The Midnight Star (The Young Elites #3)(13)

Maeve’s temper flares. She pushes Augustine away and swings her sword at him again. The wooden blade hits him squarely in his side before he can block her attack. He grunts at the hit and doubles over. Maeve seizes the opportunity, knocks him flat on his back, and shoves her knee against his chest. She presses the sword roughly against his neck and Augustine holds his hands up in defeat. “I’m not leaving my country,” Maeve repeats through gritted teeth, “to visit an old riding companion. Not after our last battle. Adelina is on the move. She will come north.”

Augustine pushes her sword away. “So are you just going to wait for her to arrive on our shores?” he argues back. “Word is that she has taken Dumor. She may have set her sights on Tamoura for now, but soon she will turn her attention to the Skylands.”

Maeve sighs, lowering her sword. She hops back up and watches as Augustine struggles to his feet. “I can’t leave,” she repeats, quieter this time. “Tristan.”

At the mention of their youngest brother’s name, Augustine’s mood softens. “I know.”

“Did you see him yesterday?”

“Still the same, the doctors say. No change.”

Maeve forces herself to lift her sword and concentrate on Augustine again. She needs the distraction. Tristan has not said a word for weeks now—the longest he has ever gone—and his gaze these days is always fixed toward the sea, pointed in some direction to the south. What little spark of light that was left in his eyes has disappeared entirely, leaving behind flat pools and a vacant, lifeless stare. Once, when she’d brought him out to the winter carnivals with her, he’d attacked her in a state of confusion. He’d done it halfheartedly, like some part of him knew he didn’t want to, but even then, it had taken Augustine and another man to subdue him. Since then, he has not slept. He has instead stayed by his window, eyes turned to the sea.

The rumors about him swirl around Hadenbury. Prince Tristan is mad. He attacked the queen, his own sister.

Maeve charges Augustine again with her wooden sword, and the clash rings out across the yard. She’d tried reaching out to the Underworld last night, searching for clues. But the energy there was too strong, even for her, the darkness of it scalding her fingers, leaving a coating of ice on her heart. She knows, by some instinct of survival, that if she tried to use her power, it would kill her.

“We will have four more ships completed in just a few weeks,” Maeve says, shifting subjects as she fends off Augustine’s parry. “Our navy will recover fully by the end of the year. Then we can think about Adelina again.”

“She doesn’t have Enzo at her disposal anymore,” Augustine reminds her. “He is with the Daggers in Tamoura. She’ll be weaker.”

There is a space between their words, where neither wants to mention the rumors of Adelina’s descent into madness. “She might be assassinated before we even reach her,” Maeve finally says. “One can hope.”

Both of them look up at the sound of a gate opening. At first, Maeve thinks it is a messenger coming to bring her a parchment from Raffaele—and her spirits lift immediately. She starts walking toward the figure. “Augustine,” she calls over her shoulder at her brother. “Fetch the torch on the fence. We have a message.”

Then the figure takes a step into the moonlight, and she hesitates. Several of the guards along the wall move toward him too, although none of their swords are drawn. Maeve squints, trying to recognize him.

“Tristan?” she whispers.

It seems like Tristan. She can feel the tug between them, the faint tether that binds their two energies. Maeve frowns. Something’s not right. His walk is strange and disjointed, and a sickening feeling rises in her stomach. Tristan has his own patrol of a dozen men that rotate around his cell, ensuring he stays safely where he can be watched. How did he get out?

As one guard reaches him, Tristan turns while one arm shoots out and grabs the man’s neck, squeezing. The guard stiffens, shocked at the attack. Choking, he grabs for the sword at his side, but Tristan is squeezing his neck too tightly. The guard struggles desperately against his grasp. Maeve barely notices that she has already dropped her wooden sword and drawn her real blade.

Behind Tristan appear two guards, running breathless out to the yard. Maeve knows what happened before they even shout it. Tristan has killed his guards. She points her sword at her youngest brother. “Stand down!” she calls out.

Beside her, Augustine hops to his feet and draws his real sword too. Tristan doesn’t make a sound—instead, he flings aside the man by the throat and then lunges at the next guard closest to him. He twists the man’s arm around his back so hard that it breaks.

“Tristan!” Maeve shouts, breaking into a run toward him. “Stop!” She reaches out through their tether, seeking to control him. But somehow, this time, he resists her. His eyes swivel to her in a way that sends chills down her spine. The darkness churning in him lashes out, shoving her power away, and Maeve feels the familiar touch of cold and death on her heart. The effect is so powerful that she freezes in place for a moment from the numbness. This is not right.

Maeve pushes forward and reaches Tristan before he can attack another guard. She hefts her sword, but the sight of his eyes frightens her. There is no white to be seen anywhere. Instead, his eyes are pools of blackness, completely devoid of life. She hesitates for a split second—and in that moment, Tristan bares his teeth as if they were fangs and lunges for her with hands outstretched.