With my cheek against the seat cushion, I stare blankly at a vapid holographic announcer describing how to get the most from my next virtual vacation. Yawning, I couldn’t care less. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. Not much anyway. Only a few hours, and then I’m awake—panicking about whether Hawthorne will change his mind and decide he never wants to see me again, or maybe the Gates of Dawn will conclude that it’s safer to kill Hawthorne, or a hundred other equally terrifying scenarios. It’s exhausting. So I just watch virtual access, hoping for something so boring it forces me to sleep.
I search through what’s on. The face and profile of an Atom-Fated man flashes inside my den, while anchors from a news organization flitter about in excitement. Along with the man’s image are a description and a short bio of his physical traits. “Before we go to our live coverage in Swords,” the commentator says, “we have a Secondborn Deserter Bulletin in effect for the Purity area of Virtues.” I sit up, recognizing the morgue director Reykin and I encountered a few days ago. His sandy, wiry hair and goonish leer are unmistakable. “Cranston Atom, master mortician, has failed to report for duty in over twenty-four hours. If you know the whereabouts of Cranston Atom, you’re asked to contact your local Census agency.”
Before I have time to process the implications of the missing secondborn, his image is gone, replaced by the soaring city skyline of Forge, where citizens are lining the streets, waving blue flags adorned with a golden sword in the center of each. The female newscaster smiles somberly. “We’re just about ready to witness the procession coming down the Avenue of Swords,” she says in a hushed tone, “on their way to the memorial where they will lay to rest a cultural icon, the Fated Sword. It’s a sad day for the Clarity of Swords, the Firstborn Sword, and all their Fate. As you can see, mourners line the streets, hoping to get one last glimpse of the Fated Sword before his interment in Killian Abbey.” The anchor is firstborn. It’s customary for only firstborns to cover such prestigious events. She peers directly into the drone camera’s lens. “The Fated Sword is, of course, the father of Firstborn Gabriel St. Sismode and his arguably more famous younger sister, Secondborn Roselle Sword.”
Wisps of her dark hair blow in the cold air. The tip of her nose is red. White plumes of breath show as she continues. “I’m standing in front of one of the largest tributes to a secondborn ever erected.” She gestures with her hand. The drone camera pans to a skyscraper behind her. On the side of it, a holographic image plays the footage of me tackling the Death God and shattering through the glass wall of the Sword social club. My stomach twists in a knot. I know what that is. It’s propaganda designed to undermine Gabriel and his inherent position. Most people won’t understand that they’re being influenced, but my mother will. The drones turn back to the newscaster and the Avenue of Swords.
Slowly, I lie back down. My cheek rests against the cushion. I stare at the funeral procession playing out in front of me. I want to feel nothing, but a wave of crushing sorrow hits me. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. I just sob.
The channel changes on its own. It stops on a cuisine program. Rows and rows of crellas line the case at a bakery in the Fate of Suns. With the handheld remote, I turn the hologram back to the funeral. The three-dimensional image of my mother and brother leaving the Sword Palace scurries across the den. I can hardly make out their shapes behind their Vicolt’s tinted windows.
The image changes again, to some sort of dance recital. I glare at my mechadome. “Reykin, stop!”
Reykin-possessed Phoenix shakes its lenses—no.
“Yes!” I yell. I can’t remember ever being this angry in my life. I try to turn it back, but the entire virtual-access unit completely dies. Frantically, I point the remote at the receiver. Nothing happens. I turn and glare at Reykin-possessed Phoenix. “I hate you!”
Getting up from the couch, I storm out of the room, and then out of the apartment. Stingers flank me as I run down the corridor to the nearest exit. The bright sunlight is a shock after hours of being inside with the privacy shutters drawn. Wiping at my cheeks, I try to hide my hot tears from the Sun-Fated secondborns I pass in the garden.
Before I know it, I’m down the stone steps and onto the beach. I jog along the shoreline, trying to outrun my demons. When I get to the bend, I find Balmora, once again staring off at her sea castle. She’s in front of a hovering easel, painting the structure as if her life depends on it. Beside her, the little twelve-year-old girl watches her.
Balmora lowers her brush and looks at me. Her smile is big and toothy, until she reads the look on my face. She sees my limp hair and lounging attire. “Roselle,” she says, “what’s wrong? What’s happened?” She reaches out and touches my arm.
“Do you have virtual access in your residence?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
“Of course!” She sets aside her paintbrush and locks her arm in mine. The nearest death drone begins to wail and hover nearer. “Oh, hush!” she exclaims, waving it away. It silences and settles back to hover at a distance. She walks with me across the sandbar toward the gigantic doors of her Sea Fortress. Her attendants scramble to gather up her belongings behind us. “Are you okay?” she asks.
“No,” I reply honestly, trying to hold back tears. “They’re memorializing my father today, and my visual access is broken.”
“Oh,” she replies in a sympathetic tone. “I hadn’t known that you two were close.”
“We weren’t.” My toes sink into the damp sand, leaving a trail of footprints.
“And yet, you’re upset,” she says, puzzled.
“I’d hoped that someday things would be different between us.”
“Oh,” she says softly, “and it wasn’t because he was a narcissist?”
“Did you know Kennet?”
“No. My father always said yours was a narcissist. I sort of envied you for that.”
“What?” I sniffle. “Why?”
“Well, mine’s a tyrant, so yours didn’t sound so bad,” she replies with a wink. Despite everything, I feel myself smile. As we walk, Balmora chats about the architectural features of her castle, pointing out each of the nine spires that represent the nine Fates. Seagulls perch and gossip overhead. We pass through the enormous portico, and the shade of it feels several degrees cooler, the damp air heavier. An inner courtyard lies within the high stone walls. The sun finds us once more as we walk across the lawn. The ever-present sound of the waves follows us until we climb the steps and enter the royal stone edifice. Dimness greets us. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.
The ceiling is high in the foyer. Exposed wooden beams are draped with colorful banners from all the Fates. Sunlight dots the floor from high windows. Ancient painted portraits of past secondborn commanders are everywhere. It’s like going back in time.
“You have a beautiful home,” I murmur.
She looks around with a critical eye. “There are some days that I think I’ll go mad if I have to stay here one more second.” Her honestly is surprising. “I sometimes wonder if I’d have been better off born into a lowly Fate of Seas family in a fishing village somewhere. At least then I’d be allowed to sail away. Go places. See things firsthand.” She gazes at me. “But we can’t change our Fate, can we?” The way she says it, it sounds more like a challenge than a certainty. “Come, my media room is this way.”
We pass through a glass sunroom and into a round room with a grand balcony that overlooks the sea. Balmora stops. “Quincy,” she says to the girl, who is still following us, “make sure no one comes in. I want privacy.” The freckled girl nods solemnly and stands guard outside. Balmora closes the doors. She goes to the airy balcony, drawing the curtains, shutting off the stone terrace. The beautiful white fabric waves in the breeze.
Using her silver halo-shaped moniker, she dims the lights and turns on her virtual access to holographic mode. Rapidly changing the station, Balmora pauses on one showing nothing but holographic smoke-filled gloom. Dust obscures the visual, but the audio is something else entirely. Screams of chaos swirl from the audio feed. Balmora turns to me, shocked. “What’s happening?”