In the center of the gallery is Mother’s likeness. Beside her is a portrait of Gabriel, her heir apparent, and on the other side is one of Father. A golden plaque beneath his frame reads “Kennet Abjorn – The Fated Sword.” He hates the figurehead name for the spouse of The Sword.
Father kept his last name rather than taking Mother’s because his is slightly more prestigious than hers. She didn’t take his name because she’s The Sword—there have always been St. Sismodes—and she would not let the name end with her. Her father stipulated in my parents’ marriage contract that her children would inherit her name. It was a contentious point, one of many they still hurl at each other when they’re forced to interact.
Father is in line to inherit the title of Clarity of Virtues, which he enjoys telling people. He leaves out the fact that there are four heirs in front of him who would all have to die before he could assume the title. However, he loves to rub it in Mother’s face that he’d be the Clarity of Virtues before her. Her family is fifth in line. That had been the idea behind their match. Together, they’re even more powerful.
I study his portrait. His hands are crossed on his lap and his Virtue-Fated hologram shines a golden halo for all to see. His dark good looks and sultry, roguish smile used to make many of the secondborn Stone-Fated servants at the Sword Palace swoon. I haven’t seen him in a few years. I wonder how he’s doing—if he’s heard of my trouble at Transition—if he cares.
A sharp rattle of laughter from a small seating area nearby serrates the air. Firstborn officers of the highest military rank—Exos who more than likely live in this building—watch me with amused curiosity. All around us they drink golden alcohol, chatting in low voices. Their dress uniforms, adorned with immaculate black capes, starkly contrast with my detainee garb and the secondborn soldiers’ black combat gear, silver Tree emblems etched on breastplates, and lethal rifles. Each Exo has a fusionblade with an intricate family crest embossed on the hilt. My own fusionblade is probably somewhere in the bowels of Census. Broken as it is, I still long to have it back.
Emmitt sidles up to me. “Feeling left out?” he asks, nodding at the portraits.
I adopt Father’s smile as a defense mechanism. “I’d rather not be in a club that doesn’t want me, Emmitt.”
The quiet soldier who has been with us since the Census cell has his neck craned all the way back, gazing up at the levels above us. His armor tag reads “Edgerton.” “It’s different from our woods,” he says, speaking for the first time.
“How is it different?” I ask.
He scratches his blond scruff of a beard, and I notice that he’s missing a front tooth. “We ain’t got windows in ours—all this here’s concrete.” He waves his arm at the glass shell of the building. His solemn brown eyes meet mine.
“Which one do you like more?” I ask.
He stares at me for a moment, surprised by my question—or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe he’s surprised that I spoke to him? He looks up again and points to a window way above my head where the light of the moon shines through. “It’d be nice to see the night sky once in a while when we ain’t on point.”
“It would,” I agree. He smiles. A fountain in the center dances with water that’s in sync with a lovely concerto playing all around us from some hidden source. I’m familiar with the song and hum along softly.
“Do you know this music?” Edgerton asks.
“I do. Do you?”
He shakes his head and shrugs. “Naw, what’d I know about music? I’ve been Transitioned since I were ten, same as Hawthorne. We come up together.” He shuffles his feet on the marble floor’s inlaid mosaic leaves of orange, crimson, and gold. It’s as if the Tree itself had shed them.
“It’s by Sovenagh—her ninetieth symphony. It’s called The Rape of Reason.”
We enter an elevator car. None of us speak as we rise to somewhere in the center of the trunk. When the doors open, Clara Diamond, Mother’s personal public relations assistant, greets us. “You found her!” Clara bleats to Emmitt with visible relief. “The Sword is threatening to have me killed if I don’t report back to her soon.” She’s not joking. The terror shows on her white-lipped face. Mother’s temper is legendary.
As we exit the lift, Clara reaches for my arm. I allow her to take it because I need her support as much as she needs to assure herself that she won’t be dying today. “We have to get you to the debriefing. We can clean you up later.”
I fall in step with her and Emmitt. The Sword soldiers trail us, rubbernecking in awe. The décor lacks the sophistication that I’m accustomed to, but the carpet is soft beneath my bare feet. Clara leads me down a long hallway that skirts the atrium.
