The Young Elites Page 4

  I shrug. “It’s going to die,” I say gently.

  Violetta holds the creature closer to her. “You don’t know that,” she declares.

  “I’m just telling you the truth.”

  “Why don’t you want to save it?”

  “Because it’s beyond saving.”

  She shakes her head at me sorrowfully, as if I’ve disappointed her.

  My irritation rises. “Why did you ask me my opinion, then, if you’ve already made up your mind?” My voice turns cold. “Violetta, soon you’re going to realize that things don’t end well for everyone. Some of us are broken and there’s nothing you can do to fix it.” I glance down at the poor creature struggling in her hands. The sight of its ripped wing, its crippled, deformed body, sends a jolt of anger through me. I slap the butterfly out of her hands. It lands upside down in the grass, legs clawing at the air.

  I’m instantly sorry. Why did I do that?

  Violetta bursts into tears. Before I can apologize, she clutches her skirts and jumps to her feet, leaving periwinkle blossoms scattered in the grass. She spins around.

  And there behind her stands my father, the smell of wine hovering about him in an invisible cloud. Violetta hurriedly brushes away her tears as he stoops to her eye level. He frowns. “My sweet Violetta,” he says, touching her cheek. “Why are you crying?”

  “It’s nothing,” she whispers. “We were just trying to save a butterfly.”

  Father’s eyes settle on the dying creature on the grass. “Both of you?” he says to Violetta, his eyebrows raised. “I doubt your sister would do that.”

  “She was showing me how to care for it,” Violetta insists, but it’s too late. His gaze wanders to me.

  Fear hits me and I start to scramble away. I know what’s coming. When the blood fever first passed through, killing a third of the population and leaving scarred, deformed children everywhere, we were pitied. Poor things. Then, a few parents of malfetto children died in freak accidents. The temples called the deaths acts of demons and condemned us. Stay away from the abominations. They’re bad fortune. So the pity toward us quickly turned to fear. The fear, mixed with our frightening appearances, became hate. Then word spread that if a malfetto had powers, they would manifest when he or she was provoked.

  This interested my father. If I had powers, at least I could be worth something. My father could sell me off to a circus of freaks, gather a ransom from the Inquisition for turning me in, use my power to his advantage, anything. So he has been trying for months now to awaken something in me.

  He motions for me to come to him, and when I do as he says, he reaches toward me and holds my chin in his cold palms. A long, silent moment passes between us. I’m sorry for upsetting Violetta, I want to say. But the words are choked by my fear, leaving me quiet, numb. I imagine myself disappearing behind a dark veil, vanishing to somewhere he can’t see. My sister hides behind Father, her eyes wide. She looks back and forth between us with growing unease.

  His eyes shift to where the dying butterfly is still struggling in the grass. “Go ahead,” he says, nodding at it. “Finish the job.”

  I hesitate.

  His voice coaxes me on. “Come now. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” His grip on my chin tightens until it hurts. “Pick up the butterfly.”

  Shaking, I do as he says. I grasp the butterfly’s lone wing between two fingers and lift it into the air. The glittering dust smears on my skin. Its legs scramble, still fighting. My father smiles. Tears shine in Violetta’s eyes. She had not intended this. She never intends anything.

  “Good,” he says. “Rip off the wing.”

  “Don’t, Father,” Violetta protests. She puts her arms around him, trying to win him over. But he ignores her.

  I try not to cry. “I don’t want to,” I whisper, but my words fade away at the look in my father’s eyes. I take the butterfly’s wing between my fingers, then rip it from its body, my own heart tearing as I go. Its naked, pitiful form crawls in my palm. Something about it stirs a darkness within me.

  “Kill it.”

  In a daze, I crush the creature under my thumb. Its broken carcass twitches slowly against my skin, before finally growing still.

  Violetta cries.

  “Very good, Adelina. I like it when you embrace your true self.” He takes one of my hands in his. “Did you enjoy that?”

