Chapter 3
Star at Midnight
Reykin lets go of me, shoving himself up to his feet.
He moves to the cliff’s edge and gazes down. I join him there. Below, the swirling ocean waves crash over jagged rocks. In the darkness, it’s impossible to see if the assassin survived.
Reykin’s clean-shaven jaw tightens in anger. He runs his hand through his thick dark hair, smoothing it back into place. “Were you going to follow him over?” he demands. I just stare at him. I haven’t seen him since I left his home in the Fate of Stars and sailed away on a rusted cargo ship. He’s just as handsome as I remember—all hard angles and savage intensity. “Were you?” he asks, latching on to my upper arms.
I knock his hands away. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m protecting our asset from her ruthless family.” He moves away and scuffles our dewy imprints in the lawn, covering our tracks.
“How did you even know I was out here?”
“I hacked your mechadome.”
“You what—how?”
“Kinjin uploaded a program into your Class 5Z. I took over from there.”
“So . . . you woke me up?”
“You’re welcome,” he replies angrily, grasping my chin and turning it sharply, making me look up at him. “Never mention my brother’s name again. To anyone! Do you understand?”
Guilt makes me hesitate for a second, then I bash his hand away with my own. “I was just trying to find him for you,” I reply with a scowl.
“Don’t,” he orders. His impossibly bright aquamarine eyes are discernable even in the moonlight. He leans nearer. “You’re hurt,” he says, his tone softened. He reaches for my throat.
I push his hand away again. My fingertips go to my neck, exploring my injury. The assassin’s knife cut me. “It’s nothing. A nick.”
Which probably would’ve been a big, gaping hole if Reykin hadn’t hacked my mechadome. Reykin leans in. His scent triggers something I don’t expect, a feeling of safety. He saved me once from the worst beating of my life, and I want to cuddle up to his side and have him comfort me now.
Which is confusing. I take care of myself.
“Let me see it,” Reykin says.
“No,” I reply, backing a step away.
“Why not?” he asks mulishly. Typical firstborn, used to getting his own way.
“Because you’re a horrible medic. I still have a star on my palm to prove it.” I shove my right palm in his direction. He takes my hand in his and rubs his thumb over the small, raised star scar—a leftover from when his fusionblade hilt seared his family crest into my hand on the battlefield where we first met. The gesture is unmistakably tender. His shooting star moniker casts a golden glow between us. “How did you get into the Halo Palace undiscovered?” I ask. As part of the rebellion, a secret Gates of Dawn officer, Reykin risks being eviscerated by the Fates Republic government if they find out what side he’s truly on. But first they’d torture him to find out what he knows, and he knows plenty.
“I’m a guest,” Reykin replies, dropping my hand abruptly. He turns away and heads toward the formal garden. His broad back is clad only in an undershirt, and he wears gray pants that qualify as sleepwear. His feet are bare.
“Whose guest?” I blurt out, following him.
“Grisholm’s guest.”
“Grisholm?” I hiss. “How do you know him?”
“Go back to your apartment. I disabled the night owl bots out here, but that won’t go unnoticed for long.” He points to a tree where an all-too-real-looking owl clings to the bark, unmoving. “We’re fortunate Grisholm doesn’t allow roaming maginots in his area of the Palace.”
“Doesn’t he have maginots?”
“No, the automated wolfhounds tended to kill his late-night female guests, so he banned them. I want you to alert Iono security to the break-in in your apartment tonight. Mention nothing about me to them.”
“How do you know Grisholm?” I don’t like being surprised or kept out of any plan they might be hatching, especially if that plan involves me as the “asset.”
He keeps walking, weaving around hedges in the garden. “Now is not the time for explanations.”
I know he’s right, but I need to know one thing. “The program I uploaded into the maginot,” I ask breathlessly, following him, “did it work?”
