But what holds his attention the most are the markings covering her arms.
This girl, the Elite who was once unmarked, now has markings that stretch all across her skin. They look like bruises, black and blue and red, irregular maps that crisscross her arms and overlap one another. They stretch up to her neck and disappear down her nightgown. Raffaele suppresses the gasp in his throat.
“She doesn’t seem fully conscious,” Lucent says. “She was fine yesterday—she was walking around, talking, smiling.”
“She was tired,” he replies, running a hand in the air over her body, thinking back to how weary her smile had seemed. The threads of her energy tangle, weaving and unweaving. “I should have sensed it last night.”
But even he could never have guessed how drastically this could happen, how Violetta could go to bed an unmarked Elite and appear this morning as if she had been beaten. Was this triggered by her wading into the poisoned ocean? It is all coming to pass. The thought floods his mind even as he tries to ignore it. It is the same phenomenon that is hollowing out Lucent’s bones, that had killed Leo by turning his venomous power back on himself, and that will eventually happen to the rest of us. A side effect directly related to her power. For Violetta, whose ability had once protected her from markings like the others’, is now facing the opposite—her power has turned viciously on her.
Raffaele shakes his head as he studies her energy. She will die. And it will happen sooner than for any of us.
I have to tell Adelina. There is no other choice.
He straightens and takes a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is calm and unwavering. “Bring me a quill and parchment. I need to send a dove.”
And they say she loathed everyone in the whole wide world,
except for the boy from the bell tower.
—Lady of Dark Days, by Dahntel
Adelina Amouteru
It is only early afternoon, but a cold drizzle has settled over the city, bringing with it a layer of mist that dampens the light. Sergio has retired to his chambers, complaining of dizziness and thirst, his lips parched. I step out into the city streets alone, clad in a white hooded cloak shielding my hair from the elements. I’m completely hidden behind an illusion of invisibility. The rain dots my face with tiny pinpricks of ice, and I close my eye, savoring the feeling.
I’ve made it a habit to visit the bathhouse after my visits with Teren, so that I can wash away the flecks of his blood on my skin and cleanse myself of the memory of his presence. Even so, the look in his pale eyes lingers long after I leave his cell. Now I point my boots in the direction of the palace’s bathhouse. I could reach it from the corridors within the palace—but out here, the grounds are peaceful, and I can be alone with my thoughts under a gray sky.
A pair of men are standing across the bridge that leads to the palace’s entrance, their eyes fixed on the main gates. They are whispering something to each other. I slow my steps, then turn to watch them. One is tall and blond, perhaps too blond to be Kenettran, while the other is short and dark-haired, with olive skin and a weak chin. Their clothes are damp in the drizzle, as if they’ve been standing outside for a long time.
What are they whispering? The words creep out of the shadows of my mind, their claws clicking. Perhaps they are whispering about you. About how to kill you. Even your sweet thief warned you of rats that could slip through the cracks.
I turn away from the path leading to the bathhouse and decide to follow the men. As I cross the bridge, still hidden behind my invisibility, they finish their conversation and continue on their way. My White Wolf banners, the new flags of the country, hang from windows and balconies, the white-and-silver cloth stained and soaked. Only a smattering of people walk the streets today, all huddled under cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, kicking up mud as they go. I watch them suspiciously, even as I trail behind the two men.
As I walk, the world around me takes on a glittering sheen. My whispers grow louder, and as they do, the faces of people I pass start to look distorted, as if the rain has blurred my vision and smeared wet streaks across their features. I blink, trying to focus. The energy in me lurches, and for a moment I wonder if Enzo is pulling on our tether from across the seas. The two men I’m following are close enough now that bits of their conversation drift to me, and I quicken my steps, curious to hear what they have to say.
“—to send her troops back to Tamoura, but—”
“—that difficult? I’d hardly think she would care if—”
They are talking about me.
The blond man shakes his head, one hand held out as he explains something in obvious frustration. “—and that’s it, isn’t it? The Wolf couldn’t care less whether the markets sold us rotting vegetables. I can’t remember the taste of a fresh fig. Can you?”
The other man nods sympathetically. “Yesterday, my littlest daughter asked me why the fruit merchants have two piles of produce now—and why they hand the fresh food to malfetto buyers, the rotten food to us.”
A cold, bitter smile twists my lips. Of course I had designed this law precisely to make sure that the unmarked suffered. After the ordinance first came into effect, I’d spent time walking the markets, relishing the sight of unmarked people grimacing at the rotten food they brought home, forcing it into their mouths out of hunger and desperation. How many years have we waited for our own fair treatment? How many of us have been pelted in the streets by blackened cabbage and meat filled with maggots? The memory of my own burning so long ago comes back to me, and along with it, the smell of the spoiled food that had once struck me. Take back your rotting weapons, I vow silently, and fill your mouths with them. Eat it until you love it.
The men continue on, oblivious that I’m listening to every word. If I revealed myself to them now, would they fall to their knees and beg forgiveness? I could execute them here, spill their blood right in the streets, for daring to use the word malfetto. I let myself indulge in the thought as we turn a corner and enter the Estenzian piazza where the annual horse races of the Tournament of Storms are held. The square is mostly empty this morning, painted gray by the clouds and rain.
“If I saw her right now,” one of the men says, shaking water from his hood, “I’d shove that rotten food back in her mouth. Let her taste that for herself, and see if it’s worth eating.”
His companion lets out a bark of laughter.
So brave, when they think no one else is listening. I stop in the square, but before I let them go about their day, I open my mouth and speak.
“Careful. She is always watching.”
Both of them hear me. They freeze in their steps and whirl around, their faces taut with fear. They search for who might have said it. I stay invisible in the center of the piazza, smiling. Their fear spikes, and as it does, I inhale deeply, relishing the spark of power behind their energy. I’m tempted to reach out and seize it. Instead, I just look on as the men turn pale as ghosts.
“Come on,” the blond man whispers, his voice choking with terror. He has begun to tremble, although I doubt it’s from the cold, and a hint of tears beads in his eyes. His face blurs in my vision, smearing like the rest of the world, and for an instant, all I can see are streaks of black where his eyes should be, a slash of pink where his mouth once was. The two hurry off through the piazza.