I am in the middle of a circle drawn into the floor, the edges embellished by smaller circles. Three thrones sit along the perimeter, an equal distance from each other, all of them pointed in my direction. In each throne sits a tall figure dressed in the finest gold silks, his hair hidden behind Tamouran wraps. The Golden Triad. I am in the Tamouran throne room, seated before their triplet kings.
I blink away the remnants of my hazy mind and glance quickly around the room. Soldiers stir and shift warily at my movement. Immediately, instinctively, I reach for my energy—the threads of fear and uncertainty in the chamber now call to me—and I lash out with a web of illusions. The chamber falls into sudden darkness, screams fill the air, and a whip of agony coils itself around the Tamouran soldiers closest to me. Several of them cry out. I bare my teeth, aiming next for the kings.
“Stay still, Adelina.” It’s Raffaele’s voice.
I turn against the ground, until my chains don’t let me move any farther, and search for him. He’s standing next to one of the thrones, his hands folded into his sleeves. He looks grave, but his expression takes nothing away from his beauty. His hair is loose and straight tonight, black with sapphire strands that catch the candlelight. Just as I remember him. He returns my look calmly. The colors of his eyes shift in the light.
Beside him stand several archers, their crossbows pointed at me.
“Release your illusions,” Raffaele says. “You are here at the mercy of King Valar, King Ema, and King Joza, the rulers of the great empire of Tamoura. Rise, withhold your powers, and address Their Majesties.”
My temper surges, even though I know Raffaele is right. My powers are still only illusions—I will not be able to lunge fast enough to keep those crossbows from hitting their target. I’ll be dead within seconds. Thoughts flash through my mind. Why did Raffaele bring me here? Why hasn’t he killed me yet? He could have let them unleash their arrows without warning me.
And the most pressing thought: If Violetta is here in Tamoura, why did he not use her ability against me? Why haven’t they taken away my powers?
But what really stops me from attacking again is a shadowy figure standing several feet away from Raffaele, his eyes trained on me and his hands resting on the dagger hilts at his waist. When I meet Enzo’s stare, the tether between us pulls so hard, I gasp. I have never felt our connection so strong, so vicious. He seems to feel it too—even from here, I can sense the tightening of his jaw, the shift of his muscles.
Enzo’s eyes are as dark as I’ve ever seen them. They do not glitter with the sheen of life that eyes are meant to have. They are dull and deep, devoid of the scarlet fire that once used to fill them, hard with emptiness. He stares as if he hardly knows me. He doesn’t say a word. I wince again as our tether pulls tighter, goes slack, and pulls again. Just like during our battle in the skies, he is trying to overwhelm my power. But I feel the pain in the tether too, intertwined with my own energy. Enzo was injured in battle, and I can tell.
I tense in anger. How dare you try to control me.
Slowly, I release my illusions on the soldiers and bring my energy close inside my chest, protecting it against Enzo’s. Several of the soldiers collapse to their knees, still trembling from phantom pain. Then I carefully stretch out both of my hands, so that Raffaele can see. If he is studying the shift of my energy right now, he will know that I’m not about to attack.
But I will not bow to a foreign power. My glare shifts to one of the kings, and I’m satisfied when he returns my stare. I’m tempted to look around at the rest of the chamber again, to meet the eyes of the other two kings, but that would require me turning around on the floor like a beggar. I will do no such thing here. “My fleet,” I say instead, lifting my chin at the king. “My Roses.”
“Choursdaem,” Raffaele says to the king. “Rosaem.”
The king says something to Raffaele in reply. Most of it is completely lost on me, but I do pick out the taunting lilt he adds to my name.
Raffaele bows his head to the king, then turns back to me. “The war rages even as we speak, Queen Adelina,” he translates. “Our armies are sitting at a tenuous stalemate, because your forces know that you are in our captivity. Another of your Roses is also in our hands. Unharmed . . . for now.”
