The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(38)

Tears spring to my eye, and I slump in relief.

“She is safe—for as long as you continue to satisfy me.” His eyes swivel back to me. “When will I see you again?”

“Two weeks,” I say hoarsely. “Give me two more weeks.” At his silence, I look down. “Please.”

Finally, he nods. “Very well.” He rises. “You may go.”

And that is all.

Teren guides me out of the tower through a small back entrance hidden behind a gate and an alley. Before he lets me go, he takes my hands in his. He bends down to brush his lips against one of my cheeks. “You’ve done well,” he whispers. He kisses my other cheek. “Keep it up.”

Then he leaves me alone, and I wander back through the city’s streets on trembling legs. I am a traitor. What have I done?

I wander, lost in a daze, until I realize that I’ve made my way back in the direction from where the earlier festivities had been going on. Here, silent streets make way for noisy revelers again, and before I know it, I turn a street corner and find myself engulfed by a cheering mob. My fear and exhaustion make way for a touch of curiosity. What’s all the commotion? There’s no way I can make it back to the Fortunata Court without going through all these people.

Then I turn another corner with the crowd, and we enter the largest public square I’ve ever seen.

The piazza is surrounded on three sides by water canals. People fill the space where they can, but most of it is completely fenced off with thick lengths of rope. Looping around the piazza is a dirt track, which several Inquisitors are inspecting. A line of people dressed in elaborate silk costumes and ornate masks parade along the edge of the track, standard-bearers and trumpeters and arlecchinos, aristocrats and their valets, all waving at the cheering onlookers. My eye wanders the crowd, which now looks roughly partitioned into segments of people waving either red, blue, gold, or green silks in the air. People crowd onto the balconies lining the square. Each balcony has colorful flags hanging from it, muted by the dark sky.

A horse race. I’d witnessed several before in Dalia, although none were quite this big of a spectacle. I glance around the piazza, looking for a good route back to the court. The Daggers’ mission today must have to do with this.

I look up to the balconies. Now I pick out the royal seats—on a building situated at the front of the racetrack is a balcony that gives a perfect view, its iron railings decorated with gold and white silks. But the king and queen aren’t there. Maybe their royal seats are just for show.

A low rumble of thunder echoes through the city.

“Ladies and noblemen! Fellow spectators!” One of the costumed men on the racetrack holds both arms high in the air. The race’s trumpeter, the official announcer. His booming voice hushes the roar of the crowd. The parade of colorful costumes pauses, and the scene changes from one of merry chaos to one of hushed anticipation. Inquisitors stand around the square, ready to keep order if needed. Thunder rumbles overhead, as if in warning.

“Welcome to the qualifying races for Estenzia!” the trumpeter calls out. He turns in a circle so that everyone can see him, and then stops to face the direction of the empty royal balconies. He bows low with an elaborate flourish. “Let this be a tribute to our royal majesties, and the prosperity they bring to Kenettra.”

The response surprises me—no clapping or cheers from the crowd. Just a rumble of unrest and a few scattered Long live the king shouts uttered. Back home in Dalia, people complained about the king. Now I’m hearing that resentment firsthand. I imagine Enzo seated in the royal seats instead, the crown prince and rightful ruler. How natural he would look. How many of these spectators are loyal to Enzo? How many are Elite supporters?

For an instant, I dare to imagine myself up there on the balcony. The thought of such power leaves me trembling.

The announcer turns his attention back to the crowd. “Today, you will select from Estenzia the fastest riders to send to this summer’s Tournament of Storms. Three racers have been chosen from each of our city’s quarters. As tradition decrees, the top three racers from today’s roster of those twelve will continue on.” He grins widely, his teeth shining a brilliant white under his glittering half mask. He puts one hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. “Which quarter will come out on top?”

Here, the crowd’s enthusiasm erupts. They roar with the names of their quarters. Colored silks wave furiously through the air.

“I’m hearing the Red Quarter!” the announcer taunts, causing a fresh round of cheering as the other three quarters scream themselves hoarse. “Wait—now I’m hearing the Blue Quarter. But the Green Quarter has a strong crop of three-year-old colts this year, as does the Gold Quarter. Who will it be?” He waves his hands in a flourish. “Shall we see our riders?”

The crowd shrieks. I stay frozen in place. The Tournament of Storms. This is what Raffaele had been talking about earlier. This is why the Daggers are here—this is their mission. They are trying to get one of their own to qualify for the Tournament of Storms’ horse race, probably to get a shot at the king in a very public arena. My head feels fuzzy with the shock. And now I’ve alerted Teren to it.

Amid the chaos of cheers, the first three stallions parade out. Red Quarter citizens wave silks in the air, patting the horses’ sides as they trot through the masses and onto the track. I’m momentarily distracted. It takes only one look to know that these stallions have superior blood to the horses I remember from my father’s estate. These are Sunland purebreds, with perfectly arched necks and flared nostrils, their eyes still glowing with the wild temper that my horses had long ago lost. They toss their decorated manes adorned with red silks as their riders, similarly adorned, wave at their supporters.