Authors: Marie Lu
My excitement wanes. When I look again at the city below us, I notice the many boarded-up shops, the beggars, the white cloaks of Inquisitors. I turn away uncomfortably. “The story’s not much different in Dalia,” I mutter. A brief silence. “Where are the other Elites?”
We come upon a blank wall of stone behind a narrow corner of the courtyard, situated in such a way that you’d never think to stop here unless you knew better. Raffaele runs his fingers along the wall before pushing against it—and to my surprise, it slides silently open. A cold rush of air greets us. I peer inside. Stairs of weathered stone wind their way down into the darkness. “Don’t think of them,” he replies. “Today, it is just you and me.” A strange, pleasant tingle runs down my neck. He says no more, and I decide not to press him for more information.
We head into the gloom. Raffaele pulls a small lantern from the wall and lights it, and the dim glow cuts black and orange shapes into the darkness. All I can see are the steps right before me and the folds of Raffaele’s robes. A pleasure court with so many secret spaces.
After a while, the stairs come to an end in front of another blank wall. Raffaele unlocks this one too. It opens with a heavy groan. We step into a room lit by patches of light from a grating in its ceiling, the glow illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Moss covers the grating’s bars. In one corner, a table is overflowing with parchments and maps, strange orreries depicting the paths of the moons, and illuminated books. The space smells cool, damp.
Raffaele walks over to the table and pushes some of his papers aside. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says.
I suddenly tense. “Why? What are we doing here?”
Raffaele doesn’t look at me. Instead, he opens a drawer in the table and takes out several different kinds of stones.
Stones
actually isn’t the best word. These are
gems,
raw and unpolished, freshly broken from the earth. Something seems familiar about this setup. Yes, I remember now—operators on the streets will, for two copper lunes, place painted stones before a child and then tell him about his personality.
“Are we playing some kind of game?” I ask.
“Not quite.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Before you can become one of us, you must pass a series of tests. Today is the first of those tests.”
I try to look calm. “And what’s the test?”
“Every Elite responds to energy in a unique way, and every Elite has a different strength and weakness. Some people respond to strength and bravery. Others are wise and logical. Still others are ruled by passion.” He glances down at the gems. “Today, we’re going to figure out who
you
are. How
your
specific energy connects to the world.”
“And what are the gemstones for?”
“We are the children of gods and angels.” A kind smile touches Raffaele’s face. “It’s said that gems are lingering reminders of where the gods’ hands touched the earth during creation. Certain gems will call to the specific type of energy that flows in you. They work best in their natural form.” Raffaele holds up one of the gems. In the light, it looks jagged and clear. “Diamond, for instance.” He puts it down and picks up another, this one with a blue tint. “Veritium too. There’s prase quartz, moonstone, opal, aquamarine.” He lays out one after another. Finally, twelve different gems sit on the table, each glinting a different color under the light. “And nightstone,” he finishes. “One for each of the gods and angels. Some will call to you more than others.”
I look on, now more confused than wary. “Why do you tell me not to be alarmed?”
“Because in a moment, you’re going to feel something very strange.” Raffaele holds out a hand to me, gesturing for me to stand in the center of the room. Then he starts placing the gemstones in a careful circle around me. “Don’t fight it. Just calm yourself and let the energy flow.”
I hesitate, then nod.
He finishes placing the gems. I turn in place, looking at each of them with rising curiosity. Raffaele steps back, observes me for a moment, and then crosses his arms with a sweep of silk sleeves. “Now, I want you to relax. Clear your mind.”
I take a deep breath, then try to do as he says.
Silence. Nothing happens. I still my thoughts, thinking of calm water, of night. Nearby, Raffaele lowers his head in a nearly imperceptible nod.
I feel an odd tingling in my arms and at the back of my head. When I look down at the stones, I now see that five of them have started to glow, as if lit from within, in shades of crimson, white, blue, orange, and black.
Raffaele glides around me in a slow circle, his eyes alight with curiosity. The way he’s circling me feels almost predatory, especially when he passes to the weak side of my vision and I have to turn my face in order to keep him in view. He lifts one foot slightly, his bejeweled slipper pushing away each stone that did not glow. He picks up the five remaining stones, returns to the desk, and lays them carefully out.
