“Phoenix,” Reykin says, “go to the kitchen.” The mechadome trundles away. “After you,” Reykin says, gesturing me forward.
I go to the command center in the kitchen, where we peruse the food dispensary’s menu. Reykin explains several dishes to me, some of which I order, like the puff pastries in the shape of swans and the pan-seared whitefish in truffle butter sauce. Others, like the snails sautéed in their shells and the fried beef tongue, I want to mark so that I never accidentally order them. Reykin carefully feeds a small bit of each delivered dish to Phoenix as they arrive.
With two fully laden platters that would make an epicure jealous, we move to the den and set them on the low graphite table in front of the sofa. The lights are dim, and the visual screen is muted. Sitting cross-legged on the soft carpet, I pass Reykin a plate, silverware, and a napkin. He sits on the floor across from me.
He piles food on our plates. I almost die of happiness at the bite of cheese-encrusted potatoes that he insists I taste from his fork. He leans forward and feeds it to me. “That might be my favorite thing ever,” I murmur.
“I told you,” he replies, a smug grin on his lips.
“We would’ve killed for even a small pouch of this at the Stone Forest Base.”
“You didn’t have food like this?”
I give an unladylike snort. “Uh, no. We had nothing like this.”
“Did you ever go hungry?”
“Sometimes. In combat, when rations ran low and the supply carriers were shot down.” We both know that it was his side who shot them down. Rebels. Gates of Dawn. The enemy. I can see he’s thinking the same thing. “You know who’d like this the most?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Edgerton. That man can eat. It doesn’t matter what. He’s just hungry all the time.” I set my fork down. “Are Edgerton and Hammon okay?”
Reykin nods. “They’re—”
I hold up my palm. “Don’t tell me where they are. They’re safer if I don’t know.”
“They’re like family to you, aren’t they?”
I think of the two Sword soldiers who showed me the ropes when I first arrived at the Stone Forest Base. “No. They’re better than family.”
“They’re doing well. Hammon is healthy—experiencing a normal pregnancy.”
Tears cloud my eyes, but I force them back. Swallowing hard, I nod.
Reykin wearily scrubs his face with his palms. “Edgerton is a problem, though.”
My eyes narrow. “Why?”
He drops his hands and looks at me. “He’s too ‘mountain,’ for lack of a better term. He doesn’t blend in well. When he opens his mouth, you know where he’s from.”
“Can you teach him to hide it better?”
“Mags is doing what she can. If anyone can help him, it’s her.” I nod, thinking of Reykin’s enigmatic secondborn assistant. I must look worried because he says, “There’s nothing more you can do for them now. Our network will take care of your friends.”
I flop back, stretching out on the carpet. “I know.”
Reykin crawls around to my side of the table, lying down beside me. He turns toward me, resting on his side. I do the same, meeting his gaze. The weariness of being awake for so long shows on his face. I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t, he just stares back, his eyelids drooping.
I whisper, “You never told me how you know Grisholm.”
Reykin’s eyes open again, and he yawns. “My father sent me to the best schools in Purity. Grisholm and I were in some of the same circles. He is younger than me. He used to follow me around because I was the best fusionblade fighter, thanks to Daltrey’s instruction on my time off. Grisholm has a fascination with weapons—and a serious obsession with betting, especially on the Secondborn Trials. Grisholm always tries to get me to help him figure out who’ll be the winner. He even offered me a seat on his council in exchange for my insight.”
“His Halo Council?” I ask.
“Mmmhmm,” he answers with a deep murmur. His eyes droop again.
“Are you going to take his offer?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Does Grisholm ever win when he bets on The Trials?”
“Yes.” Reykin closes his eyes. His breathing becomes heavier.
“Will it be hard for you to betray him?” I ask, but Reykin is already asleep.
Chapter 5
Ebb Tide
He’s not going to show.
I lie in the center of the sparring circle staring up at the intricate golden ceiling of Grisholm’s training facility. Lifting my hand, I stare at my moniker’s timekeeper. Grisholm is officially three hours late for his scheduled training. I think it’s safe to say he’s never coming. He has been a no-show to every single session I’ve scheduled for him in the past few days.
I rise to my feet and climb the golden steps to the balcony. Nothing stirs here but the breeze from the sea. I wander out onto the shimmering terrace. The stone is veined with gold, glinting in the morning sun. The blue sky—uncluttered by airships, which are restricted from flying near the Halo Palace—still holds the warmth of summer here, even as we have slipped into autumn.
The view overlooks the stone stairs that wind through the jagged cliff to the water below. I pull off my protective wrist shields and hauberk setting them aside. My sleeveless under-armor top and lightweight leggings are warm enough for a jog along the shore. Descending the uneven steps to the sandy beach, I discard my footwear. My toes sink into the white powdery grit. I stroll to the water. It’s always a shock, the coolness of the sea as it settles around my ankles. I remember my first view of the ocean with Hawthorne and wonder what he’s doing right now—if he’s all right. If he’s alive. My heart burns from the agony of not knowing.
I turn my gaze toward the cliff again. Lavish white silken tents topped with streaming golden pennants stand ready along the shore, erected on the off chance that one of the firstborn residents of the Palace will need to use them. None of them does. I’m alone—the only visitor.
Secondborn Stone-Fated attendants stand near the tents to cater to firstborn royalty. I lift my hand to acknowledge them. Their heads lean together in suspicion, trying to figure out why Secondborn Roselle St. Sismode is in the Fate of Virtues when she should be off fighting the Gates of Dawn. I’ve been treated like an extreme outsider by all the secondborns I’ve encountered since I arrived. No one speaks to me. It’s as if they fear me, but why I can only guess.
I jog along the shore in the direction I haven’t explored yet. The tide is ebbing. It’s peaceful, and I hardly break a sweat in the thirty minutes it takes to reach the end of the inlet. Rounding the high cliff wall of the cove, I slow to a halt. Ahead, tall stone spires reach toward the sky from a small island in the middle of the sea. Waves crash around the jagged rocks and slate-colored stone walls. The retreating water uncovers a sandbar that leads to the arching gates of the medieval fortress. I’m captivated by the triangular white flags on the forbidding parapets, each pennant adorned with a silver halo.
The arching mouth of the castle is open. Heavy doors with a sea-foam patina stand wide. A slow procession of women emerges from the yawning maw of the castle. They travel toward the shore along a small strip of sand. At the center of the parade, a young blond woman in a flowy white dress wades gracefully through the shallow surf, holding her long skirt in her hand, exposing her ankles to the sunlight. Death literally hovers over her in the form of ten black, bat-winged death drones. The drones cast cold shadows onto the sand and water around her. Seagulls fall silent as they near, scattering in the presence of the drones.