  I start to shake my head, but his eyes make me freeze. He wants something out of me that I don’t know how to give. My shake changes to a nod. Yes, I enjoyed that. I loved it. I will say anything to make you happy, just please don’t hurt me.

  Nothing happens, and my father’s scowl deepens. “There must be something more inside you, Adelina.” He picks out my ring finger, then runs one hand along it. My breaths quicken. “Tell me I’ve at least been given a malfetto daughter of some use.”

  I’m confused. I don’t know how to answer. “I’m sorry,” I finally manage to utter. “I didn’t mean to upset her. I just—”

  “No, no. You can’t help yourself.” He glances over his shoulder at my sister. “Violetta,” he says gently, nodding for her to come close. She inches forward. “Come. Let’s see if your sister has any value.” Let’s see if she has any powers.

  “No, Father, don’t—please—” Violetta begs, then tugs at his arm. “She didn’t do anything. We were just playing.” My heartbeat quickens to a frenzied pace. We exchange a frantic look. Save me, Violetta.

  My father shakes her off, then turns his attention back to me and tightens his grip around my ring finger. “Are you worthless like that butterfly, Adelina?”

  I shake my head in panic. No. Please. Give me a chance.

  “So show me. Show me what you can do.”

  Then he breaks my finger at the joint.

  I bolt awake, a silent scream on my tongue. My crooked finger throbs, as if it’d been broken only a moment ago instead of six years earlier, and I rub it instinctively, trying as always to straighten it out. Dark tides churn in my stomach, the familiar ugliness that my father liked to nurture.

  Then I squint in the light. Where am I? Sunlight slants into my unfamiliar bedchamber from arched windows, filling the space with a cream-colored haze, and gossamer curtains ripple in the breeze. On a nearby table, an open book lies beside a quill and inkwell. Plates of jasmine blossoms sit on dressers and balcony ledges. Their sweet scent was probably the reason why I dreamed of my sister and me in our garden. I shift gingerly, then realize I’m lying in a bed piled high with blankets and embroidered pillows. I blink, disoriented for a moment.

  Perhaps I died. This room doesn’t really look like the waters of the Underworld, though. What had happened at the burning? I remember the Inquisitors lined up on the platform, and my hands struggling against iron shackles. I look down at my hands—white bandages cover both of my wrists, and when I move them, I can feel the burn of chafed skin underneath. My torn, dirty clothes are gone now, replaced by a clean silk robe of blue and white. Who cleaned and changed me? I touch my head, then wince. Someone also wrapped a cloth tightly around my head, right where my father had pulled at my hair, and when I gingerly comb a hand through my hair, I realize that it’s been scrubbed clean of its filth. I frown, trying to remember more.

  Teren, the Lead Inquisitor. A beautiful, blue day. There were the iron stake, the soldiers, and the lit torch. They had thrown the torch onto the pile of wood at my feet.

  And then I turned the sky black. My eye widens as the memory comes rushing back.

  A knock at my chamber door startles me. “Come in,” I call out, surprised at the sound of my voice. It feels strange to give orders in a bedchamber that isn’t my own. I brush locks of my hair over the left side of my face, hiding my scar.

  The door opens. A young maid peers inside. When she sees me, she brightens and comes bustling in, holding a tray laden with food and a glass of sparkling
cordial. Flaky rose bread, still giving off warm clouds of steam; a thick stew swimming with golden chunks of meat and potatoes; iced fruit; fat tarts of raspberry and egg. The rich smell of butter and spices sends my head spinning—I haven’t eaten real food in weeks. I must look amazed at the slices of fresh peaches, because she smiles at me.

  “One of our traders connects us with the finest fruit trees in the Golden Valley,” she explains. She sets the tray on the dresser next to my bed and checks my bandages. I find myself admiring her robe, like the merchant’s daughter that I am. It’s made out of a shimmering satin trimmed with gold thread, very fine for a servant. This is not coarse cloth you buy for a handful of copper lunes. This is material worth real gold talents, imported straight from the Sunlands.

