I want something more.
It is pointless to believe what you see,
if you only see what you believe.
—“The Admiral,” from The Requiem of Gods Vol. XI,
translated by Chevalle
Adelina Amouteru
Two days after my testing, a mob of drunken gamblers burns a malfetto in the middle of a market square. Several days later, another murder. As if killing us will somehow make the city prosperous again. From the hidden courtyard that overlooks Estenzia, I glimpse the second victim dragged, sobbing, into a main street by a mob of shouting people. Inquisitors stand by and pretend not to notice.
I need to learn faster. The world is closing in on us.
“Both were malfettos accused of having powers, of being Elites,” Raffaele tells me today, as we sit together before my bedchamber mirror. “Neither were, of course. But their families turned on them anyway. The Inquisition pays well for such information, and gold is hard to pass up in times like these.”
I look at the array of creams and powders scattered on the dresser top, then glance at my reflection in the mirror. My maid took me this morning to a private bathhouse in the court and washed me until I gleamed and glistened. My skin now smells of rose and honey. I’m surprised at how quickly I’ve become used to such luxuries.
I turn my gaze back to Raffaele. “Why didn’t the Daggers save them?” I ask.
Raffaele’s reply is one that answers nothing. He picks up a tub of cream. “These hunts happen too often. We react when necessary.”
I try not to look bothered by his answer, but secretly, I dwell on his real meaning. We didn’t risk saving them, because they were not Elites.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask.
“You stay at the Fortunata Court. You will need to look the part.”
I recoil at the thought of transforming into a consort. Raffaele must have sensed the sudden shift in my energy, because he adds, “Would you prefer to be recognized by an Inquisitor?” He dabs a touch of the cold cream on my face. “No one will touch you, you have my word. But looking the part will give you some freedom.”
The cream tingles. I watch, amazed, as it brings the warmth out in my olive skin. He runs an ivory comb through my hair. Occasionally his fingers brush the base of my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. There is a precision to his gestures that speaks volumes about his talents as a consort. I have a fleeting thought of what being his client must be like, his skin warm against mine, his lips soft on my neck, his hands smooth and experienced, roaming.
Raffaele lifts an eyebrow at me through the mirror. “What you’re thinking will cost you at least five thousand gold talents, mi Adelinetta,” he teases gently, tilting his head in a subtle movement that sends blood rushing to my cheeks. Five thousand gold talents?
“A night?” I breathe.
“An hour,” Raffaele replies, still working his way through my hair.
Five thousand gold talents an hour. In one night, Raffaele can fetch my father’s annual salary.
“You must have singlehandedly turned the Fortunata Court into the wealthiest court in the country,” I say.
He smiles shyly . . . but behind it, I sense something sad. My grin fades.
Raffaele rubs a fine oil into my scalp, and then finishes combing. He turns his attention to other details—touching my eyelid and lashes with a black, shimmering powder that hides the strands’ silver color; rubbing an ointment on my nails that makes them gleam; smoothing my brows into perfect brushstrokes. I tremble again as his finger runs across my lips, painting them a color of rose that accents their fullness. I wonder if any of his clients are Dagger patrons, nobility enticed by the riches Enzo can reward them with once he’s on the throne. Maybe all of them are. Or maybe they have no idea who the Daggers’ leader is—only that they are supporting an expert assassin who will dethrone the king.
“How did you learn so much about energy?” I decide to ask as he works.
Raffaele shrugs once. “Trial and error,” he replies. “We are the first. There is no one before us to learn from. With each new Elite we recruit, I learn, experiment, and record. Someone needs to leave the knowledge behind for the generation after us. If there is another generation.”
I listen in quiet fascination. He’s a Messenger in more ways than one. “Do you know where it came from? I know it began with the blood fever, but . . .”
He reaches for a slender brush. “It did not begin with the blood fever. It began with energy, the link between the gods and the mortal world they created.”
“Energy.”
“Yes. It forms the land, air, sea, and all living things. It is what breathes life into us.”
“And what gives us powers?”
Raffaele nods. He dips the brush in a shallow dish of sparkling powder, then touches it to the edge of my good eye. I frown as he works, trying to imagine this strange, invisible energy.
His brush pauses for a moment. “When you close your eye, you see sparks of colors, do you not?” he says.
I close my eye to test his theory. Yes. In the blackness float sparks of faint blues and greens, reds and golds, blinking in and out of existence. “Yes.”
“You are actually seeing threads of energy.” He touches my hand carefully, and a chill of delight runs up my arm. “The world is made of countless threads that connect all things. These threads give the world both its color and its life.” He nods at the bedchamber around us. “Right now, in some small way, you’re connected to everything in here. The mirror, the walls, the air. Everything. Even the gods.”
His words stir my memory. I think back to the night of my father’s death. When I suspended everything around me, the raindrops and the wind, the world had turned black and white, and translucent threads had glistened in the air. During my burning, I’d seen the color drain from my execution stand before it all came rushing back.
