by Marie Lu
I know. I know with absolute, searing certainty the Elite who aligns with the final god. But he is no ally of mine—or of anyone else. And he is waiting in chains in Kenettra.
“Teren Santoro,” I reply, turning back to Raffaele. “He will align with war.”
Magiano
In the first memory, the boy was seven years old. When he asked his priest what his name was, the priest told him that he had no need for a name. He was the Boy of Mensah, one of the young malfettos chosen to live at the Mensah temple in Domacca, and this was the only name he would ever need.
He trailed after the priest and looked on as she showed him how to properly tie down and slaughter a goat at the altar in front of the temple. She was kind and patient with him, and praised him for wielding the knife correctly. He remembered looking longingly at the meat, wishing he could eat it to fill the hollows of his stomach. But the malfettos in the Domaccan temples had to be fed very little. It kept them awake and alert, making it so that their senses were always on the prowl, searching for food. When he asked why this had to be, the priest told him gently that it was to strengthen his link to the gods, so that the priests could communicate through him.
In the second memory, the boy was nine years old, and the dark marking on his side now curved from the start of his ribs down to the bone of his hip. He had become friends with the Girl of Mensah, the second young malfetto in the temple, and the two of them played together when the priests weren’t there. They would sneak out to the date orchards or startle the goats into a frenzy. She would toy with his long braids, tying them into elaborate designs.
One day, when they were both particularly hungry, they stole peaches from the fruit bowl left before one of the altars. Oh, how good they tasted! Ripe and fat and bursting with juices. They giggled and rolled around when the priests were otherwise occupied. After all, there were three altars, and they could rotate between them. It turned into a regular habit between the girl and the boy, and they became skilled at it—until the day they stole not one fruit each, but two. That night, the boy saw his priest murmuring about him to three other priests at the temple. Then she found him, dragged him out of his bed, and ordered the others to hold him down. He screamed when she murmured soft verses to him and dug a blade into the edge of his marking.
In the third memory, the boy was about to turn twelve years old. The girl found him and told him about Magiano, a fishing village along Domacca’s Red River. She told him about a boat there that left once a week for the Ember Isles, laden with a cargo of spices. Will you meet me there? Tonight? she had asked him. He nodded, eager to go with her. She gripped his hands and smiled, telling him, No matter what happens, we look forward. Joy is out there, beyond these walls.
That night, he wrapped some fruit and dates in a blanket and crept out of the temple. He was almost beyond the gates when he heard the girl’s screams coming from near the altar. He turned back, desperate to save her—but it was too late. The Boy and Girl of Mensah had no need for names because they were to be sacrificed at the age of twelve, the holy number.
So the boy did the only thing he could. He fled the temple as the priests searched for him and did not stop running until he reached the village of Magiano. There, he huddled in the dark with the cargo until the boat came. As he sailed away into the dawn, he made himself two promises.
One: He would always have a name, and that name would be Magiano.
And two: No matter what happened, he would carry joy with him. Almost as if he were carrying her.
If one’s ship can brave the stormy seas on the path from the Ember Isles to the Skylands, he shall find himself sailing in the calmest waters, so calm that he may be in danger of stranding himself.
—Excerpt from the journals of Captain Morrin Vora
Adelina Amouteru
The following mornings dawn gray as the last clouds from Sergio’s storm linger. We sail for five days before we reach the Falls of Laetes that separate the Sunlands from the Sealands. Then we follow the chasm for another day until we reach the spot where the ocean comes back together, and here we finally sail around the edge. Baliras fly occasionally between the chasm’s gaping mouth—as majestic as I remember them—but they also seem exhausted, their flight slower, the glow of their translucent bodies somehow dimmer. I peer at the water tumbling into the chasm. The water looks as strange as when we left, an eerie near-black color, as if the hues of life were being sucked from its depths.
