The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(39)

Then, the Green Quarter’s riders and their steeds come trotting out. This is when I let out a small gasp.

One of the Green Quarter’s riders is Star Thief. The purple marking across her face is visible and prominent.

“Lady Gemma of House Salvatore, riding Master Aquino’s glorious stallion Keepsake!”

He goes on to list out the stallion’s past wins, but I’m no longer listening. In the midst of the roaring crowds, I realize that Gemma’s family must be a wealthy and powerful one, for a malfetto like her to be allowed to compete like this.

I should head back to the Fortunata Court, before they find me missing. But the spectacle is too much to resist, and my feet stay chained to the ground, my stare fixed on the girl I know as the Star Thief.

Gemma’s presence stirs a near riot in the crowd. I hear “Malfetto!” spat out in the air, mixing with a loud roar of boos, and when I take a good look at the crowd, I notice people who have put false markings on themselves, jeering and taunting Gemma with exaggerated purple patches painted on their own faces. One of them even flings rotten fruit at her. “Bastard child!” he screams, a cruel grimace twisting his face. Gemma ignores him, keeping her head high as her horse trots past. Other insults fly fast and thick.

A noble lady still gets insults like this? I bite my cheeks at the sharp twinge of anger that shoots through me—until I notice, with a start, that there are people defending her too. Loudly.

In fact, huge crowds of people are waving their flags in the air in her support, most from her Green Quarter, some even from the other quarters. I suck in my breath, and my anger changes to bewilderment—then to excitement. I look on in awe as Gemma nods in their direction. Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The tension between Gemma’s supporters and enemies crackles in the air, an early taste of potential civil war, and I take in a deep breath, as if to inhale the power it gives me. Not everyone hates malfettos, Enzo had said. My eye darts nervously to the Inquisitors, who look poised to act.

Gemma soaks in the attention. She tosses her dark hair and grins back at the spectators, focusing on the ones who shout out their support for her. Then she hops up onto her stallion’s back in one fluid motion. She balances there on both feet, nimble and petite, her arms crossed in satisfaction. Gemma waves, then jumps back down into a seated position. The entire time, her stallion stays perfectly calm. Of the competitors so far, she is the only malfetto.

The next two quarters’ competitors finally trot out, and the twelve organize themselves into a staggered line at one end of the track. The crowd’s roar is thunderous now. Gemma rubs her horse’s neck, and the stallion paws the ground in anticipation.

“Riders, prepare your horses!” the announcer calls out. The crowd’s roar dies down for a brief second as everyone hushes to watch the start.

The trumpeter lifts a bright yellow silk weighted down with a stone. He flings it skyward. “Go!” he screams.

The horses break. The crowd explodes.

A cloud of dust showers the track as the riders race their first lap around the track. I squint through the haze, then finally catch sight of Gemma’s green silks flying in the pack. She’s among the last half, but she wears a grin that could split her face.

First lap. A Red rider’s ahead, and Gemma is ninth. I find myself cheering for her silently.

All around me is screaming and shouting as each person calls out the names of their favorites. The chaos reminds me of my execution day, and with that, I feel darkness gathering within me. Raffaele had told me to watch the empty space, to look for threads of energy in the air.

The horses thunder around the bend and past me. Gemma has her head thrown back in a wild laugh, her dark hair streaming out behind her like a curtain. I focus on the space between her and the other riders. There’s the flicker of something shining in the corner of my eye. It vanishes when I try to look directly at it.

The horses storm down the track again, nearing the end of the second lap. Only one more lap to go. Gemma is still in ninth. Then suddenly, she makes her move—she pulls on her stallion’s mane, leans close to his neck, and whispers to him. At the same time, a gust of wind blows through the square. Windwalker. She must be watching from a vantage point.

Gemma starts moving up. Fast. Ninth to seventh, then seventh to sixth. Then fifth. Fifth to fourth, to third. The cheers of the Green Quarter’s onlookers turn fever pitched. My heart thuds furiously. With Windwalker’s help, and her own abilities, Gemma pulls gradually into second. I hold my breath. Concentrate. I stare hard at Gemma.

For a split second, I think I see threads glittering in the air, a thousand different colors, moving and shifting like strings on a loom.

The Red riders in first and third place try to block her, forcing her between them. But Gemma pushes harder—the two other riders’ horses toss their heads, startled, when dust kicks up near their hooves. Windwalker must’ve sent a curtain of wind to their legs, pushing them back.

A quarter of a lap to go. Gemma’s horse suddenly pulls ahead in a burst of speed—right into first place. The others try to catch her, but it’s too late. She crosses the finish line. The trumpeter flings the yellow silk in the air again, and shrieks fill the air. The Green Quarter is a sea of dancing silks.

She won.

I can’t resist a smile of relief, even as I pretend to be as subdued as the rest of the Blue Quarter I’m standing with. Perhaps all Teren can do with the information I gave him is to post more Inquisitors to the Tournament when it happens. Perhaps I didn’t affect the Daggers’ plans. All around the square are boos, furious shouts of “Disqualify her!” and “Malfetto,” accusations that she is one of the Young Elites. Still, no one can argue. We saw her win the race.