Reykin pauses and faces me. “Of course it worked. We’re saving thirdborns every day.” A burst of fear, and maybe relief, turns my belly to ice and weakens my knees. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Stay alert. Those assassins may have found you because you ordered a chet. Maybe they saw where it was delivered and followed it to you. Or your mother has her own spies here. Either way, never use the Atoms at the Halo Palace for anything. I don’t trust them. If you need more chets, tell me. I’ll get them for you.” He turns and walks away again.
This time I don’t follow him. Shame over my weakness today makes my cheeks burn. I should be able to control my fear without using chets. Putting my hands on my knees, I take a few deep breaths to try to calm my heart, which bludgeons my sternum. Slowly, with Reykin gone, my anxiety subsides. I straighten, find my way back inside, and alert the first guard I find to the horrific homicide that took place in my room.
I surrender the fusionmag. Two Iono guards conduct me to the underground security level of the Halo Palace. The subterranean interrogation room, devoid of everything except a metallic table bolted to the floor and a few stiff chairs, is as sterile as it is spare. Bright lights shine down from the ceiling, heightening my fear of exposure as a spy. The two guards, both women, listen with skeptical expressions as I report the murder attempt on my life. After asking me very few questions, they leave to investigate. The door closes behind them. I test the door. It’s locked. I’m confined to the room. I return to the metal chair and sit. It’s cool down here. I notice I neglected to put on shoes during the chaos. My feet are grass-stained. Alone in a small interrogation room, I stare at my dirty toes.
Hours later, I’m virtually in the same position, seated at the small table, when the door opens and an Exo officer enters. She’s probably in her early thirties, fit, with a firstborn sword moniker shining golden from the back of her left hand.
“Roselle St. Sismode,” she says, pulling out a metal chair across from me and taking a seat.
“It’s Roselle Sword,” I reply.
“How about just Roselle?” she asks with a small smile. “I’m Vaughna Jenns. I’m in charge of this investigation.” She sets a metallic mug of what smells like coffee on the table in front of her and pushes it in my direction. “Thirsty?”
I am, but she’s a Sword. She could be working for my mother and brother. “No. Thank you.” I give her a polite smile.
“I can take a sip of it first, if you’re worried.” She leans back in her chair.
I pretend I don’t know what she means. “Did you locate the man that dove into the sea?”
“We recovered two bodies from your apartment, but as for a third, that one seems to have gotten away.”
I cross my arms, wishing I’d followed the killer off the cliff. Not knowing for sure if my brother ordered the strike stirs intense fear within me. If it wasn’t by Gabriel’s order, then I have more to worry about than the power struggle with family. I’ve committed treason for the Gates of Dawn. I’ve made an enemy of Grisholm by usurping Malcolm Burton’s position in the Halo Palace. I’ve done things in the name of my Fate as a secondborn soldier that could lead to retribution. I’m also a high-profile figure in the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate—it’s face. “What Fate were they from?”
“We don’t know. Their monikers were removed.”
“Let me see the bodies. Maybe I’ll recognize them without their masks.” She complies, using her moniker’s holographic screens to show me the bodies in my apartment. They’re both young—my age or younger. I don’t recognize either man and exhale in frustration. “They’re not familiar.”
Firstborn Jenns extinguishes the images. “Can you think of a reason why someone would want to kill you?” she asks with a straight face.
“We’re at war. I’m a Sword.”
“You’re in the Halo Palace. The Virtue—or his heir—would make for a better target than you.”
“Find the third assassin, and we’ll have our answers,” I reply.
She purses her lips. Perhaps she expects some kind of theory from me? She must know that if I were to accuse my mother or brother of plotting my death, I could be convicted of treason. I’m secondborn. I don’t have the right to make any unsubstantiated claims or statements against firstborns—especially not The Sword.
She sighs. Lifting her left hand, she touches the light of her golden holographic sword. The moniker opens a holographic screen, and she retrieves the statement I gave to the Iono officers hours before. “So, this is your story. Three men entered your apartment to murder you. You killed two of them—”
“No, the first was shot by the second. The second I stabbed in the neck with the first’s knife.”
“Quite right. And the third, you . . .”
“Shot in the shoulder.”
“Where did you get the weapon?”