“Most people don’t have enough energy to manipulate their connections to the world. We weren’t meant to. But when the fevers affected you and me, something changed in us. Suddenly it linked us to the world in a way that our bodies were never meant to be linked.” Raffaele turns my hand so that my palm faces upward, then runs his slender fingers along the inside of my wrist all the way to my fingertips. My skin tingles at his touch. I suck in my breath, blushing. “Every Elite is different, and pulling on threads in specific ways will do specific things. The Windwalker, for example, can pull on the threads in the air that create wind. Enzo pulls on threads of heat energy, from himself, from the sun, from fire, and from other living things. From the Sunlands come reports of an Elite who can change metal into gold. Another rumored Elite, Magiano, has escaped the Inquisition Axis so often that the word magic evolved from his name. There are countless ways energy manifests in us. I can only imagine what undiscovered Elites out there can do, those beyond the Daggers and beyond who I know exist. There are even rumors of an Elite who can bring people back from the dead.”
I wonder, for a moment, how many others exist outside of the Dagger Society. Are there rival societies? “And you?” I say.
“I can see and sense all the energy in the world,” he replies. “Every single thread that connects everything to everything else. I can’t do much, save to tug faintly on them—but I can feel them all.”
Here, he pauses to look me in the eye. I feel a sudden tug at my heart, as if the sight of him had set butterflies loose in my chest. My eye widens in understanding. This is why his touch along my wrist left me tingling. “No wonder your clients fall so madly in love with you, if you look like this and can literally pull on their heartstrings.”
Raffaele laughs his beautiful laugh. “Someday I’ll teach you, if you like.”
My heart thrills again at that, and I wonder if it has anything to do with Raffaele’s energy this time. “What about me?” I ask after a pause. “My power
?”
“Of all the Daggers, you and I are the most alike. We sense the intangible.” Raffaele turns his eyes to me, and the sun catches the brilliant, shifting colors in his irises. “Think of the lesser gods—Formidite, the angel of Fear, or Caldora, the angel of Fury. Laetes, the angel of Joy. Denarius, the angel of Greed. Threads of energy connect not only physical things, but also emotions, thoughts, and feelings—fear, hate, love, joy, sorrow. You have the ability to pull on threads of fear and hatred. A powerful talent, if you can tame it. The more fear and hate your environment has, therefore, the stronger you are. Fear creates the strongest illusions. Everyone has darkness inside them, however hidden.” His eyes turn solemn, and I shiver, wondering what small darkness might lie within even his gentle soul.
“Was Enzo the first Elite you ever met?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
I’m suddenly curious. “How did you meet him?”
Raffaele starts putting away the powders on the table. “He bought my virgin price.”
I turn quickly in my chair to look at him. “Y-your virgin price? You mean, you and Enzo—”
“It’s not what you think.” He gives me a playful smile. “When I turned seventeen and came of age, I became an official consort of the Fortunata Court. So the court held a lavish bidding masquerade for my debut.”
I try to imagine the scene: Raffaele at my age, young and innocent, more beautiful than anyone else in the world, standing before a sea of masked nobility and preparing to give himself away. “The entire city must have turned out for you.”
Raffaele doesn’t disagree, which is confirmation enough. “Enzo came to my debut night in secret, searching for others like himself.” He hesitates for a moment, as if remembering. “I sensed him the instant he arrived, even though he stayed hidden and out of sight. Never in my life had I met another with the type of energy I had. It was the first time I could see the threads of his energy around him like a halo, weaving together and apart. He must have noticed my strange interest in him. His manservant bid on me for him, and won.”
“How much?” I ask curiously.
“An obscene amount.” He lowers his eyes. “I was frightened, you know. I’d heard stories from the older consorts about their debut nights. But when he came to my chamber, all he wanted to do was talk. So we did. He demonstrated to me his abilities with fire. I confessed my ability to sense others. We both knew we risked our lives, talking openly about our powers.”
I suddenly realize that there is only one person Raffaele never uses his talents on. Enzo. “Why do you trust him?”
My question sounds suspicious and scathing, and immediately I wish I could take it back. But Raffaele, ever graceful, simply meets my gaze with a level look. “If Enzo becomes king,” he says, “I can step away from this life.”
I dwell on the moment of sadness I’d seen from him before, then on the endless parade of aristocrats he is paid to entertain, both inside and outside the bedchamber. The lack of freedom. No one chooses the life of a consort, no matter how lavish.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say.
Raffaele pauses to look over the broken side of my face. I tense. A hint of sympathy enters his gaze, and he touches my cheek with one hand. I feel a slight tug on my heart. My anxiety calms, my chest warms in trust. Everything about his touch soothes and caresses. There is something oddly comforting about this moment. We’re not so different, the two of us.
The maid returns with an armful of silks then, and our moment ends. Raffaele gives us privacy while she helps me change into the new garments—a beautiful gold dress cut in the Tamouran style. The loose silks feel delightfully cold against my skin. Clothing from the Sunlands has always felt more comfortable than the stiff corsets and lace that Kenettrans wear.
Before the maid leaves, she places a velvet box on top of the dresser. Raffaele returns. He nods in approval at the dress. “Amouteru,” he says, lingering on the exotic accents of my family name. “I can see the Tamouran blood in you.”
