The Young Elites (5 page)

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 out 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.”

He nods. “Some manifest powers later than others, but our stories are the same. I know what it’s like to grow up marked, Adelina. All of us understand what it is like to be abominations.”

“
All
of us?” I ask. My mind wanders again to the black market’s wooden carvings, to the growing rumors of the Young Elites. “There are others?”

“Yes. From around the world.”

The Windwalker. Magiano. The Alchemist.
“Who are they? How many?”

“Few, but growing. In the ten or so years since the blood fever died down in Kenettra, some of us have started making our presence known. A strange sighting here, an odd witness there. Seven years ago, villagers in Triese di Mare stoned a little girl to death because she had covered the local pond with ice in the middle of summer. Five years ago, people in Udara set fire to a boy because he had made a bouquet of flowers bloom right before his sweetheart’s eyes.” He tightens his gloves, and my eye again darts to the bloody flecks that coat the leather. “As you can see, I kept my abilities a secret for obvious reasons. It wasn’t until I met another who also possessed strange powers given to him by the fever that I changed my mind.”

“So. You’re a Young Elite.” There. I’ve said it aloud.

“A name the people invented to refer to our youth and our unnatural abilities. The Inquisition hates it.” Enzo smiles, a lazy expression of mischief. “I am the leader of the Dagger Society, a group of Young Elites who seek out others like ourselves before the Inquisition can. But we are not the only Elites—there are many others, I’m sure, scattered all across the world. My goal is to unite us. Burnings like yours happen every time the Inquisition thinks they’ve found a Young Elite. Some people abandon their own marked family members because they’re afraid of ‘bad luck.’ The king uses
malfettos
as an excuse for his poor rule. As if we are to blame for the state of his impoverished nation. If we don’t fight back, the king and his Inquisition Axis will kill us all, every child marked by the fever.” His eyes harden. “But we
do
fight back. Don’t we, Adelina?”

His words remind me of the strange whispers that have accompanied my illusions—something dark and vengeful, tempting and powerful. A weight presses on my chest. I am afraid. Intrigued.

“What will you do?” I whisper.

Enzo leans back and looks out the window. “We will seize the throne, of course.” He sounds almost indifferent, like he’s talking about his breakfast.

He wants to kill the king? What about the Inquisition? “That’s impossible,” I breathe.

He gives me a sideways look, something simultaneously curious and threatening. “Is it?”

My skin tingles. I peer closer at him. Then, suddenly, I cover my mouth with one hand.
I know where I’ve seen him before.

“You—” I stammer. “You’re the prince.”

No wonder he looks familiar. I’d seen many portraits of Kenettra’s firstborn prince as a child. He was the crown prince back then, our future king. The word was that he had nearly died from the blood fever. He came out of it marked instead. Unfit to be heir to the throne. That was the last we all heard about him, really. After his father the king died, Enzo’s older sister stripped Enzo of his crown and banished him permanently from the palace, never again to set foot near the royal family. Her husband, a powerful duke, became king.

I lower my gaze. “Your Royal Highness,” I say, bowing my head.

Enzo replies with a single, subtle nod. “Now you know the real reason why the king and queen denounce
malfettos.
It makes
malfettos
look like abominations, and it keeps me unfit for the throne.”

My hands start to tremble. Now I understand. He is assembling a team, a team to help him reclaim his birthright.

Enzo leans close enough for me to see slashes of a brilliant red in his eyes. “I make you this offer, Adelina Amouteru. You can spend the rest of your life on the run, friendless and alone, always fearful of the Inquisition Axis finding you and bringing you to justice for a crime you did not commit. Or we can see if you belong with
us.
The gifts the fever left with you are not as unreliable as they might seem. There is a rhythm and science to controlling your power. There’s reason behind the chaos. If you wish, you can learn control. And you will be well paid for it.”

When I stay silent, Enzo lifts one gloved hand and touches my chin. “How many times have you been called an abomination?” he whispers. “A monster? Worthless?”

Too many times.

“Then let me tell you a secret.” He shifts so that his lips are close to my ear. A shiver dances down my spine. “You are not an abomination. You are not merely a
malfetto.
That is why they fear you. The gods gave us powers, Adelina, because
we are born to rule.
”

A million thoughts run through my mind—memories of my childhood, visions of my father and my sister, of the Inquisition’s dungeons, the iron stake, Teren’s pale eyes, the crowd chanting against me. I remember how I always crouched at the top of my stairs, pretending to rule from on high.
I can rise above all of this, if I become one of them. They can keep me safe.