“The second assassin dropped it when I stabbed him.”
“With the first one’s knife?” she asks. I nod. “And you were able to shoot the third . . .”
“In the shoulder,” we say in unison.
“That’s quite a feat,” Firstborn Jenns says. “Three against one, and you were unharmed except for a small cut on your neck?”
“My mechadome helped.”
She snorts skeptically. The door behind her opens. Dune enters, making the small room feel tiny. Firstborn Jenns jumps to her feet, nearly spilling the coffee. “Commander Kodaline.”
“Firstborn.” Dune acknowledges her with a slight nod. “The questioning is finished for this evening. If you have anything more, you’ll submit it to me.” He turns to me. I don’t move. Fear and devotion hover just behind my serene mask.
“Yes. Of course,” Firstborn Jenns acquiesces. She’s clearly intimidated, but if I had to guess, it’s more by his presence—the raw power in him—than by his position.
“Roselle, please join me,” Dune orders.
I rise from the chair, sore from not having moved in hours, and leave the room with him. We walk the bland corridors of the security floor side by side. Dune shows me to a lift. Unlike the others, its walls are made of glass. It takes us upward within a shaft gilded in gold leaf. The air feels thinner, but mostly from the awkwardness of spending my entire life with him, only to have been kept apart for more than a year now, unable to tell him about all the devastating events I encountered as a soldier. An invisible wall divides us. He’s a stranger I’ve known all my life—a spy. I don’t know what was real between us and what wasn’t. I feel a mix of emotions—hope, desperation, fear, betrayal, and despair. I struggle to contain it all.
To give the illusion of being unaffected, I focus on the mundane. His hair is pulled back in a tight knot, making him appear younger than his thirty-nine years. Earlier today, he was wearing an Exo uniform—a promotion from the Iono uniform he wore as my mentor at the Sword Palace. Now his formal attire is of Sword aristocracy. He could rival my father, Kennet, in elegance.
He notices my puzzled expression. “I was at a Secondborn Pre-Trial event hosted by a tremendous bore when I was pulled away.”
“You look nice.” I glance away from him, hoping my hero worship isn’t apparent in my tone. “Who was the bore?”
“Firstborn Harkness Ambersol,” he replies. “Have you met him? I don’t recall.”
“No, but I’ve heard of him.” If Harkness had been to the Sword Palace, I wasn’t introduced to him. He’s firstborn and I’m secondborn. I was kept away from most social gatherings at the Sword residence for that reason. “Isn’t Harkness next in line for the position of The Sword, should either Gabriel or I be unable to claim the honor?”
“He is. Your friend was there as well. He asked me about you.”
“Which friend? I have so many,” I lie. I have two—Hawthorne and Clifton. Maybe Reykin. Maybe none. I can’t decide. They all come with strings.
“Exo Salloway. He asked me to tell you that he misses you.”
“Was Clifton holding on to the arm of the loveliest Diamond-Fated starlet in the room when he told you that?” My smile is ironic, imaging the handsome Exo Sword with his movie-star good looks.
“He was quite alone this evening and adamant that I deliver his message.” A definite frown accompanies Dune’s answer. A year ago, I would’ve been devastated by any inkling of my mentor’s disapproval. Now I’m surprised to find that I’m somewhat annoyed. Clifton has done more for me than I can repay.
“I miss him, too,” I reply, wanting to see Dune’s reaction. His frown deepens.
The transparent elevator suddenly exits the opaque shaft and travels through the open air toward the golden halo-shaped crown that hovers over the rest of the Palace. The night sky is glorious with glowing stars. For several moments, all I can think about is how beautifully decadent the city of Purity is at night. From the skyscrapers that hover far off the ground, to those that spiral and change their shapes before my eyes, the city shimmers with opulent extravagance.
