The Midnight Star (3 page)

What weakness will soon manifest in him?

“I heard about Adelina's latest conquest,” Violetta says when they finally reach the stairway leading out of the palace.

Raffaele only nods.

Violetta glances at him furtively. “Do you think . . . ?”

How hard she tries. Raffaele can feel his heart reaching out to her, wishing to comfort her, but all he can do is take her hand and soothe her temporarily with a tug of her heartstrings. He shakes his head.

“But—I hear she is offering generous payments to the citizens of Dumor,” Violetta replies. “She's been more generous than she could be. Perhaps if we could only find a way to—”

“She is beyond help,” Raffaele says softly. An answer he has given many times. He is not certain that he believes it, not entirely, but he cannot bear to raise Violetta's hopes only to see them crushed. “I'm sorry. We need to concentrate on defending Tamoura against Adelina's next move. We must make a stand somewhere.”

Violetta looks back toward the shoreline and nods. “Of course,” she says, as if convincing herself.

She is not like the others. She aligns with gems, of course—with fear, empathy, and joy—but she has no markings to speak of. Her ability to take away others' powers makes him uneasy. And yet, Raffaele cannot help feeling a bond with her, a comfort in knowing that she, too, can
feel
the world around her.

None of the three moons nor any stars are visible tonight;
only clouds blanket the sky. Raffaele offers Violetta his arm as they pick their way carefully down the stony path. A hint of charge lingers in the warm winds, prickling his skin. As they make their way around the edge of the estate, the shore comes into view, a line of white foam crashing into black space.

Now he senses what had troubled Violetta. Right along the shore where the sand turns cold and wet, the feeling is incredibly strong, as if all the strings in the world were pulled tight. The waves spray him with flecks of salt water. The night is so dark that they cannot make out any other details around them. Large, looming masses of rock lie nearby, nothing more than black silhouettes. Raffaele stares at them, feeling a sense of dread. There is a pungent scent in the air.

Something is wrong.

“There is death here,” Violetta whispers, her hand quivering against Raffaele's arm. When he looks at her, he notices that her eyes seem haunted, the same look she has whenever she talks about Adelina.

Raffaele scans the horizon. Yes, something is very wrong, an unnatural energy permeating the air. There is so much of it, he cannot tell where it is coming from. His eyes settle on a dark patch far in the distance. He stares at it for a while.

A series of lightning streaks breaks through the sky, carving trails from the clouds to the sea. Violetta flinches, waiting for the thunderclap to follow, but there is none, and the silence raises the hairs on the back of Raffaele's neck. Finally,
after an eternity, a low rumble shakes the ground. His eyes travel down to the waves crashing along the shore, then stop again on the black silhouettes of rock.

The lightning flashes again. This time, the glow lights up the shore for a brief moment. Raffaele steps backward, taking in the sight.

The black silhouettes are not rocks at all. They are baliras, at least a dozen of them, beached and dead.

Violetta's hands fly to her mouth. For a moment, all Raffaele can do is stay where he is. Many sailors told stories about where baliras went when they died—some said they would go far out into the open ocean, where they would swim lower and lower until they sank to the depths of the Underworld. Others said they would leap out of the water and fly higher and higher, until they were swallowed up by the clouds. The occasional rib bone washed ashore, bleached white. But never had he seen a dead balira in the flesh before. Certainly not like this.

“Don't come closer,” Raffaele whispers to Violetta. The smell in the air grows more pungent as he draws near, now unmistakably the smell of rotting flesh. As he reaches the first balira, he extends a hand out toward it. He hesitates, then places his fingers gently against its body.

The beast twitches once. This one is just an infant, and it is not dead yet.

Raffaele's throat tightens, and tears fill his eyes. Something terrible killed these creatures. He can still feel the poisonous
energy coursing through its veins, can sense its weakness as it takes another low, rasping gasp of air.

“Raffaele,” Violetta calls out. When he looks over his shoulder, he sees her wading into the waves as they break against the beach. The hem of her dress is soaked, and she is quaking like a leaf.
Get out of there,
Raffaele wants to warn her.

“This feels like Adelina's energy,” Violetta finally says.

Raffaele takes a hesitant step toward the ocean, then another. He walks forward until his slippers sink into wet sand. He sucks his breath in sharply.

