Malcolm barrels at me with his sword aloft, exposing every inch of himself for me to carve up. I duck under his downward swing, raising my fusionblade and angling it just short of the firstborn’s ear. Several locks of his stylish hair float to the floor. His cheeks burn with fury. Guffaws from Grisholm fill the air. The firstborn claps and shouts, “I was just saying how your hair needed a new style, ol’ boy!” Grisholm’s voice booms through the automated voice amplification in the room, making him sound like a god on high.
Malcolm says nothing. He grits his teeth and lowers his head, careening toward me again, overwrought-gorilla style. Wrapping the fabric of the banner hanging from the ceiling around my wrist, I clutch it in my fist and swing away. My feet touch down in the center of the sparring circle. I release the drape. It floats backward, covering Malcolm’s face in a swath of gold. He snarls, snatching it away from his eyes.
“Roselle!” Dune barks. I flinch.
Immediately, I attack Malcolm, swinging my fusionblade with blurring speed. It whirls, making shadows bleed with golden light. Malcolm lurches back until he stumbles and falls at the edge of the circle. His sword tumbles out of reach. Chin pointing at the ceiling, he cowers at my feet. The deadly point of my sword singes the hairs on his throat. Sweat slides down his cheeks, and his Adam’s apple bobs in silent agony.
We wait, neither of us moving. Cold fear whistles through me. Malcolm feels it, too, if his shudder is any indication. Will The Virtue order Malcolm’s death? My stomach curls and knots, but my hands stay steady. Patience is power in its truest form.
If I must kill him, his pain ends. Mine lives on.
Malcolm’s eyes stare up—the color of November moons.
“Roselle, you may”—The Virtue pauses; Malcolm holds his breath—“execute him.”
Malcolm emits a strangled sob.
Grisholm jumps to his feet. “Wait! Hold, Roselle! Father!”
I remain still, awaiting confirmation of the kill order.
“He’s Edmund Burton’s firstborn!” Grisholm pleads. “Burton Weapons Manufacturing supplies all of the munitions to our military.”
The Virtue glowers at his son from across the open air of the balcony level. “Not anymore. We have new contracts. Salloway Munitions will supply our weapons, as well as new armor for our Sword soldiers. Clifton has developed secret military vehicles—ones that won’t drop out of the sky if fusion power is disrupted.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Grisholm replies with a note of desperation, “but why kill Malcolm? He has nothing to do with the military contracts. He has been my loyal friend for years.”
Gripping the marble railing, The Virtue’s knuckles turn bloodless. “Edmund Burton is Othala’s man.”
Grisholm raises his shoulders in confusion. “So?”
“So, he’d be the one to supply The Sword with the kind of support she’d need for a military coup.”
Grisholm chuckles in derision. “That’s absurd. Othala St. Sismode can barely look you in the eyes, let alone overthrow you.”
“You’re blind,” The Virtue snarls. “I’ve raised a fool!”
“Then enlighten me.”
“Othala will do anything to protect her firstborn.”
“Protect Gabriel from whom?”
“From us,” Grisholm’s father replies.
“Because of her!” Grisholm points to me. “Because you brought her here!”
“Roselle’s a much better choice to stand by your side and defend you from our enemies than Gabriel. He’s weak. Your enemies will destroy you with him running the Fate of Swords. Roselle will make them cower at your feet.” The Virtue tips his head in my direction. Malcolm trembles in fear.
“Malcolm isn’t my enemy!” Grisholm retorts.
“He has taught you nothing!” his father says scornfully. “You can barely hold a sword!”
“No one’s allowed to hurt me!” Exasperation drips from Grisholm’s tone.
“That changes today!” The Virtue replies.
“You cannot kill Malcolm for following the rules you yourself set forth!” A part of me feels a grudging respect for Grisholm as he points out his father’s hypocrisy. He knows loyalty.
“I can do whatever I like. I’m The Virtue.”
“She’s not firstborn. This goes against everything we believe in!”
“Exceptions have to be made from time to time to maintain power,” The Virtue replies.