The elevator enters the golden circlet of the Halo Palace, and the view cuts off. When the doors open, we enter a magnificent foyer. A grand staircase climbs to a golden balustrade lined mezzanine. More than ten military-grade death drones hover about this lavish room. Several Iono guards in crisp gray uniforms stand like statues at equal intervals in the foyer. “That staircase leads to Fabian and Adora’s private residence,” Dune says, referring to The Virtue and his wife. I peer up. Exo guards in black uniforms stand at intervals along the mezzanine’s curved walls. All of them have fusion rifles. Dune must have cleared my moniker for the visit, because our presence goes unchallenged.
Golden columns support gilded architraves on both levels. Between the pillars, on the mezzanine’s landing wall beyond, hang portraits of The Virtue and his sublime spouse. Adora’s green eyes, wondrous and cold, cast a gaze of emerald ice upon Dune and me. Her long blond hair gently moves on the portrait’s visual screen, held in place by her halo crown—a circlet of pure gold. The difference between the two royal figures is such to make them worlds apart. Where Fabian is dark, Adora is light. His mouth is ruthless. Hers is supple. His face is hard angles. Hers is rounded softness.
Dune and I don’t climb the exquisite staircase. Instead, we turn and head for an adjacent corridor, our shadows stretching beneath the ever-watchful gazes of our sovereigns until we’re out of the foyer.
Dune’s gait is gentle, the pace of a panther whose tail caresses the confines of his cage. He leads me to his private apartments. I’m impressed by the beauty of his drawing room, everything masculine and high tech. I approach an arching glass wall with godlike views of the city beyond the expansive grounds. The world almost makes sense from this altitude.
“Privacy mode,” Dune says.
I huff in disappointment as shutters of thick steel close over the wall, severing my connection with the outside world. Doors close and latch. A pinging high-intensity frequency bursts to life and ascends in pitch until I can no longer hear it.
Dune stands near a luxurious tungsten and black-velvet sofa. Large chairs of the same shiny metal and matte fabric face it. He gestures toward one. I settle into it and feel small by comparison. He lifts a silver orb from a glass bowl on the low table between us, holding it in his palm. It levitates and hovers in the air. Light erupts from the device, shining out in spidery legs that expand into an iridescent bubble around us.
The orb slowly descends into the bowl. It settles among the other spheres, still emitting the light. “We are secure,” Dune says. “You can speak freely. Not even our monikers’ transmitters can penetrate the whisper orb.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Commander Kodaline,” I murmur.
“No need to thank me, or to call me ‘Commander.’ I’m not your mentor anymore. We both know I’m neither firstborn nor secondborn.”
“What shall I call you?”
“Dune.”
“Is that your real name?” I’m surprised to hear the hurt in my own voice.
“Yes.”
I once thought I knew everything there was to know about this man, but I know very little. “Your last name isn’t Kodaline. It’s Leon.”
“You met my brother Daltrey.”
“Does one really meet Daltrey Leon, or is he more like something that happens to you? Like an airship crash. I brought him the monikers that Flannigan and I stole from Census. He accepted them and then left me little choice but to infiltrate the Sword industrial systems for the Gates of Dawn.”
“He does have a way about him. He sees your potential.”
“Daltrey is your real firstborn brother, is he not?” I ask. Dune resembles the leader of the Gates of Dawn.
“He is. I had an older sister, Kendall, but she was murdered not long after her Transition by a firstborn from the city where she worked.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I.”
“Where was her post?”
“In the Fate of Virtues. She had a brilliant mind. She was training to be an energy engineer.”
“What happened?”
“She was raped by a man whose father controlled the energy contracts for the region. She became pregnant with his firstborn. He didn’t want anyone to know, so he strangled her.”
I should be shocked, but I’m not. “Was he punished?” I ask. Usually only secondborns suffer the consequences of any crime perpetrated against them by firstborns, especially the crime of rape.
“Not by Census. He paid a fine to the Fate of Stars, and they let him go.”
I shiver, seeing the intensity in Dune’s eyes. He has made pain his companion. I’ve always felt it, but I didn’t know why. “You avenged her.” It’s not a question. He’s patient and precise—dark and powerful.
