“Why would they do that? It’s too soon! My brother just died!”
“In everyone’s eyes, Roselle, you’re still secondborn, and that’s a problem. The Virtue and the aligned heads of the Fates need to change your narrative, and quickly, if you’re to overcome your mother’s perceived authority as The Sword. They’re out of time, so it’s going to happen now.”
“What are they expecting me to do?”
“They want a new opportunity to showcase your mastery in the realm of warfare. It’s something your mother doesn’t have, and you excel at it. Grisholm suggested to his father that you and I give a display of your skill at the ceremony tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. What?” I rub my forehead.
“They want us to mock duel.” He says it softly, like I might explode if he’s too loud.
I shake my head in disbelief. “They want us to fight each other?”
“Mock duel, like we always do. An exhibition with fusionblades, to show your skill.”
“And you agreed to this?” I teeter between amazement and derision. “Fighting with a sword is not the same as ‘mastery in the realm of warfare.’”
“I agreed to be your sparring partner because I’m not going to allow someone else near you with a sword,” Reykin insists. “Especially not a Sword soldier.”
“You know how insane this is, right? There should be a period of mourning for Gabriel.”
He frowns. “Like I said, there’s no time for that. Listen, I know you’re grieving. I know you wanted things to be different with your brother.”
“And I know you got exactly what you wanted,” I reply with a total lack of emotion. I have no energy left.
“I did,” he admits, “but I am sorry that it hurts you.”
“I can’t talk about this right now, Reykin. I just need a moment of peace. Is that too much to ask?”
“No,” he replies with an air of contrition. “It’s not too much to ask.”
“Good night.” I turn and walk to my bedroom. Closing the door, I lie on the bed and cover my face with a pillow so no one will hear my sobbing.
No matter what I say or do, I won’t be able to avoid attending the Secondborn Trials.
The realization gives me no small amount of anxiety. I walk the open-air corridor of the rooftop cloister, listening to Clifton Salloway give our supreme leader a status report regarding the security measures he’s directly overseeing. The picturesque cloister, built atop the floating Halo, shades us from the bright sunlight. The pace Bowie sets is brisk. He walks beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling at such a clip that the other members of Fabian’s Council of Destiny fall behind, holding their sides as we make another lap.
The Virtue’s advisory council members are mostly Virtues. I assume that their duties usually don’t require much exercise, because only Clifton and I aren’t winded. I shouldn’t judge them too harshly. A few of the women are over a hundred and fifty years old, not that one could tell by looking. They have excellent Atom technicians who keep them appearing middle-aged or, in some cases, younger.
Walking with my hands clasped behind my back, I gaze through the rosette framework between the columns that line the corridor. The soft scent of roses surrounds us. The formal rooftop gardens are also laid out in rosette patterns, mirroring the framework. In the center are interconnected bathing pools and ponds.
The Virtue stops abruptly when Clifton sums up his assessment of the threat level we face if they go forward with the Secondborn Trials. “So,” Fabian Bowie replies impatiently, “what you’re telling me is, although you cannot discern any major troopship shift or Sword soldier migration that would lead you to believe that the event is Othala’s target or that of the Gates of Dawn, you still want to postpone the festivities to some indefinite date?”
“Yes,” Clifton agrees, flashing his most charismatic smile. I fail to see how Fabian can resist it, but resist it he does.
“The threat level is minimal,” he argues. “Othala is running scared. She’s all talk. In any case, they haven’t had enough time to prepare.”
Clifton frowns. “You assume they haven’t been planning for months.”
“Why would they choose the Secondborn Trials?” Fabian asks. “It’s a social event. Othala risks turning her people against her if she leads an attack. The same could be said for the Gates of Dawn. Killing innocent people doesn’t win hearts and minds.”
“May I remind you that our social club was attacked in that manner?” Clifton asks.
Fabian truly doesn’t know how hated Virtues is by many of the Fates, by the Gates of Dawn, by secondborns—or maybe he just doesn’t understand the magnitude of my mother’s hatred. Regardless, he’s being shortsighted. “What about the threat of a Census alliance with The Sword?” I ask.
“Bah!” He scowls, turning to me. “It’s hearsay! Until you can show me a shred of proof, I consider it a huge fantasy that you’ve concocted in your mind.”
Some of the council members catch up, panting hard and sweating through their silken clothing. The Virtue takes one look at them and says, “Dismissed.” Clifton and I turn to leave. “Not you two. You will join me for breakfast.” He slips through the archway and out into the sunlight. Crossing the lawn, we near a tranquil pond filled with glistening koi. We enter an opulent gazebo made of stone, where a round table is set with delicious fare. Secondborns stand at attention, awaiting us.
The Virtue takes a seat with his back to the water. Clifton holds a chair out for me. His eyes dance, as if he’s thinking of a delicious secret. Once I’m seated, Clifton claims the chair beside mine. From his position across the table from me, The Virtue dives into the minutia. “The Opening Ceremony,” he begins, “is the perfect opportunity to present you, Roselle, as the heir to The Sword. As far as it being your first public event as firstborn, it couldn’t be more suited to your particular appeal.”
Dread filters through me, even though Reykin already told me what was being planned. I set down the piece of buttered toast I was about to eat. “Won’t it appear strange,” I ask, “when my mother isn’t by my side as I accept the honor?”
The Virtue chuckles. “You’ve already accepted the honor,” he replies, as a secondborn attendant refills his coffee, “the moment your brother killed himself. It will look stranger if we don’t announce your ascension. You can’t return to Swords for a proper ceremony at the St. Sismode Palace until you replace your mother as the leader. This is a compromise. Not to worry, though. Soon you’ll become The Sword, and everything in that Fate will be yours.”
Perhaps the strangest part about all of this is the fact that he’s openly discussing the demise of a member of my family, who I would’ve taken a fusion pulse to protect only a short time ago. I once labored under the notion that only secondborns were expendable, but it seems that all value for life perishes in a power struggle. I’m not delusional, though. There won’t be any tearful reconciliation with Othala. One of us will have to die. I’d change that if I could, but I can’t. Nothing good will come from my mother’s rule if she’s aligned with Census. I shudder, thinking about Agent Crow in an even more powerful position than the one he holds now.
“Are you cold?” Clifton asks.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply with a fake smile.
“I’m glad to see you two getting along so well,” The Virtue says with a smile of his own. “It makes me less worried about the future of Swords. Salloway will make a much better Fated Sword than Kennet ever did.”
I choke on my water, slamming down the glass goblet, gagging and wheezing. Clifton reaches over and gently pats me on the back until I can take a breath.