Teren flushes a dark scarlet at the same time Raffaele frowns. For a moment, Raffaele’s careful demeanor cracks. “Adelina is here?” he whispers.
Giulietta looks at him. “What do you know of the White Wolf?”
A hundred memories flash through Raffaele’s mind. Adelina, scared and furious at the burning stake, uncertain during her testing, timid and sweet in their afternoon training sessions . . . cold and hateful in their final farewell. What is she doing back in Kenettra, and what does she want? “Only that she has betrayed enough of us,” he replies. He hides the twinge of guilt in his heart. And that I once betrayed her too.
Teren bows his head to Giulietta. “We are hunting for her relentlessly, Your Majesty. I’ll not rest until she’s dead.”
It is Teren who is spearheading the hatred of all malfettos, Raffaele realizes. He is the executioner, while she is the politician. Giulietta has no reason to annihilate them now that she is queen. This is the wedge between them that can drive them apart.
Finally, Giulietta shakes her head. She steps closer to Raffaele. “I do not grant mercy easily,” she whispers as she admires his jewel-toned eyes. Raffaele hears the clicks of crossbows around the room. One wrong move from him, and he will die. Giulietta studies him a moment longer, and then turns away and waves a hand. “Take him back to the dungeons.”
Inquisitors seize his arms. As Raffaele leaves the chamber, he reaches out one more time for Giulietta’s energy. She is suspicious of him. But at the same time, his words have stirred a new emotion from her, something that Raffaele had not sensed earlier.
Curiosity.
Only the beautiful young Compasia dared to defy Holy Amare. Even as he drowned mankind in his floods, Compasia reached down toward her mortal lover and changed him into a swan. He flew high above the floodwaters, above the moons, and then higher still, until his feathers turned to stardust.
—“Compasia and Eratosthenes,” a Kenettran folktale, various authors
Adelina Amouteru
Getting to Estenzia will require traveling by land. We can’t afford another round of inspections while on board a ship, and from what we’re hearing, the harbor at the capital is teeming with Inquisitors and workers, all preparing for the celebration in honor of Maeve’s arrival.
Early the next morning, we set out on horseback along the road from Campagnia to Estenzia. Two days, says Magiano. He plays his lute the entire way, humming as he goes, and by nightfall he has composed three new songs. He creates with an intensity I haven’t seen since I first met him. He seems preoccupied, but when I try asking him what’s on his mind, he only smiles and plays a few measures of music for me. Eventually, I stop asking.
The first night, Sergio sits away from us. I watch him as he looks up at the night sky, studies the sheet of stars, and closes his eyes. Only Violetta stays at his side, her attention riveted on him. Occasionally, she asks him a question, and he answers her in low tones, keeping his body turned toward her in a way that he doesn’t do for us.
After a while, Violetta rises and makes her way back over to us. “He’s calling the rain,” she says as she approaches. She sits next to me, her side pressed against mine. I lean against her. She used to do this when we were little, I recall, as we rested together underneath the shade of trees. “Weaving it, you might say.”
“Can you imitate that too?” I ask Magiano, my stare still fixed on Sergio.
“Not well, but I can strengthen him,” Magiano replies. He glances over his shoulder to where Sergio still sits, then up at the sky too. He points to one glittering constellation. “See that? The shape of a swan’s neck?”
I follow the curve of stars. “Isn’t that Compasia’s Swan?” There are dozens of folktales about this constellation. My mother’s favorite was about how Amare, the god of Love, brought endless rain to the land after mankind burned down his forests, and how Compasia, the angel of Empathy, saved her gentle human lover from drowning by turning him into a swan and then putting him in the sky.
“It is,” Magiano replies. “It aligns with the three moons—which I assume helps him know which direction to pull from.”
Violetta’s attention stays on Sergio as he works, her eyes riveted on his still posture. “It’s fascinating,” she says, not to anyone in particular. “He is actually gathering individual threads of moisture in the air—mist from the ocean, ice crystals high in the sky. It requires so much concentration.”