Even though Violetta and I are on the same ship, and even though Sergio visits her constantly every day . . . she never asks for me. I’m certainly not about to go to her myself, to give her the pleasure of turning me away. But every time Sergio comes out of her chambers, I’m there waiting, watching. Every time, he looks at me and shakes his head.
I can’t sleep tonight. The silence of the open ocean is too loud, giving too much room to the whispers in my mind. I’ve swallowed two mugs of herbal drink, and still they chatter away, their voices pulling me out of my sleep over and over until I finally give up and leave my quarters.
I wander out onto the deck alone. Even the sailors tending to the masts are asleep at this hour, and the seas are so still that I can barely hear the ripple of waves bumping against the hull of our ship. Not far from us sails the Tamouran ship carrying Raffaele and the Daggers, where scattered torches now shine in the night. My gaze goes from their ship up to the sky. It is a clear night. Stars dot the darkness overhead, familiar constellations of the gods and angels, myths and legends from long ago, layers and layers so thick that the sky glitters with them. The ocean mirrors their light tonight, so that we are sailing through a sea of stars.
My eye settles on a constellation comprising a half circle and a long line. The Fall of Laetes. If what Raffaele has told us is true, then we will not last long in this world with our powers. No matter what happens, whether our journey succeeds or we perish along the way, I will leave this world powerless. The whispers in my head recoil violently at that thought. My hands clench and unclench against the railing. I have to find a way to avoid such a fate—there must be a path that lets me live and preserves what makes me strong.
You can still turn your back on them. You can—
The sound of footsteps makes me whirl around. In the dim torchlight, I can make out Violetta approaching me, a heavy cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She looks gaunt and sickly, her eyes sunken, but she is standing on her own. She freezes at my movement. “Adelina,” she says.
It is the first word I’ve heard from her since she left me months ago. Even her voice sounds different now—fragile and hoarse, like it might break at any moment. Hostile. Distant.
I stiffen and turn away from her. “You’re awake,” I mutter. After so long, these are the only words I can think of to say in return.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she gathers the cloak tighter around herself, approaches the railing, and looks up at the night sky. “Sergio said you came to Tamoura to find me.”
I’m quiet for a long moment. “I went for many reasons. One of them happened to concern you, and a rumor that you were there.”
“Why did you want to find me?” Violetta turns her face away from the sky and toward me. When I don’t answer, she frowns. “Or did you remember me only after your invasion failed?”
The ice in her voice surprises me. I suppose it shouldn’t. “I wanted to tell you to return to Kenettra,” I reply. “That it is safe for you there, and that what I did—”
“You wanted to tell me to return?” Violetta laughs a little and shakes her head. “I would have refused, had you found me under different circumstances.”
The whispers tell me not to worry about her words, that they’re meaningless. But the sting of them still pains me. “Look at you,” I murmur. “Back to thinking about how noble you are.”
“And what about you? Telling yourself you’re improving these countries you march i
nto—thinking you’re doing something good—”
“I’ve never thought that,” I snap, cutting her off. “I do it because I want to, because I can. That’s what anyone truly means when they gain power and call it altruism, isn’t it? I’m just not afraid to admit it.” I sigh and look away again. I half expect Violetta to comment on my outburst, but she doesn’t.
“Why did you want to find me?” Violetta asks again, her voice quiet.
I lean heavily against the railing, searching for an honest answer. “I sleep poorly when you’re not around,” I finally mutter, irritated. “There are . . . voices that distract me when I’m alone.”
Violetta purses her lips. “It doesn’t matter. Here I am, and here you are. Are you happy now?” She lets another beat of silence pass between us. “Raffaele told me that I’ve been delirious for weeks, and that I only woke up after you arrived.”
She says it bitterly, like she doesn’t want to admit it. But it makes me look at her again, studying her expression as I try to figure out what she really thinks. She doesn’t say anything more, though. I wonder whether her words mean that she mourned my absence, that perhaps she would also lie awake at night, look to the side of her bed, and ponder why I wasn’t there. I wonder whether her sleep is filled with nightmares.