Suddenly, in the presence of this Young Elite, the power of the Inquisition Axis seems very far away.

I can tell that Enzo is watching how my hair and lashes shift colors ever so slightly with the light. His gaze lingers where my hair hides the scarred side of my face. I blush. He reaches out a hand. It falters there, as if waiting for me to shy away, but I stay very still until he finally touches my hair and tucks it carefully away from my face, exposing my imperfections. Heat rushes instantly from his fingertips through my body, a thrilling sensation that sends my heart pounding.

He says nothing for a while. Then, he pulls the glove off one of his hands. I gasp. Underneath the leather, his hand is a mass of burned flesh, most of it healed over in thick layers of hideous scar tissue that must have accumulated over the years, while a few spots still remain red and angry. He replaces the glove, transforming the awful sight into one of black leather and flecks of blood. Of
power.

“Embellish your flaws,” he says softly. “They will turn into your assets. And if you become one of us, I will teach you to wield them like an assassin wields a knife.” His eyes narrow. His subtle smile turns dangerous. “So. Tell me, little wolf. Do you want to punish those who have wronged you?”

L
ate afternoon in Estenzia.

Teren waits behind a pillar lining the palace’s main courtyard, his heart in his throat, the white of his Lead Inquisitor cloak blending in with the marble. Shadows and sunlight play on his face. Farther up the courtyard’s path and partially hidden from view by rose vines, the queen of Kenettra walks alone, her dark hair piled high on her head in a tumble of curls, her skin a warm hue under the sun.
Her Majesty, Queen Giulietta I of Kenettra.

Teren waits until she’s close enough. When she walks past, he grabs her wrist and pulls her gently into the shadows behind the pillar.

The queen lets out a soft gasp, then smiles at the sight of him. “You’re back from Dalia,” she whispers. “And up to your boyish antics, I see.”

Teren presses her tightly against the pillar. His lips brush against the skin of her neck. Her dress seems cut particularly low today, emphasizing the swell of her breasts, and he wonders with a surge of jealousy whether she wears it as temptation for the king—or for him. The king is a grown man, well into his forties. Teren is nineteen.
Does she like me for my youth? Perhaps she sees me as a boy, four years too young for her.
He marvels again at how lucky he is, to have drawn the attention of royalty.

“I returned last night,” he whispers back. He kisses her deeply. “You asked to see me, Your Majesty?”

The queen lets out a sigh as he kisses the line of her jaw. Her fingers run along the grooves of his silver belt, and he arcs toward her in longing. “Yes.” She stops him for a moment to give him a level look. Her eyes are very dark, so dark that sometimes they seem wholly empty. Like he could fall to his death in them. “So. Did they take her?”

“They did.”

“And will you be able to find her again?”

Teren nods once. “I don’t know what curse the gods have brought down on us, to give us demons like this, but I promise you—she will be our advantage. She’ll lead me to them. I’ve already gathered five patrols of my best men.”

“And the girl’s sister? You mentioned her in your report.”

Teren bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Violetta Amouteru is in my custody.” He smiles briefly. “She’s unharmed.”

The queen nods in approval. She reaches out and undoes a clasp on his uniform’s collar, exposing the hollow of his throat, then traces it with one slender finger. A breath escapes him.
Gods, I want you. I love you. I’m not worthy of you.
She tightens her lips, lost in her own thoughts, and then meets his eyes again. “Let me know when you find the girl. I dislike the embarrassment these Elites are making of the crown.”

I would do anything for you.
“As you command, Your Majesty.”

Giulietta touches his cheek affectionately. Her hand is cold. “The king will be pleased to hear it, as soon as he climbs out of his mistress’s bed.” She emphasizes her last words.

Teren’s mood darkens at that. The king is supposed to be meeting with his council right now—not frolicking in bed with a lover.
He’s no king. He’s a duke the queen was forced to marry. A loud, arrogant, disrespectful duke.
He lowers his lips to hers, then steals another long kiss. His voice turns tender and aching. “When can you come to me again? Please.”

“I’ll come to you tonight.” She gives him a careful smile, one full of calculated secrets. It is the smile of someone who knows exactly what to say to a boy soldier madly in love. She pulls him close enough to whisper in his ear. “I’ve missed you too.”