The Midnight Star (The Young Elites #3)(52)

I stretch against him, a genuine smile on my lips. The air is chilly, and I wish I could stay nestled forever under these thick blankets. Memories from last night still linger, Magiano’s hot breath against my neck, his whispers of my name, his sharp inhale. When I first met him that evening in Merroutas, he seemed like a mysterious, invincible figure, a wild boy with a mess of hair and a quicksilver smile. Now, he seems quiet. Vulnerable. His fingers stay entwined with mine, hanging on firmly even in sleep. I study his long lashes. For a moment, I wonder what he had seen in the memories Raffaele unearthed during his test.



Every day, we head farther north. Every day, the air turns colder. Soon, I have to put on a heavier cloak and sturdier boots each time I go above deck. Magiano seems uncomfortable here, in this colder climate. His blood is thinner than mine, and his Sunland heritage shows in his deep scowl.

This morning, as we see the first hints of land on the horizon, he joins me on the deck with two cloaks fastened tightly around his neck. His arm brushes against mine.

“Why can’t the origin of the Elites be in a tropical paradise?” he complains.

Even now, looking out at this bleak, dark ocean, I have to smile at his words. He has shared my quarters every night since our first together, and as a result, the whispers have become quieter over the past few weeks. But now that we draw closer to the Skylands, the voices have returned with a vengeance. “We shall reach Beldain today, at least. I’ll be happy to be on solid land again.”

Magiano grunts. I wonder which poor soldier he stole the second cloak from. “Small victories,” he agrees.

Nearby stands Teren, who watches the approaching land without a word. He has caused us no trouble for the weeks he’s gone without his chains and, true to his appointment, has stayed near me, a hand always on the hilt of his sword. The new white bandages around his wrists look red again, though. His wounds are stubborn.

A rumble of voices behind me grabs my attention. Violetta talks in low whispers to Raffaele as they sit together on stacks of cargo, pointing at the strip of land growing before our eyes. I watch them over my shoulder. Raffaele joined us shortly after my accident overboard and has been with us since then. Violetta has gradually eased around me, ever since that night, but she still keeps her distance and confides in Raffaele more often than she does with me. She leans heavily against him and trembles, her lips dry and cracked. Her voice is weaker than it has ever been, and her cheeks are hollow now, the result of her poor appetite. The sight sends my energy churning darkly, not in anger but in sorrow.

I wish it were me she turns to for comfort.

“You said the Beldish would meet us here with troops of their own,” I call to Raffaele. “I see no Beldish flags on any of the ships on the horizon.” I pause to nod toward the nearing port again. “Any word from Queen Maeve?”

“She will be here,” Raffaele replies. Like Magiano, he has an air of unhappiness about him, and pulls his heavy cloak tighter. He must not have enjoyed spending weeks in Beldain the last time he fled here. “But we have to move quickly out of this city.”

“Which city is this?”

“Laida, one of Amadera’s most populous port cities.” Raffaele gathers his black hair into a thick rope across one shoulder. “Rumor has it the Saccorists have a base here and may be waiting for you.”

I smile bitterly at him, then weave an illusion of his face across my own. Raffaele’s expression flickers in surprise for a moment before settling back into its pool of calm. “They may have a hard time finding me,” I reply.

Raffaele gives me a tight smile in return. “Do not underestimate your enemies, Your Majesty,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow at him. With my anger stirring, the whispers awaken. Ah, yes. You know that better than anyone, don’t you? “Is that a threat, Raffaele?”

My words bring on a stubborn silence between us. Raffaele shakes his head, then gives me a grave look. “You are looking for conflict in the wrong places, Your Majesty,” he replies.

I don’t answer. Instead, I turn back to the sea and try to control my emotions. Beside me, Magiano presses a hand against my arm. Steady, he seems to be saying. But even he cannot keep the whispers at bay forever.

Perhaps I’m getting worse, just like Violetta.

The port is crowded with ships from every city and nation, and their flags form a rainbow of colors on the bay, reflected in the waters. Our own flags are hidden beneath an illusion mimicking an Amaderan crest, and to my relief, no one seems to pay us any mind. As our two ships dock, I take a deep breath and look out at the bustling piers. The salt of the sea and the odor of blood and fish hang thick in the air. Gulls circle the sky above us, diving for entrails tossed into the water. Groups of men with heavy beards carry what look like sharp hammers swung over their backs and loops of rope around their shoulders. Women in fur pelts and coarse skirts huddle along the multiple piers, cooking stews over small fires. They hold out bowls in one hand and a single Amaderan silver in the other, shouting in a strange tongue I can’t begin to understand. The people here are large and sturdily built, so pale that freckles stand out starkly on their skin. Only Lucent blends in completely, while Teren seems passable with his pale eyes and blond hair. Even though my Inquisitors and companions are not dressed in Kenettran silks, we attract a few stares for our more slender figures and darker complexions.

You are in enemy land, the whispers remind me. Do you remember the tales of Amadera’s civil wars? When the Aristan people conquered the Salans, they took everything with them: their jewels; their honor; and their children, sometimes straight from the womb. What will they do to you, when they find out who you are?