“Malcolm is more valuable to you alive,” Dune interjects, the low resonance of his voice bolstered by the amplifiers. “Burton won’t help Othala if you hold his firstborn and secondborn sons. Keeping Malcolm close and detaining his secondborn brother, Kendrick, would serve to collar Edmund’s ambitions, instead of giving him a reason to strike.”
“You really expect a coup?” Grisholm asks. The Firstborn Commander’s arrogant smirk is absent now.
“I expect nothing less.” The Virtue’s attention drifts to me. He waves two fingers in dismissal. “Malcolm lives . . . for now.”
I withdraw my fusionblade from Malcolm’s throat. With a flick of my wrist, the surging energy of my sword dies. The firstborn Exo slumps in a serpentine sprawl, panting on the floor, hissing curses under his breath.
I move to the center of the circle and face The Virtue. Malcolm stays where he is, staring at the mat. Our ruthless leader calls in Exo soldiers to take Malcolm away, and the thick, muscular men in the ebony uniforms and capes of the royal guard approach. Malcolm gets to his feet, and they drag him away by his arms. His black boots skate along the cold floor before disappearing behind golden doors.
“Well done, Dune.” The Virtue beams. “She’s everything I’d hoped for when I sent you to be her mentor.” I suppress a gasp. I had no idea that Clarity Bowie had played a part in selecting my mentor.
Both The Virtue and Grisholm stare at me with such intensity that they miss the cold-blooded hatred in the shifting sand of Dune’s gaze. They misread my mentor—I don’t even think they can see the dark rage dawning behind the gates of his exquisite control.
I shiver.
“Roselle”—The Virtue gestures to his son—“you will immediately begin instructing Grisholm in the art of combat and strategy.” I knew this was coming the moment they told me I had to fight Grisholm’s mentor, but even so, an uneasiness creeps through me.
“Father, please!” Grisholm snarls. “She’s secondborn.”
“A secondborn with uncanny skill.”
“She’s a woman!”
“Then you should have no problem besting her,” his father taunts.
“She’s strange and unpredictable.”
“Exactly what you need. Roselle, you have my permission to use your own discretion in training my son.”
I nod, hiding my supreme irritation with this turn of events. The Virtue turns to leave. “My moniker’s communications have been blocked,” I call to him. “My access to messaging has been restricted.”
The Virtue pauses, facing me once more. “I’m aware of that.”
“I want full access restored.”
“Why? Whom do you wish to contact?”
Hawthorne, I think, but his question feels dangerous. Instead, I reply, “Commander Salloway.”
“Ah. Clifton.” He smirks. “He’s insisted upon seeing you, Roselle. He’s adamant that we discuss your work schedule at Salloway Munitions.”
“Grant me access to my moniker’s communicator, and I’ll arrange everything now.”
“I’m sorry. That’s just not possible.”
“Why not?” I frown.
“It’s for your own protection.”
“I can protect myself.”
His bottom lip pushes out in a dubious look. “I’m sure it’s no secret to you that your mother and your brother want you dead. They have ways of getting to you.”
“It’s a family matter.”
“Your welfare concerns me, Roselle. Your moniker could be tracked through those you contact. I’ve restricted access t
o your locator. You may thank me now for protecting you.”
I want to argue with him, but the stern set of his jaw tells me that now is not the time. “Thank you,” I mutter. The Virtue dismisses me, turns, and leaves. An almost-imperceptible lowering of Dune’s chin is enough of an acknowledgment to say, “You did well.” He follows The Virtue out.
Moving to the golden stairs, I slowly climb to where Grisholm stands with his hands on his hips, glaring at me. His nostrils flare in anger. I stop beside him. The view of the sea beyond the cliff at his back is breathtaking. The salty breeze stirs my brown hair, blowing unsecured wisps that have slipped from my ponytail to batter my cheeks.
Grisholm’s hot breath assaults my earlobe. “Let me make something very clear, Roselle. You are nothing. The moment I’m The Virtue, you’ll be dealt with.” My eyes don’t stray from the sea. It takes all my strength not to cut him down with my fusionblade. He leaves through the private doors to his personal wing of the Halo Palace, followed closely by a swarm of hovering stingers. I stand motionless, contemplating the precariousness of my new position as hated mentor to the future ruler of the world.
