Raffaele’s attention then shifts to one of the princes watching. The youngest one. His frown deepens. There is an energy about this one too. But it is not like an Elite’s energy, threads of vigor, of the world that is alive. He blinks, confused. When he reaches out to touch this strange force, his own strength immediately recoils, as if burned by something cold as ice.
The clash of swords brings him back to watching the duel. Maeve swings again and again at her older brother. She pushes him to the edge of their circle, where the soldiers stand guard—and then, all of a sudden, her brother starts striking back viciously, forcing her into the center again. Raffaele watches them closely. Even though the prince is taller than Maeve by a good foot, she doesn’t seem intimidated. Instead, she calls out a taunt as she pushes against his blade, laughs again, and spins. She tries to catch her brother off guard, but he sees her move first. He suddenly crouches down, aiming for her legs. She catches her mistake too late—and falls.
The prince stands over her, his sword pointing at her chest. He shakes his head. “Better,” he says. “But you still strike too eagerly before you can tell exactly where my attack will go.” He gestures to his arm, then makes a slow, swinging motion. “See this? This is what you didn’t catch. Look for the angle before you choose to strike.”
“She caught it, Augustine,” one of the other princes chimes in. He winks at Maeve. “She just didn’t react fast enough.”
“I would’ve reacted fast enough to dodge your attacks,” Maeve calls backward, pointing her sword at her second brother. Several of the other princes chuckle at her answer. “And you’d be limping home by nightfall.” She sheathes her sword, walks over to rub the tiger behind his ears, and nods at Augustine. “I’ll do better, I promise. Let’s practice again in the afternoon.”
Raffaele looks on as the prince gives his little sister a smile and a bow. “As you wish,” he replies.
Then, at her brothers’ gesturing, she turns her attention to the Daggers. Michel and Gemma kneel immediately. Her eyes fall first on Lucent—a flash of recognition darts across her face—and her lighthearted mood instantly transforms into something serious. She says nothing. Instead, she waits while Lucent kneels and bows her head, her curls tumbling forward. Maeve watches her for a moment longer. Then her piercing stare darts to Raffaele, and he lowers his lashes. He follows Lucent’s lead.
“Your Majesty,” he says.
She leans one hand on her sword’s hilt. Her cheeks are still flushed with excitement. “Look at me,” she commands. When he does, she continues, “Are you Raffaele Laurent Bessette? The Messenger?”
“I am, Your Majesty.”
Maeve regards him for a moment. She seems to study the summer green of his left eye, then the honey gold of his right. Her teeth flash at him in a wild smile. “You’re as beautiful as they say. A lovely name, for a lovely face.”
Raffaele lets himself blush, tilting his head in the familiar, subtle way he always did to his clients. “You honor me, Your Majesty. I’m flattered that my reputation has traveled as far as Beldain.”
Maeve watches him thoughtfully. “You were Prince Enzo’s most trusted adviser. He spoke very fondly of you. And now I see you have taken his place as the leader of the Daggers. Congratulations.”
Raffaele’s heartbeat quickens as he tries to ignore the familiar pang that Enzo’s name brings. “It is not something I celebrate,” he replies.
Maeve’s eyes soften for a moment, perhaps in remembrance of her own mother’s death. There seems to be something else about Enzo’s death that intrigues her, a fleeting emotion that Raffaele senses in her heart, but she decides against mentioning it, leaving him to wonder. “Of course not,” she says in the end.
Augustine whispers something in her ear. The young queen leans toward him—and although she focuses her attention on Raffaele, he can tell by the shift of her energy that she really wants to pay attention to Lucent. “Prince Enzo’s death is not in my favor, as I’d hoped he would open trade between Kenettra and Beldain. Nor is it in your favor, Messenger, because he has left you leaderless. But the king, too, has died. Giulietta rules in his place now, you say, and new malfetto refugees arrive in my country every day.”
“You are kind for taking us in, Your Majesty.”
“Nonsense.” Maeve waves a hand impatiently, motioning for all of them to rise. When they do, she whistles for her horses. Her white tiger rises from his resting spot and saunters over to her side. “The gods created the blood fever, Raffaele,” she says as they all pull themselves into saddles, “and so they also created the marked and the Elite. It is blasphemy to kill the children of the gods.” She taps her horse’s hindquarters with her heels, then starts leading them up a higher hill. “I didn’t take you in out of kindness, though. Your Daggers are weakened now. Your leader is dead, and I hear rumors that one of your own turned her back on you, that she was working with the Inquisition. Your patrons have either given up and fled or have been captured and killed.”
“Except you,” Raffaele says. “Your Majesty.”