The king is dead. Long live the queen.
To love is to be afraid. You are frightened, deathly terrified, that something will happen to those you love. Think of the possibilities. Does your heart clench with each thought? That, my friend, is love. And love enslaves us all, for you cannot have love without fear.
—A Private Thesis on the Romancing of Three Kings,
by Baroness Sammarco
Adelina Amouteru
I haven’t been out in Estenzia often enough to know, but I would have guessed that at such a late hour, the city would be quieter. No such luck tonight. The streets are teeming with Inquisition guards. In fact, I can’t turn a single corner without seeing a patrol making its way down the street. Their presence forces me to slow down. Something has happened. What is going on?
I pass through the shadows, my silver mask tucked neatly under my arm. I cloak myself in an illusion of invisibility, but the act exhausts me quickly, allowing me to do it only for a few moments at a time. I pause frequently in dark alleys to gather my strength. Invisibility is hard, as hard as disguising myself as another person. With each step, my surroundings change, and I have to shift my illusion to change with it. If I don’t shift quickly or accurately enough, I look like a ripple moving through air. The consequence of invisibility, therefore, is constant concentration, to the point where I can barely remember what my real self looks like. At least it’s nighttime. A more forgiving hour.
I hide again as more Inquisition patrols hurry past. Somewhere distant in the night, a few shouts go up. I listen intently. At first, I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then, moments later, the words become clear.
“The king is dead!”
The distant cry freezes me in place. The king . . . is dead?
A moment later, another voice joins in, repeating the phrase. Then another. Among them, I hear another phrase. Long live the queen!
The king is dead. Long live the queen. I steady myself against the wall. Did the Daggers make their move tonight? No, they wouldn’t have. They didn’t plan for it. The king had died before they could get to him.
What happened?
Teren, a whisper in my head suggests. But that doesn’t seem right. Why would he want the king dead?
Without risking a gondola ride, it takes me a full hour before I can even sight the Inquisition Axis’s tower looming in the distance. Beyond it lies the palace—and if I’m not mistaken, the clusters of Inquisitors seem to be heading in that general direction.
By the time I’m in the same square as the tower, a cold sheen of sweat has broken out on my brow. I stop in the shadows of a nearby shop, then let down my invisibility illusion, remove my mask for a moment, and take a deep breath. This is easily the longest I’ve ever held an illusion in place, and the result is a wave of dizziness that leaves me swaying in place. When I was nine, I went into my father’s study and ripped apart a letter he had been writing to a local doctor, asking advice on medicines to subdue my temper. My father found out what I’d done, of course. He told Violetta to lock me in my bedchamber for three days without food or water. When Violetta found me nearly unconscious at the end of the second day, she begged him to release me. He did. Then he smiled and asked me if I’d enjoyed the rush of thirst and hunger. If it had woken anything in me.
The dizziness I felt back then, leaning against my locked door and shouting myself hoarse for my sister to release me, is not unlike how I feel now. The memory gives me some strength, though. After a few minutes, I swallow and straighten myself. My gaze focuses on the tower.
A short walkway leads from the main square up to the tower’s looming doors, and Inquisitors line this path. A large, round lantern hangs at the tower’s entrance, illuminating the door’s dark wood. I start to cover myself up again—then stop. Why should I drain my energy now? If I get to the door successfully with an invisibility illusion, I will still need to pull it open in order to enter. No way for me to disguise that.
So, instead, I walk up to the guards. The memory of the last time I did this, in a city gone wild with the qualifying races, comes back to me.
Two of them immediately draw their swords. I force myself to stare straight back at them. “I’m here to see Master Santoro,” I reply. “He asked for me personally.”
A flicker of doubt appears on one of the men’s faces at the mention of Teren’s name. My energy stirs at the emotion, strengthening. I frown at them. This time, I take advantage of their obvious unease. From my cloak, I produce the silver mask. “I have information for him on the Young Elites.” My voice is surprisingly smooth. “Do you really want to risk turning me away?”