“I tortured my sister’s murderer, and then I tied his rotting corpse to the trunk of a tree in front of his parent’s estate in Lenity.” Pain isn’t just Dune’s companion, it’s his lover.
“He was Virtue-Fated?” Lenity is a wealthy district not far from here.
“He was Star-Fated but living in Virtues.”
“Was it enough?” As a soldier, I know once the inertia of passivity is broken, crossing the line of violence has its own momentum. Revenge doesn’t have a master. It is a master.
“His death will never be enough. This Republic that allows firstborns to commit atrocities with little or no repercussions—that enslaves us—will end.” The caged-animal look is back, darkening his features. It’s unnerving. Dune’s usually so careful, so controlled. He has never spoken to me like this before, as if I’m his peer.
“It’s not your fault—what happened to her,” I say quietly.
“Isn’t it?” His tone is harsh. “You saved your secondborn friend from a similar atrocity.”
“It wasn’t the same thing. I was lucky.”
“Was it luck or was it you being brave, daring to act despite the consequences?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nor do I.” He paces behind the long sofa, within the whisper orb’s confines.
I clutch the arm of the chair to keep myself from going to him. He wouldn’t want that. I clear my throat. “Daltrey is the oldest in your family, then Kendall, and then Walther? That makes you technically fourthborn—thirdborn now that your sister is gone.”
“Walther is older than me, but only by minutes. We’re fraternal twins.”
Twins are rare. If a second pregnancy results in twins, one fetus is terminated and delicately removed or left to be absorbed by the other. With a first pregnancy, the parents can choose to keep both twins, but one must be secondborn, and eventually given to the government on its Transition Day. “How did Walther become a secondborn Sword?”
“Walther and I have been a secret since our birth. Census would’ve executed us both, and our mother for hiding the pregnancy, but my parents were wealthy and made sacrifices to keep us alive.” His parents were more than wealthy. The Leons are the Second Family in the Fate of Stars. They would inherit the title of “The Star” if the current First Family’s heirs in Stars, the Vukes, were unable to claim the title. In other words, if they were dead. If Aksel Vuke and his two children were to die, Daltrey rules his Fate as The Star.
“What sort of sacrifices?” I ask.
“Some firstborns in the Fate of Swords find the secondborn laws particularly brutal. Secondborn Swords aren’t just ripped away from their families, they’re often slaughtered by war or they die due to the extreme hardship of being raised as soldiers. Some firstborn Swords are unwilling to sacrifice their own child to that kind of brutality.”
“But . . . they have no choice. The law requires them to have a second child to fulfill their duty to the Fates. If they don’t, they lose everything.”
“In Walther’s case,” Dune explains, “his adoptive Sword mother pretended to be pregnant. When my mother gave birth to us, my family paid a physician to assert live Sword-Fated births. The physician forged all the DNA screenings necessary to provide sword monikers for me and Walther. Walther’s adoptive family claimed him as their secondborn son so that they wouldn’t have to have another child of their own and give it up. In exchange, they receive Walther’s earnings as a secondborn Sword soldier and keep their positions in the Sword hierarchy. There’s no love there. Walther is a means to an end.”
“How did your Star-Fated family manage to keep all this a secret?”
“Walther’s adoptive family took him into their home as an infant and gave him to a mentor to raise. He lived with them in their house. He was brought to a few of their Sword family gatherings when he was a very young child, but when he became old enough to train in the art of war, he was sent back to Stars, to my real family, per their agreement. We were five years old when I was reunited with my twin brother and began training with my father and Daltrey. We come from a long line of warriors, spanning from a time when there were no Fates or laws to decide who or what a person should be. Our mistake was not training Kendall as well.”
“I’ve always believed you to be firstborn.”
“I was more fortunate than Walther. My adoptive family couldn’t have children. They tried for years and failed. The Kodalines are Sword aristocracy. They would’ve lost their titles and their wealth if they couldn’t produce a firstborn. They were desperate for a child. My adoptive mother, Corrine, and my adoptive father, Quinton, were eager for the illegal adoption, even knowing they’d be executed if it were ever discovered. They love me as if I’m their own child. They missed me when I was at my Star family home. They demanded visitations. I spent time in both Fates. Then they adopted another child in the same way—a secondborn girl named Surrey. My younger sister came from a Star family as well. She was the Star’s thirdborn child and would’ve been killed otherwise. The Gates of Dawn began as a secret movement to save thirdborns from Census. It grew from there into the network it is today.”