The water is cold in a way that he has never felt before, cold like
death
. A thousand threads of energy tug at his feet as the water recedes, as if each one were barbed with tiny hooks, seeking a living being. It sends his skin crawling in the same way a rotting fruit filled with maggots would. The ocean is full of poison, deep and dark and vile. Beneath it churns a layer of energy that is furious and frightening, something he had only once felt in Adelina. He thinks of Enzo's strange distraction tonight, the faraway look in his half-alive eyes. The way he seemed drawn to the ocean. Raffaele remembers the storm that raged on the night when they'd brought Enzo back from the depths of the sea, where the edge of the living world ended and the world of the dead began.

Beside him, Violetta remains frozen in place as the water sways against her legs.

Raffaele takes a few more steps into the ocean, until the waves come up to his waist. The cold water numbs him. He
looks up again to where the silent lightning storm rages, and tears begin to spill down his cheeks.

Indeed, this feels like Adelina's energy. Like fear and fury.
It is energy from another realm, threads from beneath the surface, an immortal place never meant to be disturbed. Raffaele trembles.

Something is poisoning the world.

Even now, decades later, I fear nothing so much as the open ocean at night, with darkness stretching around me in every direction.

—The Journals of Reda Harrakan,
translated by Bianca Bercetto

A
full week later, the wound in my arm still throbs when I move too quickly. A thick layer of bandages covers it. I wince as I make my way down the ramp to the Estenzian harbor, hoping I haven't broken open the skin again.

The harbor today is filled with the stench of rotting fish. I wrinkle my nose as soldiers lead us to a series of carriages awaiting our arrival. Beside me, Sergio walks with one hand resting permanently on the hilt of his sword. He leans toward me. “Your Majesty,” he says. The title flows as naturally from him as if I were born to the throne. “My men have captured several citizens accused of trying to breach the palace gates. They're in the Inquisition Tower now, but I'd rather not take any chances.”

I glance at him. “And what are they so unhappy about?”

“Giving up their land to the marked. Your new decree.”

“And what are you planning to do with those prisoners?”

Sergio shrugs. He adjusts his cloak to wrap more snugly around his shoulders, then takes a long swig of water from his canteen. “Whatever you like. You're the queen.”

I wonder whether he thinks differently of me than he did of the Night King of Merroutas. I'd like to believe Sergio respects me more than that. The Night King was weak, an enemy of the marked, a drunk, and a fool. I pay Sergio far more than that man ever did. Sergio's armor is lined with threads of gold, his cloak woven from the finest, heaviest silks in the world, embroidered with the initials of their makers.

The whispers laugh at me.
Watch your back, little wolf,
they say.
Enemies arise from unexpected places.

I push stubbornly, in vain, against their words. Sergio will stay loyal to me, just as Magiano will. I have given them everything they could ever want.

But you
can't
give them everything they want—they will always want more than they have.

I remind myself to prepare another herbal drink once I'm inside the palace. My head has started to throb from their incessant noise, chattering away, echoing in my mind all throughout our journey home. “Have them publicly executed,” I reply, trying to drown out the whispers with my voice. “Hanging, please. You know how I feel about burnings.”

Sergio, as usual, doesn't bat an eye. The Night King had
commanded him to do much worse. “Consider it done, Your Majesty.” He waits as I duck into the carriage and then lowers his face close to mine. “Stop by the dungeons when you arrive at the palace,” he says.

“Why?” I reply.

A flicker of doubt crosses Sergio's face. “I've gotten word from the keeper that something is wrong with Teren.”

A prickling feeling runs down my spine. Sergio has never liked me visiting Teren in the dungeons—so for him to tell me that I should go there now is surprising. The whispers instantly unearth an irrational thought.
He wants you to visit Teren because he wants you dead. Everyone wants you dead, Adelina, even a friend like Sergio. He's luring you there so that Teren can slit your throat.
They cackle, and for a moment I genuinely believe them. I hold my breath and force myself to think of something else.

Whatever's happened to Teren must be serious enough that Sergio wants me to see him. That's all.

“I'll have the carriages go around to the back gate,” I say.

“And you should take a different route to the palace. A more discreet one.”

I scowl. I'm not about to cower in my own alleys just because a few people have made the foolish decision to attack my gates. “No,” I reply. “We've been through this. I will take my public route, and the people
will
see me in my carriage. They are not ruled by a coward queen.”

