The memory fades away. The bright glow pulses inside the diamond for a moment before fading away. I take a shuddering breath, lost in a haze of wonder and guilt at the memory.
What was that?
Raffaele’s eyes widen, then narrow. He looks down at the diamond. I glance at it too, half expecting it to glow with some color—but instead I see nothing. Maybe I’m too far away to tell. He looks at me. “Fortuna, goddess of Prosperity. Diamond shows your alignment to power and ambition, the fire inside you. Adelina, can you hold your arms out to either side?”
I hesitate, but when Raffaele gives me an encouraging smile, I do as he says—I hold out my arms so that they are parallel to the floor. Raffaele moves the diamond aside and replaces it with the veritium, now bathed in light. He studies me for a bit, then reaches out and pretends to pull at something invisible in the air. I feel an odd, pushing sensation, like someone is trying to shove me aside, searching for my secrets. I instinctively push back. The veritium flashes and lets off a brilliant blue glow.
The memory that comes to me this time:
I am twelve. Violetta and I sit together in our library, where I read to her from a book cataloging flowers. I can still remember those illuminated pages, the parchment crinkling like skeleton leaves. Roses are so beautiful, Violetta sighs in her innocent way, admiring the book’s images. Like you. I stay silent. A while later, when she goes off to play at the harpsichord with Father, I venture out to the garden to look at our rosebushes. I study one of the roses carefully, and then look at my crooked ring finger that my father broke years earlier. On a strange impulse, I reach out and close my hand tightly around the rose’s stem. A dozen thorns slash into the flesh of my palm. Still, I clench my jaw and tighten my grip as hard as I can. You’re right, Violetta. Finally I release the stem, staring in wonder at the blood that blooms on my hand. Scarlet stains the thorns. Pain enhances beauty, I remember thinking.
The scene fades. Nothing else happens. Raffaele tells me to turn back around, and when I do, I notice the veritium is glowing a faint blue. At the same time, it gives off a tremulous note of music that reminds me of a broken flute.
“Sapientus, god of Wisdom,” Raffaele says. “You align with veritium for the truth in oneself, knowledge and curiosity.”
He moves on to the roseite without another word. For this one, he beckons me over to him and tells me to hum in front of it. When I do, a faint tingling runs down my throat, numbing it. The stone glows red for a long moment, then fades in a shower of glitter. The memory that accompanies it:
I am fifteen. Father has arranged for several suitors to come to our home and take a look at both Violetta and me. Violetta stays demure and sweet the whole time, her tiny mouth puckered into a rosy smile. I hate it when they look at me too, she always tells me. But you have to try, Adelina. I catch her in front of her mirror, pulling her neckline down so that it shows more of her curves, smiling at the way her hair falls over her shoulders. I don’t know what to make of it. The men admire her at the dinner. They chuckle and clink glasses. I follow Violetta’s example; I flirt and smile as hard as I can. I notice the hunger in their eyes whenever they glance at me, the way their stares linger on the line of my collarbone, my breasts. I know they want me too. They just don’t want me as a wife. One of them jokes about cornering me the next time I walk alone in our garden. I laugh with him. I imagine mixing poison into his tea, then watching his face turn purple and anguished; I picture myself leaning over him, looking on patiently, with my chin resting in my hands, admiring his dying, writhing body as I count out the minutes. Violetta doesn’t think such things. She sees happiness and hope, love and inspiration. She is our mother. I am our father.
Again the memory disappears into thin air, and again I find myself staring at Raffaele. There is a wariness in his gaze now, distance mixed with interest. “Amare, god of Love,” he says. “Roseite, for the passion and compassion in oneself, blinding and red.”
Finally, he holds up the amber and nightstone. The amber gives off a beautiful golden-orange color, but the nightstone is an ugly rock, dark and lumpy and dull. “What do I do this time?” I ask.
“Hold them.” He takes one of my hands in his. I blush at how smooth the palm of his hand is, how gentle his fingers feel. When he brushes past my broken finger, I wince and flinch away. He meets my gaze. Although he doesn’t ask why I reacted to the touch, he seems to understand. “It will be okay,” he murmurs. “Hold your hand open.” I do, and he carefully places the stones in my hand. My fingers close around them.
