The Young Elites (The Young Elites 1)

The door opens. A young maid peers inside. When she sees me, she brightens and comes bustling in, holding a tray laden with food and a glass of sparkling cordial. Flaky rose bread, still giving off warm clouds of steam; a thick stew swimming with golden chunks of meat and potatoes; iced fruit; fat tarts of raspberry and egg. The rich smell of butter and spices sends my head spinning—I haven’t eaten real food in weeks. I must look amazed at the slices of fresh peaches, because she smiles at me.

“One of our traders connects us with the finest fruit trees in the Golden Valley,” she explains. She sets the tray on the dresser next to my bed and checks my bandages. I find myself admiring her robe, like the merchant’s daughter that I am. It’s made out of a shimmering satin trimmed with gold thread, very fine for a servant. This is not coarse cloth you buy for a handful of copper lunes. This is material worth real gold talents, imported straight from the Sunlands.

“I’ll send word that you’re awake,” she says as she carefully unwinds the bandage on my head. “You look much better after a few days’ rest.”

Everything she says confuses me. “Send word to whom? How long have I been asleep?”

The servant blushes. When she touches her face with her hands, I notice how impeccably polished her nails are, her skin pampered and shiny from scented oils. What place is this? I can’t be in an ordinary household if the servants look as impressive as she does. “I’m sorry, Mistress Amouteru,” she replies. So. She also knows my name. “I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. You’re safe, rest assured, and he should be here shortly to explain everything to you.” She pauses to reach toward the tray. “Have a bite, young mistress. You must be starving.”

Hungry as I am, I hesitate to eat her offering. The fact that she seems to be treating my injuries doesn’t explain what she’s healing me for. I think back to the woman who took me in after that night, how I thought she would help me. How she threw me instead to the Inquisition. Who knows what poisons might be in this food? “I’m not hungry,” I lie with a polite smile. “I’m sure I’ll feel up to it soon.”

She returns my smile, and I think I see a hint of sympathy behind it. “You don’t need to pretend,” she replies, patting my hand. “I’ll leave the tray here for when you’re ready.”

She pauses at the sound of footsteps down the hall. “That must be him. He must already know,” she says. She releases my hand and offers me a quick bow. Then she hurries toward the door. But before she can leave, a boy steps inside.

Something about him looks familiar. An instant later, I realize I recognize his eyes—dark as midnight, with thick lashes. This is my mysterious savior. Now, instead of wearing that silver mask and his hooded robes, he’s clad in finely spun linen and a black velvet doublet trimmed with gold, clothing exquisite enough to belong to the wealthiest aristocrats. He’s tall. He has the warm brown skin of northern Kenettrans, and his cheekbones are high, his face narrow and beautiful. But his hair holds my attention the most. It looks dark red in the light, so dark it’s almost black, a rich shade of blood that I’ve never seen before, tied back into a short, loose tail at the nape of his neck. It is a color not of this world.

He’s marked, just like me.

The maid curtsies low for him and mumbles something I can’t quite catch. Her face flushes scarlet. The tone she uses now is distinctly different from the tone she’d just used with me—where before she seemed relaxed, she now sounds meek and nervous.

The boy nods once in return. The maid needs no second dismissal; she curtsies again and immediately scurries into the hall. My unease grows. After all, I saw him toy with an entire squadron of Inquisitors, grown men trained in the art of war, with no effort at all.

He walks around the chamber with that same deadly grace I remember. When he sees me struggling to a better sitting position, he waves one hand in nonchalance. A gold ring flashes on his finger. “Please,” he says, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes. “Be at ease.” I now recognize his voice too, soft and deep, sophisticated, a layer of velvet hiding secrets. He seats himself in a cushioned chair near the edge of my bed. Here he leans back and stretches out his body, rests his chin against one hand, and lets his other hand remain on a dagger hilt at his waist. Even indoors, he wears a pair of thin gloves, and when I look closer, I notice tiny flecks of blood on their surface. A chill runs down my spine. He doesn’t smile.

“You’re part Tamouran,” he says after a moment of silence.

I blink. “Pardon?”

“Amouteru is a Tamouran family name, not a Kenettran one.”

Why does this boy know so much about the Sunlands? Amouteru is not a common Tamouran surname. “There are many Tamouran immigrants in southern Kenettra,” I finally answer.

“You must have a Tamouran baby name, then.” He says this casually, idle chitchat that sounds strange to me after all that’s happened.

“My mother used to call me kami gourgaem,” I reply. “Her ‘little wolf.’”

He tilts his head slightly. “Interesting choice.”

His question brings back an old memory of my mother, months before the blood fever hit. You have your father’s fire in you, kami gourgaem, she said, cupping my chin in her warm hands. She smiled at me in a way that hardened her usually soft demeanor. Then she leaned down and kissed my forehead. I’m glad. You will need it in this world. “My mother just thought wolves were pretty,” I reply.