I smile as I watch Violetta. She has grown more sensitive to the energy of others, to the point where Raffaele would have been proud of her. She will be a powerful weapon against the Daggers when we meet them again.
I’m about to ask her to explain how she has managed to figure out so much about Sergio’s powers, but then Sergio stirs for a moment, and his movement prompts Violetta to get up and hurry back over to him. She asks him something else I can’t hear, and he laughs softly.
It takes me a moment to notice Magiano watching me. He leans back on his elbows, then tilts his head curiously at me. “How did you get your marking?” he asks.
Familiar shields go up over my heart. “The blood fever infected my eye,” I reply. That’s all I want to say. My gaze goes to his eyes, the pupils now round and large in the darkness. “Do you see differently when your eyes slit?”
“They sharpen,” Magiano says. Right after the words come out of his mouth, he contracts his pupils, giving them their catlike appearance. He hesitates. “That’s not my main marking, though.”
I turn my body to face him. “What is your main marking?”
Magiano looks at me, then leans forward and starts to pull up his shirt. Underneath the coarse white linen is smooth, brown skin, the lean lines of his stomach and back. My cheeks start to redden. The shirt slides higher, revealing all of his back. I gasp.
There it is. It’s a mass of red and white flesh, scarred and raised, that covers almost his entire back. Rough ridges outline the mark. I stare at it with my mouth open. It looks like a wound that should have been fatal, something that never healed right.
“It was a large, red, flat marking,” Magiano says. “The priests tried to remove it by peeling off the skin. But of course that didn’t work.” He smiles bitterly. “They only replaced one marking with another.”
Priests. Did Magiano grow up as an apprentice in the temples? I cringe at the thought of them cutting into his flesh, tearing it back. At the same time, the whispers stir, drawn to such a painful image. “I’m glad it healed,” I manage to say.
Magiano tugs his shirt down and goes back to his leaning posture. “It never really heals,” he replies. “Sometimes it breaks open.”
The shields on my heart start to lower. When I look back up at him, he is staring at me. “What brought you into this life?” I ask. “Why did you become . . . well . . . Magiano?”
Magiano tilts his head to the stars. He shrugs. “Why did you become the White Wolf?” he says, tossing the question back at me. Then, he sighs. “In the Sunland nations, malfettos are seen as links to the gods. This doesn’t mean anyone worships us—it only means that the temples like to keep malfetto orphans in their care, believing that their presence will help them speak to the gods.” He lowers his voice. “They also liked keeping us hungry. It’s the same reason why a nobleman might keep his tigers on a lean diet, see? If we’re hungry, we’re alert, and if we’re alert, we are a better link to the gods. I was always hunting for food in that temple, my love. One day, the priests caught me stealing food that was meant to be offerings to the gods. So they punished me. You can bet I ran away after that.” He gestures at his back, then grins at me. “I hope the gods forgave me.”
His story is so familiar. I shake my head. “You should have burned that temple to the ground,” I say bitterly.
Magiano gives me a surprised look, then shrugs again. “What good would it have done?” he says.
I don’t argue, bu
t silently, I think, It would have warned them all of what happens when you defy the children of the gods. I shift, drawing an idle line in the dirt near my boots. “We must have different alignments,” I mutter, “to think such opposite thoughts.”
Magiano tilts his head again. “Alignments?”
I wave a hand in the dirt to ruin the line I’d drawn. “Oh, it’s just something that Raffaele used to talk about,” I reply, irritated with myself for thinking of the Daggers again. “He studies the energy of every Elite he comes across. He believes that we all align with certain gemstones and gods, and those alignments influence our powers.” I take a deep breath. “I align with fear and fury. With passion. And with ambition.”
Magiano nods. “Well, I can certainly see that.” He smiles a little. “What do I align with?”
I look at him. “Are you asking me to guess?”
His smile widens, turning playful for an instant. “Yes, I suppose so. I’m curious what you think you know of me.”