A violent shock ripples through me. A wave of bitter fury. Raffaele jumps backward—I gasp, then collapse to the ground. The whispers in the dark corners of my mind now spring free of their cages and fill my thoughts with their noise. They bring a flurry of memories, of everything I’ve already seen and everything I’ve fought to suppress. My father breaking my finger, shouting at me, striking me, ignoring me. The night in the rain. His shattered ribs. The long nights in the Inquisition’s dungeons. Teren’s colorless eyes. The crowd jeering at me, throwing stones at my face. The iron stake.
I squeeze my eye shut and press my hands tightly to my ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out, but the maelstrom grows thicker, a curtain of darkness that threatens to pull me under. Papers fly up from the desk. The glass of Raffaele’s lantern shatters.
Stop. Stop. STOP. I will destroy everything in order to make it stop. I will destroy all of you. I grit my teeth as my fury swirls around me, seething and relentless, yearning to burst free. Through the whirlwind, I hear my father’s harsh whisper.
I know who you really are. Who will ever want you, Adelina?
My fury heightens. Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.
Then the shrieking fades. My father’s voice vanishes, leaving memories of it trembling in the air. I stay on the ground, my entire body shaking with the absence of my unexpected anger, my face wet with tears. Raffaele keeps his distance. We stare at each other for a long time, until he finally walks over to help me to my feet. He gestures at the chair next to his table. I sit gratefully, soaking in the sudden peace. My muscles feel weak, and I can barely keep my head up. I have a sudden urge to sleep, to dream away my exhaustion.
After a while, Raffaele clears his throat. “Formidite and Caldora, the twin angels of Fear and Fury,” he whispers. “Amber, for the hatred buried in one’s chest. Nightstone, for the darkness in oneself, the strength of fear.” He hesitates, then looks me in the eye. “Something blackens your heart, something deep and bitter. It has festered inside you for years, nurtured and encouraged. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
My father was the one who nurtured it. I shiver, remembering the horrible illusions that have answered my call. In the corner of the room, my father’s ghost lurks, partially hidden behind the ivy wall. He’s not really there, he’s an illusion, he’s dead. But there’s no mistaking it—I can see his silhouette waiting for me, his presence cold and haunting.
I look away from him, lest Raffaele think that I’m losing my mind. “What . . . ,” I begin, then clear my throat. “What does it mean?”
Raffaele just gives me a sympathetic nod. He seems reluctant to discuss it any further, and I find myself eager to move on as well.
“We’ll see how Enzo feels about this, and what this means for your training,” he goes on in a more hesitant tone. He frowns. “It may take some time before you’ll be considered a member of the Dagger Society.”
“Wait,” I say. “I don’t understand. Am I not already one of you?”
Raffaele crosses his arms and looks at me. “No, not yet. The Dagger Society is made up of Young Elites who have proven themselves capable of calling upon their powers whenever needed. They can control their talents with a level of precision that you cannot yet grasp. Do you remember how Enzo saved you, the way he controlled fire? You need to be your ability’s master. You will arrive there, I’m sure, but you’re not there yet.”
The way Raffaele says all this stirs a warning in me. “If I’m not a Dagger yet, then what am I? What happens next?”
“You’re an apprentice. We need to see if we can train you to qualify.”
“And what happens if I don’t qualify?”
Raffaele’s eyes, so warm and sweet earlier, now seem dark and frightening. “A couple of years ago,” he says gently, “I recruited a boy into our society who could call the rain. He seemed promising at the time—we had high hopes for him. A year passed. He could not learn to master his abilities. Did you hear about the drought that hit northern Kenettra back then?”
I nod. My father had cursed the rise in wine prices, and rumor had it that Estenzia was forced to cull a hundred prized horses because they couldn’t afford to feed them. People starved. The king sent out the Inquisition and killed hundreds during the riots.