  “I’ll send word that you’re awake,” she says as she carefully unwinds the bandage on my head. “You look much better after a few days’ rest.”

  Everything she says confuses me. “Send word to whom? How long have I been asleep?”

  The servant blushes. When she touches her face with her hands, I notice how impeccably polished her nails are, her skin pampered and shiny from scented oils. What place is this? I can’t be in an ordinary household if the servants look as impressive as she does. “I’m sorry, Mistress Amouteru,” she replies. So. She also knows my name. “I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. You’re safe, rest assured, and he should be here shortly to explain everything to you.” She pauses to reach toward the tray. “Have a bite, young mistress. You must be starving.”

  Hungry as I am, I hesitate to eat her offering. The fact that she seems to be treating my injuries doesn’t explain what she’s healing me for. I think back to the woman who took me in after that night, how I thought she would help me. How she threw me instead to the Inquisition. Who knows what poisons might be in this food? “I’m not hungry,” I lie with a polite smile. “I’m sure I’ll feel up to it soon.”

  She returns my smile, and I think I see a hint of sympathy behind it. “You don’t need to pretend,” she replies, patting my hand. “I’ll leave the tray here for when you’re ready.”

  She pauses at the sound of footsteps down the hall. “That must be him. He must already know,” she says. She releases my hand and offers me a quick bow. Then she hurries toward the door. But before she can leave, a boy steps inside.

  Something about him looks familiar. An instant later, I realize I recognize his eyes—dark as midnight, with thick lashes. This is my mysterious savior. Now, instead of wearing that silver mask and his hooded robes, he’s clad in finely spun linen and a black velvet doublet trimmed with gold, clothing exquisite enough to belong to the wealthiest aristocrats. He’s tall. He has the warm brown skin of northern Kenettrans, and his cheekbones are high, his face narrow and beautiful. But his hair holds my attention the most. It looks dark red in the light, so dark it’s almost black, a rich shade of blood that I’ve never seen before, tied back into a short, loose tail at the nape of his neck. It is a color not of this world.

  He’s marked, just like me.

  The maid curtsies low for him and mumbles something I can’t quite catch. Her face flushes scarlet. The tone she uses now is distinctly different from the tone she’d just used with me—where before she seemed relaxed, she now sounds meek and nervous.

  The boy nods once in return. The maid needs no second dismissal; she curtsies again and immediately scurries into the hall. My unease grows. After all, I saw him toy with an entire squadron of Inquisitors, grown men trained in the art of war, with no effort at all.

  He walks around the chamber with that same deadly grace I remember. When he sees me struggling to a better sitting position, he waves one hand in nonchalance. A gold ring flashes on his finger. “Please,” he says, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes. “Be at ease.” I now recognize his voice too, soft and deep, sophisticated, a layer of velvet hiding secrets. He seats himself in a cushioned chair near the edge of my bed. Here he leans back and stretches out his body, rests his chin against one hand, and lets his other hand remain on a dagger hilt at his waist. Even indoors, he wears a pair of thin gloves, and when I look closer, I notice tiny flecks of blood on their surface. A chill runs down my spine. He doesn’t smile.

  “You’re part Tamouran,” he says after a moment of silence.

  I blink. “Pardon?”

  “Amouteru is a Tamouran family name, not a Kenettran one.”

  Why does this boy know so much about the Sunlands? Amouteru is not a common Tamouran surname. “There are many Tamouran immigrants in southern Kenettra,” I finally answer.

  “You must have a Tamouran baby name, then.” He says this casually, idle chitchat that sounds strange to me after all that’s happened.

  “My mother used to call me kami gourgaem,” I reply. “Her ‘little wolf.’”

  He tilts his head slightly. “Interesting choice.”

  His question brings back an old memory of my mother, months before the blood fever hit. You have your father’s fire in you, kami gourgaem, she said, cupping my chin in her warm hands. She smiled at me in a way that hardened her usually soft demeanor. Then she leaned down and kissed my forehead. I’m glad. You will need it in this world. “My mother just thought wolves were pretty,” I reply.

