Dio mi guardi da chi studia un libro solo.
Never trust a man who only studies one book.
She hadn’t had many opportunities for rebellion since leaving home, but Alessa was making up for lost time. With a lightweight cloak under her arm, boots clutched in one hand, and a rough sketch of the tunnels going soft with sweat in the other, she crept past the kitchens where Lorenzo was attempting to flirt with unimpressed kitchen maids.
She stopped before the banquet hall, listening for the rise and fall of conversation within. She was only a semi-prisoner, with free rein inside the Cittadella, but she’d blow her cover if Renata saw the guilt scrawled across her face. At the scrape of silver on ceramic, she held her breath and dashed past on the balls of her feet.
“Where”—Alessa tensed at Renata’s words—“do we even begin tomorrow?”
Alessa sagged against the wall until her wobbly knees got their act together, then tiptoed on. Through an archway off the courtyard, a spiral staircase connected the Cittadella above to the Fortezza below it. Narrow and dim, the ancient stone stairs dipped in the middle, worn down by countless feet over centuries.
The Cittadella was formidable, but it was nothing compared to the stronghold beneath. The maze of tunnels and caves carved into the island dated back to the original settlers who’d expanded the natural volcanic tunnels to make the entire island into a fortress.
A Finestra did not, by nature, explore. Under normal circumstances, Alessa only entered the Fortezza to attend temple with Tomo and Renata, but the master key she’d never used slid easily into the lock.
Shivering from nerves rather than cold, she pulled on her cloak and let herself out the first gate beyond the line marking the border of the Cittadella above.
Outside, the warm, thick air carried the wafting sweetness of roses from the Cittadella’s gardens, but she turned away from the high walls to follow the humble scents of home. The sun set over quiet avenues and shops closed for the evening.
Each terrace bloomed with sounds and smells so distinct she could have navigated the city with her eyes closed. In an area ripe with peppers and cumin, nimble fingers tripped out a melody on a guitar as heels clicked the tempo. In the next, garlic and green-onion dumplings sizzled in hot oil while a voice so tender it must belong to a mother sang a lullaby that sounded like spring rain on a rooftop.
Nearly every house had a lemon tree, often standing alone on a tiny island of soil amongst the stone, and dried boughs hung over thresholds, marring otherwise pristine windowsills with sticky drips of dried juice. The gesture was rumored to ward off Crollo’s demons—named “scarabeo” for their resemblance to horned beetles—but if it actually worked, Saverio wouldn’t need a Finestra.
Urging herself to keep walking, to pretend it was a stranger’s home, she paused by a blue-shuttered window.
Inside the small kitchen, her mother tended to a pot on the stove. She reached for the salt, resting her hand on it, as though she’d forgotten what she’d meant to do. The small table in the middle of the room was only set for two. Maybe Adrick refused to eat meals with them anymore. Maybe family suppers didn’t feel right without her.
Wishful thinking. He was probably just working late.
Supper smelled like something hearty, simmered for hours, with lamb and red wine. Memories tangled around her. A crowded table, stories repeated so many times they lost all meaning, becoming poetry, children falling asleep in soft laps—
Alessa swiped at her eyes and moved on.
She might never be a normal girl who clipped rosemary for supper again, but they had to survive.
The alleys narrowed as she descended, until buildings butted into each other, and the island made its presence known with wildflowers pushing through cracks in the cobblestones and vines creeping up walls.
Alessa pulled up her hood as she passed the guards who manned the city gates, but they paid her no mind. They were there to watch for incoming threats, not girls running off to the docks, where folk stayed up late getting into trouble.
On Saverio, criminals were marked with tattoos for their crimes, and those who’d committed irredeemable offenses were banished to the continent, where they’d perish in the next Divorando without any protection from the Duo Divino and their army. The rest were merely forced to wear their shame, but when Saverians barricaded themselves inside the Fortezza, those with marks were left outside to fend for themselves. Past curfew, no one marked was permitted inside the city walls without an official pass from the Cittadella.
There was no one else on the dirt road to the docks, but the night sounds expanded to fill the emptiness, with tiny creatures scurrying and invisible wings thrumming in the grass.
The whine of insects succumbed to the creak of ships as the road widened and became clogged with people and vendor tents. If the city was a four-course meal for the senses, the docks were a hearty stew. The din of myriad languages was intoxicating, and the crush of bodies made one girl in a cloak practically invisible.
As the largest of the four original sanctuary islands, Saverio had drawn the widest array of people from nearby regions before the first Divorando, and even now, almost a millenium after Crollo’s first siege had stripped the continents to bones and dirt, Saverians boasted of being the entire world in miniature. An exaggeration, to be sure, but there was no one left to dispute the claim.
Alessa slowed at the sound of chanting as a dozen cloaked figures emerged from an alley, their white robes stark against a backdrop that was dark and grimy. She squinted to make out the crimson words embroidered on their backs. Fratellanza della Verità.
