The Rose Society
Page 25
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He screams, faltering in his steps. To him, he is suddenly poised over a yawning cliff.
I reach for the Night King and wrap him in an illusion.
“What are you doing?” Violetta shouts. “This isn’t part of—”
The Night King draws his sword, points it at Violetta, and lunges. The blade sings through the air, aiming straight for my sister’s throat.
Too late, he realizes that his blade is an illusion. I vanish it in a puff of smoke. At the same time, I grab the real sword strapped to his waist. My limbs move of their own accord—I blink in and out of existence. The whispers in my mind burst from their cages, roaring, filling me with their hisses. I hold the sword straight out at him, right as he lunges into me.
His weight shoves me back. I feel the blade pierce through soft flesh. He lets out a gurgling scream as his own sword runs him through.
The man’s eyes bulge, and he lets out a strangled cry, like how the roasting pig must have sounded in its final moment. Blood spills down the front of his fine silks. I immediately let go of the sword, and he staggers backward several steps, both hands clutched tightly around the sword’s hilt in a vain attempt to pull it out. He looks back at me in confusion, as if he can’t believe he’s meeting his end at the hands of a young girl. He tries to say something, but he is too weak. He falls forward, going still as his side hits the ground, and blood spills around him in a widening circle.
For an instant, everyone—Violetta and I, the soldiers, the mercenaries—can only look on. Save your fury for something greater, she’d said to me.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to believe that my father would love me if I could just do the right thing. I tried and tried, but he didn’t care. Then, after he died, the Inquisition Axis came and arrested me. I tried to tell them of my innocence, but still they weighed me down in chains and dragged me off to burn at the stake. When I joined the Dagger Society in my search for Young Elites like myself, I did everything in my power to become one of them, to please them, and to fit in. I opened my heart to them. I tried to free myself from the trap that Teren Santoro set for me, forcing me to betray my newfound friends. I made mistakes. I trusted both too little and too much. But, by the gods, I tried so hard. I gave everything I had.
I have always done the best I could, and yet, somehow, it has never been enough. No one cared what I did. They always turned their backs on me.
Why can’t I be like that? Why can’t I be the father who just shrugs off the love of his daughter? Why can’t I be the Lead Inquisitor who enjoys watching his pleading victims burn at the stake? Why can’t I be the one who befriends a lonely, lost girl and then casts her out? Why can’t I be the one to strike first, to hit so early and with such fury that my enemies cower before they can ever think of turning on me?
What is so great about being good?
One of the mercenaries meets my gaze. “White Wolf,” he whispers, barely able to get the words out.
I stare back into his wide eyes. The fact that he recognizes my power and knows my Elite name would have frightened me, once—some will know that I was here, many will be after me. But I am not afraid, not at all. Let them know who did this, and let word of it get back to Kenettra.
“I can give you more than he ever did,” I reply, nodding once at the Night King’s body.
A whistle sounds out above us. I jerk my head up to see Magiano perched on the top of the wall. He scowls, then throws a rope to us. I just manage to shield my face with my arms before the rope hits me.
“You’re helping us?” Violetta calls up at him from her place by the wall.
Magiano puts something against the edge of the wall, then tightens the rope on top of it. “Help is a strong word for what I’m doing,” he calls, before vanishing over the top. Some of the mercenaries have broken out of their trance—they draw their weapons and lunge for us. I react the only way I know how. I throw invisibility over us, then seize the rope. Violetta grabs hold as well. The instant we do, the rope yanks us up into the air. As the mercenaries pause below us, we fly to the top of the wall and pull ourselves over. Violetta gets her footing first and helps me scramble to the other side. We jump down, tumbling several times before staggering to our feet.
Outside the estate, more soldiers race toward us. I feel the sudden sag of lost energy now, and my curtain over us flickers in and out, leaving us exposed. An arrow sings past my shoulder, nicking my sleeve. We rush toward the shadows of the closest alleyway, but the soldiers pursue us. They’re going to cut us off.
Suddenly, an illusion goes up behind us—a brick wall, as solid in appearance as something real. The soldiers send up bewildered shouts. Violetta glances back, startled, and then looks down at herself. We are invisible. Overhead, Magiano whistles at us again. He is mimicking me, I realize. And he’s protecting us.
As we run through a maze of narrow alleys, Magiano continues to create rapid illusions behind us, slowing the soldiers down until they sound far away. We dash through corridors of smoke and spice sacks, listening to the call of merchants blur into one long note around us. People make startled sounds whenever our invisible figures bump into them. We run for a long time, until we finally turn from the narrow marketplaces onto a quiet street, with nothing but lines of damp clothing hanging above us.
Magiano is nowhere to be seen. I slide down the wall until I’m crouched with my knees to my chin. I lower my head into my hands. Violetta does the same. Sweat beads our foreheads, and our breaths come at rapid speed. I can’t stop shaking. The terror that comes over someone before death is one of the sharpest surges of energy I can feel, and the death of the Night King now catches up to me. I want to lash out at something, anything, but I hold back and try to steady my breathing. Calm down. All I can do is picture the Night King’s shocked expression, the blood pooling around him. The scene plays over and over. My thoughts are a blur.