Another captive. It must be Magiano. He was the only one riding with me, after all, and I’d heard his voice earlier. My energy flares again, and Raffaele shoots me a warning look. With great difficulty, I swallow and rein myself in. Magiano’s life depends on how I act.
“It seems you were betrayed by one of your Inquisitors,” Raffaele says.
One of my own. The fact that Raffaele had seen this happen right before his eyes makes me blind with fury. “You planted a rebel in my midst,” I snap. “Did you not?”
“I didn’t need to,” Raffaele replies. “You would have lost this battle.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Raffaele’s expression stays calm. “One of your men, attacking you. Is this uncommon?”
No. It is not uncommon. Previous attempts come blinking back into my memory, even as I try in vain to keep them away. The rebels are everywhere. I grit my teeth. I will have that traitor skinned alive.
The king speaks again as Raffaele translates. “What would you do, in our place?” The ghost of a smile appears on the Tamouran king’s lips. “You would have us beheaded, I’m sure, and hold it up for our armies to see. I’ve heard that’s what you do in other conquered cities. Perhaps we should do the same, dangling your body from the masts of our ships. That should end this war quickly enough.”
My heartbeat quickens, but I refuse to let him see my fear. My mind spins. How will I break free from here? I look at Raffaele again. What deal have the Daggers struck with Tamoura?
And Violetta.
“Where is my sister?” I demand, anger shaking my voice.
Raffaele takes a step toward me. “She’s resting.”
He means she is not doing well. I scowl. “You’re lying. I saw her riding with you in battle.”
“She was in no shape to fight you,” Raffaele answers. “I brought her with me solely so that you could see her.”
Is the reason why Violetta has not yet taken my powers away because . . . she is too weak to do so? “You’ve lied so often, Messenger,” I say with deliberate calm. “Why should you stop now?”
“For the gods’ sakes, she doesn’t deserve this,” Michel mutters from the shadows. He looks different from what I remember—thinner, his cheeks hollow—and his eyes are fixed on me with a burning hatred. “Behead her and send it back to Kenettra. Toss the rest of her in the ocean for the fish. She’s always belonged to the Underworld. Perhaps that will fix everything.”
I frown, taken aback by such harsh words and that they come from the same boy who had once praised my illusion of a rose. He had been so fond of Gemma; any friendship he might have had with me ended the day I sent her falling from the skies. The girl I used to be stirs inside me, pushing past the dark queen to dwell on other memories. I realize I cannot recall the sound of Michel’s laugh.
Raffaele doesn’t take his eyes off me. To my surprise, the three rulers seem to be waiting for him to speak. After another brief moment of silence, he steps forward. “There are a thousand things we could do, with you here in our custody,” he says. “But what we will do is let you go.”
I blink once at him. “Let me go?” I echo, frowning in confusion.
Raffaele nods once.
This is his manipulation at work again. He never means exactly what he says. “What do you really want, Messenger?” I say sharply. “Speak plainly. We are at war. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you and the Tamourans are releasing me out of the kindness of your hearts.”
In the silence, one of the kings turns to Raffaele and raises a bejeweled hand. “Well, Messenger,” he says, his voice echoing in the chamber. “S
a behaum.” Tell her.
Raffaele walks closer. “Adelina,” he begins slowly, “we are releasing you because we need your help.”
Of everything I thought he might say, it was not this. I can only stare at him in disbelief. Then I start to laugh and the whispers join me. You really must be going mad.
Something about Raffaele’s expression finally makes my laughter subside. “You’re serious,” I say, tilting my head in a mock imitation of his familiar gesture. “You must be desperate to think that I would work with you and the Daggers.”
“You won’t have much choice. Your sister’s life depends on it, as do ours.” He nods at me. “As does yours.”
More lies. “Is this why you told me about her? Why you wanted me to see Violetta with you? So you can use her against me?” I shake my head at him. “Cruel, even for you.”
“I took her in,” Raffaele replies. “What did you do?”