“All right.” I straighten and lean back, taking in his face. The fire gives his skin a golden glow. I pretend to squint at him. “Hmm,” I murmur. “Prase quartz.”
“What?”
“Prase quartz. For Denarius, the angel of Greed.”
Magiano throws his head back and laughs. “Fair enough. What else?”
His laughter brings a trickle of warmth to me, and I find myself savoring it. I smile back. “Kunzite. The healing gem. For the god of Time.”
“Holy Aevietes?” Magiano raises an eyebrow and gives me a sly look.
“Yes.” I nod. “A thief must be both patient and impatient to be good, must have impeccable timing. Right?”
“Solid reasoning.” Magiano leans closer, then gives me a teasing look. His hand brushes against the edge of mine. “Go on, then.”
“Diamond,” I continue, unable to stop smiling. “For the goddess of Prosperity.”
He draws closer. There is no hint of wildness in his eyes. His lashes shine in the light, then lower. Suddenly I am aware of his breath warm against my cheeks. “And?” he murmurs.
“And . . . sapphire.” My voice fades into a whisper. “For the angel of Joy.”
“Joy?” Magiano smiles, gently this time.
“Yes.” I look down, overwhelmed by sudden sadness. “Because I can see so much of it in you.”
A warm hand tilts my chin back up. I find myself looking into Magiano’s golden eyes. He doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans toward me. I hear nothing around us but the crackle of the fire.
His lips touch my cheek. It is a soft, careful touch, one that brings a lump to my throat. His lips shift to brush against mine. Then his kiss deepens in earnest, and the strings of my heart pull taut. His hand shifts from my chin to cup my face, pulling me into him. I go willingly. One of his arms encircles my waist. The kiss goes on, as if he were reaching for something within, turning firmer until I’m forced to steady myself against the ground, lest he makes me fall over. A low, sweet sound comes from his throat. I bring a hand up to the back of his neck. Aside from the deep warmth of passion, my energy stays very, very still, and for the first time, I don’t miss it.
His lips finally break from mine. He brushes them against my cheeks once more, then against the line of my jaw, and then, finally, he pulls away. For a moment, all we can do is breathe. My heart thuds in my chest. The complete stillness of my energy is something I have never felt before. I am full of light. I am confused. A strange mix of guilt and wonder swims inside me.
The thought of ruling Kenettra with Enzo at my side—Enzo, who had saved me from certain death, who brought my powers out with a mere touch of his hand on my back, whose own fire awakened my ambitions—thrills me. So why am I here, this close to a boy who is not my prince? Why am I reacting in this way to his touch?
On the other side of the fire, Violetta’s eyes flick momentarily away from Sergio and toward me. She catches my gaze, then tilts her head once in Magiano’s direction before winking at me. She smiles a little. Suddenly, I realize why she left me alone with Magiano like this. I can’t help sharing in her smile. When did my little sister become so sneaky? I’ll have to ask her later how she knew that Magiano would take advantage of our moment alone. Hiding a laugh in my throat, I turn back to Magiano.
He is observing the ruined half of my face.
A cold wind hits me, and I suddenly blink away the haze of warmth and amusement that had enveloped me just moments earlier. My defenses go up. I lean away, and an edge returns to my voice. “Why do you look?” I mutter.
I half expect Magiano to tease me, spitting back one of his sarcastic phrases. But he doesn’t smile. “We are drawn to stories,” he says in a soft voice, “and every scar carries one.” He lifts a hand and places his palm gently against the ruined side of my face, covering the scar.
I look down, embarrassed now. Instinctively, I reach up to brush some of my hair over my face—only to remember that I no longer have long locks.
“Hiding it makes you more beautiful,” Magiano says. Then he takes his hand away, exposing my scar again. “But revealing it makes you you.” He nods at me. “So wear it proudly.”
I don’t know what to say to that. “We all have our stories,” I reply after a moment.
