They think they can keep me out, but it does not matter how many locks they hang at the entrance. There is always another door.
—The Thief Who Stole the Stars, by Tristan Chirsley
Adelina Amouteru
Footsteps in the dark corridor. They stop right outside of my cell, and through the gap in the door’s bottom, an Inquisitor slides in a pan of gruel. It careers into a black puddle in the cell’s corner, and dirty water splashes into the food. If you can call it such a thing.
“Your final meal,” he announces through the door. I can tell that he’s already walking off as he says, “Better eat up, little malfetto. We’ll come for you within the hour.”
His footsteps fade, then disappear altogether.
From the cell next to mine, a thin voice calls out for me. “Girl,” it whispers, making me shiver. “Girl.” When I don’t respond, he asks, “Is it true? They say you’re one of them. You’re a Young Elite.”
Silence.
“Well?” he asks. “Are you?”
I stay quiet.
He laughs, the sound of a prisoner locked away for so long that his mind has begun to rot. “The Inquisitors say you summoned the powers of a demon. Did you? Were you twisted by the blood fever?” His voice breaks off to hum a few lines of some folk song I don’t recognize. “Maybe you can get me out of here. What do you think? Break me out?” His words dissolve again into a fit of laughter.
I ignore him as best as I can. A Young Elite. The idea is so ridiculous, I feel a sudden urge to laugh along with my crazy dungeon mate.
Still, I try once again to summon whatever strange illusion I’d seen that night. Again, I fail.
Hours pass. Actually, I have no idea how long it’s been. All I know is that eventually I hear the footsteps of several soldiers coming down the winding stone steps. The sound grows nearer, until there is the scrape of a key in my cell’s door and the creak of a rusty hinge. They’re here.
Two Inquisitors enter my cell. Their faces are hidden in shadows beneath their hoods. I scramble away from them, but they grab me and pull me to my feet. They unlock my shackles, letting them fall to the floor.
I struggle with what little strength I have left. This isn’t real. This is a nightmare. This isn’t a nightmare. This is real.
They drag me up the stairs. One level, two levels, three. That’s how far underground I was. Here, the Inquisition Tower comes into better view—the floors change from wet, moldy stone into polished marble, the walls decorated with pillars and tapestries and the Inquisition’s circular symbol, the eternal sun. Now I can finally hear the commotion coming from outside. Shouts, chanting. My heart leaps into my throat, and suddenly I push back with my feet as hard as I can, my ruined riding boots squeaking in vain against the floor.
The Inquisitors yank harder on my arms, forcing me to stumble forward. “Keep moving, girl,” one of them snaps at me, faceless under his hood.
Then we’re stepping out of the tower, and for an instant, the world vanishes into blinding white. I squint. We must be in the central market square. Through my tearing vision, I make out an ocean of people, all of whom have come out to see me executed. The sky is a beautiful, annoying blue, the clouds blinding in their brightness. Off in the distance, a stake of black iron looms in the center of a raised wooden platform, upon which a line of Inquisitors wait. Even from here, I can see their circular emblems shining on their breastplates, their gloved hands resting on their sword hilts. I try harder to drag my feet.
Boos and angry shouts come from the crowd as the Inquisitors lead me closer to the execution platform. Some throw rotten fruit at me, while others spit insults and curses at my face. They wear rags, torn shoes, and dirty frocks. So many poor and desperate, come to see me suffer in order to distract themselves from their own hungry lives. I keep my gaze down. The world is a blur, and I cannot think. Before me, the stake that looked so far away now draws steadily nearer.
“Demon!” someone yells at me.
I’m hit in the face with something small and sharp. A pebble, I think. “She’s a creature of evil!”
“Bringer of bad fortune!”
“Monster!”
“Abomination!”
I keep my eye closed as tightly as I can, but in my mind, everyone in the square looks like my father and they all have his voice. I hate you all. I imagine my hands at their throats, choking, silencing them, one by one. I want peace and quiet. Something stirs inside me—I try to grab at it—but the energy disappears immediately. My breath starts to come in ragged gasps.
