The Young Elites (The Young Elites 1)

A horse race. I’d witnessed several before in Dalia, although none were quite this big of a spectacle. I glance around the piazza, looking for a good route back to the court. The Daggers’ mission today must have to do with this.

I look up to the balconies. Now I pick out the royal seats—on a building situated at the front of the racetrack is a balcony that gives a perfect view, its iron railings decorated with gold and white silks. But the king and queen aren’t there. Maybe their royal seats are just for show.

A low rumble of thunder echoes through the city.

“Ladies and noblemen! Fellow spectators!” One of the costumed men on the racetrack holds both arms high in the air. The race’s trumpeter, the official announcer. His booming voice hushes the roar of the crowd. The parade of colorful costumes pauses, and the scene changes from one of merry chaos to one of hushed anticipation. Inquisitors stand around the square, ready to keep order if needed. Thunder rumbles overhead, as if in warning.

“Welcome to the qualifying races for Estenzia!” the trumpeter calls out. He turns in a circle so that everyone can see him, and then stops to face the direction of the empty royal balconies. He bows low with an elaborate flourish. “Let this be a tribute to our royal majesties, and the prosperity they bring to Kenettra.”

The response surprises me—no clapping or cheers from the crowd. Just a rumble of unrest and a few scattered Long live the king shouts uttered. Back home in Dalia, people complained about the king. Now I’m hearing that resentment firsthand. I imagine Enzo seated in the royal seats instead, the crown prince and rightful ruler. How natural he would look. How many of these spectators are loyal to Enzo? How many are Elite supporters?

For an instant, I dare to imagine myself up there on the balcony. The thought of such power leaves me trembling.

The announcer turns his attention back to the crowd. “Today, you will select from Estenzia the fastest riders to send to this summer’s Tournament of Storms. Three racers have been chosen from each of our city’s quarters. As tradition decrees, the top three racers from today’s roster of those twelve will continue on.” He grins widely, his teeth shining a brilliant white under his glittering half mask. He puts one hand to his ear in an exaggerated gesture. “Which quarter will come out on top?”

Here, the crowd’s enthusiasm erupts. They roar with the names of their quarters. Colored silks wave furiously through the air.

“I’m hearing the Red Quarter!” the announcer taunts, causing a fresh round of cheering as the other three quarters scream themselves hoarse. “Wait—now I’m hearing the Blue Quarter. But the Green Quarter has a strong crop of three-year-old colts this year, as does the Gold Quarter. Who will it be?” He waves his hands in a flourish. “Shall we see our riders?”

The crowd shrieks. I stay frozen in place. The Tournament of Storms. This is what Raffaele had been talking about earlier. This is why the Daggers are here—this is their mission. They are trying to get one of their own to qualify for the Tournament of Storms’ horse race, probably to get a shot at the king in a very public arena. My head feels fuzzy with the shock. And now I’ve alerted Teren to it.

Amid the chaos of cheers, the first three stallions parade out. Red Quarter citizens wave silks in the air, patting the horses’ sides as they trot through the masses and onto the track. I’m momentarily distracted. It takes only one look to know that these stallions have superior blood to the horses I remember from my father’s estate. These are Sunland purebreds, with perfectly arched necks and flared nostrils, their eyes still glowing with the wild temper that my horses had long ago lost. They toss their decorated manes adorned with red silks as their riders, similarly adorned, wave at their supporters.

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.