As I look on in wonder, Raffaele brushes my hair until it spills down my back like a silver curtain. He twists the strands into a smooth, glossy bun behind my head in traditional Tamouran fashion, picks up two long cloths of white and gold, and carefully wraps my head with them until all of my hair is hidden underneath an elaborate, intertwined series of gold and white silk, the cloth draping down behind me in a sheet of sun and snow. He pins jewels on the cloth. He ties the Tamouran headwrap so much more skillfully than I ever have. Finally, he places a thin silver chain on my head from which a single teardrop diamond suspends at my forehead.
“There,” he says. “You will hide your markings like this from now on.”
I stare at myself, stunned. My cheekbones and nose, the elegant sweep of my eye, all enhanced. I have never looked more Tamouran in my life. It’s a convincing disguise.
Raffaele smiles at my expression. “I have a present for you,” he says. He turns and opens the velvet box on the dresser.
My heart skips a beat.
It’s a white half mask, made of porcelain and cold to the touch. Diamonds trace along its edges and twinkle in the light, and trails of bright glitter paint elaborate patterns across the mask’s pale surface. Tiny white plumes arch at the point where it curves up toward the temple. I can only stare. Never in my life have I worn something so finely crafted.
“I commissioned this for you,” Raffaele says. “Care to try it?”
I nod wordlessly.
Raffaele positions the half mask over my face. It fits snugly, like a long-lost possession, something that has always been a part of my body. Now snow-white porcelain and lines of shining light conceal the spot where my eye used to be. The mask covers it all. Without the distraction of my marking, the natural beauty of my face shines through.
“Mi Adelinetta,” Raffaele breathes. He leans down close enough for his breath to warm the skin of my neck. “You are truly kissed by moon and water.”
As I stare silently back, I feel something powerful stir inside me—a buried fire, subdued during childhood and long forgotten. I have lived all my life in the shadow of my father and my sister. Now that I’m standing in the sun for the first time, I dare to think differently.
The broken butterfly has been made whole.
Faint voices come from the hallway outside. Before either of us can react, the door opens and Enzo strides in. I can’t keep my cheeks from turning bright red, and I turn my face partly away, hoping he doesn’t notice. His eyes settle first on Raffaele. “Is she ready?”
Then he notices me. Whatever words he meant to speak now halt on his tongue. For the first time since I met him, a strange emotion flickers across his face that hints at something underneath.
Raffaele studies him. “At a loss for words, Your Highness? I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Enzo recovers in an instant. He exchanges a quiet look with Raffaele. I look between them, uncertain what conversation has just passed. Finally, he turns away from us—and it seems as if he purposely avoids meeting my stare.
“She starts tomorrow,” he says before he leaves.
Teren Santoro
As the sun sets over Estenzia, Teren locks himself inside his chambers. His jaw is tight with frustration.
Several weeks have already passed since Adelina’s escape from her execution. He’s not found a single trace of her. Rumor has it that she came here to Estenzia—at least, that was all his Inquisition patrols could gather. But Estenzia is a large city. He needs more information than that.
Teren undoes the gold buttons of his Inquisition uniform, strips off his robe, and removes the armor underneath. He pulls his thin linen undershirt up over his head, baring his torso to the air. The orange glow of sunset from his window highlights his shoulders, the hard, muscled contour of his back.
It also illuminates the maze of crisscrossing scars that cover his body.
> Teren sighs, closes his eyes, and rolls his neck. His thoughts wander to the queen. The king had been dead drunk at his council meeting today, laughing off fears of his hungry people’s rising anger at his taxes, impatient to return to his afternoon hunting trips and brothels. Throughout the whole meeting, Queen Giulietta looked on in silence. Her eyes were cool, calm, and dark. If her husband irritated her, she didn’t show it. She certainly didn’t show any signs that she had invited Teren to her bedchambers the night before.
Teren closes his eyes at the memory of her in his arms, and shivers in longing.
He looks down at the whip lying by his bed. He walks over to it. He had to have the weapon specially made: It consists of nine different tails, each tail equipped at the end with long blades—rare foreign platinum for weight, tipped with steel—honed so finely that their edges could slice open skin with the faintest whisper of a touch.
On any normal man, a weapon like this would shred his back into ribbons of meat with a single strike. Even on someone like Teren, with skin and flesh hardened by demonic magic, the metal whip wreaks havoc.
He kneels on the floor. Lifts the whip. Holds his breath. Then he snaps the whip over his head. The blades rake deep into the flesh of his back, ripping jagged lines across his skin. He lets out a strangled gasp as pain floods him, robbing him of his breath. Almost immediately, the cuts start to heal.
I am a deformed creature, he mouths silently, repeating the words he once said as a twelve-year-old boy, an Inquisitorin-training, kneeling before the sixteen-year-old Princess Giulietta.
He remembers that day so well. She was newly married to the powerful Duke of Estenzia. Young Enzo, still crown prince to the throne, lay in the infirmary, the lucky survivor of drinking poisoned soup. And the old king was already dying.
Giulietta bent down, studied Teren thoughtfully, and placed her finger under his chin. She gently tilted his head up until his pale, colorless eyes met her dark, cool ones. “Why are you afraid to look at me?” she asked.