The Young Elites (The Young Elites #1)(15)
Author: Marie Lu

Raffaele walks over to the table and pushes some of his papers aside. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says.

I suddenly tense. “Why? What are we doing here?”

Raffaele doesn’t look at me. Instead, he opens a drawer in the table and takes out several different kinds of stones. Stones actually isn’t the best word. These are gems, raw and unpolished, freshly broken from the earth. Something seems familiar about this setup. Yes, I remember now—operators on the streets will, for two copper lunes, place painted stones before a child and then tell him about his personality.

“Are we playing some kind of game?” I ask.

“Not quite.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Before you can become one of us, you must pass a series of tests. Today is the first of those tests.”

I try to look calm. “And what’s the test?”

“Every Elite responds to energy in a unique way, and every Elite has a different strength and weakness. Some people respond to strength and bravery. Others are wise and logical. Still others are ruled by passion.” He glances down at the gems. “Today, we’re going to figure out who you are. How your specific energy connects to the world.”

“And what are the gemstones for?”

“We are the children of gods and angels.” A kind smile touches Raffaele’s face. “It’s said that gems are lingering reminders of where the gods’ hands touched the earth during creation. Certain gems will call to the specific type of energy that flows in you. They work best in their natural form.” Raffaele holds up one of the gems. In the light, it looks jagged and clear. “Diamond, for instance.” He puts it down and picks up another, this one with a blue tint. “Veritium too. There’s prase quartz, moonstone, opal, aquamarine.” He lays out one after another. Finally, twelve different gems sit on the table, each glinting a different color under the light. “And nightstone,” he finishes. “One for each of the gods and angels. Some will call to you more than others.”

I look on, now more confused than wary. “Why do you tell me not to be alarmed?”

“Because in a moment, you’re going to feel something very strange.” Raffaele holds out a hand to me, gesturing for me to stand in the center of the room. Then he starts placing the gemstones in a careful circle around me. “Don’t fight it. Just calm yourself and let the energy flow.”

I hesitate, then nod.

He finishes placing the gems. I turn in place, looking at each of them with rising curiosity. Raffaele steps back, observes me for a moment, and then crosses his arms with a sweep of silk sleeves. “Now, I want you to relax. Clear your mind.”

I take a deep breath, then try to do as he says.

Silence. Nothing happens. I still my thoughts, thinking of calm water, of night. Nearby, Raffaele lowers his head in a nearly imperceptible nod.

I feel an odd tingling in my arms and at the back of my head. When I look down at the stones, I now see that five of them have started to glow, as if lit from within, in shades of crimson, white, blue, orange, and black.

Raffaele glides around me in a slow circle, his eyes alight with curiosity. The way he’s circling me feels almost predatory, especially when he passes to the weak side of my vision and I have to turn my face in order to keep him in view. He lifts one foot slightly, his bejeweled slipper pushing away each stone that did not glow. He picks up the five remaining stones, returns to the desk, and lays them carefully out.

Diamond, roseite, veritium, amber, nightstone. I bite my lip, impatient to find out what the five mean.

“Good. Now, I want you to look at the diamond.” For a moment, Raffaele doesn’t move. All he does is stare straight at me, his gaze calm and level, his hands slack at his sides. The distance between us seems to hum with life. I try to concentrate on the stone and keep myself from trembling.

Raffaele tilts his head.

I gasp. A rush of energy courses through me, something strong and light that threatens to carry me off my feet. I steady myself against the wall. A memory rushes through my mind, so vivid and bright that I could swear I was reliving it:

I am eight years old, and Violetta is six. We run out to greet our father, who has just returned from a monthlong trip to Estenzia. He picks up Violetta, laughs, and spins her in a circle. She squeals in delight as I stand by. Later that afternoon, I challenge Violetta to a race through the trees behind our home. I pick a route that is full of rocks and crevices, knowing full well that she has just recovered from a fever and is still weak. When Violetta trips over a root, skinning her knees, I smile and don’t stop to help her. I keep running, running, running until the wind and I become one. I don’t need my father to spin me in a circle. I can already fly. Later that night, I study the scarred, eyeless side of my face, the strings of my silver hair. Then I pick up my hairbrush and smash the mirror into a thousand pieces.

The memory fades away. The bright glow pulses inside the diamond for a moment before fading away. I take a shuddering breath, lost in a haze of wonder and guilt at the memory.

What was that?

Raffaele’s eyes widen, then narrow. He looks down at the diamond. I glance at it too, half expecting it to glow with some color—but instead I see nothing. Maybe I’m too far away to tell. He looks at me. “Fortuna, goddess of Prosperity. Diamond shows your alignment to power and ambition, the fire inside you. Adelina, can you hold your arms out to either side?”

I hesitate, but when Raffaele gives me an encouraging smile, I do as he says—I hold out my arms so that they are parallel to the floor. Raffaele moves the diamond aside and replaces it with the veritium, now bathed in light. He studies me for a bit, then reaches out and pretends to pull at something invisible in the air. I feel an odd, pushing sensation, like someone is trying to shove me aside, searching for my secrets. I instinctively push back. The veritium flashes and lets off a brilliant blue glow.

The memory that comes to me this time:

I am twelve. Violetta and I sit together in our library, where I read to her from a book cataloging flowers. I can still remember those illuminated pages, the parchment crinkling like skeleton leaves. Roses are so beautiful, Violetta sighs in her innocent way, admiring the book’s images. Like you. I stay silent. A while later, when she goes off to play at the harpsichord with Father, I venture out to the garden to look at our rosebushes. I study one of the roses carefully, and then look at my crooked ring finger that my father broke years earlier. On a strange impulse, I reach out and close my hand tightly around the rose’s stem. A dozen thorns slash into the flesh of my palm. Still, I clench my jaw and tighten my grip as hard as I can. You’re right, Violetta. Finally I release the stem, staring in wonder at the blood that blooms on my hand. Scarlet stains the thorns. Pain enhances beauty, I remember thinking.