I don’t know how long it takes for us to reach the platform, but it startles me when we do. I’m so weak at this point that I can’t go up the stairs. One of the Inquisitors finally picks me up and swings me roughly over his shoulder. He sets me down at the top of the platform, and then forces me toward the iron stake.
The stake is made of black iron, a dozen times as thick as a man’s arm, and a noose hangs from its top. Chains for hands and feet dangle from the stake’s sides. Piles of wood hide the bottom from view. I see it all in a cloudy haze.
They shove me against the stake—they clap the chains onto my wrists and ankles, and loop the noose around my neck. Some in the crowd continue to chant curses at me. Others throw rocks. I glance uneasily at the roofs that surround the square. The chains feel cold against my skin. I reach out in vain, again and again, in an attempt to call on something that can save me. My chains rattle from my trembling.
As I look at the other Inquisitors, my gaze settles on the youngest of them. He stands front and center on the platform, his shoulders squared and chin high, his hands folded behind his back. All I can see of his face is his profile.
“Master Teren Santoro,” one of the other Inquisitors now introduces him with formal flair. “Lead Inquisitor of Kenettra.”
Master Teren Santoro? I look at him again. The Lead Inquisitor of Kenettra has come to see me die?
Teren approaches me now with calm, confident steps. I shrink away from him until my back is pressed solidly against the iron stake. My chains clink against each other. He lowers his head to meet my gaze. His white robes are embellished with more gold than the others I’ve seen, definitely clothing befitting his status, and an elaborate chain of gold winds from shoulder to shoulder. He’s surprisingly young. His hair is the color of wheat, pale for a Kenettran, and cut in a stylish fashion I haven’t seen much in southern Kenettra—shorter on the sides, fuller on the top, with a slender tail wrapped in gold metal trailing down the nape of his neck. His face is lean and chiseled as if from marble, handsome in its coldness, and his eyes are pale blue. Very pale blue. So pale that they seem colorless in the light. Something about them sends a chill down my spine. There is madness in those eyes, something violent and savage.
He uses one delicately gloved hand to brush bloody strands of my hair from my face, and then lifts my chin. He studies my scar. The edges of his mouth tilt up into a strange, nearly sympathetic grin.
“What a shame,” he says. “You would have been a pretty little thing.”
I jerk my chin out of his grasp.
“A temperamental one too.” His words drip with pity. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Then quietly, his face close to mine, “You will find your redemption in the Underworld.”
He steps away from me, turns to the crowd, and raises his arms to call for silence. “Settle now, my friends! I’m sure we’re all excited.” When the crowd’s noise fades to a hush, he straightens, then clears his throat. His words ring out across the square. “Some of you may have noticed a recent rash of crimes on our streets. Crimes committed by people—twisted imitations of people—that feel more than . . . human. Some of you have taken to calling these new outlaws ‘Young Elites,’ as if they’re exceptional, worth something. I’ve come here today to remind you all that they are dangerous and demonic. They are murderers, eager to kill their own loved o
nes. They have no regard for law and order.”
Teren glances back at me. The square has fallen deathly silent now. “Let me reassure you: When we find these demons, we bring them to justice. Evil must be punished.” He scans the crowd. “The Inquisition is here to protect you. Let this be a warning to you all.”
I struggle feebly against my chains. My legs are shaking violently. I want to hide my body from all of these people, hide my flaws from their curious eyes. Is Violetta somewhere in this crowd? I scan the faces for her, then look up toward the sky. It’s such a beautiful day—how can the sky possibly be this blue? Something wet rolls down my cheek. My lip quivers.
Gods, give me strength. I am so afraid.
Teren now takes a lit torch from one of his men. He turns to me. The sight of the fire sends a greater terror through my veins. My struggles turn frantic. I’d fainted when the doctors removed my left eye with fire. What kind of pain must it be to let fire consume your entire body?
He touches his fingers to his forehead in a formal gesture of farewell. Then he tosses the torch onto the pile of wood at my feet. It sends up a shower of sparks, and immediately the dry kindling catches fire. The crowd erupts with cheers.
