The Midnight Star

by Marie Lu

  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.

  Maeve manages to bring her sword up in time—the blade cuts deep into one of his hands. Tristan snarls and lunges at her again and again. He is shockingly strong. It is as if all the force of the Underworld has now crawled under his skin, aching to throw itself at her. The tether between them tugs painfully tight, and Maeve shudders.

  When Tristan strikes again, Augustine appears between them and brings his sword up to protect his sister. Tristan growls—his arm moves in a blur of motion, grabbing the dagger tucked at Augustine’s belt—and he turns on his older brother. Despite the younger’s smaller frame, his attack knocks Augustine off balance. Both fall to the ground in a shower of dirt.

  Maeve winces as the threads between her and Tristan pull taut again. The pain makes her light-headed. Through her blurry vision, she sees Augustine fighting desperately to keep away Tristan’s dagger. She reaches within, searching for the strings binding them that are hooked within her heart, the strings that keep Tristan alive and under her control. She hesitates again. A memory of Tristan, before his accident, before she brought him back, flashes in her mind—a smiling, laughing boy, the brother who could never seem to stop talking even when she would shove him lovingly away, the brother who liked to surprise her in the tall grasses and go on long hunts with her and Lucent.

  This is not Tristan, she suddenly allows herself to think as she looks at the creature attacking Augustine.

  Finally, Augustine manages to flip Tristan down to the ground. He takes his sword and aims it over his brother’s heart. Tristan spits at him, but even then, Augustine hesitates. His sword trembles in midair.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Tristan stabs up with his blade.

  No. Maeve moves before she can even think. She lunges forward, shoving Augustine out of danger’s way, and plunges her own sword straight into Tristan’s chest.

  Tristan lets out a terrible gasp. The dark pools of his eyes shrink away in an instant, leaving a wide-eyed, confused boy. He blinks twice, looks down at the blade protruding from his chest, and then follows it up to where Maeve stands above him, his stare settling on her for the first time.

  Maeve reaches out instinctively for the tether that links them, but now, she senses it fading away. Tristan continues to stare at her for what seems like forever. She feels as if she could read the look in his eyes. Her lips part in a silent sob.

  Then, with a sigh, Tristan closes his eyes—the glimmer of light remaining in his soul, the imitation of a life that once was, finally flickers out—and he falls dead to the ground.

  When the bugles sounded across the sea, still he ignored them.

  When the cavalry reached the gates, still he slept.

  When his people cried out, still he called for calm.

  Even when the enemy swept his kingdom with fire

  and gathered at his castle doors, he paced in his chamber,

  refusing to believe it.

  —The Second Fall of Persenople, by Scholar Natanaele

  Adelina Amouteru

  Memories are funny things. My first recollection of Teren remains crystal clear even to this day—that shining white cloak, a silhouette washed in light by the sun on a brilliant blue day, the profile of a chiseled face, a slender tail of wheat-colored hair wrapped in gold hanging past his shoulders, his hands folded behind his back. How intimidating he looked. Even now, as I stare at this figure lying in chains, dressed like a prisoner, slivers of light now outlining the sinews of his muscles, I can’t help but see that first image of him instead.

  Sergio leads us forward to the moat. When he reaches it, he leans down to the water and pulls up a rope bridge anchored to the floor. He tosses it to the two soldiers on the island. One of the soldiers hooks the other end of the bridge to two knobs on the island’s floor, and Sergio steps onto the bridge. I follow him.

  When we reach the island, Sergio and the other soldiers spread out to either side, giving me a clear path. I walk forward, stopping several paces from where Teren is chained.

  “Hello,” I say.

  Teren stays crouching on the ground, his eyes fixed on me. He doesn’t blink. Instead, he looks on as if he were drinking in the sight of me. His clothes have indeed been replaced by a clean set of robes, and his hair is tied back, his face smooth. He is thinner now, even though time has not worn down the chiseled look
of his face or the hard lines of his muscles. He says nothing more. Something is wrong with Teren. I look him over, puzzled.

  “You look well enough,” I say. I tilt my head slightly at him. “Less filthy than when I last visited you. You’ve been eating and drinking.” There were several weeks when he refused all food, when I thought he might intentionally starve himself to death. But he is still here.

  He says nothing.