“You are the first I’ve ever met who is willing to take on the Inquisition,” he continues. “I’ve heard plenty of idle threats in my lifetime against those soldiers, and made plenty myself. But you meant what you said, when you wanted revenge against them.”
For an instant, I see an illusion of blood dripping down my hands, staining the ground. It is Enzo’s blood, and it is bright scarlet. “I suppose I’m just tired of them being the ones standing over us, as we beg in vain for our lives.”
Magiano gives me a smile that looks sweet . . . and sad. “Now you are the one who can make them beg.”
“Do I frighten you?” I ask softly.
He seems to think about that. After a while, he leans back and looks skyward. “I don’t know,” he replies. “But I do know that I may never meet another like you again.”
His expression reminds me of Enzo, and all of a sudden, that is who I see before me, my prince who mourned his own lost love. He is close enough now that I can see the slashes of color in his irises.
He is not Enzo, I remind myself. But I don’t want him to be. With Enzo, my energy yearned for his power and ambition, all too happy to let him take me into the darkness. But with Magiano . . . I am able to smile, even to laugh. I am able to sit here and lean back and point out the constellations.
Magiano glances at me again, as if he could tell who is on my mind. That strange little twist reappears at the edge of his lips, an unhappy note that mars his joy. It is there, and then it is gone.
I want to say something to him, but I don’t know what. Instead, he smiles, and I swallow, mimicking him. After a while, we both return to admiring the stars, trying to ignore the kiss that lingers in the air between us.
Dear Father, did you receive my gift? Please let me come home. I no longer recognize this place, and my friends have become my enemies.
—Letter from Princess Lediana to her father, the King of Amadera
Adelina Amouteru
The next day, clouds start to gather in low blankets along the horizon. They build in height as the day goes on. By the time afternoon starts shifting to dusk, and the dirt and grasses of the Kenettran countryside make way for the first rivers of outer Estenzia, the sky is covered in a thick layer of gray, making twilight look more like midnight. There is a spark of lightning in the air, something sharp and tense that promises a storm. The tension grows as we approach the city, until the sky finally opens and a cold, heavy rain starts to drench the land.
I pull the cloak lower over my head. Wind whips at my back.
“How long will this storm last?” Violetta calls out at Sergio through the ra
in.
Sergio rides up beside us. “At least a day. I can never really tell. Once I set them in motion, they take on a life of their own that not even I can stop.”
We all pause as we reach the first small village clustered outside the walls of Estenzia. Our chances of running into Inquisitors after this point are high. I swing down from my horse, pat its neck, and lead it toward the buildings. Behind me, the others do the same. Time to give up our steeds and go on foot.
Or, more specifically, go by canal.
We leave our horses tied in front of a tavern, and then continue on our way. The village gives way to another, bigger cluster of homes, and then soon the walls fencing in Estenzia loom out of the mist of rain, black silhouettes against a gray sky. Lanterns start flickering to life in the villages behind us. My weathered boots squish against the soaked ground. My hooded cloak is already useless against the rain, and we keep them on only to hide our features. I’d rather save my energy for when we are close enough to the city itself.
Here, the land starts splintering into fragments, disjointed islands clustered close together and connected by canals. Already, the storm has started to flood some of the canals, washing untended gondolas up to the shores. Magiano stops us here, where several gondolas have piled on top of one another at a canal’s corner. Dark canvas covers their tops, and their oars snap back and forth haphazardly in the current, absent their gondoliers.
“Lately, Estenzia has kept her canals locked in order to control the passage of cargo,” he says in a low voice. “But in a storm this bad, the canals in the city will flood too quickly if they don’t pull up some of their gates. They have to help the water drain.” He nods to the piled gondolas.
This is our chance to get into the city.
As the boys flip the first gondola over and Sergio helps Violetta into it, I stare at the city walls. The rain blurs them so that they look like little more than a fog of gray—but even in this downpour, I can make out the dense rows of dilapidated shelters huddled underneath the walls.