We pass a few gangways that lead to round platforms that hang in the air above the ground many stories below. Clara pauses at the largest. Emmitt shoos me ahead, urging me over a lighted-glass gangplank with glass railings. I stop midway.
Emmitt holds the others back. “She has to go alone. You will wait here.” Hawthorne brushes him aside, but Emmitt manages to get back in front of him. “I’m only trying to save your life. This is a private conversation. You don’t have the security clearance level to attend. I don’t have the security clearance to attend.” He holds his hand on his chest to illustrate his point. “You can protect her from here. She can’t go anywhere, and Clara made sure that we’re the only ones on this entire level.”
Hawthorne gives me a reluctant nod. I turn and follow the gangway, holding its glass handrail until I make it to the rosette-shaped platform. Dangling over the atrium gives me the feeling of floating on air. About a hundred feet away, surrounding me on all sides, are tiers of balconies. As I peek over the railing, it’s as if I’m trapped inside the rib cage of a giant leviathan.
A dome of darkness forms around the suspended platform. I can no longer see the soldiers or the staff from Mother’s Palace. The floor illuminates. I’m now being viewed as a holographic image by whoever’s vetted into our meeting.
A holographic image of an elderly admiral projects before me. His white handlebar mustache is extremely outdated but well groomed. He’s attired in a highly decorated dress uniform. I straighten. He’s a firstborn Sword that I’ve met many times before. His name is Admiral Yarls Dresden. He’s a lecher and an alcoholic. The secondborn Stones of the Palace fear him.
Admiral Dresden doesn’t acknowledge me. I have to hold back a sigh of relief. Another holographic image of a slender woman in a beautiful silver ball gown made of light walks off the adjacent balcony and into the air, approaching my island platform. She wears a half-moon-shaped tiara atop her ebony hair. She stops just feet away from me. I recognize her as Clarity Toussaint Jowell, the leader of the Fate of Moons. She greets Admiral Dresden, and they engage in quiet conversation about the weather, ignoring me entirely.
Someone else winks into view—an attractive older man, maybe in his early forties, with a golden shooting-star-shaped moniker that indicates he’s firstborn Fate of Stars. His long dark hair is held back from his face with a leather tie. No gray taints the ebony of his full beard. He’s not dressed in formal attire, like the other two; rather, he wears a black woolen cloak that would be perfect for a midnight stroll in the crisp air. The Star-Fated man acknowledges the other holograms. “Admiral Dresden.” His accompanying nod is perfunctory.
“Daltrey.” Admiral Dresden spits his name like he has tasted something spoiled.
Daltrey greets the Clarity. “Clarity Jowell.”
“It’s been a trying day for you, I’m sure, Daltrey. Our thoughts are with you,” she says in a sympathetic, yet flirty, way.
“It has. I thank you for your thoughts.”
“Your house still standing?” Admiral Dresden smirks at Daltrey and twists his mustache.
“It is. Thank you for your concern,” Daltrey replies with a cutting glare.
“Pity,” Admiral Dresden drones, “that our assault against your Fate was necessary, but we must rid ourselves of these Fate traitors. Th
e Gates of Dawn seem to like your Fate too well. Or maybe your Fate fosters their particular brand of secondborn rebel.”
“My Fate is comprised of freethinkers. One needs a special sort of mind to harness and engineer power and energy.”
“Too bad it also breeds traitors.”
“Yes. Too bad,” Daltrey agrees, but it rings insincere. I stare at him.
Mother winks in, interrupting any further conversation. She’s elegant in a ball gown of midnight blue with pinpoints of silver that mimic stars in the night sky. A delicate silver tiara is woven in her chestnut-colored hair. She doesn’t acknowledge me but greets each of the other participants with brief exchanges about their health. Her mouth pinches in agitation as she falls silent, scowling at her timekeeper.
Clarity Fabian Bowie’s firstborn son, Grisholm Wenn-Bowie, joins the circle after Mother. I recognize him without an introduction. He’s been to the Sword estate many times in his youth to beat up on Gabriel. He’s only a few years older than me. At twenty-one, he’s passingly handsome but could use a more rigorous training regimen.