Raffaele sighs. “The boy caused that drought by accident, and he could not stop it. He fell into panic and frustration. People blamed malfettos, of course. The temples burned malfettos at the stake in hopes that sacrificing us would lift the drought. The boy started acting strange and erratic, causing a public scene by trying to conjure rain right in the middle of a market square, sneaking off to the harbor at night to try to pull at the waves, and so forth. Enzo was not pleased. Do you see? Someone who cannot learn to control his energy is a danger to us all. We do not operate for free. Keeping you safe here, feeding and clothing and sheltering you, training you . . . this all costs coin and time, but most of all, it costs our name and reputation to those loyal to us. You are an investment and a risk. In other words, you need to prove that you’re worth it.” Raffaele pauses to take my hand. “I don’t like to frighten you. But I will not hide from you how seriously we take our mission. This is no game. We cannot afford a weak link in a country that wants us dead.” His grip tightens. “And I will do everything in my power to make sure you are a strong link.”
He is trying to comfort me, even in his honesty. But there’s something he’s not saying. In the brief, silent spaces between his words, I hear everything else I need to know. They’ll be watching me. I need to prove that I can conjure my powers again, and that I can wield them with precision. If for some reason I can’t control my abilities, they won’t just cast me out of the Dagger Society. I’ve seen their faces, where they stay, and what they do. I know that Kenettra’s crown prince leads them. I know too much. A weak link in a world that wants us dead. That weak link could be me.
If I cannot pass their tests, then they will do to me what they must have done with the boy who could not control the rain. They will kill me.
Raffaele Laurent Bessette
Midnight. The entire Fortunata Court is asleep, and Raffaele sits alone in his bedchamber, turning the delicate pages of a book on the moons and tides. Waiting. Finally, a soft knock sounds at his door. He rises in one smooth motion, his beaded silks glittering in the candlelight, and walks on silent feet to let in the visitor. Enzo enters with a sweep of dark robes, bringing with him the scent of wind, night, and death. Raffaele bows respectfully.
Enzo closes the door behind him. “The Tournament of Storms,” he whispers. “It’s confirmed. The king and queen will make a rare appearance together there. It will be our best chance to strike both of them down.”
Raffaele nods. “Perfect.”
Enzo frowns at him. “You look tired,” he says. “Are you all right?”
Raffaele’s client for the evening had left over an hour ago. “I’m fine,” he decides to reply.
“Did you see Adelina today?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
He tells Enzo about Adelina’s test. How she reacted to each gem. He touches on her alignment with the amber and nightstone, her overwhelming attraction to the twin rocks. As he feared, Enzo narrows his eyes in interest. Raffaele shivers at his expression. He has recruited many Elites for the young prince in the past few years, but none has ever shown Enzo’s same alignment to diamond, such fiery ambition. Being near his energy is intoxicating.
“Fear and Fury,” the prince says thoughtfully. In the candlelight, his eyes gleam. “Well. That’s a first.”
Raffaele takes a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.
Enzo keeps his gloved hands folded behind his back. “What do you advise?”
“Get rid of her. Now.”
“After all that trouble, you are asking me to kill her?”
Raffaele’s voice is pained, but firm. “Enzo. Every single one of her memories was laced with darkness. It is an infection of the mind. Something is very wrong with her. She should have manifested early, as a child, but only now has she started to find her power. It has built up inside her, and the energy feels twisted in a way that disturbs me. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is ravenous to use it. I don’t know how she’ll respond to our training.”
“You’re afraid of her,” Enzo murmurs, intrigued. “Or perhaps you’re afraid of your fascination with her.”
Raffaele stays silent. No. I’m afraid of your fascination with her.
Enzo’s eyes soften. “You know I trust you. I always have. But getting rid of her would be a waste. Adelina has the potential to be very useful.”
“She will be very useful,” Raffaele agrees. The sapphire strands in his hair catch the light. He casts Enzo a sideways look. “If she’ll obey you.”
“I will take back my throne soon,” Enzo whispers. “And malfettos will no longer live in fear.” Raffaele could feel the threat of fire emanating from Enzo’s body. “Adelina has the potential to get us there, even if that potential lies within darkness. We’ve all seen what she can do. She has no reason to turn on us.”