Sergio utters an annoyed grunt, but doesn't argue with
me. He just bows again. “As you wish.” Then he rides off to the front of our procession.

I peer outside the window in the hopes of seeing Magiano. He should be riding behind me, but he's not there. I continue looking as my carriage lurches forward and we gradually leave the pier behind.

Months have passed since I last set foot in Estenzia. It is early spring, and as we ride, I notice the familiar things first—the flowers blooming in clusters along windowsills, the vines hanging down thick and green along narrow side streets, bridges arching over canals, filled with people.

Then there are the changes.
My
changes. The marked, no longer called
malfettos
, own property and shops. Others make way for them as they pass through the crowds. I see two Inquisitors dragging an unmarked person through a plaza even as he struggles and cries. On another street, a group of marked children surround an unmarked one, throwing rocks, shoving him hard to the ground as he screams. Inquisitors standing nearby don't stop them, and I turn my gaze away in disinterest as well. How many rocks had once been thrown at me as a child; how many marked children had once been burned alive in the streets? How ironic to see these white-cloaked soldiers I once feared so much now obeying my every command.

We take a turn onto a small street, then lurch to a stop. Ahead, I hear a group of people shouting, their voices drawing close to my carriage. Protesters. My energy stirs.

A familiar voice drifts over to us from outside. An instant
later, something lands on the roof of the carriage with a thud. I lean out of the window and look up—just as a protester darts through the narrow street toward me.

Right away, Magiano's head appears over the roof of the carriage. I have no idea where he came from, but I realize he was what had landed on top. He casts me a quick look before turning his attention to the crowd. Then he hefts a knife in one hand and leaps down from the carriage directly in front of the first protester, putting himself between me and the mob.

“I think you're heading in the wrong direction,” Magiano says to him, giving him a dangerous smile.

The protester wavers briefly at the sight of Magiano's dagger. Then he narrows his eyes and points a finger at me. “She's starving us to death!” he shouts. “This
demon
,
malfetto
, false queen—!”

I shift focus to the protester and his words falter at the sight of my face. Then I smile at him, reach for his threads of energy, and weave.

A burning sensation along your arms and legs, a feeling that turns into fire. You look down, and what do you see? Spiders, scorpions, spiny-legged monsters, seething and crawling all over your body. There are so many that you cannot see your skin anymore.

The man looks down at himself. He opens his mouth in a silent scream and staggers back.

They are pouring into your mouth, out through your eyes. They will eat you alive, from the outside in.

“Now, tell me again,” I say as he finally finds his voice and shrieks. “What were you saying?”

The man collapses to the ground. His cries fill the air. Other protesters behind him pause at the sight of his writhing figure. I continue to weave, strengthening the illusion again and again until the man faints from the agony. Then my Inquisitors—white cloaks flying, blades drawn—descend on the rest of them, shoving those they catch to the ground. Ahead of us, I glimpse Sergio's heavy cloak and grim face, angrily shouting orders at his patrol.

You can finish him now,
the whispers roar, urging me to stare at the man I'd attacked.
Come now, do it, you want to so badly.
They're dancing with glee in the air around me, their voices mixing together into one maelstrom. I close my eye, suddenly dizzy from their noise, and my sudden weakness only strengthens their shouts.
You want to, you know you want to.
A cold sweat breaks out on my arms. No, it's too soon since I killed in Dumor. Ever since I took Dante's life in that narrow alley not far from here, I've learned that the more I kill, the more my illusions grow, and the more they spiral out of my control as they feed on the strength of a dying man's terror. If I take another life now, I know I will spend tonight drowning in my nightmares, clawing helplessly at a wall of my own illusions.

I should have heeded Sergio's warning.

“Adelina.” Magiano is calling my name. He's standing over the unconscious man, dagger still drawn, giving me a questioning look.

“Get him out of the street,” I command. My voice comes
out weak and hoarse. “And have him sent to the Inquisition Tower.”

Magiano doesn't hesitate. He drags the protestor to the side of the street, out of the way of the carriage, and then waves a hand at the two nearest Inquisitors. “You heard the queen,” he calls out. As he passes my window, I overhear him mutter something to one of the Inquisition soldiers behind my carriage. “Keep a better eye on our path,” he says, “or I'll make sure you are all tried for treason.”