Chapter 2
Domestic Bliss
I return to my apartment inside the Halo Palace. My private quarters are on a corridor near Grisholm’s sparring circle. The rooms are posh by the standards of my former capsule in the air-barracks, but they fall short of the elegance of my penthouse apartment at the top of Clifton’s sword-shaped skyscraper in the Fate of Swords. What I love most about this apartment is that it overlooks a formal rose and topiary garden and the sea beneath the jagged cliff beyond it.
Blue lights flash over my silver sword-shaped moniker when I place it beneath the scanner on the panel next to the door. The golden door slides open, and the heavy clicking and shuffling of metal footsteps on marble floor greet me.
No one attends to me here. The secondborns who work in The Virtue’s Halo Palace find it beneath their stations to assist a secondborn Sword. To compensate for this, a “mechadome,” a domestic robot with artificial intelligence, was assigned to me. They’re usually humanoid in appearance with sophisticated communication and domestic skills. Mine is not.
My newly commissioned mechadome waddles over from the drawing room.
My lips twitch into a smile. It’s clear this domestic servant has been resurrected from a scrap pile. Its two round, lens-like eyes, located in the center of its nearly neckless head, glow red. It uses infrared to find me in the wide foyer. The dented iron veneer of the three-foot-tall, hydrogen-powered domestic assistant doesn’t have a bit of shine to it. Lines of rusted round-headed fasteners run down either side of its plump torso.
Out of curiosity, I researched my new mechadome. In its former life, this little bot was a sewer worker with few artificial intelligence capabilities. It had no domestic skills whatsoever until it was assigned to me. Only the bare minimum of upgrades have been applied to its operating system, according to the rudimentary diagnostic I ran. The potbellied robot strikes me as someone’s idea of a supremely funny prank meant to make me feel less than welcome here. I suspect Grisholm had something to do with it. The Firstborn Commander’s joke couldn’t have backfired worse, though, because I find this squat, burly brute endearing.
“How has your day been, Phoenix?” I ask.
The mechadome shifts its weight from wide metal foot to wide metal foot and back—clang, clang, clang—and its glowing red eyes stare up at me.
I unfasten the armor clasps of my heat resistant hauberk and pull it over my head. Holding out the metallic mesh garment, I let go. As it falls, Phoenix lifts its short, cannon-barrel-shaped arm. The hollow appendage whines, and a powerful vacuum sucks the armor to it, catching it before it hits the floor.
Straightening my black tank top back into place over my abdomen, I realize that this little unit probably used to suck up sewage—a thought I don’t want to dwell on when it brings me my dinner later this evening.
Phoenix uses its other longer arm with the clawlike hand to secure the armor. The mechadome makes an awkward turn because its hover mode no longer works. With more clanging noises, it crosses the foyer at a toddling pace, depositing my hauberk into a transparent case. The thickset bot programs the storage unit to sanitize the armor. I pat its iron head on my way by to check the parcel chute.
The bin is empty—nothing from Hawthorne to let me know if he’s alive.
I cross through the drawing room to the message console on the wall in the den and take out the hologram pad. Lifting the antiquated handheld device, normally used by the administrative arm of the Halo Palace, I switch on the pad. An automated virtual image of a Stone-Fated secondborn appears, in holographic form, with a message: “Your request for a manual and tools to repair a Class 5Z Mechanized Sanitation Unit has been denied. You do not hold the moniker classification for this task. Please requisition a Star-Fated or Atom-Fated representative for further assistance.” The hologram winks out.
I growl in frustration. Using the handheld hologram pad, I record and send a request for a Star to visit my apartment. I shove the message pad aside. I’m irritated, for the millionth time since arriving here, about the restrictions on my moniker communications.
I squat down. “Don’t worry, Phee. I’ll get your hover mode fixed soon.” Phoenix responds by shifting its feet—three quick clangs—reminding me of the maginots’ tails wagging.