What was that?
Raffaele’s eyes widen, then narrow. He looks down at the diamond. I glance at it too, half expecting it to glow with some color—but instead I see nothing. Maybe I’m too far away to tell. He looks at me. “Fortuna, goddess of Prosperity. Diamond shows your alignment to power and ambition, the fire inside you. Adelina, can you hold your arms out to either side?”
I hesitate, but when Raffaele gives me an encouraging smile, I do as he says—I hold out my arms so that they are parallel to the floor. Raffaele moves the diamond aside and replaces it with the veritium, now bathed in light. He studies me for a bit, then reaches out and pretends to pull at something invisible in the air. I feel an odd, pushing sensation, like someone is trying to shove me aside, searching for my secrets. I instinctively push back. The veritium flashes and lets off a brilliant blue glow.
The memory that comes to me this time:
I am twelve. Violetta and I sit together in our library, where I read to her from a book cataloging flowers. I can still remember those illuminated pages, the parchment crinkling like skeleton leaves. Roses are so beautiful, Violetta sighs in her innocent way, admiring the book’s images. Like you. I stay silent. A while later, when she goes off to play at the harpsichord with Father, I venture out to the garden to look at our rosebushes. I study one of the roses carefully, and then look at my crooked ring finger that my father broke years earlier. On a strange impulse, I reach out and close my hand tightly around the rose’s stem. A dozen thorns slash into the flesh of my palm. Still, I clench my jaw and tighten my grip as hard as I can. You’re right, Violetta. Finally I release the stem, staring in wonder at the blood that blooms on my hand. Scarlet stains the thorns. Pain enhances beauty, I remember thinking.
The scene fades. Nothing else happens. Raffaele tells me to turn back around, and when I do, I notice the veritium is glowing a faint blue. At the same time, it gives off a tremulous note of music that reminds me of a broken flute.
“Sapientus, god of Wisdom,” Raffaele says. “You align with veritium for the truth in oneself, knowledge and curiosity.”
He moves on to the roseite without another word. For this one, he beckons me over to him and tells me to hum in front of it. When I do, a faint tingling runs down my throat, numbing it. The stone glows red for a long moment, then fades in a shower of glitter. The memory that accompanies it:
I am fifteen. Father has arranged for several suitors to come to our home and take a look at both Violetta and me. Violetta stays demure and sweet the whole time, her tiny mouth puckered into a rosy smile. I hate it when they look at me too, she always tells me. But you have to try, Adelina. I catch her in front of her mirror, pulling her neckline down so that it shows more of her curves, smiling at the way her hair falls over her shoulders. I don’t know what to make of it. The men admire her at the dinner. They chuckle and clink glasses. I follow Violetta’s example; I flirt and smile as hard as I can. I notice the hunger in their eyes whenever they glance at me, the way their stares linger on the line of my collarbone, my breasts. I know they want me too. They just don’t want me as a wife. One of them jokes about cornering me the next time I walk alone in our garden. I laugh with him. I imagine mixing poison into his tea, then watching his face turn purple and anguished; I picture myself leaning over him, looking on patiently, with my chin resting in my hands, admiring his dying, writhing body as I count out the minutes. Violetta doesn’t think such things. She sees happiness and hope, love and inspiration. She is our mother. I am our father.
Again the memory disappears into thin air, and again I find myself staring at Raffaele. There is a wariness in his gaze now, distance mixed with interest. “Amare, god of Love,” he says. “Roseite, for the passion and compassion in oneself, blinding and red.”
Finally, he holds up the amber and nightstone. The amber gives off a beautiful golden-orange color, but the nightstone is an ugly rock, dark and lumpy and dull. “What do I do this time?” I ask.
“Hold them.” He takes one of my hands in his. I blush at how smooth the palm of his hand is, how gentle his fingers feel. When he brushes past my broken finger, I wince and flinch away. He meets my gaze. Although he doesn’t ask why I reacted to the touch, he seems to understand. “It will be okay,” he murmurs. “Hold your hand open.” I do, and he carefully places the stones in my hand. My fingers close around them.