The guard’s eyes widen in recognition at the sight of the mask, and my energy strengthens again as I feel myself winning control over this soldier, forcing him to do something against his will.
Finally, the first Inquisitor gestures for two of the others to seize me. “Let her in.” Then he growls at me. “You’ll wait until he returns.”
Teren’s not in the tower tonight. Their hands on my arms remind me of my execution day in Dalia. As they lead me away, I look over my shoulder as more Inquisitors run by on the streets. The energy of fear seems high tonight. It pulses through me, stimulating my senses.
We step inside the tower. They usher me into a small chamber branching off from the main hall, and here they seat me on the floor. Then they surround me in a circle, each of their spears pointed straight at me. Outside the door, more wait. I stare back at them, determined not to show them any hint of emotion. The dungeons should be somewhere below us, if this tower is anything like the one I was once kept in. Where is Teren keeping Violetta . . . if he has her at all?
I don’t know how long I’m in here, counting the minutes away. The Inquisitors stay unmoving. Is this what they go through in training—standing motionless for hours at a time? I can sense their unease around me, a persistent, underlying emotion that peeks through from the stern, unfeeling shell they try to pull over it. I smile at them. Their fear grows. My excitement grows with it.
Suddenly, from outside the windows comes the sound of shattering glass. Then, screams. I turn in the direction of the sound. The guards all hoist their swords at my movement, but I continue to look toward the windows. The sound of running feet, hundreds of them, then more voices, then chaos. A faint glow of yellow and orange flickers against the windows’ dark glass. The king’s death. Is this related? Do the Daggers know what happened? Does Enzo know I’ve run away yet?
The door bursts open. A new Inquisitor comes hurrying in, then whispers something in the ear of the closest guard. I try in vain to catch what he’s saying. Outside, more shouts and shrieks ring out in the night.
And then I hear it—a familiar voice from down the hall. My head jerks in its direction. Teren has returned.
He strides into my room, a swagger in his step, his head held high, and a cold smile on his lips. He pauses at the sight of me. I suck my breath in sharply. Suddenly my entire mission—all my powers—seem to pale in his presence.
“You came,” he finally says, stopping before me. “It’s about time. I was sure I’d have to kill you tonight.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You saved me the trouble.”
“I hear the king has died,” I whisper.
Teren bows his head once, but his words are stripped of empathy. “A sudden illness. We are all in mourning.”
I shiver. Are you, Teren? His matter-of-fact answer is confirmation enough that the Daggers weren’t the ones responsible. But just because the Daggers didn’t assassinate the king . . . doesn’t mean he wasn’t assassinated. A sudden illness sounds suspicious.
“You promised me my sister,” I say, my eye focused on his bloody cloak. “And her safety.” For a moment, I consider using my powers on him. But then what? All I can create are illusions. I can’t hurt him. Not even Enzo can hurt him.
“My word is as good as yours,??
? he replies, eyeing me pointedly. “But it may not be good for long.”
Whatever it is that Teren has ordered done to the city tonight, it has brought with it a cloud of terror. I study him, sensing the swirling darkness in his heart, the madness glinting in his eyes.
Collect yourself. Concentrate. I steel my heart, sharpening my fear into a razor-sharp blade. “Take me to my sister. Or I’ll tell you nothing.”
Teren tilts his head. “Demanding, aren’t we?” His eyes narrow. “Something has happened to you since the last time we crossed paths.”
In my chest, my alignment with ambition surges. “Are you interested in capturing the Young Elites, or not?”
My answer coaxes a single laugh out of him. His smile wavers for a moment, diminishing his madness, and he gives me a more serious look. “What made you turn your back on them?”
I withdraw. I don’t want to revisit what I heard. “Isn’t it enough that you threatened my sister’s life? That you threw me against a wall?”
His eyes pulse with curiosity. “There’s more.”