Diamond, roseite, veritium, amber, nightstone. I bite my lip, impatient to find out what the five mean.
“Good. Now, I want you to look at the diamond.” For a moment, Raffaele doesn’t move. All he does is stare straight at me, his gaze calm and level, his hands slack at his sides. The distance between us seems to hum with life. I try to concentrate on the stone and keep myself from trembling.
Raffaele tilts his head.
I gasp. A rush of energy courses through me, something strong and light that threatens to carry me off my feet. I steady myself against the wall. A memory rushes through my mind, so vivid and bright that I could swear I was reliving it:
I am eight years old, and Violetta is six. We run out to greet our father, who has just returned from a monthlong trip to Estenzia. He picks up Violetta, laughs, and spins her in a circle. She squeals in delight as I stand by. Later that afternoon, I challenge Violetta to a race through the trees behind our home. I pick a route that is full of rocks and crevices, knowing full well that she has just recovered from a fever and is still weak. When Violetta trips over a root, skinning her knees, I smile and don’t stop to help her. I keep running, running, running until the wind and I become one. I don’t need my father to spin me in a circle. I can already fly. Later that night, I study the scarred, eyeless side of my face, the strings of my silver hair. Then I pick up my hairbrush and smash the mirror into a thousand pieces.
The memory fades away. The bright glow pulses inside the diamond for a moment before fading away. I take a shuddering breath, lost in a haze of wonder and guilt at the memory.
What was
that
?
Raffaele’s eyes widen, then narrow. He looks down at the diamond. I glance at it too, half expecting it to glow with some color—but instead I see nothing. Maybe I’m too far away to tell. He looks at me. “Fortuna, goddess of Prosperity. Diamond shows your alignment to power and ambition, the fire inside you. Adelina, can you hold your arms out to either side?”
I hesitate, but when Raffaele gives me an encouraging smile, I do as he says—I hold out my arms so that they are parallel to the floor. Raffaele moves the diamond aside and replaces it with the veritium, now bathed in light. He studies me for a bit, then reaches out and pretends to pull at something invisible in the air. I feel an odd, pushing sensation, like someone is trying to shove me aside, searching for my secrets. I instinctively push back. The veritium flashes and lets off a brilliant blue glow.
The memory that comes to me this time:
I am twelve. Violetta and I sit together in our library, where I read to her from a book cataloging flowers. I can still remember those illuminated pages, the parchment crinkling like skeleton leaves.
Roses are so beautiful,
Violetta sighs in her innocent way, admiring the book’s images.
Like you.
I stay silent. A while later, when she goes off to play at the harpsichord with Father, I venture out to the garden to look at our rosebushes. I study one of the roses carefully, and then look at my crooked ring finger that my father broke years earlier. On a strange impulse, I reach out and close my hand tightly around the rose’s stem. A dozen thorns slash into the flesh of my palm. Still, I clench my jaw and tighten my grip as hard as I can.
You’re right, Violetta.
Finally I release the stem, staring in wonder at the blood that blooms on my hand. Scarlet stains the thorns.
Pain enhances beauty,
I remember thinking.
The scene fades. Nothing else happens. Raffaele tells me to turn back around, and when I do, I notice the veritium is glowing a faint blue. At the same time, it gives off a tremulous note of music that reminds me of a broken flute.
“Sapientus, god of Wisdom,” Raffaele says. “You align with veritium for the truth in oneself, knowledge and curiosity.”
He moves on to the roseite without another word. For this one, he beckons me over to him and tells me to hum in front of it. When I do, a faint tingling runs down my throat, numbing it. The stone glows red for a long moment, then fades in a shower of glitter. The memory that accompanies it:
I am fifteen. Father has arranged for several suitors to come to our home and take a look at both Violetta and me. Violetta stays demure and sweet the whole time, her tiny mouth puckered into a rosy smile.
I hate it when they look at me too,
she always tells me.
But you have to try, Adelina.