Rage surges through me, mixing with my fear. I’m not dying here today.
This time, I reach deep into my mind and finally grasp the strange power I’ve been searching for. My heart closes desperately around it.
The world stops.
The flames freeze, their trails of fire left painted, unmoving, stripped of color, hanging black and white in the air. The clouds in the sky stop floating by, and the breeze against my skin dies. Teren’s smile wavers as he whirls around to look at me. The crowd stills, confused.
Then something rips open inside my chest. The world snaps back into place—the flames roar against the wood. And overhead, the bright blue sky collapses into darkness.
The clouds turn black. Their outlines take on strange, frightening shapes, and through it all, the sun still shines, an eerie, bright beacon against a midnight canvas. The crowd screams as night falls on all of us, and the Inquisitors draw their swords, their heads tilted upward like the rest of ours.
I can’t catch my breath. I don’t know how to make it stop.
In the midst of the darkness and panic, something moves in the sky. And just like that, the black clouds twist—they scatter into a swarm of a million moving flecks that swirl across the sky and then dive down, down, down at the crowd. A nightmare of locusts. They descend on us with merciless efficiency, their buzzing drowning out the people’s cries. The Inquisitors swing their swords uselessly at them.
The flames lick my feet, their heat searing me. It’s coming for me—it’s going to devour me.
As I struggle to keep away from the flames, I notice the strangest thing. The locusts come near, then pass straight through my body. As if they aren’t really there at all. I watch the scene before me—the insects pass right through the Inquisitors too, as well as the crowd of people below.
This is all an illusion, I suddenly realize. Just like the phantom silhouettes that attacked Father. None of it is real.
One Inquisitor has staggered to his feet, his eyes burning from the smoke, and points his sword in my direction. He lurches toward me. I find my last reserves of strength and pull as hard as I can against my chains. Hot blood trickles down my wrists. As I struggle, he draws closer, materializing from a sea of locusts and darkness.
Suddenly—
A rush of wind. Sapphire and silver. The fire at my feet flickers out into curls of smoke.
Something streaks across my vision. A figure appears between me and the oncoming Inquisitor, moving with deadly grace. It’s a boy, I think. Who is this? This boy is not an illusion—I can sense his reality, the solidity of his figure that the black sky and the locusts don’t have. He is clad in a whirlwind of hooded blue robes, and a metallic silver mask covers his entire face. He crouches in front of me, every line of his body tense, his focus entirely on the Inquisitor. A long dagger gleams in each of his gloved hands.
The Inquisitor skids to a halt before him. Uncertainty darts across his eyes. “Stand aside,” he snaps at the newcomer.
The masked boy cocks his head to one side. “How impolite,” he mocks, his voice velvet and deep. Even in the midst of chaos, I can hear him.
The Inquisitor lunges at him with his sword, but the boy dances out of its path and strikes with one of his daggers. It buries itself deep into the Inquisitor’s body. The man’s eyes bulge—he lets out a squeal like a dying pig. I’m too stunned to utter a sound. Something in me sparks with strange delight.
Inquisitors see the battle and rush to their fallen comrade. They draw their swords at the boy. He just nods at them, taunting them to come closer. When they do, he slips through them like water between rocks, his body a streak of motion, blades flashing silver in the darkness. One of the Inquisitors nearly cuts him in half with a swing of his sword, but the boy slices the man’s hand clean off. The sword clatters to the ground. The boy kicks the fallen sword up into the air with one flick of his boot, then catches it and points it at the other Inquisitors.
When I look harder, I notice that other masked figures flicker among the soldiers—others dressed in the same dark robes as the boy. He didn’t come here alone.
“It’s the Reaper!” Teren shouts, pointing at the boy with a drawn sword. He starts heading toward us. His pale eyes are mad with glee. “Seize him!”
That name. I’d seen it before on the Young Elite carvings. The Reaper. He’s one of them.