A violent shock ripples through me. A wave of bitter fury. Raffaele jumps backward—I gasp, then collapse to the ground. The whispers in the dark corners of my mind now spring free of their cages and fill my thoughts with their noise. They bring a flurry of memories, of everything I’ve already seen and everything I’ve fought to suppress. My father breaking my finger, shouting at me, striking me, ignoring me. The night in the rain. His shattered ribs. The long nights in the Inquisition’s dungeons. Teren’s colorless eyes. The crowd jeering at me, throwing stones at my face. The iron stake.
I squeeze my eye shut and press my hands tightly to my ears in a desperate attempt to block it all out, but the maelstrom grows thicker, a curtain of darkness that threatens to pull me under. Papers fly up from the desk. The glass of Raffaele’s lantern shatters.
Stop. Stop. STOP. I will destroy everything in order to make it stop. I will destroy all of you. I grit my teeth as my fury swirls around me, seething and relentless, yearning to burst free. Through the whirlwind, I hear my father’s harsh whisper.
I know who you really are. Who will ever want you, Adelina?
My fury heightens. Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.
Then the shrieking fades. My father’s voice vanishes, leaving memories of it trembling in the air. I stay on the ground, my entire body shaking with the absence of my unexpected anger, my face wet with tears. Raffaele keeps his distance. We stare at each other for a long time, until he finally walks over to help me to my feet. He gestures at the chair next to his table. I sit gratefully, soaking in the sudden peace. My muscles feel weak, and I can barely keep my head up. I have a sudden urge to sleep, to dream away my exhaustion.
After a while, Raffaele clears his throat. “Formidite and Caldora, the twin angels of Fear and Fury,” he whispers. “Amber, for the hatred buried in one’s chest. Nightstone, for the darkness in oneself, the strength of fear.” He hesitates, then looks me in the eye. “Something blackens your heart, something deep and bitter. It has festered inside you for years, nurtured and encouraged. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
My father was the one who nurtured it. I shiver, remembering the horrible illusions that have answered my call. In the corner of the room, my father’s ghost lurks, partially hidden behind the ivy wall. He’s not really there, he’s an illusion, he’s dead. But there’s no mistaking it—I can see his silhouette waiting for me, his presence cold and haunting.
I look away from him, lest Raffaele think that I’m losing my mind. “What . . . ,” I begin, then clear my throat. “What does it mean?”
Raffaele just gives me a sympathetic nod. He seems reluctant to discuss it any further, and I find myself eager to move on as well.
“We’ll see how Enzo feels about this, and what this means for your training,” he goes on in a more hesitant tone. He frowns. “It may take some time before you’ll be considered a member of the Dagger Society.”
“Wait,” I say. “I don’t understand. Am I not already one of you?”
Raffaele crosses his arms and looks at me. “No, not yet. The Dagger Society is made up of Young Elites who have proven themselves capable of calling upon their powers whenever needed. They can control their talents with a level of precision that you cannot yet grasp. Do you remember how Enzo saved you, the way he controlled fire? You need to be your ability’s master. You will arrive there, I’m sure, but you’re not there yet.”
The way Raffaele says all this stirs a warning in me. “If I’m not a Dagger yet, then what am I? What happens next?”
“You’re an apprentice. We need to see if we can train you to qualify.”
“And what happens if I don’t qualify?”
Raffaele’s eyes, so warm and sweet earlier, now seem dark and frightening. “A couple of years ago,” he says gently, “I recruited a boy into our society who could call the rain. He seemed promising at the time—we had high hopes for him. A year passed. He could not learn to master his abilities. Did you hear about the drought that hit northern Kenettra back then?”
I nod. My father had cursed the rise in wine prices, and rumor had it that Estenzia was forced to cull a hundred prized horses because they couldn’t afford to feed them. People starved. The king sent out the Inquisition and killed hundreds during the riots.