Straightening, I leave the den and walk to the winding stairs near the drawing room. As I climb them, I hear Phoenix behind me ramming repeatedly into the bottom step, trying to follow me. It turns on its powerful vacuum arm and angles it down. Reversing the flow of air, it blows a stream of wind, acting as a propulsion system. The squat little bot almost levitates to the first step. “Stay, Phoenix,” I order. It stills. The air system powers down.
The expression on its little face is almost forlorn. Its eyes glow brighter red. Its portal mouth, which is where it attaches to a power source to recharge its hydrogen power cells, can curve up or down to show the bare minimum of humanlike expression. The oblong opening is in a definite frown. “I’ll be right back.” I feel a bit stupid for talking to it this way. I don’t know the extent of its intelligence or whether it has genuine feelings, but still I’m acting as if it has both.
I jog up to my bedroom suite to take a quick shower. When I’m finished, I wrap a robe around myself and move to stand in front of the holographic mirror in the dressing closet adjacent to the bathroom. The mirror reflects my image with a holographic list of categories on its right side. I select “Casual Wear” by touching the air button. My image in the mirror becomes garbed in a champagne-colored silk blouse with off-white leather pants that taper at the leg. I swipe away the leather with a gesture of my hand. I want something that will suit my mood, which isn’t bright. The leather pants are replaced by cherry-red cotton leggings. I wrinkle my nose and keep swiping.
I was advised by the Stone-Fated attendant who gave me the tour of the Halo Palace that I’m not to wear any symbols of the Sword secondborn military while in residence here. Instead, I’m to dress like Sword aristocracy. The Palace agent fell short of telling me to comport myself as if I’m firstborn, but it was implied in his rhetoric. I have outfits for a myriad of occasions, from formal to beachwear, but everything in my clothing lists is stylish and feminine and fits the profile of a wealthy firstborn.
Tailored black high-waisted trousers finally catch my eye. Pausing on them, I swipe through a range of different tops to pair with them, settling on a clingy, long-sleeved black top with an asymmetrical neckline. All the appropriate undergarments that accessorize the outfit display as well. I order them. About seven minutes later, the outfit arrives through the air-driven clothing conveyor chute inside the dressing closet. The items are packaged in separate garment bags that store neatly in clothing cubbies until I send the garments back in them later.
The black heels I order have a wait time of thirty minutes. Barefoot but dressed, I go back to t
he bathroom. As I’m twisting my hair into a smooth knot at the base of my head, the door of my apartment bleeps in melodic tones.
“You have a visitor,” a sultry male voice says from the apartment’s speaker system. The heavy metallic ring of Phoenix’s feet begins in earnest below—clang, clang, clang, clang—
“Who is it?” I ask, securing my hair with a few pins.
“Secondborn Kinjin Star,” replies the simulated voice.
Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang—
Smoothing the last hairs into place, I leave the bathroom and descend the stairs. “Open the front door,” I command, hurrying across the drawing room to the foyer. The apartment door opens, and the young woman outside gazes down at Phoenix at her feet. The mechadome shifts noisily from side to side.
The Star-Fated woman looks up at me as I approach. “I read the order, but I thought it was keyed in wrong. You have a Class 5Z Mechanized Sanitation Unit as a domestic assistant?” Her brown eyes sparkle with restrained mirth. She rests her hand on the knee of her lemon-colored uniform, bending toward Phoenix in fascination. The silver belt around her waist holds magnetized tools. In her hand is a silver case.
“They’re the up-and-coming thing,” I reply, my lip twisting with sarcasm. “Everyone will have to have one soon. Please come in.” I move aside, allowing her in. “This one has seen better days, though. The hover module doesn’t work on either of its feet.” The door slides closed behind her.
“Is there a place I can work?” she asks, appearing as if she’s making mental notes of all the tests she’d like to run on my little bot.
“This way.” I sweep my arm toward the long table in the formal dining area. Phoenix toddles along behind me like a puppy. At Kinjin’s urging, I help lift Phoenix off the floor and onto the marble tabletop.
“Thanks,” she says. “These little units are heavy. Their outsides are iron, and their insides are lined with lead.”