalia. People laugh and cheer. Flowering vines grow thick and lush along the street’s buildings, and horses pulling carriages and crates make their way up and down the wide roads. Gondolas line up in the river canals, heavy with passengers. A man pushing a cart of fruit tarts sings a folk song while a small cluster of children dance after him. The smell of butter and spices mixes with the pungent odor of crowds.
But black clouds blanket the sky, even darker than when I glimpsed it earlier from the courtyard. There’s a dampness in the air, a cold, tense stillness that contrasts sharply with the colorful banners hanging from balconies and the festivities on the street. The smiling people in masquerade masks look threatening to me. As if everyone knows what I’m about to do, and where I’m headed. I keep my face down.
There are reports posted by the Inquisition Axis at each main intersection, calling for the people to report any suspicious malfettos. I instinctively push myself into the crowd, trying to stay hidden. Everyone seems headed in the same direction, so I follow along, lost among their glittering outfits and bright masks. My slippers slap against the curve of cobblestone. What Estenzian celebration is this? I wonder as I pass through a narrow street with low-hanging vines dangling overhead.
“For the Red Quarter!” someone shouts beside me, waving a piece of red silk high over his head. It takes me a moment to realize that everyone in the crowd is waving colors of silk: red, green, gold, and blue.
Off in the distance and near the harbor, the roof of the Inquisition Tower shines under the sun.
The crowd jostles me. Finally, I manage to squeeze my way out of the main crowds and down a narrow, quieter alley. I’m careful to stay in the shadows. If I knew how to use my powers, I could probably use a dark silhouette to hide myself even further. I try to call on it again, but the threads stay just outside of my grasp, taunting me.
By the time I reach the Inquisition Tower, I’m drenched in sweat and trembling from head to toe. I’m lucky that few people seem to be in this area of the city—everyone is off at the festivities. I stare at the entrance, where Inquisitors stand guard, and try to imagine Violetta inside the stone walls. I hesitate, wringing my hands.
What if Teren doesn’t have Violetta at all? What kind of trap might this be? I bite my lip, dwelling on how Teren had not arrested me at the court, how he threatened to kill Violetta if I didn’t come. I stare so long at the Tower that my vision starts to blur. Finally, when the street is clear, I hurry on silent feet to the tower’s entrance.
The Inquisitors standing guard bar me. “What’s this?” one of them grunts.
“Please,” I manage to say in a hoarse whisper. Already, I feel exposed out here. If one of the Elites sees me . . . “I’m here to see Master Teren Santoro. He’s expecting me.”
The Inquisitor studies me suspiciously, then exchanges a look with the second Inquisitor at the entrance. He shakes his head at me.
“I’ll pass the word to Master Santoro,” he says to me. “Until then, you’ll have to wait out here.”
“No,” I say in a rush, then look around me again at the streets. Sweat beads on my brow. “I have to see him now,” I add in a lower, urgent voice. “I cannot be seen here. Please.”
The Inquisitor shoves me away with an irritated look. “You will wait here,” he snaps. “Until such time as—”
His words cut off as the door behind him shudders, then swings slowly open. There, standing casually at the entrance with his hands folded behind his back, is Teren. He smiles at the sight of me. “What seems to be the problem?” he says to the guards.
The Inquisitor who shoved me whirls around, bewildered. All annoyance falls from his face. He bows hastily to Teren. “Sir,” he begins, “this girl claims she is here to see you. We—”
“And so she is,” Teren interrupts, his pale eyes focused on me. “I’ve been watching you make your way toward the tower.” He gestures for me to come closer.
I swallow hard, then hurry past the two Inquisitors with my head down. When I step into the tower, Teren shuts the door behind me. I sag in relief at the knowledge that I’m no longer exposed outdoors.
Then I shudder at the sight of the tower’s great hall, decorated with the same furs, tapestries, and symbols of the eternal sun as the tower in Dalia where I’d been imprisoned.
Teren leads me into a narrower hall, then into a chamber with a long table and chairs. There, he pulls a chair out for me and offers me the seat. I sit, shaking. My throat feels parched. Teren sits down beside me, then leans back in a relaxed posture.
“You kept your promise,” he says after a while. “I appreciate that. It saves me a great deal of trouble.”
I don’t want to ask what he would have done if I hadn’t shown up. Instead, I meet his gaze. “Is my sister safe?” I whisper.
Teren nods. “Safe and unharmed, for now.”
“Let me see her.”
He laughs a little at that. The amusement never reaches his eyes, though, and the ice in his stare chills me to the bone. “How about first you tell me something I want to know?” he says.
I stay quiet, unsure of what to say. My thoughts blur together into a frantic river. How little can I tell him, to keep Violetta safe? What will satisfy him? I take a deep breath, then gather all the courage I can muster. “I’ll tell you nothing, if you can’t prove you have her.”
