Raffaele just sits quietly. The last time Beldain went to war with Kenettra was over a hundred years ago. If Enzo could see all this, what would he think? Handing over his crown to a foreign queen? It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself harshly. Because Enzo is dead.
“What help do you need?” Raffaele says after a moment.
“I hear that Master Teren Santoro was behind the king’s death,” Maeve replies. “Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he want the king dead?”
“Because he is in love with Queen Giulietta. She keeps Teren at her side precisely for his help, among other reasons.”
“Ah. A lover,” Maeve says. At that, Lucent’s eyes flick briefly to the queen, then dart away again. “She’s young, new, and vulnerable. I need the Inquisition and her army weakened. What can you do to help me in this?”
Raffaele’s expression is one of concentration. “Giulietta is powerful with Teren at her side,” he says. He exchanges looks with each of his Daggers as he goes on. “But Teren answers to something even more powerful than his queen—his belief that he has been ordained by the gods to destroy malfettos. If we can break their trust and separate them, then this invasion will have a better chance at success. And in order to break their trust, we’ll have to make Teren disobey his queen.”
“He’ll never do such a thing,” Lucent chimes in. “Have you seen Teren around Giulietta? Have you heard him talk about her?”
“Yes,” Michel agrees. “Teren obeys the queen like a dog. He’d sooner die than insult her.”
Even Gemma, who has been quiet until now, speaks up. “If you want to turn them against each other, we’ll have to get into the city,” she says. “Right now, it’s nearly impossible to enter Estenzia. All malfettos have been forced outside the city walls. The Inquisition guards every street. We can’t get over the walls or through the gates, even with Lucent’s powers. There are too many soldiers.”
Maeve’s furs brush against her cheeks. “Kenettra has a new ruler,” she says. “According to tradition, I must sail for Estenzia and see her in person, offer her gifts and a welcome. A promise of goodwill.” At that, she raises an eyebrow and smiles. Behind her, Augustine laughs a little. Her eyes turn back to Raffaele. “I will get you into the city, my Messenger, if you can place a wedge between the queen and her Inquisitor.”
“I am a consort,” Raffaele replies. “I’ll find a way.”
Maeve stares in silence for a moment at her preparing fleet. “There is something else,” she says, without looking at him.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Tell me, Raffaele,” she goes on, turning her head slightly in his direction, “that you can sense my power.” She says it loudly enough for the other Daggers to hear. Michel, the closest, stiffens at her words. Gemma inhales sharply. But Raffaele notices Lucent’s reaction the most—the sudden, sickly paleness of her face, the surprise in her eyes. She glances at Raffaele.
“Her power?” she asks, forgetting for the first time to refer to Maeve by her title.
Raffaele hesitates, then bows his head to the young queen. “I do,” he replies. “I’d thought it rude to ask until you decided to share it.”
Maeve smiles a little. “Then it will be no surprise to you when I tell you that I, too, am an Elite.” She doesn’t seem to react to Lucent’s shock—although her eyes do dart briefly to her.
Raffaele shakes his head. “Not a surprise to me, Your Majesty. You may have had a different effect on my Daggers, though.”
“And can you guess what I do?”
Raffaele reaches out once again to study the energy that surrounds her. It is a familiar feeling, one that leaves him with a chill. Something about her aligns with darkness, with the angels of Fear and Fury, the goddess of Death. The same alignments he felt in Adelina. The mere memory of her makes Raffaele clench his horse’s reins. “I cannot guess, Your Majesty,” he replies.
Maeve looks over her shoulder at the youngest prince, with his dueling mask still on, and nods. “Tristan,” she says. “Let us see your face.”
Her other brothers grow quiet at her command. Raffaele senses Lucent’s heart lurch forward, and when he glances at her, he notices that her eyes have turned wide. The youngest prince nods, reaches up, and pulls the mask off his face.
He resembles Maeve, as well as his brothers. But while the others seem natural and whole, this prince is not—the eerie energy about him remains, haunting Raffaele.
“My youngest brother, Prince Tristan,” Maeve says.
It is Lucent who finally breaks the silence. “You said in your letters that he had managed to pull through,” she chokes out. “You told me he never died.”
“He did.” Maeve’s expression turns harder. “But I brought him back.”