Passersby gathered, captivated by the spectacle. It wasn’t hard to see why. The group’s barely audible humming raised the hair on Alessa’s arms, and the hoods shadowing their faces lent an air of unearthly anonymity.
Fear tightened her scalp as one figure disengaged from the rest, pushing his hood back to reveal a striking face and prematurely silver hair. He smiled benevolently and a few people began clapping, though he hadn’t said a word.
Strategically veiled in the glow of a streetlamp, he held a large book aloft. Not an official copy of the Holy Verità—she of all people could spot the difference between the genuine article and a fake—but the glyphs on the cover bore a close enough resemblance to fool most people.
Women at the front of the crowd jostled for position, gazing at him with rapt devotion, and Alessa finally caught the whispered name. Ivini.
“Our gods tell us to have faith,” he said in a low, hypnotic voice. “That we are blessed with holy saviors.”
A savior you nearly got killed today.
“But we’ve grown complacent. Trusting. Naive.” His features softened with carefully crafted sadness, but his sharp eyes gauged the crowd’s response. “I ask you, are you sure our esteemed Finestra will save us, or do you, too, wonder if the gods are testing us?”
A child in a stained dress worked her way through the growing crowd. She held out a beggar’s hat, but most ignored her, clutching their purses and avoiding eye contact.
Ivini dropped to an ominous monotone, and the crowd went silent. “The lost texts warn of a day when a false Finestra shall rise. One whom the faithful shall recognize on sight.”
His eyes raked across the crowd, but his all-knowing gaze spent no more time on Alessa’s face than anyone else’s. So much for that theory. He was a convincing liar, though. Shaking his head as if regretting what he had to say next, he pressed a hand over his heart. “There she sits, in our Cittadella, slaughtering our precious Fontes, coddled despite her wickedness. Sent by Dea? So they tell us. But would Dea send a murderer to save us? I think not. No, this bears the mark of Crollo.”
A young man with tousled dark hair and sun-bronzed skin shot a disdainful glance at the crowd as he strode past, and Alessa’s shoulders relaxed. At least someone wasn’t buying what the holy man was selling.
“I ask you,” Ivini said, his gaze sharpening, “when the demons descend to devour every living thing on Saverio, will our dear Finestra even pretend to fight or will she simply laugh while our brave soldiers are massacred? Will she cheer for the creatures as they gnaw at the gates of the Fortezza, or will she open them herself? And who will die first? Who will suffer most, but those of you who will be locked outside?”
The beggar girl tripped, spilling her coins across the ground. Her high cry cut through Ivini’s speech, and he stopped with a loud sigh, motioning one of his robed minions toward the girl.
Alessa couldn’t push through to help the poor child, but at least someone was going to.
The robed man bent to grab the girl’s tunic, forcing her to stand. “Blessed be the wretched, for they know not what they do. You’d need no coin if you had the sense to listen to your betters.”
Frowning, Alessa took an involuntary step forward.
“Let her go.” The crowd parted like butter to a hot knife as the young man stepped through, his sneer darker, frightening. He couldn’t be but a few years older than Alessa, but he walked with the authority of one who expected others to move aside.
Ivini’s disciple straightened until the girl’s toes barely touched the cobblestones, his grip firm. “Is she with you? If so, you need to teach her some manners. The gods don’t appreciate—”
“Drop her, or I’ll send you to meet your gods right now.” The young man’s movement was slight, his broad shoulders shifting in the merest threat of a lunge, but Ivini’s minion stumbled back, inadvertently dragging the girl with him.
He didn’t make it far. The young man seized his wrist and gave it a brutal twist that splayed his fingers.
The girl broke free, darting behind her rescuer to use him as a barrier. With wide eyes, the child watched her bully forced to his knees, whimpering in pain.
The young man let go and wiped his hands on his pants with a look of disgust.
The disciple glanced around, clutching his injured arm, but no one leapt to his defense, not even his leader. It seemed the Fratellanza’s religious fervor didn’t extend to putting their bodies on the line.
“Brother,” Ivini said in a cold voice, fury burning in his eyes. “Let us show grace. Even the most wicked may come to see the light. Eventually.”
The dark-haired stranger knelt to help the child gather her scattered coins, adding a few from his own pocket before he stood and continued on his way, strolling past empty storefronts to where the street narrowed to little more than an alley. He stopped beneath a worn placard reading The Bottom of the Barrel and pulled the door open, releasing a burst of raucous voices. As if he could feel her eyes on him, he glanced back and met Alessa’s gaze, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge.
She looked away, blushing.
Ivini resumed his sermon, funneling his anger into it, and the crowd responded like a bonfire to dry kindling, flaring hot and fast.
Cold sweat dewed Alessa’s forehead. Renata and Tomo had made it sound like a few lone dissidents, but this was a revolt in the making.
“Who has the courage?” Ivini demanded. “Who is brave enough to smite the false prophet?”
“I’d do it,” a woman shouted, and the crowd roared their approval.
Alessa inched back into the shadows.
Death was creeping closer, but this wasn’t where she intended to meet it.