I catch her in front of her mirror, pulling her neckline down so that it shows more of her curves, smiling at the way her hair falls over her shoulders. I don’t know what to make of it. The men admire her at the dinner. They chuckle and clink glasses. I follow Violetta’s example; I flirt and smile as hard as I can. I notice the hunger in their eyes whenever they glance at me, the way their stares linger on the line of my collarbone, my breasts. I know they want me too. They just don’t want me as a wife. One of them jokes about cornering me the next time I walk alone in our garden. I laugh with him. I imagine mixing poison into his tea, then watching his face turn purple and anguished; I picture myself leaning over him, looking on patiently, with my chin resting in my hands, admiring his dying, writhing body as I count out the minutes. Violetta doesn’t think such things. She sees happiness and hope, love and inspiration. She is our mother. I am our father.
Again the memory disappears into thin air, and again I find myself staring at Raffaele. There is a wariness in his gaze now, distance mixed with interest. “Amare, god of Love,” he says. “Roseite, for the passion and compassion in oneself, blinding and red.”
Finally, he holds up the amber and nightstone. The amber gives off a beautiful golden-orange color, but the nightstone is an ugly rock, dark and lumpy and dull. “What do I do this time?” I ask.
“Hold them.” He takes one of my hands in his. I blush at how smooth the palm of his hand is, how gentle his fingers feel. When he brushes past my broken finger, I wince and flinch away. He meets my gaze. Although he doesn’t ask why I reacted to the touch, he seems to understand. “It will be okay,” he murmurs. “Hold your hand open.” I do, and he carefully places the stones in my hand. My fingers close around them.
A violent shock ripples through me. A wave of bitter fury. Raffaele jumps backward—I gasp, then collapse to the ground. The whispers in the dark corners of my mind now spring free of their cages and fill my thoughts with their noise. They bring a flurry of memories, of everything I’ve already seen and everything I’ve fought to suppress. My father breaking my finger, shouting at me, striking me, ignoring me. The night in the rain. His shattered ribs. The long nights in the Inquisition’s dungeons. Teren’s colorless eyes. The crowd jeering at me, throwing stones at my face. The iron stake.
I squeeze my eye shut and press my hands tightly to my ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out, but the maelstrom grows thicker, a curtain of darkness that threatens to pull me under. Papers fly up from the desk. The glass of Raffaele’s lantern shatters.
Stop. Stop. STOP.
I will destroy everything in order to make it stop.
I will destroy all of you.
I grit my teeth as my fury swirls around me, seething and relentless, yearning to burst free. Through the whirlwind, I hear my father’s harsh whisper.
I know who you really are. Who will ever want you, Adelina?
My fury heightens.
Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.
Then the shrieking fades. My father’s voice vanishes, leaving memories of it trembling in the air. I stay on the ground, my entire body shaking with the absence of my unexpected anger, my face wet with tears. Raffaele keeps his distance. We stare at each other for a long time, until he finally walks over to help me to my feet. He gestures at the chair next to his table. I sit gratefully, soaking in the sudden peace. My muscles feel weak, and I can barely keep my head up. I have a sudden urge to sleep, to dream away my exhaustion.
After a while, Raffaele clears his throat. “Formidite and Caldora, the twin angels of Fear and Fury,” he whispers. “Amber, for the hatred buried in one’s chest. Nightstone, for the darkness in oneself, the strength of fear.” He hesitates, then looks me in the eye. “Something blackens your heart, something deep and bitter. It has festered inside you for years, nurtured and encouraged. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
My father was the one who nurtured it. I shiver, remembering the horrible illusions that have answered my call. In the corner of the room, my father’s ghost lurks, partially hidden behind the ivy wall.
He’s not really there, he’s an illusion, he’s dead.
But there’s no mistaking it—I can see his silhouette waiting for me, his presence cold and haunting.
I look away from him, lest Raffaele think that I’m losing my mind. “What . . . ,” I begin, then clear my throat. “What does it mean?”
Raffaele just gives me a sympathetic nod. He seems reluctant to discuss it any further, and I find myself eager to move on as well.
“We’ll see how Enzo feels about this, and what this means for your training,” he goes on in a more hesitant tone. He frowns. “It may take some time before you’ll be considered a member of the Dagger Society.”