  “I hear you’ve not been well,” I continue. “Does the great Teren ever fall ill? I didn’t think that was possible, so I came to see you with my own ey—”

  Without warning, Teren lunges for me. His heavy chains do not slow him down. They pull taut just short of where I am, and for an instant, we stare into each other’s faces, breaths apart. My past visits taught me where to stand safely, but even so—my heart leaps into my throat. Behind me, I hear Sergio and the other soldiers draw their swords.

  “Then have a good, long look, little malfetto,” Teren growls. “Do you enjoy what you see?” He cocks his head in a taunting gesture. “What is it these days, Adelina? Queen of the Sealands?”

  I tell myself to stay calm, to meet Teren’s eyes steadily. “Your queen,” I reply.

  At that, pain flashes across his face. He searches my gaze, then takes a step back. The chains go slack. “You are not my queen,” he grunts through his teeth.

  Sergio sheathes his sword again and leans over to me. “Look,” he whispers, nodding down at Teren’s arms.

  My focus flickers from Teren’s eyes down to his wrists. Something catches my attention there, something deep and red. Dripping from his wrists and down his fingers is a trail of blood. It leaves a smattering of dots on the stone directly beneath.

  Blood? I stare at it, trying to follow the trail. It looks like fresh blood, scarlet and wet. “Sergio,” I say, “did he attack a guard? Why is there blood on his arm?”

  Sergio gives me a grim look. “He’s bleeding from the chains chafing at his wrist. From his own wounds.”

  From his own wounds? No. I shake my head. Teren is nearly invincible; his power ensures it is so. Any wound he received would stitch together before the blood had the chance to run. I cross my arms and look at him. “So it’s true. Something has been wrong with you.” I nod at Teren’s bleeding wrist. “When did this start?”

  Teren studies my face again, as if trying to see how serious I am. Then he starts to laugh. It is a low rumble in his throat, one that grows until it shakes his shoulders. “Of course something’s wrong with me. Something’s wrong with all of us.” His lips settle into a wide grin that chills me to my bones. “You’ve known that for a long time, haven’t you, little wolf?”

  It has been more than a year since Queen Giulietta died, but I still remember her face well. I call on this memory now. Gradually, I weave an illusion of her deep, dark eyes and small, rosy mouth over my own, her smooth skin over my scarred face, her rich dark waves of hair over my sheet of silver. Teren’s expression stiffens as he watches my illusion take shape, his body frozen in place.

  “Yes,” I reply. “I always knew.”

  Teren walks toward me until he can go no farther. I can feel his breath against my skin. “You don’t deserve to wear her face,” he whispers.

  I smile bitterly. “Let’s not forget who killed her. You destroy all that you touch.”

  “Well,” he whispers back, returning my smile. “Then we have much in common.” He takes in Giulietta’s face. It is amazing, seeing his transformation. His eyes soften, turning moist, and it is as if I could see memories flitting through his mind, his days with the late queen, bowing to her commands, spending nights in her chambers, standing beside her throne, championing her. Until they turned on each other.

  “Why are you here?” Teren asks. He straightens and pulls away from me again.

  I glance at Sergio, then nod. “Your sword,” I say.

  Sergio steps forward. He draws his sword, the sound of the metal echoing in the chamber, and then heads toward Teren. Teren doesn’t try to resist, but I see his muscles tense. He used to fight back during the early months of his imprisonment, his furious shouts ringing out through the dungeon, his chains rattling. Sergio had to strike Teren down over and over, with everything from rods to swords to whips, until Teren began to flinch at his approaching footsteps. It is cruel, some would think. But those are the thoughts of someone who has never known Teren’s evil deeds.

  Now he just waits as Sergio approaches him, grabs his arm, and makes a quick cut on his forearm. Blood gushes out, and I watch, waiting for the familiar sight of his flesh immediately stitching itself back together.

  But . . . it doesn’t. Not right away. Instead, Teren continues bleeding like any man would, the blood dripping down his arm to meet the wounds from the shackles at his wrists. Teren looks at the blood in awe, turning his arm this way and that. As we watch, the flesh slowly, gradually begins to heal itself, the wound turning smaller, the blood flow lighter, until the gash closes itself up again.