“What happened to your Sword sister?”
“Surrey was killed just after she Transitioned at an outpost in Darkshire. Friendly fire, they said. Our adoptive mother cried for days.”
“Were you close to Surrey?”
“Surrey felt more like a sister to me than Kendall. We spent more time together. She had no business being a soldier. It wasn’t in her nature.” Another note of regret. Maybe another reason why my training was always so brutally rigid? Every lesson, Dune stressed that mastery meant life or death.
“How did you come to know The Virtue?” I ask.
“When I was eighteen, I was sent to Virtues to be an Iono guard at the Halo Palace. It was an honor for my Sword-Fated family. I was one of the Halo Palace’s most proficient fighters. The Virtue noticed. Not long after, Clarity Bowie sent me to the Sword Palace to be your mentor.”
“You’re a firstborn aristocrat. Why did you take the job? You don’t have to work.”
“Before he died, my real Star-Fated father was an aristocratic advisor to The Virtue. He used his influence to plant the seed that I be sent to you to protect the future of the sovereignty of the Fate of Virtues.”
“You had plans for me even then?”
“Not plans exactly. We had scenarios. If we could train you from infancy, we’d have another angle of attack.”
“Why not Gabriel? Why not train him?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Mother.”
“Yes. Your mother only saw him. She never saw you. I could train you any way I saw fit, and she rarely interfered. I could teach you to be strong and decent.”
“Do the Kodalines know your loyalties lie with the Gates of Dawn?”
“No.” He frowns. “It would kill them to know.”
“If you can pay physicians for monikers, then you don’t need the stolen monikers I delivered to the Fate of Stars.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Those physicians no longer exist. They’ve been routed by Census, one by one. I’ve been fortunate to have maintained my identity—my moniker wasn’t a copycat. When Census converted to the new monikers, my device appeared legitimate, so I was issued a new upgraded version after mine was rendered useless. Other thirdborns with copycats were discovered and executed. You saved lives by bringing the new monikers to us.”
“Only a few.” Most of their spies in the field were executed last year.
“You’ll save thousands from Census agents. All our attempts to reverse engineer the new monikers were failures, but because of you, our agents have access to the Fate of Sword’s industrial systems. We can create new profiles—new identities for thirdborns to avoid being senselessly slaughtered. Soon, we’ll locate the schematics and encryptions for the new monikers and duplicate them. You’ve done far more for the resistance in a short time than anyone could’ve imagined.”
His words don’t bring me comfort, not really. They make me feel torn. Sword soldiers are fighting the rebellion—the Gates of Dawn—as I sit here in a literal palace. My regiment is still in active combat. Conspiring with the Gates of Dawn makes me a Fate traitor. When I help them save thirdborns, I’m helping the very people my secondborn regiment is fighting against. I’m choosing to save one side from being murdered while neglecting to do the same for the other side. My side. Secondborn Swords die every day in this war. My people. Where is their peace? Who will save them?
“Was it worth it?” I ask, my voice taut.
Dune stops pacing. His entire focus is on me. He arches an eyebrow. “Was what worth it?”
“Killing all those people with your Fusion Snuff Pulse. Was it worth it?” The bitterness in my voice is clear. My eyes fill with tears.
“Daltrey didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“The attack against Swords on your Transition Day wasn’t us.”
“What do you mean? I was there. I saw . . .” I growl, trying to keep the tears in my eyes at bay. My fingernails dig into the soft fabric of the chair.
“It wasn’t the Gates of Dawn.”
“But even Daltrey said—”
“Daltrey was probably trying to protect you, Roselle. He told me you were fragile when they found you. You were beaten almost to death and barely able to move. He didn’t want to add to it.”