The heat of Enzo’s kiss springs unbidden to my mind, the way his eyes had softened at the sight of me, the way he’d pushed me against the wall . . . the conversation between him and Dante. I push the emotion away and shake my head at Teren. “Let me see my sister first,” I repeat.
“What if I tell my men to kill her now, unless you give me what I want?”
My jaw tightens. Stay brave. “Then I’ll never talk.” I meet his stare with my own, refusing to back down. The last time we met, he had taken me by surprise and I cowered before him. This time, I can’t afford to do the same thing.
Finally, Teren nods at me to follow him. “Come, then,” he says, gesturing to the Inquisitors. “Let’s play your game.”
Success. The Inquisitors lower their swords and drag me to my feet. Gradually, I start to gather energy in my chest. I’m going to need everything I have, or there is no hope of escaping this place with Violetta.
He leads us farther down into the dungeons, down, down, until I stop counting the number of stony steps we’ve covered. How far does this go? As we continue, I hear the cries of prisoners ringing from other floors, a chorus of haunted wails. I have to hold my breath down here. Never in my life have I felt so much fear and anger concentrated in a single place. The emotions swim around me, hungering for me to do something with them. My own anger and fear threaten to overwhelm my senses. I grit my teeth, hanging on to my powers. I could do so much down here. I could conjure an illusion like none of them have ever seen.
But I continue to hold back. Not until I see Violetta myself.
Finally, Teren guides us down to a floor quieter than the rest. Small wooden doors covered with iron bars line the walls. We walk through a narrowly lit corridor until we stand before a lone door at the very end. I nearly stagger, so powerful is my darkness here. I was in a place like this once.
“Your sister,” he says to me, giving me a mock bow. One of the other Inquisitors unlocks the door, and it groans open.
I blink. Behind the heavy door is a tiny, cramped cell. Candles burn along small ledges on the wall. A bed of hay is piled in one corner, and on it sits a girl with a sweet, fragile face and a head of dark locks that now look tangled and dull. She is thin and frail, shaking from the cold. Her wide eyes find me. I’m ashamed by my rush of mixed emotions at the sight of her—joy, love, hate, envy.
“Adelina?” my sister says. And suddenly I remember the night I ran away from home, when she stood in my bedchamber’s doorway and rubbed sleep from her eyes.
Inquisitors immediately file in and surround her. She shrinks away from them on the bed, tucking her knees up to her chin. As she does, I notice the heavy shackles on her wrists and ankles that keep her chained to the bed.
Darkness roars inside me. What illusion can I perform that could get us out before they can hurt her? I gauge the distance between us, the number of steps that separate the Inquisitors and me, me and Teren. All of Raffaele’s and Enzo’s lessons run through my mind.
Teren waits for me to step inside the room, and then closes the door behind him. He strolls closer to Violetta. As he does, I feel her fear spike—and with that, mine does too. Teren looks her over with a critical gaze, then turns back to me with a sweep of his cloak.
He studies me. “Tell me, Adelina—what are their names?”
I open my mouth.
Tell him about the horrible Spider, the little whispers say gleefully in my head. Go on. He deserves it. Give him Enzo, and Michel, and Lucent. Give him Gemma. You’re doing so well. In my head, I imagine confessing everything I know to Teren.
“Where are the Young Elites?” he’ll say.
“The Fortunata Court,” I’ll reply.
“Where?”
“It has many secret passages. They use the catacombs underneath the court. You can find the entrance in the smallest garden.”
“Tell me their names.”
I do.
The vision in my head vanishes, and I once again see Teren standing before me. Somehow, the confessions don’t come out.
Despite my silence, Teren seems calm. “Adelina, I’m impressed. Something did happen to you.”
A faint warning buzzes in my head. “You want their names,” I say, prolonging the game.
Teren observes me with an interested stare. His lips twitch. “Still hesitant, aren’t you?” He walks in a slow circle around me, close enough that I can feel the brush of his cloak against my skin. With a chill, I realize that it reminds me of when Raffaele circled me during my test with the gemstones, sizing me up, studying my potential.