As always, his words strike true. This is what you wanted, Adelina, the whispers coax me. You wanted to find Violetta, for your own reasons. Now you have.
Raffaele continues in the silence. “Your sister once took some documents of mine from the royal Beldish ship. Do you remember what they said?”
He’s referring to the parchments Violetta had shown me on the day she left my side. That all Elites are doomed to die young, destroyed from within by our powers. As always, the thought of his theory chills me. I am reminded of Teren’s stubborn wound, of Sergio’s constant thirst. Of my own illusions, spiraling steadily out of my control. “Yes,” I say. “And what do they have to do with me?”
Raffaele looks to each of the rulers in turn. They nod once in silence, giving him some sort of unspoken permission. As they do, Tamouran soldiers approach me from where they had been standing guard around the edges of the chamber. I stiffen as they draw nearer. Raffaele tilts his head at me, then starts walking to the chamber’s entrance. “Come with me,” he says.
Enzo shifts where he stands, as if he would accompany us too—but he stops as Raffaele shakes his head. “His power affects yours far too much,” Raffaele says to me. “You need to stand alone for this.”
Others follow in his wake. I’m pulled to my feet by soldiers, unchained from the floor, and guided along. We exit the chamber and enter a hallway, then leave the recesses of the palace and head down in the direction of the shoreline. The pressure on my chest eases, and I sag in relief as walls and hills come between the tether binding Enzo to me. It is a dark night; the only light comes from two slivers of moonlight I can see peeking through the clouds. The storm Sergio had raged over the oceans has dispersed by now, but the scent of rain still hangs heavy in the air, and the grasses are wet and glistening. I crane my neck, searching. Somewhere out there on the waves are my ships and Sergio. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder where Magiano has been taken.
We keep going until we finally hit the shoreline. Here, Raffaele comes over to us and murmurs something at the soldiers. They pull me forward toward the water. I have a sudden feeling that they intend to drown me in the ocean—that is what this whole ritual is about. I struggle for a moment, but it’s no use.
I stagger forward. To my surprise, Raffaele comes to my side. We are standing on wet sand now, and I look on as the waves head toward us. The water and sea foam rush up the beach—I suck in my breath as cold water runs over my feet. Raffaele lets it rush across his legs too, soaking the bottom of his robes.
Instantly, I feel it again. I’d gotten only a quick flash of the ocean’s strange darkness during the battle, and then I’d left it behind. But now, with the world around me quiet enough that I can concentrate, I can feel the death in the water. The ocean pulls away, then rushes forward again. Again, it soaks the bottom half of my legs. Again, I gasp at the cold energy swirling in the depths.
Raffaele looks at me, his eyes shining different colors in the night. “You, more than anyone, should be familiar with this energy.”
I frown. The feeling turns my stomach, nauseating me with its wrongness—but at the same time, I realize that I look forward to each surge of the ocean, hoping for another dose of this dark energy. “Yes,” I say automatically, almost against my will.
Raffaele nods. “Do you remember the day when I first tested your powers?” he asks. “I recall your alignments well. Ambition and passion, yes . . . but most of all, fear and fury. You remain the only person I’ve met birthed from both of the angels that guard the Underworld. Your energy is tied to the Underworld more than anyone I know.”
This power I feel in the water—this is energy from the Underworld.
Raffaele’s expression is grave. “The Elites exist only because of an imbalance between the mortal and immortal realms. The blood fevers themselves were ripples in our world caused by an ancient tear between those realms. Our existence defies the natural order, defies Death herself. Queen Maeve bringing Enzo back has only accelerated the process. There is a merging of the two realms that is slowly poisoning everything in our world.”
I shudder. The water rushes forward again, and I close my eye, both repulsed by and drawn to the dark energy.
“The reason I persuaded the Tamouran royals to release you, on condition of a truce,” Raffaele goes on, his eyes trained on the night’s horizon, “is because we need your help to fix this. Tamoura is already feeling the effects along her shores. If we do not do something soon, then not only will all Elites perish, but so will the world.”