More Inquisitors rush up the platform. The boy pauses for a moment to look at them, his blades dripping with blood. Then he straightens, lifts one arm high over his head, and sweeps it down again in a cutting arc.
A column of fire explodes from his hands, slicing a line across the platform and dividing the soldiers from us with a wall of flame stretching high into the blackened sky. Shouts of terror come from behind the fiery curtain.
The boy approaches me. I stare in fright at his hooded face and silver mask, the outline of his features lit by the inferno behind him. The only part of his face not hidden by his mask are his eyes—hard, midnight dark, but alight with fire.
He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he kneels at my feet, then grabs the chains that shackle my ankles to the stake. The chains in his grasp turn red, then white hot. They quickly melt, leaving my legs freed. He straightens and does the same to the noose around my neck, then to the chains binding my wrists.
Black scorch marks on the walls. Bodies melted from the inside out.
My arm shackles break. Immediately I collapse, too weak to hold myself up, but the boy catches me and lifts me effortlessly into his arms. I tense, half expecting him to sear my skin. He smells like smoke, and heat emanates from every inch of his body. My head leans wearily against his chest. I’m too tired to fight, but I still try. My surroundings swim in an ocean of darkness.
The boy brings his face close to mine. “Stay still,” he whispers into my ear. “And hold on.”
“I can walk,” I find myself muttering, but my words slur together and I’m too exhausted to think clearly. I think he’s taking me away from this place, but I can’t concentrate. As darkness descends, the last thing I remember is the silver insignia on his armguard.
The symbol of a dagger.
City of Estenzia
Northern Kenettra
The Sealands
To the north, the snowy Skylands. To the south, the sweltering Sunlands. Between them lie the island nations of the Sealands,
jewels of wealth and trade in a world of extremes.
—Nations of Sky, Sun, and Sea, by Étienne of Ariata
Adelina Amouteru
I dream of Violetta. It’s late spring. She is eight, I am ten, and we are still innocent.
We play together in the small garden behind our hom
e, a blanket of green surrounded on all sides by an old, crumbling stone wall and a bright red gate with a rusty latch. How I love this garden. Over the wall climb blankets of ivy, and along the ivy bloom tiny white flowers that smell like fresh rain. Other flowers grow in bouquets along the wall’s edges, brilliant orange roses and cornflower patches, red oleander and grape-colored periwinkle, stalks of white lilies.
Violetta and I always loved to play among the clusters of ferns that sprouted here and there, huddled together in the shade. Now I spread my skirts on the grass and sit patiently while Violetta braids a crown of periwinkle blossoms into my hair with her delicate fingers. The flowers’ scent fills my thoughts with heavy sweetness. I close my eye, imagining a real crown of gold, silver, and rubies. Violetta’s braiding tickles me, and I nudge her in the ribs, suppressing a grin. She giggles. A second later, I feel her tiny lips plant a playful kiss on my cheek, and I lean against her, lazy with contentment. I hum my mother’s favorite lullaby. Violetta listens eagerly, as if I were this woman that she barely knew. Memories. It’s one of the few things I have that my sister doesn’t.
“Mother used to say that faeries live in the centers of white lilies,” I tell her as she works. It’s an old Kenettran folktale. “When the flowers fill with raindrops, you can see them bathing in the water.”
Violetta’s face lights up, illuminating her fine features. “Can you really?” she asks.
I smile at how she hangs on my words. “Of course,” I reply, wanting to believe. “I’ve seen them.”
Something distracts my sister. Her eyes widen at the sight of a creature moving under the shade of a fern leaf. It’s a butterfly. It drags itself between blades of grass under the fern’s shelter, and when I pay it closer attention, I notice that one of its shining turquoise wings has been torn from its body.
Violetta whimpers in sympathy, hurries to the struggling creature, and scoops it into her hands. She coos at it. “Poor thing.” The butterfly’s remaining wing flutters weakly in her palm, and as it does, tiny clouds of glittering gold dust float up in the air. The frayed edges of its torn wing look like teeth marks, as if something had tried to devour it. Violetta turns her wide dark eyes to me. “Do you think I can save it?”