The Midnight Star (The Young Elites #3)(18)
I’ve made it a habit to visit the bathhouse after my visits with Teren, so that I can wash away the flecks of his blood on my skin and cleanse myself of the memory of his presence. Even so, the look in his pale eyes lingers long after I leave his cell. Now I point my boots in the direction of the palace’s bathhouse. I could reach it from the corridors within the palace—but out here, the grounds are peaceful, and I can be alone with my thoughts under a gray sky.
A pair of men are standing across the bridge that leads to the palace’s entrance, their eyes fixed on the main gates. They are whispering something to each other. I slow my steps, then turn to watch them. One is tall and blond, perhaps too blond to be Kenettran, while the other is short and dark-haired, with olive skin and a weak chin. Their clothes are damp in the drizzle, as if they’ve been standing outside for a long time.
What are they whispering? The words creep out of the shadows of my mind, their claws clicking. Perhaps they are whispering about you. About how to kill you. Even your sweet thief warned you of rats that could slip through the cracks.
I turn away from the path leading to the bathhouse and decide to follow the men. As I cross the bridge, still hidden behind my invisibility, they finish their conversation and continue on their way. My White Wolf banners, the new flags of the country, hang from windows and balconies, the white-and-silver cloth stained and soaked. Only a smattering of people walk the streets today, all huddled under cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, kicking up mud as they go. I watch them suspiciously, even as I trail behind the two men.
As I walk, the world around me takes on a glittering sheen. My whispers grow louder, and as they do, the faces of people I pass start to look distorted, as if the rain has blurred my vision and smeared wet streaks across their features. I blink, trying to focus. The energy in me lurches, and for a moment I wonder if Enzo is pulling on our tether from across the seas. The two men I’m following are close enough now that bits of their conversation drift to me, and I quicken my steps, curious to hear what they have to say.
“—to send her troops back to Tamoura, but—”
“—that difficult? I’d hardly think she would care if—”
They are talking about me.
The blond man shakes his head, one hand held out as he explains something in obvious frustration. “—and that’s it, isn’t it? The Wolf couldn’t care less whether the markets sold us rotting vegetables. I can’t remember the taste of a fresh fig. Can you?”
The other man nods sympathetically. “Yesterday, my littlest daughter asked me why the fruit merchants have two piles of produce now—and why they hand the fresh food to malfetto buyers, the rotten food to us.”
A cold, bitter smile twists my lips. Of course I had designed this law precisely to make sure that the unmarked suffered. After the ordinance first came into effect, I’d spent time walking the markets, relishing the sight of unmarked people grimacing at the rotten food they brought home, forcing it into their mouths out of hunger and desperation. How many years have we waited for our own fair treatment? How many of us have been pelted in the streets by blackened cabbage and meat filled with maggots? The memory of my own burning so long ago comes back to me, and along with it, the smell of the spoiled food that had once struck me. Take back your rotting weapons, I vow silently, and fill your mouths with them. Eat it until you love it.
The men continue on, oblivious that I’m listening to every word. If I revealed myself to them now, would they fall to their knees and beg forgiveness? I could execute them here, spill their blood right in the streets, for daring to use the word malfetto. I let myself indulge in the thought as we turn a corner and enter the Estenzian piazza where the annual horse races of the Tournament of Storms are held. The square is mostly empty this morning, painted gray by the clouds and rain.
“If I saw her right now,” one of the men says, shaking water from his hood, “I’d shove that rotten food back in her mouth. Let her taste that for herself, and see if it’s worth eating.”
His companion lets out a bark of laughter.
So brave, when they think no one else is listening. I stop in the square, but before I let them go about their day, I open my mouth and speak.
“Careful. She is always watching.”
Both of them hear me. They freeze in their steps and whirl around, their faces taut with fear. They search for who might have said it. I stay invisible in the center of the piazza, smiling. Their fear spikes, and as it does, I inhale deeply, relishing the spark of power behind their energy. I’m tempted to reach out and seize it. Instead, I just look on as the men turn pale as ghosts.
“Come on,” the blond man whispers, his voice choking with terror. He has begun to tremble, although I doubt it’s from the cold, and a hint of tears beads in his eyes. His face blurs in my vision, smearing like the rest of the world, and for an instant, all I can see are streaks of black where his eyes should be, a slash of pink where his mouth once was. The two hurry off through the piazza.
I look around, amused by my little game. Rumors have spread throughout the city about how the White Wolf haunts the air, that she can see straight into your homes and into your souls. It has left a permanent sense of disquiet in the city’s energy, a constant undercurrent of fear that keeps my belly full. Good. I want the unmarked to feel this perpetual unease under my rule, to know that I am always watching them. It will make any rebellions against me harder to organize. And it will make them understand the fear that the marked suffered for so long.