  He studies me with quiet curiosity. A thin trickle of sweat rolls down my back. I get the vague sense again that I’ve seen him somewhere before, somewhere other than the burning. “You must be wondering where you are, little wolf.”

  “Yes, please,” I reply, sweetening my words to let him know that I’m harmless. “I’d be grateful to know.” The last thing I need is for a killer with blood-flecked gloves to dislike me.

  His expression remains distant and guarded. “You’re in the middle of Estenzia.”

  I catch my breath. “Estenzia?” The port capital of Kenettra that sits on the northern coast of the country—it’s perhaps the farthest city from Dalia—and the place I’d originally wanted to escape to. I have an urge to rush out of bed and look out the open window at this fabled city, but I force myself to keep my focus on the young aristocrat seated across from me, to hide my sudden excitement.

  “And who are you?” I say to him. “Sir?” I remember to add.

  He bows his head once. “Enzo,” he replies.

  “They called you . . . that is, at the burning . . . they said you’re the Reaper.”

  “I’m also known as that, yes.”

  The hairs rise on the back of my neck. “Why did you save me?”

  His face relaxes for the first time as a small, amused smile emerges on his lips. “Some would thank me first.”

  “Thank you. Why did you save me?”

  The intensity of Enzo’s stare turns my cheeks pink. “Let me ease you into that answer.” He uncrosses his legs, his boot hitting the floor, and leans forward. Now I can see that the gold ring on his finger bears the simple engraving of a diamond shape. “The morning of your burning. Was that the first time you’ve ever created something unnatural?”

  I pause before I answer. Should I lie? But then he would know—he’d been there at my burning; he knew what I’d been arrested for. So I decide to tell the truth. “No.”

  He considers my answer for a moment. Then he holds one of his gloved hands out to me.

  He snaps his fingers.

  A small flame bursts to life on his fingertips, licking hungrily at the air above it. Unlike whatever it was that I created during my burning, this fire feels real, its heat distorting the space above it and warming my cheeks. Violent memories of my execution day flash through my mind. I shrink away from the fire in terror. The wall of flames he pulled from midair during my burning. That was real too.

  Enzo twists his wrist, and the flame dies out, leaving only a tiny wisp of smoke. My heart beats weakly. “When I was twelve years old,” he says, “the blood fever finally hit Estenzia. It swept in and o
ut within a year. I was the only one in my family affected. A year after the doctors pronounced me recovered, I still could not control my body’s warmth. I’d turn desperately feverish one moment, freezing cold the next. And then, one day, this.” He looks down at his hand, then back to me. “What’s your story?”

  I open my mouth, then close it. It makes sense. The fever had struck the country in waves for a full decade, starting with my home city of Dalia and ending here, in Estenzia. Out of all the Kenettran cities, Estenzia had been hit the hardest—forty thousand dead, and another forty thousand marked for life. Nearly a third of their population, when put together. The city’s still struggling to get back on its feet. “That’s a very personal story to tell someone you just met,” I manage to reply.

  He meets my stare with unwavering calm. “I’m not telling you my story so that you can get to know me,” he says. I blush against my will. “I’m telling you to offer you a deal.”

  “You’re one of . . .”

  “And so are you,” Enzo says. “You can create illusions. Needless to say, you caught my attention.” When he sees my skeptical look, he continues, “Word has it that the temples in Dalia have been overflowing with terrified worshippers ever since the stunt with your father.”

  I can create illusions. I can summon images that aren’t really there and I can make people believe they are real. A sickening feeling crawls from my stomach to the surface of my skin. You are a monster, Adelina. I instinctively brush my hand down my arm, as if attempting to rid myself of a disease. My father tried so hard to provoke something like this in me. Now it’s here. And he is dead.

  Enzo waits patiently for me to speak again. I don’t know how much time passes before I finally murmur, “I was four years old when I caught the blood fever. The doctors had to remove one of my eyes.” I hesitate. “I’ve only done . . . this . . . twice before. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary during my childhood.”