I expect Magiano to be furious, or at least indignant. Instead, his pupils turn round, and a small grin plays underneath the fabric of his veil. “You tricked me,” he says again.
I’m silent. Everything seemed so crystal clear in the middle of the action. Now that we are here, and my body is weak and spent, I’m having trouble remembering all that took place. The same dizziness washes over me that I’d felt after Dante’s death, and Enzo’s. I close my eye and lean against the wall, trying not to think about the Night King’s blood spilling across the ground. If I’m not careful, I will conjure the illusion of him right here, his snarling face still pointed up at me.
After a while, Magiano folds his arms. “The Night King has ruled here for decades. I don’t think you understand the true weight of what you’ve done.” He pauses and lifts the veil to look more closely at us. “Or perhaps you do understand. By morning, every person in Merroutas will have heard your name. They will wonder and whisper over the White Wolf. They will fear you.” He shakes his head again, and this time, it is in admiration. “You may have just earned yourself an army of mercenaries.”
My heart starts to pound. No look of disgust from Magiano for what I did. No pitying gaze or wary expression. Admiration. After I killed a man. I don’t know how to feel. A sense of horror? Pride?
Violetta hands him the diamond pin. “Take it. You’re the one who wanted it.”
Magiano turns the pin over in his hands with a look of reverence.
“Why did you come back to help us?” I ask. “Does that mean …” I can’t quite bring myself to say it without hearing it first from him.
Magiano leans back against the wall and pulls his veil down. He gives us a wry look. “Do you know how much more notorious I could have been, if you were always close enough for me to mimic your power? Do you know what I could do, if we traveled together? And your sister, with her ability to take away an Elite’s power?” He looks curiously at her, and she coughs uncomfortably under his gaze. “Very interesting,” he murmurs. “Very interesting, indeed.”
I stand there and listen, still lost in a haze. I find myself wondering what he aligns with. Ambition. Greed. Something wicked, perhaps, like me. Again, I find myself wondering what’s going through his thoughts.
If you were able to kill a king, then perhaps you really can strike back against the Inquisition.
“Are you going to join us?” I ask.
He studies my face. Then he holds out a hand to me.
Raffaele Laurent Bessette
Raffaele sits atop a horse and enters the Estenzian gates behind Queen Maeve. With them are three of her brothers. Two of them, Augustine and Kester, ride beside her. Kester is an Elite, although Raffaele has yet to see his power in action. And the third brother is the youngest, the prince with the eerie energy, Tristan. Maeve’s white tiger prowls in front of her horse.
Raffaele keeps his head high and eyes level. A long blue cape trails behind him and spills down the hindquarters of his steed. Gold shackles adorn his wrists and neck. Inquisitors have fenced off a wide path for Maeve and her companions. People have turned out in droves to see her. They bow their heads, but with Inquisitors lining the path, they seem too afraid to cheer or applaud the malfetto queen. When they do dare to look up, they take in the sight of her enormous white cat with awe.
Raffaele stares at Tristan’s back. The entire two weeks they’d been at sea, the youngest prince had not said a word. Even now, whenever Maeve leans over to murmur something to him, he remains silent. His energy pulses in a strange, dark pattern. It distracts Raffaele. He shakes his head to clear it.
The prince is alive, he reminds himself. His strange energy is nothing to worry about. Enzo can live too. Isn’t that what I want?
The procession finally reaches the sprawling main square of Estenzia, directly in front of the palace. Today, the square is decorated with a series of white tents, their canvases billowing in the wind, and flags of both Kenettra and Beldain fly side by side over each tent. Under the largest tent, Queen Giulietta is seated on her makeshift throne, a large, ornately carved chair. The tent across from her has a second, empty throne. Reserved for Maeve. Between them is a wide stretch of pavement, where two lines of Inquisitors stand as a guard between the two queens.
Raffaele’s eyes fall on the Lead Inquisitor at Giulietta’s side. Teren. He stares back. Raffaele knows he recognizes him.
They make their way through the path until they reach the tents. Teren approaches. His pale eyes flick to Raffaele, settling there for a moment. Raffaele forces himself to look back. Teren seems surprised to see him. The Inquisitor would probably kill him, if the Beldish queen were not here. Instead, Teren stops before Maeve’s horse. He holds out a hand. Beside him, the white tiger growls but keeps his distance.