What if some of my own men are starting to slack on their responsibilities too? What if they want me dead? I turn back to the scene outside, refusing to show even a hint of insecurity, daring them to challenge me.

“That's better.” Magiano's voice drifts over again from outside, and an instant later he's hopped through the window and seated himself right beside me in the carriage, bringing with him the scent of the wind. “I don't remember protests happening quite this often,” he adds. His tone is lighthearted, but I recognize it as the one he takes on when he's concerned.

My side is pressed against his, and I find myself hoping that he stays in here with me for the rest of the ride. “When we reach the palace,” I say softly, “have the Inquisitors brought to the tower for questioning. I don't want a rat in my midst, plotting behind my back.”

Magiano watches me carefully. “It will be impossible to catch all the rats, my love,” he says. His hand brushes against
mine. “Sooner or later, one will squeeze through the cracks. You need to be more careful.”

What a funny thing to say. Perhaps
he
is the rat.
The whispers dissolve into laughter.

“In good time,” I reply, “we won't have to use violence to get our way. The people will eventually realize that the marked are here now, that we will remain in power. Then we can live in peace.”

“Peace,” Magiano replies, still lighthearted. He hops back up and crouches on the seat. “Of course.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “No one is forcing you to stay here, of course, in service to me. You are free to come and go as you wish. You're an Elite, after all. The greatest of mankind.”

Magiano frowns. “No,” he agrees. “No one is forcing me to stay.”

There's another emotion buried in his words. I blush. I'm about to add something, but then he nods politely and hops through the window again. “Happy ride, Your Majesty,” he calls. “I'll be in the baths, soaking off the dirt of this journey.”

I'm tempted to get out of the carriage with him, and let him take us both away to the baths—but instead I slump back in my seat. There is a tightness in my chest now that I work to unknot. I'll find Magiano later, apologize to him for dismissing his companionship so carelessly, thank him for always watching me from a distance.

Perhaps it's not you he's protecting,
the whispers taunt,
but
his own fortune. Why hurt the queen who holds the strings of his purse? Why else does he stay?

Maybe they're right. The whispers burrow into my mind, digging their little claws in deeper, and the rest of the ride passes in silence. Finally, we reach the gates at the back of the palace, and the carriages roll into the royal grounds.

I have been the Queen of Kenettra for a year. And yet, entering the palace grounds still feels strange and surreal. This had once been where Enzo, as a child, had dueled with a young Teren in the courtyards, where Teren had watched the princess Giulietta from his hiding place in the trees. Enzo's steps had graced these paths, had been pointed at the throne room where he was meant to sit, what I had once wanted to help him achieve. Now he is gone, an abomination somewhere on the other side of the ocean. Even his sister has long passed into the Underworld, and Teren is my prisoner.

I am the one sitting in the throne room.

Alone. Just the way you like it.
I have to force away the image of my sister's face, the tears I'd seen on her cheeks as she turned her back on me for the last time. I push aside a vision of Enzo and his look of utter hatred as we faced each other on the deck of Queen Maeve's ship. As if in response, the tether between us pulls taut for a moment, making me gasp.

Sometimes I wonder if it is Enzo trying to reach out through the miles separating us, attempting to control me. I do the same back. But he is too far away.

Sergio opens my carriage door, offering me his arm as I step down. Several Inquisitors are waiting to greet us, and
when they see me, they lower their heads. I pause for a moment before we enter the palace to look at each of them. “We've won a stunning victory. Go bathe, drink, and rest. I will tell your captains to clear your training schedules for today. Remember, you are a part of my personal guard now, and you will be afforded every luxury. If anyone fails to meet your expectations, report them to me, and I will see to their immediate removal.”

Their eyes light up at that. I leave them before they can respond. Let them know me as their benefactor, the one who gave them everything they could ever desire. It should keep them loyal.

As the Inquisitors scatter, I walk with Sergio toward a small side entrance. He waves two of his former mercenaries over to follow me. We pass the front of the procession, and as we go, I see Magiano lounging near the back entrance of the palace, dressed as if ready to head for the baths, while one of the royal maids hands him his cloak. She's a girl I've seen talking to him on several occasions. Today, something she says is making him laugh. Magiano smiles and shakes his head at her before heading off in the direction of the baths.