Raffaele sighs. “The boy caused that drought by accident, and he could not stop it. He fell into panic and frustration. People blamed malfettos, of course. The temples burned malfettos at the stake in hopes that sacrificing us would lift the drought. The boy started acting strange and erratic, causing a public scene by trying to conjure rain right in the middle of a market square, sneaking off to the harbor at night to try to pull at the waves, and so forth. Enzo was not pleased. Do you see? Someone who cannot learn to control his energy is a danger to us all. We do not operate for free. Keeping you safe here, feeding and clothing and sheltering you, training you . . . this all costs coin and time, but most of all, it costs our name and reputation to those loyal to us. You are an investment and a risk. In other words, you need to prove that you’re worth it.” Raffaele pauses to take my hand. “I don’t like to frighten you. But I will not hide from you how seriously we take our mission. This is no game. We cannot afford a weak link in a country that wants us dead.” His grip tightens. “And I will do everything in my power to make sure you are a strong link.”
He is trying to comfort me, even in his honesty. But there’s something he’s not saying. In the brief, silent spaces between his words, I hear everything else I need to know. They’ll be watching me. I need to prove that I can conjure my powers again, and that I can wield them with precision. If for some reason I can’t control my abilities, they won’t just cast me out of the Dagger Society. I’ve seen their faces, where they stay, and what they do. I know that Kenettra’s crown prince leads them. I know too much. A weak link in a world that wants us dead. That weak link could be me.
If I cannot pass their tests, then they will do to me what they must have done with the boy who could not control the rain. They will kill me.
Raffaele Laurent Bessette
Midnight. The entire Fortunata Court is asleep, and Raffaele sits alone in his bedchamber, turning the delicate pages of a book on the moons and tides. Waiting. Finally, a soft knock sounds at his door. He rises in one smooth motion, his beaded silks glittering in the candlelight, and walks on silent feet to let in the visitor. Enzo enters with a sweep of dark robes, bringing with him the scent of wind, night, and death. Raffaele bows respectfully.
Enzo closes the door behind him. “The Tournament of Storms,” he whispers. “It’s confirmed. The king and queen will make a rare appearance together there. It will be our best chance to strike both of them down.”
Raffaele nods. “Perfect.”
Enzo frowns at him. “You look tired,” he says. “Are you all right?”
Raffaele’s client for the evening had left over an hour ago. “I’m fine,” he decides to reply.
“Did you see Adelina today?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
He tells Enzo about Adelina’s test. How she reacted to each gem. He touches on her alignment with the amber and nightstone, her overwhelming attraction to the twin rocks. As he feared, Enzo narrows his eyes in interest. Raffaele shivers at his expression. He has recruited many Elites for the young prince in the past few years, but none has ever shown Enzo’s same alignment to diamond, such fiery ambition. Being near his energy is intoxicating.
“Fear and Fury,” the prince says thoughtfully. In the candlelight, his eyes gleam. “Well. That’s a first.”
Raffaele takes a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.
Enzo keeps his gloved hands folded behind his back. “What do you advise?”
“Get rid of her. Now.”
“After all that trouble, you are asking me to kill her?”
Raffaele’s voice is pained, but firm. “Enzo. Every single one of her memories was laced with darkness. It is an infection of the mind. Something is very wrong with her. She should have manifested early, as a child, but only now has she started to find her power. It has built up inside her, and the energy feels twisted in a way that disturbs me. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is ravenous to use it. I don’t know how she’ll respond to our training.”
“You’re afraid of her,” Enzo murmurs, intrigued. “Or perhaps you’re afraid of your fascination with her.”
Raffaele stays silent. No. I’m afraid of your fascination with her.
Enzo’s eyes soften. “You know I trust you. I always have. But getting rid of her would be a waste. Adelina has the potential to be very useful.”
“She will be very useful,” Raffaele agrees. The sapphire strands in his hair catch the light. He casts Enzo a sideways look. “If she’ll obey you.”
“I will take back my throne soon,” Enzo whispers. “And malfettos will no longer live in fear.” Raffaele could feel the threat of fire emanating from Enzo’s body. “Adelina has the potential to get us there, even if that potential lies within darkness. We’ve all seen what she can do. She has no reason to turn on us.”