Clearly this meeting interrupted some kind of celebration because I don’t think Grisholm wears his golden, halo-shaped crown over his dark, shaggy mane just to tame it. His hair must take him hours of styling, though. Not only is Grisholm’s grooming glorious, so, too, is his evening attire. The firstborn heir to the fatedoms is a contrast in black and white. Skin-hugging black trousers that don’t leave much to the imagination meet the shiniest black boots I’ve ever seen. A golden belt with a halo-shaped buckle gleams at his waist. His silken white dress shirt and an intricately tied cravat are as immaculate as his snowy-white cape.
Grisholm appears bored. He ignores everyone else and studies me with a condescending curl of his lip, taking in my attire and my hair, which probably has knots in it. I smooth a hand down the side of my Census-issued rags, adjusting the hem so that it lies flat on my hip.
“Can it be the Secondborn St. Sismode?” Grisholm smiles like he smells something delicious. “Why is it that you still resemble a little lost waif, Roselle, even when you’re all grown up?”
“Clean living, Firstborn Commander,” I reply. It elicits a chuckle. I’m thinking, I can still kick your ass, Grisholm, like I did when I was ten and you smashed Gabriel in the head with the clock from the hall table.
His eyes skim over my criminal attire and long, messy hair. “Had a brush with the authorities, have you?”
“Census was gracious enough to put me up for a few days while we sorted out my disabled moniker. I’ll have to send them a spa basket. What would you recommend, First Commander? Assorted soaps?”
“With bubble bath,” he plays along, smiling evilly. He’s just as I remember; he loves a good snubbing. “Shall I send it for you on your behalf?”
“That is a generous offer, First Commander.”
“To whom shall I address it?”
“Agent Kipson Crow.”
“Ooh.” He mock-winces.
“Ah, you know him.”
“I do. The Fate of Virtues is smaller than you may think. You never have had much luck, have you, Roselle?”
“The only thing I’ve had in abundance is loyalty, First Commander.”
“I recall your loyalty,” he replies, rubbing the side of his head where I’d clocked him as retribution for what he’d done to Gabriel. He was too embarrassed then to have been beaten by a little secondborn girl to tell on me, so I never had to pay for what I did. “Too bad your loyalty is not reciprocated.” His words sting. “I’ll make sure Agent Crow receives your gift.”
I worry for a moment about baiting Agent Crow, but the agent will do whatever he plans to do, regardless. A basket sent on my behalf by the First Commander, heir to the Clarity of Virtues, might be the one thing that makes him hesitate to act.
Everyone quiets when the next participant joins the circle. A halo-shaped circlet crowns the Clarity’s salt-and-pepper hair, thinner than his son’s. Thinner, too, is Fabian’s physique, attired for the evening in a similar vein as Grisholm. In his late forties, he’s a man of action who, I’m told, rarely sits down, and that comes across even in holographic form.
I’ve seen Fabian Bowie every day of my life in one capacity or another, be it on the virtual screen addressing the fatedoms or inside Mother’s office when I was much younger. On the occasions when we’ve met, he’s always been cordial, if somewhat dismissive. I’ve never minded being dismissed, though. Being less than perfect in his presence is never a good idea. I’ve witnessed some of his more ruthless decisions, like assassinations of firstborns who displeased him. Mother arranges these killings, usually by finding an assassin from the pool that Admiral Dresden cultivates. I learned early that Fabian Bowie demands absolute submission from all his subjects. The only exception is his firstborn son.
Clarity Bowie’s attention is focused on me when he asks, “Are you having any trouble stepping in for the Clarity in his absence, Firstborn Leon?”
The handsome Star-Fated Daltrey clears his throat. “No trouble, Clarity Bowie. It’s an honor to serve my Fate in his absence.”
“He’s never one to stomach bloodshed,” our leader says, disdain written on his features. “I have not seen Clarity Aksel sober since his arrival here in Purity. He has more of a taste for women than he does for ruling his fatedom.”
“It’s a difficult time,” Daltrey says in a noncommittal way. “It’s my duty as second Star family to see to all the needs of our Fate while he’s away.” Clarity Bowie glares at Othala.
“Are we secure?” Mother addresses her wrist communicator. She’s not looking at any of us.