I stare out at the horizon, unwilling to let Raffaele be right. Of course it’s ridiculous. “What do my alignments have to do with any of it?” I finally say.
Raffaele sighs and bows his head. “I think we had better take you to your sister.”
I have tried every root, leaf, and medicine I know, but nothing has worked on any of my patients. Only two have survived, both with discolored hands. You mentioned a six-year-old boy with scars on his face. Does he still live?
—Letter from Dtt. Marino Di Segna to Dtt. Siriano Baglio, 2 Juno, 1348
Adelina Amouteru
Violetta.
I hardly recognize her.
Her skin, once a rich, beautiful olive, looks ashen white—and deep purple, bruise-like markings cover her arms and legs. They even run up along her neck. Her eyes are sunken with illness, and her body is much thinner than I remember. She stirs at the commotion of us entering her chamber. I wonder if she can still sense our powers close by.
Raffaele walks to her side, then sits carefully at the edge of her bed. After a while, I draw near too. Perhaps this isn’t my sister at all, but some girl they’ve mistaken as her. Violetta does not have markings. She does not have pale skin. This can’t be her. I move closer until I am staring straight down at her face, studying her features. Her hair is damp, her skin dotted with sweat. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, as if she can’t quite catch her breath.
Look what they’ve done, the whispers hiss, and I turn on Raffaele.
“You did this to her,” I say in a low, ominous voice. My chains clink together. The soldiers that line the walls of Violetta’s chamber draw their crossbows, the arrows clicking as they aim at me. “These bruises on her arms and legs”—I pause to glance again at the markings that scar her—“you had her beaten, didn’t you? You are using her against me.”
“You know that is not the truth,” Raffaele replies. And even though I don’t want to believe him, I can see in his eyes that he’s right. I swallow, trying to push down my own fright and revulsion at her appearance.
“How long has Violetta looked like this?” I ask.
I’d hoped that Raffaele wouldn’t be able to sense the shift in my energy, but he tilts his head at me in a subtle, familiar gesture, a slight frown on his lips. “When I wrote you that letter, the markings had appeared on her just the night before.”
It’s been barely more than a month since then. “It’s impossible for her to have change
d this quickly.”
“Our powers affect each of us in different ways, often opposite that which gives us strength,” Raffaele replies, remaining infuriatingly calm. “Violetta’s abilities kept her immune from the blood fever’s markings, just as Lucent’s powers of flight made her light and strong. Now it has reversed. The meeting of the immortal world with our own is poisonous.”
My stare returns to Violetta. She shifts, as if able to sense my gaze, and as I look on, her face turns on the pillow toward me. Her eyelids flutter. Then she opens her eyes for a moment, and they focus on me. I gape at the color of her irises. They are gray, as if the rich, dark colors that have always been there were now slowly fading away. She says nothing.
I feel a wave of disgust. Raffaele can’t possibly feel pity for Violetta’s condition—his compassion always comes with a price, a request. Because we need your help, he says. Just as he’d needed me when I was a member of the Dagger Society and then cast me out when I no longer suited him.
So why should I help a liar and a traitor? After everything the Daggers have put me through, does Raffaele honestly think I am going to fight for their lives just because he is using my dying sister against me? I am the White Wolf, Queen of the Sealands—but to Raffaele, I am merely useful again, and that has made him interested in me once more.
One of the other Daggers speaks before I can. It’s Lucent, and she rubs her arms incessantly as if trying to stave away an ache. “This is preposterous,” she mumbles. “The White Wolf is not going to help us, not even for her sister’s sake. Even if she does, she’ll betray us, as she always has. She’s interested only in herself.”
I glare at her, and she glares back. Only when Raffaele gives a firm nod to her does she look away, cross her arms, and let out a grunt. Raffaele turns back to me. “You know the myth of Laetes, yes? The angel of Joy?”