“What are you saying?”
“Those soldiers—the ones dressed like the Gates of Dawn—that wasn’t us. Those were Swords dressed as Gates of Dawn—Admiral Dresden’s special death squad, your mother’s people. Her spies uncovered our technology, the Fusion Snuff Pulse, and she used it, attempting to kill you on your Transition Day and make it look like an enemy strike.”
I shake my head in denial. “No! They had on uniforms. They had masks.” A tear slips from my eye. “She wouldn’t do that! She wouldn’t risk her firstborns like that—her reputation—”
“She would—for Gabriel, she would. They knew our protocol. They knew our route. They knew everything. If they’d been Gates of Dawn, explain how they got into Swords.”
“You let them in!” I accuse. “You told them where and when to attack us!”
“I would never risk you in that way. Those ships could’ve easily killed us—we barely survived. You saw my face, Roselle. You saw me.” I did see him. He was surprised. He wasn’t expecting what happened that day. A part of me believes him—the other part of me feels murdered by what it means, left bleeding beneath the broken ships.
“Gabriel knew,” I mutter numbly, putting it all together. “He sent Hawthorne to find out if my mother had killed me.” Hawthorne had been told to search for me and make sure the Gates of Dawn didn’t take me, but really, that was just a cover so that no one would know The Sword did this to her own people—so she could murder her own daughter.
“Deep down, you’ve always known it was her,” he replies, “and you’ll survive it.”
“Will I?” I ask in the same kind of shell shock that I’d felt that day.
Dune squats down in front of me, using his large thumbs to wipe away the few traitorous tears that escape. “I’m your family. You’re more my daughter than you’ve ever been hers.”
“Did you ever love her?” I wipe my cheeks with my sleeve, relieved when no more tears fall.
“No, I never loved your mother, but I know you do, even as unworthy of that love as she is.” He stands and goes to the bar, still within the whisper orb’s sound bubble. A holographic menu appears at a wave of his hand. A fat tumbler rises from the surface of the bar. Ice clinks inside the glass.
“Why were you with my mother if you never cared for her?” I watch him pour water over the ice from the pitcher beside the tumbler.
He turns and faces me. “I was her lover so that I could exert influence over her, to make sure that no harm came to you. She was more afraid of you than she was of anyone. The more powerful you became, the more she feared you and The Virtue.”
“Why have you brought me here?”
He walks to me and hands me the glass. I accept it, taking a sip. He sits on the tufted sofa. “The Virtue knows he has to protect you if they’re to have any future.”
My tears are gone now. “I know your endgame, Dune,” I reply, setting the glass down on the low table between us. “You want the complete destruction of the Fates. That’s what the Gates of Dawn desires. Why not kill The Virtue yourself and have your way?”
“Killing one man or two will do nothing. The regime keeps going—”
“Unless you kill it from within.”
“You can bring us peace, Roselle—an end to the barbaric society we live in.”
“What if I can’t? What if I don’t want the job?”
“Unacceptable,” he growls. His eyes pierce me with a predatory stare, just like they used to when I’d forgotten some lesson he’d taught me.
“What about Harkness Ambersol?” I ask. “From what I’ve heard, he’ll kill it from the inside by sheer incompetence.” This kind of insolence is new territory for me. I’ve never spoken to Dune like this in my life, but I find I don’t care what he thinks of my tone.
“You jest,” he replies, “but you hold the lives of every secondborn and thirdborn in your hands. For Harkness to be in a position of power, you’d have to die, and that is completely out of the question.”
“There has to be another way.”
“You think I want this for you? I tried with everything in my power not to destroy the sweetness in you. If there’s another way, I don’t know it.” His definitiveness scares me. He always seemed to know every angle of every situation.
“You’re talking about the destruction of the Fates Republic.”