  No wonder his wrists are still bleeding. The chafing is a constant reopening of those wounds. I frown at Teren, refusing to believe this. Raffaele’s words—Violetta’s words—come racing back from when I’d first heard them months ago, one of the last things my sister said to me. All of us, all Elites, are in danger. Our powers are slowly tearing our mortal bodies apart.

  No. That’s all a lie. The whispers are upset now, hissing at me. I pass this anger along to the dungeon keeper as I snap at him. “I thought I told you to keep him in decent health. When did this start?”

  The keeper bows his head low. His fear of me makes him tremble. “A few weeks ago, Your Majesty. I thought he had attacked someone too, but none of the guards seemed injured or complained of anything.”

  “This is a mistake,” I say. “Impossible.” But what Violetta had said to me so long ago keeps coming back: We are doomed to be forever young.

  As Teren stares at me and laughs, I turn away. I cross the moat back to the other side of his cell and storm out, my men trailing behind me.

  Raffaele Laurent Bessette

  Some days after the storm, when Violetta had first alerted Raffaele to the strange energy in the ocean, the other Daggers follow him down to the shores. A small crowd has gathered near the balira corpses, whispering and muttering. Some children play near the bodies, daring one another to touch the rotting skin, squealing at the size of the creatures. The ocean continues to crash against the bodies, trying in vain to drag them back into the water.

  “It’s uncommon,” Lucent tells Raffaele as they pick their way over the rocks toward the sand. “But not unheard of. Beldain has seen mass beachings before. It can be caused by anything—a warming or cooling of the water, a sparse year for migrating fish, a storm. Perhaps it’s the same here. Just a temporary shift of the tides.”

  Raffaele folds his arms into his sleeves and looks on as the children run around the bodies. A simple storm or tide shift couldn’t explain the energy he’d felt in the ocean last night, that had drawn Violetta out of bed and made him gasp. No, this was not caused by any natural phenomenon. There is poison seeping into the world. Somewhere, there is a crack, a break in the order of things.

  The eerie energy lingers, but Raffaele has no way of explaining it to those who cannot sense it. His eyes stay fixed on the water. He hasn’t slept, having spent the night at his writing desk, poring through what papers he still kept from his recordings, trying to solve the puzzle.

  Lucent looks like she is trying hard not to show the ache in her bones. “Well, some of the villagers are saying there are reports of a similar event along the Domaccan shoreline.” She finds a comfortable spot amongst the rocks and sits down. “Sounds like it’s not just concentrated here.”

  Raffaele leaves Lucent’s side and heads down to the edge of the water. He pushes back his sleeve and dips a canteen into the surf, letting it fill. The touch of the ocean
makes his stomach churn just as much as it had the night of the storm. When the canteen is full, Raffaele hurries out of the water to shake off its poisonous touch.

  “You’re pale as a Beldish boy,” Michel exclaims as Raffaele passes him.

  Raffaele holds the canteen with both hands and starts making his way back toward the palace. “I’ll be in my chambers,” he replies.

  When he returns to his quarters, he pours the contents of the canteen into a clear glass, then sets it on his desk so that it is drenched in light from the window. He opens the desk’s drawers and removes a series of gemstones. These are the same gemstones he once used to test the other Daggers, that he had used on Enzo and Lucent, Michel and Gemma. On Violetta. On Adelina.

  Raffaele lays the gems in a careful circle around the glass of ocean water. Then he steps back and observes the scene. He reaches out with threads of his energy, searching for a clue, coaxing the stones.

  At first, nothing happens.

  Then, slowly, very slowly, several of the gems begin to glow from within, lit by something other than the sunlight. Raffaele pulls on the energy strings as he would when testing a new Elite, his brow furrowed in concentration. Colors blink in and out of existence. The air shimmers.

  Nightstone. Amber. Moonstone.

  Raffaele stares at the three glowing stones. Nightstone, for the angel of Fear. Amber, for the angel of Fury. Moonstone, for Holy Moritas herself.

  Whatever presence Raffaele felt in the ocean, it is this. The touch of the Underworld, the immortal energy of the goddess of Death and her daughters. Raffaele’s frown deepens as he walks over to the desk and peers at the water in the glass. It is clear, shining with light, but behind that is the ghost of Death herself. It is no wonder that the energy feels so wrong, so out of place.