“Everything is locked down here,” Emmitt replies, his voice piping through the circle of glass on her wrist. She turns off her communicator so that he can no longer hear the conversation.
“Roselle Sword.” Mother calls me by my processed name for the first time. I lift my chin in her direction. My stomach churns as I realize that she’s distancing herself from me by using it. “Describe for us your version of the attack perpetrated against the Fate of Swords three days ago.”
My mouth feels dry, but I manage to sound passably normal as I recount the events of the attack upon Dune and me. I leave out seeing the first golden-masked man, as Hawthorne suggested. No use muddying the water. I finish by saying, “The enemy combatants brought down our airships, my moniker, and my sword by using a Fusion Snuff Pulse.”
“How did you know what it was—a Fusion Snuff Pulse?” Daltrey is the first to question me. His intense stare holds a note of fear. I take a step in his direction, studying his features closer. “Perhaps you overheard something at the Sword Palace regarding such a device?” His sand-colored eyes give me a look that I know well—it demands discretion. I’ve seen that look from Dune a thousand times. This man is somehow related to him, but how, I don’t know. He’s a Star-Fated firstborn, but I’m sure nonetheless. Their manner is the same. Their features are similar. He’s an older version of my mentor.
I look around at the faces of the others. They have no idea that Daltrey is anything other than what he says he is. They’re not even looking at him. My attention goes back to Daltrey. “I heard about the device at the Palace of Swords from my mother’s advisors. They were discussing it when I was called to see her regarding details for my Transition Day.”
I wait for Mother to call me a liar. A second ticks by and then another. I glance at her. She appears to believe me—and why not? I’d lived among them at the Palace. Everyone was lax around me because I was a phantom to them. My eyes lift to Daltrey’s. His relief is clear, but I seem to be the only one who sees it. He nods ever so slightly, and Clarity Bowie starts demanding answers from Othala. “What are you doing to keep us all safe from this fusion pulse, Clarity St. Sismode?”
Fear eats at me with ferocious bites. I just lied to The Virtue and The Sword—the two most powerful people in the world. Why? My hands are shaking so much I have to press them against my thighs.
&
nbsp; Clarity Bowie is unimpressed by Othala’s lack of decisive action to shield the fatedoms from this new weapon. “Our enemies have become bolder, Othala. They assault us at the heart of our military, and yet, you do nothing!”
“We strike their Bases when we locate them,” Othala reasons, “but we cannot continue to assail Fates like Stars and Suns the way we have. We’re disrupting their workers. We need to keep Stars producing energy and Suns yielding food supplies. Their firstborn citizens are with us. It’s pockets of rogue secondborns whom we have to stamp out.”
“What are you doing about the threat to our power sources, Daltrey?” Clarity Bowie points at the Star-Fated firstborn.
“Cages can be built around the power sources to protect them from a pulse. But you need to do it on a massive scale, which requires around-the-clock work from Star engineers—Atom engineers can help as well. They’ll need access to every fatedom of the Republic to accomplish this task, especially the capital. We should start with your Palaces.”
“Clarity Jowell, see that Daltrey and his engineers get the access they need from Census.”
“It will be difficult, Clarity Bowie,” the diplomat from the Fate of Moons replies. “Census doesn’t like granting special access to anyone. They feel it impedes their tracking of thirdborns.”
“Would you rather sit in your palace in the dark, Clarity Jowell?”
“No,” Jowell replies. “I’ll see that it gets done. Firstborn Leon, I’ll need a list of workers as soon as you can get them to me.”
Daltrey Leon nods. “You will have them within the week.”
Grisholm makes a rude sound as he rubs his face with both hands. “This is all very interesting, Father, but we’ve heard all of this from your personal guard, what’s his name—Sand?”
“Dune,” Clarity Bowie corrects him. My heart beats faster at his name. He’s safe for the moment.
“Yes—him.” Grisholm points his finger at his father like they’re in the room together. Maybe they are. “Take care of whatever you have to take care of, Daltrey, and let me get back to the Opening Ceremonies of the Secondborn Trials. I have a very healthy bet on a secondborn from the Fate of Stars—Linus Star—and I want to have a chance to speak to him before the first match tomorrow.”
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