Teren’s smile widens, and he regards me with a more interested look. “A bargainer,” he murmurs. He waits a long moment before he leans back in his chair. He reaches into the space between his sleeve and his armguard. “I thought as much.”
As I look on, he pulls something out and tosses it onto the table. It lands with a clink.
I peer closer. It’s a sapphire necklace that Violetta likes to wear. But it is even more than that—tied to the necklace’s silver chain is a long, thick lock of Violetta’s dark hair.
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Before you begin,” Teren says, cutting through my thoughts, “I want to make something very clear.” He leans forward. His eyes pierce me. “My word is always good, so do not make a habit of testing it. You will want to tell me
the truth. I have many, many eyes in this city. If you lie, I will find out. If you deny me what I want, I will hurt her. Do you understand?”
He has her here. I press my hands hard into my dress to keep them from trembling. “Yes,” I whisper. I don’t dare question him further.
“Now. Since it seems like you are at a loss for where to begin, let me help you along with some questions.” He leans on his knees with his elbows, and taps his hands together. “What have you been doing with the Elites, up until now?”
I take a deep breath. I need to stall this for as long as I can. “Resting, mostly,” I reply. I’m surprised at how level my words are. “I was unconscious for many days.”
“Yes, of course.” Teren almost looks sympathetic. “You had many injuries.”
I nod in silence. “They don’t trust me yet,” I decide to say. “They . . . they wear those silver masks. I don’t know their names or identities.”
Teren is not so easily fazed. “What do you know?”
I swallow. The air feels so heavy. I must tell him something. As if in a dream, I feel the words emerge. “They visit me occasionally at the Fortunata Court,” I whisper.
Teren smiles. “Do they operate from there?”
“I’m not sure.” I can hear my heartbeat. The darkness growing in my chest makes me dizzy. I sway in my seat, hungry to use the power. I wish I had Enzo’s abilities, I suddenly think, and the wish makes the ambition in me surge. I wish I had the power to burn this entire tower to the ground.
“Tell me, Adelina,” Teren says, watching me curiously. “What are they planning?”
With a great effort, I push the rising darkness down. I cannot use my powers on him. I’m too weak. Besides, what would a bunch of shadows do? I clear my throat. What can I tell him, what will do the least harm? “They are planning something for the Tournament of Storms,” I manage to say. “I don’t know what.”
Teren considers my words. Then, he claps his hands once, and a moment later, an Inquisitor opens the door. “Sir?”
Teren waves him over. He whispers something in the other man’s ear that I cannot hear. The man casts me a wary look. Finally, Teren pulls away. “Tell the king immediately,” he says.
The other Inquisitor bows low. “Of course, sir.” He hurries off.
“Is that all?” Teren asks me.
Raffaele’s gentle face appears in my thoughts, and with it comes a stab of guilt. I’ve given him so little. Please, let this be enough to satisfy him. “That’s all I know,” I whisper. “I need more time.”
For a long moment, Teren doesn’t move.
Just as I start to think that he’ll demand more from me this visit, he relaxes and looks away. “You came to me today,” he says. “And that is a useful start. Thank you for your information. For keeping your word, I shall keep mine. Your sister is safe.”
Tears spring to my eye, and I slump in relief.
“She is safe—for as long as you continue to satisfy me.” His eyes swivel back to me. “When will I see you again?”
“Two weeks,” I say hoarsely. “Give me two more weeks.” At his silence, I look down. “Please.”
Finally, he nods. “Very well.” He rises. “You may go.”
And that is all.
Teren guides me out of the tower through a small back entrance hidden behind a gate and an alley. Before he lets me go, he takes my hands in his. He bends down to brush his lips against one of my cheeks. “You’ve done well,” he whispers. He kisses my other cheek. “Keep it up.”
Then he leaves me alone, and I wander back through the city’s streets on trembling legs. I am a traitor. What have I done?
I wander, lost in a daze, until I realize that I’ve made my way back in the direction from where the earlier festivities had been going on. Here, silent streets make way for noisy revelers again, and before I know it, I turn a street corner and find myself engulfed by a cheering mob. My fear and exhaustion make way for a touch of curiosity. What’s all the commotion? There’s no way I can make it back to the Fortunata Court without going through all these people.
Then I turn another corner with the crowd, and we enter the largest public square I’ve ever seen.
The piazza is surrounded on three sides by water canals. People fill the space where they can, but most of it is completely fenced off with thick lengths of rope. Looping around the piazza is a dirt track, which several Inquisitors are inspecting. A line of people dressed in elaborate silk costumes and ornate masks parade along the edge of the track, standard-bearers and trumpeters and arlecchinos, aristocrats and their valets, all waving at the cheering onlookers. My eye wanders the crowd, which now looks roughly partitioned into segments of people waving either red, blue, gold, or green silks in the air. People crowd onto the balconies lining the square. Each balcony has colorful flags hanging from it, muted by the dark sky.