“I’m talking about a new world order—one that doesn’t tolerate Census agents or government-owned slaves.” Fear so strong it makes my knees weak courses through me. He means a world without Transition Days, without people like Agent Crow. I’m afraid of wanting that world, because it’s not real, and allowing myself to hope for such a place could crush me. Dune reads my fear. His voice is gentle when he says, “For now, you’ll be Grisholm’s mentor. You can handle that. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“What about Reykin? Did you know he’s here and he hijacked my mechadome?”
“I know. He briefed me before I came to find you. He’s protection for you. Cooperate with him. He’s here to help you.”
“He’s annoying,” I mutter.
“Is that why you saved him on the battlefield? Because he annoyed you?”
“I couldn’t kill him like they wanted me to—like a coward would kill.”
“So, you saved him instead. That’s why you’re the one who will change our future.”
“I love my brother,” I blurt out.
“I’ll do everything in my power to save Gabriel, but he’ll never be The Sword. He’ll have to accept that.”
“He’ll never accept it.”
“Then that’s on him. Do you want me to call a medical drone for your neck?”
I touch my throat, where my blood has mostly dried. “The assassin shouldn’t have tried to slit my throat. He should’ve just stabbed me from behind—thrust his knife through my nape.”
“You wouldn’t have made that mistake,” he replies.
“I should’ve killed the third one.”
“No, taking him alive was optimal. You would’ve followed him into the water had Reykin not stopped you?”
“Of course.”
This brings a small smile of approval to Dune’s lips. “Reykin was right to stop you,” he says. “You cannot take risks like that. Your life is very important.”
Dune and I talk late into the night. He asks me questions about the past year. He’s especially interested in Clifton Salloway and the Rose Garden Society. I don’t seem to know anything more about the Sword secret society than what Dune does already, but I’m not sure, because he isn’t as forthcoming with his information about the Rose Gardeners as I am.
“You haven’t spoken much about Hawthorne,” Dune says.
“We’re friends,” I reply with a shrug. I feel very protective of Hawthorne. Members of the Gates of Dawn have been watching us—Daltrey admitted as much.
“He helped you when you needed him.”
“That’s how it is when you’re a secondborn soldier. We have each other’s backs.”
“But he’s firstborn now.”
I don’t like what he’s implying. “You’re basically firstborn, Dune, but you’re still loyal to thirdborns.”
“Be cautious with Hawthorne. The lifestyle of a firstborn of the aristocracy is seductive. The longer he’s a part of it, the more he may get to like it.”
Dune’s words anger me, not because he’s wrong, but because he’s right, and in direct opposition to what my heart wants. The thought of not being able to trust Hawthorne again tangles with the love I feel for him and puts me in an even fouler mood.
“I’d like to speak to Hawthorne,” I say.
“That’s not possible now. Trust me, it’s better this way.”
My hands form angry fists, and I rise from my seat abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, the evening has caught up to me, and I wish to rest now.”
“Of course. Forgive me for keeping you so long.”
I wave my hand, dismissing his apology. “I missed you, and I wanted to see you.”
“I’ll make time for you whenever you need me, Roselle.” Dune lifts the whisper orb from the table. The iridescent bubble around us bursts. “I’ll walk you to your apartment.”
“I can manage it on my own.”
“I know you can handle yourself, but I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.”
“I insist. I’m not a little girl anymore.”
I’m out of step with our new relationship. Dune wants us to pull the pin on this world and watch it explode. He’s willing to risk everything for change. I’m worried about who will be left standing.
Disappointment shows in his eyes. “A lot has happened in a year, hasn’t it? At least allow me to walk you to the lift.” I nod. Dune escorts me to the opulent foyer. “Rest for a day, Roselle. Grisholm’s training can wait.”
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear that.”
I retreat into the glass elevator car. When I look back at Dune, there’s sadness in his eyes, just like on the day we were forced to part. This man, no matter what he says to the contrary, will always be my mentor—or much more than that. Before the doors close between us, I lurch out of the elevator and into his arms. He squeezes me tightly, resting his chin on the top of my head.
“You’re my father, Dune,” I whisper so only he can hear me. He acknowledges my words with an even tighter hug. When he lets go, I enter the elevator and descend from the halo.