I wait for her to leave my side and return to her quarters. But, for some reason, she decides to remain on the deck with me, both of us unwilling to apologize, each of us trying to decipher the hidden messages in the other’s words, neither of us wanting to spend the night on our own. So we wait together, as we drift silently through the stars.
By the time we reach the Estenzian harbor, my Kenettran fleet has surrounded our ships on both sides and my Inquisitors are guiding us into the port. Violetta is quiet this morning; she’s returned to ignoring me, and I am satisfied to do the same. Magiano stays by me and frowns at the approaching harbor. Even though his stance is calm, I can feel the current of fear hidden underneath. He leans slightly toward me. “If Teren is not the one we need—”
“He is.” I straighten my back and lift my head. This is the heart of my empire. I am a queen again here, and I will not be questioned.
“We’ll have to watch another round of Raffaele conducting his tests.” Magiano grimaces at this, and I wonder again what he must have revisited during his own test.
Clouds hang heavy over the city as we head to the palace. Even the air feels stifling today, something like a humid afternoon but darker, more insidious, the signs of a different kind of storm. The Daggers travel behind us, led by a patrol of Tamouran soldiers. They are uneasy too. You can kill them all here, the whispers tell me impatiently. They are in your country, surrounded by your Inquisitors. Why don’t you act, little wolf?
I should. A part of me thrills at the thought of seeing the betrayal on Raffaele’s face. But instead, I lead them onward to the palace and down toward the dungeons. As we near Teren’s chamber, Raffaele seems to slow in his steps, as if the very air around us exhausts him. He must be able to sense Teren’s dark whirlwind of energy, and its effect is weighing him down.
Beside him is Violetta. She seems tired from the time spent on the deck last night, because she cannot stand on her own this morning. Sergio carries her. He does so without much effort, while Violetta clings to him as if she might fall apart. At least she’s awake. I force myself to look away from her.
When we reach the door to Teren’s dungeon, Sergio waves away the guards posted on either side. “No,” he tells them when they start to follow us in, as they normally would. “We’ll go alone.” The guards exchange a hesitant look, but Sergio just gives them a grim nod. They bow their heads and don’t challenge him.
We enter the chamber.
Sergio had sent word ahead of us that the Inquisitors posted inside the dungeon should leave today. So the chamber is empty, the sounds of the moat’s water amplified by their absence. The only figure in here sits crouched in the center of the rocky island, his tattered prison robes spread around him in a circle. He looks up when we enter. The dark shadows under his eyes seem even deeper than I remember, giving him a haunted look. Dried blood covers his wrists in a ring, and when I look closer, I can see the brighter, wetter appearance of fresh blood as well.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Magiano asks as we gather at the edge of the moat. “You can talk to him from here, can’t you?”
“I can,” I reply, even though both of us know the real answer. “But we cannot travel with someone who must be separated from us by chains and a moat.”
Magiano doesn’t argue. Instead, he gives my hand a subtle squeeze. His touch sends a spark of warmth through me.
Raffaele glances at Violetta. I look at my sister resting against Sergio’s shoulders. She stirs, her face ashen pale, then lets Sergio help her step gingerly down. Her energy lurches as she draws closer to me, and a cloud of fear hovers over her. I can’t tell whether her fear is because of Teren or me—or us both. Still, she doesn’t back away. She turns her attention to Teren’s direction, closes her hand into a fist, and pulls.
Teren’s eyes widen. He lets out a sharp gasp, then hunches over, his hands clawing at the rock beneath him. I recoil even as I watch this. I know the feeling well—it’s as if the air has suddenly been sucked out of my lungs, and the threads that make up my body are pulled taut until they threaten to snap. Teren lets out a soft groan, then looks at us again with hatred in his eyes.
Violetta puts her arm down and takes a deep breath. She’s shaking slightly; the lantern light in here highlights the trembling of her robes. Does she even have enough strength to use her power? “He’s ready,” she whispers.