A horse race. I’d witnessed several before in Dalia, although none were quite this big of a spectacle. I glance around the piazza, looking for a good route back to the court. The Daggers’ mission today must have to do with this.
I look up to the balconies. Now I pick out the royal seats—on a building situated at the front of the racetrack is a balcony that gives a perfect view, its iron railings decorated with gold and white silks. But the king and queen aren’t there. Maybe their royal seats are just for show.
A low rumble of thunder echoes through the city.
“Ladies and noblemen! Fellow spectators!” One of the costumed men on the racetrack holds both arms high in the air. The race’s trumpeter, the official announcer. His booming voice hushes the roar of the crowd. The parade of colorful costumes pauses, and the scene changes from one of merry chaos to one of hushed anticipation. Inquisitors stand around the square, ready to keep order if needed. Thunder rumbles overhead, as if in warning.
“Welcome to the qualifying races for Estenzia!” the trumpeter calls out. He turns in a circle so that everyone can see him, and then stops to face the direction of the empty royal balconies. He bows low with an elaborate flourish. “Let this be a tribute to our royal majesties, and the prosperity they bring to Kenettra.”
The response surprises me—no clapping or cheers from the crowd. Just a rumble of unrest and a few scattered Long live the king shouts uttered. Back home in Dalia, people complained about the king. Now I’m hearing that resentment firsthand. I imagine Enzo seated in the royal seats instead, the crown prince and rightful ruler. How natural he would look. How many of these spectators are loyal to Enzo? How many are Elite supporters?
For an instant, I dare to imagine myself up there on the balcony. The thought of such power leaves me trembling.
The announcer turns his attention back to the crowd. “Today, you will select from Estenzia the fastest riders to send to this summer’s Tournament of Storms. Three racers have been chosen from each of our city’s quarters. As tradition decrees, the top three racers from today’s roster of those twelve will continue on.” He grins widely, his teeth shining a brilliant white under his glittering half mask. He puts one hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. “Which quarter will come out on top?”
Here, the crowd’s enthusiasm erupts. They roar with the names of their quarters. Colored silks wave furiously through the air.
“I’m hearing the Red Quarter!” the announcer taunts, causing a fresh round of cheering as the other three quarters scream themselves hoarse. “Wait—now I’m hearing the Blue Quarter. But the Green Quarter has a strong crop of three-year-old colts this year, as does the Gold Quarter. Who will it be?” He waves his hands in a flourish. “Shall we see our riders?”
The crowd shrieks. I stay frozen in place. The Tournament of Storms. This is what Raffaele had been talking about earlier. This is why the Daggers are here—this is their mission. They are trying to get one of their own to qualify for the Tournament of Storms’ horse race, probably t
o get a shot at the king in a very public arena. My head feels fuzzy with the shock. And now I’ve alerted Teren to it.
Amid the chaos of cheers, the first three stallions parade out. Red Quarter citizens wave silks in the air, patting the horses’ sides as they trot through the masses and onto the track. I’m momentarily distracted. It takes only one look to know that these stallions have superior blood to the horses I remember from my father’s estate. These are Sunland purebreds, with perfectly arched necks and flared nostrils, their eyes still glowing with the wild temper that my horses had long ago lost. They toss their decorated manes adorned with red silks as their riders, similarly adorned, wave at their supporters.
Then, the Green Quarter’s riders and their steeds come trotting out. This is when I let out a small gasp.
One of the Green Quarter’s riders is Star Thief. The purple marking across her face is visible and prominent.
“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore, riding Master Aquino’s glorious stallion Keepsake!”
He goes on to list out the stallion’s past wins, but I’m no longer listening. In the midst of the roaring crowds, I realize that Gemma’s family must be a wealthy and powerful one, for a malfetto like her to be allowed to compete like this.
I should head back to the Fortunata Court, before they find me missing. But the spectacle is too much to resist, and my feet stay chained to the ground, my stare fixed on the girl I know as the Star Thief.
Gemma’s presence stirs a near riot in the crowd. I hear “Malfetto!” spat out in the air, mixing with a loud roar of boos, and when I take a good look at the crowd, I notice people who have put false markings on themselves, jeering and taunting Gemma with exaggerated purple patches painted on their own faces. One of them even flings rotten fruit at her. “Bastard child!” he screams, a cruel grimace twisting his face. Gemma ignores him, keeping her head high as her horse trots past. Other insults fly fast and thick.
A noble lady still gets insults like this? I bite my cheeks at the sharp twinge of anger that shoots through me—until I notice, with a start, that there are people defending her too. Loudly.