Finally, Teren stops before me. He draws his sword and points it at Violetta. My heart twists. “Why do you protect them so loyally, Adelina? What did they promise you, once you were part of their circle? Did they make you believe that they’re a band of noble heroes? That they recruited you for some honorable cause, instead of the murder they actually commit? Do you think their Spring Moons stunt didn’t claim any innocent lives?” He fixes his pale, pulsing eyes on me. “I’ve seen what you can do. I know of the darkness in your soul. You were willing to run from them—I’d wager that you don’t trust them. There’s something . . . different about you. They don’t like you, do they?”
How could he possibly know that? “What are you trying to say?” I ask through clenched teeth.
“You’re here because you know you don’t belong,” he replies coolly. “Let me tell you something, Adelina. There’s no shame in turning your back on a group of criminals who want nothing more than to burn this entire nation to the ground. Do you think they’d protect you if you were in danger?” He turns, his gaze sidelong.
I think back to how malfettos have burned at the stake, and how the Daggers chose not to save them. Because they weren’t Elites.
“They came for you that day because you had something they wanted,” Teren says, as if he knows what I’m thinking. “No one throws away something useful to them—that is, until it’s no longer useful.”
He’s right.
“I’ve grown fond of you, in the time we’ve spent together,” he continues. “Do you ever think on the myth of the angel of Joy and his brother, the angel of Greed? Do you remember the story of Denarius casting Laetes from the heavens, condemning him to walk the world as a man until his death sent him back among the gods? Curing the angel of Joy of his arrogance in thinking that he was the gods’ most beloved child?” He leans closer. “There is an imbalance in the world, just as there was when Joy left the heavens—warning signs of demons walking with us, defying the natural order. Sometimes, the only way to set things right is to do what is difficult. It is the only way to love them back.” All pretense of amusement is now gone from his face. “That’s why I was sent by the gods. And I feel, too, that perhaps you were sent for the same reason. There is a yearning in you to set things r
ight, little malfetto—you are smarter than the others, because you know there is something wrong with you. It tears at your conscience, doesn’t it? You have hatred for yourself, and I admire that. It’s why you keep coming back to me. The only way to cure yourself of this guilt is to atone for it by saving your fellow abominations. Help them return to the Underworld, where they belong. Do this with me. You and I can set the world right again, and when we do, the gods will deem us forgiven.” His voice has taken on a strange, gentle tone. “It doesn’t seem right or kind, I know—it seems cruel. But it must be done. Do you understand?”
Something about his words makes sense. They twist around my head and my heart until they seem logical. I am an abomination—even to the other Daggers. Perhaps it really is my duty to set the world right again. I do this because I love you, my father’s ghost whispers. You may not understand it right now, but it is for your own good. You are a monster. I still love you. I will set you right.
Teren’s serious look shifts to a sympathetic one, an expression I recognize from my execution day. “If you pledge yourself to the Inquisition, to me, and swear to use your powers and your knowledge to send malfettos back to the Underworld, I will give you everything you’ve ever wanted. I can grant your every desire. Money? Power? Respect? Done.” He smiles. “You can redeem yourself, change from an abomination in the gods’ eyes to a savior. You can help me fix this world. Wouldn’t it be nice, not having to run anymore?” He pauses, and for a moment, a note of real, painful tragedy enters his voice. “We are not supposed to exist, Adelina. We were never meant to be.”
We are mistakes.
“Now, Adelina,” he says, soft and coaxing. “Tell me.”
I want to—oh, how I want to—in this moment. Teren can offer Violetta and me such an easy life if I only give him what he wants. The Daggers’ plans are ruined anyway, aren’t they? The king has died of his own accord. I have no reason to stay loyal to them anymore. I open my mouth. Dante’s words are fresh in my mind, and a surge of bitterness rises in me, eager for release. I could destroy them all right now, with just a few choice words.