Sergio affixes the rope bridge that will take us across the moat. Teren watches our approach, his eyes first on me, then on Raffaele. His stare lingers on Raffaele’s face. I glance back at Raffaele, searching his expression for a reaction—but true to his consort training, he has resumed a calm state, his fear now a subtle undercurrent beneath a veil of steel. He meets Teren’s gaze with his own level one. If he has noticed Teren’s wrist wounds, it doesn’t show.
“Well, Your Majesty,” Teren says in his usual taunting tone, addressing me without withdrawing his eyes from Raffaele’s face. A small smile plays on his lips, sending a chill down my spine. “You’ve brought a mutual enemy with you this time. Your tastes in torture seem to have evolved.”
“He’s even friendlier than I remember,” Magiano mutters from the other side of the moat.
I say nothing. Instead, I wait until we have gathered a few feet away from him, settling at the safe distance that Teren can’t reach in his chains.
Teren’s eyes find me again. “Why is he here?” he asks in a low voice.
I turn back to Sergio and nod. “Unchain him.”
Surprise flickers across Teren’s face. He stiffens as Sergio walks over, one hand resting on his sword hilt, and bends down to Teren’s wrists. Sergio twists a key in the shackles. They clatter one by one to the ground.
I brace myself. Teren lunged for me the last time I visited him in the dungeons—he may do so again now, even with his powers taken away. But instead, he just pushes himself to his feet and stares at me.
“What do you want now, little wolf?” he says.
At the shore across the moat, Magiano shifts. I can sense his unease, and my energy reaches for it. I let it strengthen me. I have lied to Teren before; I can do it again. “Haven’t you always hated the existence of the Elites, Teren?” I ask. “Haven’t you always hoped to see us destroyed, taken to the Underworld?”
Teren doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to, of course—everyone knows his answers to these questions.
“Well,” I reply, “I think the gods may grant your wish after all.”
Teren’s eerie smile vanishes. “Do not play games with the gods, Adelina,” he says.
“Do you want to hear more?”
Teren sneers at me. He takes a step closer, close enough that if he wanted to, he could reach out and seize my throat. “Do I have a choice?”
“We can leave, of course. You can go back into your shackles. You can crouch here for all of eternity, never again seeing the light of day, never dying. That is a part of your power too, isn’t it? Too strong, too invincible to die and end your own misery? What irony.” I tilt my head at him. “So. Do you want to hear more?”
Teren continues to stare. “Always playing games,” he finally says.
I glance at Raffaele. “You are going to have to trust us for a moment.”
Teren laughs at that. He shakes his head. “What has trust ever meant to any of you?” But when Raffaele steps forward to place his gemstones in a wide circle around Teren, he doesn’t react. He watches, noting each of the stones. When Raffaele finishes, he steps back and folds his arms. I crane my neck, too, suddenly curious. What memories will Raffaele see from Teren’s past? What does he align with?
What if he does not align with what we need after all?
The chamber falls into silence. Raffaele furrows his brows in concentration as he studies each of the gemstones. As we look on in the darkness, three of the gems take on a subtle glow. One is white, which I instantly recognize as diamond, as ambition; then, a bold, brilliant blue; finally, a scarlet so intense that the gem looks like it is bleeding. I release my breath. I recognize the blue glow—it is the same as one of my own alignments—the alignment to Sapientus, for wisdom and curiosity. But the scarlet . . .
When Raffaele reaches out, Teren stiffens, then gasps. His eyes become unfocused, as if he were reliving a memory—then he winces, squeezes his eyes shut, and turns away. I watch, fascinated, reminded of my own tests. I have never seen Teren vulnerable in this way before, his mind open to not only another person, but someone who is his enemy. Again and again, Raffaele reaches out, and again and again, Teren flinches and backs away from him. Ambition. Wisdom. And . . .