I reach for the Night King and wrap him in an illusion.
“What are you doing?” Violetta shouts. “This isn’t part of—”
The Night King draws his sword, points it at Violetta, and lunges. The blade sings through the air, aiming straight for my sister’s throat.
Too late, he realizes that his blade is an illusion. I vanish it in a puff of smoke. At the same time, I grab the real sword strapped to his waist. My limbs move of their own accord—I blink in and out of existence. The whispers in my mind burst from their cages, roaring, filling me with their hisses. I hold the sword straight out at him, right as he lunges into me.
His weight shoves me back. I feel the blade pierce through soft flesh. He lets out a gurgling scream as his own sword runs him through.
The man’s eyes bulge, and he lets out a strangled cry, like how the roasting pig must have sounded in its final moment. Blood spills down the front of his fine silks. I immediately let go of the sword, and he staggers backward several steps, both hands clutched tightly around the sword’s hilt in a vain attempt to pull it out. He looks back at me in confusion, as if he can’t believe he’s meeting his end at the hands of a young girl. He tries to say something, but he is too weak. He falls forward, going still as his side hits the ground, and blood spills around him in a widening circle.
For an instant, everyone—Violetta and I, the soldiers, the mercenaries—can only look on. Save your fury for something greater, she’d said to me.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to believe that my father would love me if I could just do the right thing. I tried and tried, but he didn’t care. Then, after he died, the Inquisition Axis came and arrested me. I tried to tell them of my innocence, but still they weighed me down in chains and dragged me off to burn at the stake. When I joined the Dagger Society in my search for Young Elites like myself, I did everything in my power to become one of them, to please them, and to fit in. I opened my heart to them. I tried to free myself from the trap that Teren Santoro set for me, forcing me to betray my newfound friends. I made mistakes. I trusted both too little and too much. But, by the gods, I tried so hard. I gave everything I had.
I have always done the best I could, and yet, somehow, it has never been enough. No one cared what I did. They always turned their backs on me.
Why can’t I be like that? Why can’t I be the father who just shrugs off the love of his daughter? Why can’t I be the Lead Inquisitor who enjoys watching his pleading victims burn at the stake? Why can’t I be the one who befriends a lonely, lost girl and then casts her out? Why can’t I be the one to strike first, to hit so early and with such fury that my enemies cower before they can ever think of turning on me?
What is so great about being good?
One of the mercenaries meets my gaze. “White Wolf,” he whispers, barely able to get the words out.
I stare back into his wide eyes. The fact that he recognizes my power and knows my Elite name would have frightened me, once—some will know that I was here, many will be after me. But I am not afraid, not at all. Let them know who did this, and let word of it get back to Kenettra.
“I can give you more than he ever did,” I reply, nodding once at the Night King’s body.
A whistle sounds out above us. I jerk my head up to see Magiano perched on the top of the wall. He scowls, then throws a rope to us. I just manage to shield my face with my arms before the rope hits me.
“You’re helping us?” Violetta calls up at him from her place by the wall.
Magiano puts something against the edge of the wall, then tightens the rope on top of it. “Help is a strong word for what I’m doing,” he calls, before vanishing over the top. Some of the mercenaries have broken out of their trance—they draw their weapons and lunge for us. I react the only way I know how. I throw invisibility over us, then seize the rope. Violetta grabs hold as well. The instant we do, the rope yanks us up into the air. As the mercenaries pause below us, we fly to the top of the wall and pull ourselves over. Violetta gets her footing first and helps me scramble to the other side. We jump down, tumbling several times before staggering to our feet.
Outside the estate, more soldiers race toward us. I feel the sudden sag of lost energy now, and my curtain over us flickers in and out, leaving us exposed. An arrow sings past my shoulder, nicking my sleeve. We rush toward the shadows of the closest alleyway, but the soldiers pursue us. They’re going to cut us off.
Suddenly, an illusion goes up behind us—a brick wall, as solid in appearance as something real. The soldiers send up bewildered shouts. Violetta glances back, startled, and then looks down at herself. We are invisible. Overhead, Magiano whistles at us again. He is mimicking me, I realize. And he’s protecting us.
As we run through a maze of narrow alleys, Magiano continues to create rapid illusions behind us, slowing the soldiers down until they sound far away. We dash through corridors of smoke and spice sacks, listening to the call of merchants blur into one long note around us. People make startled sounds whenever our invisible figures bump into them. We run for a long time, until we finally turn from the narrow marketplaces onto a quiet street, with nothing but lines of damp clothing hanging above us.
Magiano is nowhere to be seen. I slide down the wall until I’m crouched with my knees to my chin. I lower my head into my hands. Violetta does the same. Sweat beads our foreheads, and our breaths come at rapid speed. I can’t stop shaking. The terror that comes over someone before death is one of the sharpest surges of energy I can feel, and the death of the Night King now catches up to me. I want to lash out at something, anything, but I hold back and try to steady my breathing. Calm down. All I can do is picture the Night King’s shocked expression, the blood pooling around him. The scene plays over and over. My thoughts are a blur.
