—A Private Thesis on the Romancing of Three Kings, by Baroness Sammarco

Adelina Amouteru

I haven’t been out in Estenzia often enough to know, but I would have guessed that at such a late hour, the city would be quieter. No such luck tonight. The streets are teeming with Inquisition guards. In fact, I can’t turn a single corner without seeing a patrol making its way down the street. Their presence forces me to slow down. Something has happened. What is going on?

I pass through the shadows, my silver mask tucked neatly under my arm. I cloak myself in an illusion of invisibility, but the act exhausts me quickly, allowing me to do it only for a few moments at a time. I pause frequently in dark alleys to gather my strength. Invisibility is hard, as hard as disguising myself as another person. With each step, my surroundings change, and I have to shift my illusion to change with it. If I don’t shift quickly or accurately enough, I look like a ripple moving through air. The consequence of invisibility, therefore, is constant concentration, to the point where I can barely remember what my real self looks like. At least it’s nighttime. A more forgiving hour.

I hide again as more Inquisition patrols hurry past. Somewhere distant in the night, a few shouts go up. I listen intently. At first, I can’t make out what they’re saying. Then, moments later, the words become clear.

“The king is dead!”

The distant cry freezes me in place. The king . . . is dead?

A moment later, another voice joins in, repeating the phrase. Then another. Among them, I hear another phrase. Long live the queen!

The king is dead. Long live the queen. I steady myself against the wall. Did the Daggers make their move tonight? No, they wouldn’t have. They didn’t plan for it. The king had died before they could get to him.

What happened?

Teren, a whisper in my head suggests. But that doesn’t seem right. Why would he want the king dead?

Without risking a gondola ride, it takes me a full hour before I can even sight the Inquisition Axis’s tower looming in the distance. Beyond it lies the palace—and if I’m not mistaken, the clusters of Inquisitors seem to be heading in that general direction.

By the time I’m in the same square as the tower, a cold sheen of sweat has broken out on my brow. I stop in the shadows of a nearby shop, then let down my invisibility illusion, remove my mask for a moment, and take a deep breath. This is easily the longest I’ve ever held an illusion in place, and the result is a wave of dizziness that leaves me swaying in place. When I was nine, I went into my father’s study and ripped apart a letter he had been writing to a local doctor, asking advice on medicines to subdue my temper. My father found out what I’d done, of course. He told Violetta to lock me in my bedchamber for three days without food or water. When Violetta found me nearly unconscious at the end of the second day, she begged him to release me. He did. Then he smiled and asked me if I’d enjoyed the rush of thirst and hunger. If it had woken anything in me.

The dizziness I felt back then, leaning against my locked door and shouting myself hoarse for my sister to release me, is not unlike how I feel now. The memory gives me some strength, though. After a few minutes, I swallow and straighten myself. My gaze focuses on the tower.

A short walkway leads from the main square up to the tower’s looming doors, and Inquisitors line this path. A large, round lantern hangs at the tower’s entrance, illuminating the door’s dark wood. I start to cover myself up again—then stop. Why should I drain my energy now? If I get to the door successfully with an invisibility illusion, I will still need to pull it open in order to enter. No way for me to disguise that.

So, instead, I walk up to the guards. The memory of the last time I did this, in a city gone wild with the qualifying races, comes back to me.

Two of them immediately draw their swords. I force myself to stare straight back at them. “I’m here to see Master Santoro,” I reply. “He asked for me personally.”

A flicker of doubt appears on one of the men’s faces at the mention of Teren’s name. My energy stirs at the emotion, strengthening. I frown at them. This time, I take advantage of their obvious unease. From my cloak, I produce the silver mask. “I have information for him on the Young Elites.” My voice is surprisingly smooth. “Do you really want to risk turning me away?”

The guard’s eyes widen in recognition at the sight of the mask, and my energy strengthens again as I feel myself winning control over this soldier, forcing him to do something against his will.

Finally, the first Inquisitor gestures for two of the others to seize me. “Let her in.” Then he growls at me. “You’ll wait until he returns.”

Teren’s not in the tower tonight. Their hands on my arms remind me of my execution day in Dalia. As they lead me away, I look over my shoulder as more Inquisitors run by on the streets. The energy of fear seems high tonight. It pulses through me, stimulating my senses.

We step inside the tower. They usher me into a small chamber branching off from the main hall, and here they seat me on the floor. Then they surround me in a circle, each of their spears pointed straight at me. Outside the door, more wait. I stare back at them, determined not to show them any hint of emotion. The dungeons should be somewhere below us, if this tower is anything like the one I was once kept in. Where is Teren keeping Violetta . . . if he has her at all?

I don’t know how long I’m in here, counting the minutes away. The Inquisitors stay unmoving. Is this what they go through in training—standing motionless for hours at a time? I can sense their unease around me, a persistent, underlying emotion that peeks through from the stern, unfeeling shell they try to pull over it. I smile at them. Their fear grows. My excitement grows with it.