“That’s not true. I desperately need someone I can trust.”
“I love you,” he says softly, “and I’ll earn back your trust again, even if it kills me.”
“Don’t let it kill you,” I reply. “I don’t think I’ll make it if you’re gone.”
We walk on, coming to a spiraling ramp upward. It leads to a small rectangular room. I gesture to a heavy outline in the stone. The walls and the floor are embedded with small metal swords in a repeating diamond pattern.
Hawthorne passes me his fusionblade and pushes against the door. It doesn’t budge. “There has to be a lever,” he mutters. He pushes on a sword on the wall. It moves inward. Nothing happens. He lets go of it and it moves back out. He presses another one. It slides in and comes back out. He presses all of them he can reach. Nothing moves the door. He growls in frustration.
Cool air wafts through the crack in the doorway. Peeking through it, I feel mist on my face and hear the distinct sound of running water. I look up. I can’t see very far, but I can tell that the walls curve inward above us. “This shape—an obelisk,” I say. “We’re west of the Palace, so that puts us in the park—Westerbane Heath. Is this . . . is this the Tyburn Fountain?”
“I think you’re right.”
“Tyburn was one of the earliest lessons Dune drilled into me.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I hand Hawthorne his Exo cape and move into the center of the small room. “Which way do you think is west?”
He pulls out a pocket compass. Typical soldier. He points to the wall adjacent to the closed door. “That’s west.”
With Hawthorne’s fusionblade still in my hand, I explain, “Tyburn is a demigod, known as the Warrior of the West Wind. To pay homage to the West Wind, you assume the warrior pose, facing the west.” I extend my right hand out in front of me with my left arm behind, bending my right leg in front of me at a right angle, and my right foot to the west. My left leg extends behind me, my toes pointing south. I hold the pose for a moment. Then, extending the sword in my right hand, I point it straight up. Rising on the points of the toes of my right foot, I bring my left foot up behind me, holding it in the palm of my left hand until the pad of my foot touches the back of my head. I hold it for a few breaths, and then twist, jumping into the air and turning in circles over and over, like a whirling tornado. When I stop, I’m in the warrior pose once more, facing west.
Hawthorne follows the line of my right hand to a bronze sword on the wall. He presses it. It locks in place. Turning, he follows the line of my left arm, depressing the sword it points to. It locks into place. The door doesn’t move.
“Try the ones by my feet.” I wiggle my toes. He moves to the sword in front of my right foot on the floor. As he presses it, it locks. My left foot points to the last one. He touches it, and suddenly the whole building starts to rumble. A stone door drops from the ceiling, cutting off our way back to the Palace. The door on the north wall makes a horrible scraping sound and rolls open. Water cascades in front of it, and as soon as it opens all the way, it begins to close again. We scramble forward together, jumping through the wall of water, and land in a deep pool. My grip on Hawthorne’s sword loosens and it extinguishes, but I manage to grab it before it sinks. I come up coughing and sputtering.
Hawthorne is beside me. He hugs me to him. “You’re brilliant. Do you know that?”
I hold him, my breasts pressing against his chest. My lips move to his. I kiss him like I’ve longed to kiss him since his moniker turned golden. He stands and lifts me out of the water, my legs wrapping his waist as he wades through the fountain. Reaching the low wall, he sets me on it and sits next to me. I pass him back his sword and he puts it in his scabbard.
The fountain is lit from underneath. In the center, the stone obelisk points to the night sky. Wild-eyed bronze horse statues kick their hooves into the air. Ferocious sword-wielding soldiers and fierce demigod statues in horrific poses adorn the multilevel water feature that circles the obelisk. Tyburn is the largest, most virile statue, slashing with his vicious sword at Hyperion, the demigod of water. Water flows from the wound in Hyperion’s side, an enactment of the tale of the West Wind giving water to the people.
The door we came through is on the north side of the monument. A statue points to it with a rose in its hand, a young naked woman—Tyburn’s lover, Roselyn. She stares with a devil-may-care smirk. A thick crown of roses hangs low on her beautiful brow. Breathing hard, I whisper, “I think my secret hideout is a Tyburn temple.”
“I think we should start worshipping him.” Hawthorne sees me shiver violently. “We have to go,” he urges.
We start jogging, looking for a way out of the park. It must be past midnight by now, and the park is empty. We stay on the grass and avoid the lighted paths.
“I don’t know which way to go. I’ve never been in Westerbane Heath. I only know it from pictures,” Hawthorne growls as he looks around, trying to decide in which direction we should go. “My family spent very little money educating me before turning me over to our Fate.” He sounds ashamed of that. It must have been a rough few months trying to Transition from secondborn to firstborn. I can only imagine the ridicule he has faced not understanding their etiquette and rules. He must feel like a club-wielding barbarian among butterflies.
“Your training is better than their education,” I tell him. “You know how to catch a fish, gut it, and cook it. You know how to pilot a fighter airship and rebuild its engine. You know how to defend yourself, and what it feels like to help a friend.” City lights shine up ahead. We step up our pace.
“Exo training has helped Transition me,” he continues. “It’s soldiering, something that makes sense to me. It’s geared toward special operations. I’m in a unique position, already having core secondborn training—a fact that appeals to Admiral Dresden.”
“Admiral Dresden is an unscrupulous killer, Hawthorne. If he has taken an interest in you, it’s nefarious at best.”
“He has definitely taken an interest in me.”
“He’s my mother’s right hand. Be extremely cautious where he’s concerned.”
We come to a wrought iron archway. Passing through it, we’re on the sidewalk of a city street. Hawthorne hails a hovertaxi. We pile inside it, and the automated driver says, “Please scan your moniker.” Frustration infuses Hawthorne’s features. We’re about to jump out when a shadow blots out the light from the streetlamp. A maginot broadsides the car with its thick head. The door crushes in, shattering glass all over us. The impact drives the hovertaxi from the curb into the middle of the street.
The automated driver garbles, “Please scan your moniker.” The black beast with the silver markings circles the car. Its yellow eyes stalk me. Its open mouth drips with saliva. Hawthorne yanks me out the opposite side of the vehicle. Brandishing his fusionblade, he pulls me behind his back.
The maginot leaps onto the roof of the hovercar. Hawthorne slashes at it, but the cyborg deftly avoids the thrust. It poises on its haunches. Before it can pounce, a fast-moving hovercar slams into the disabled hovertaxi. Sparks and smoke blast from the wreckage. The maginot is thrown from the roof, and the hovertaxi explodes in a ball of fire.
The wolfish creature rolls. The fur on its left flank shears off, revealing its metal frame. A lopsided ear twitches as it gets to its feet, shaking its body, rebooting its systems.
A lumbering garbage vehicle trundles up a side street, driven by an elderly man. We rush to the passenger side of the hovertruck’s cab. Yanking the door open, Hawthorne climbs inside. The fusionblade in his hand is enough incentive to convince the sanitation worker to vacate the cab. He jumps out. Hawthorne reaches down and hoists me up before sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Do you know how to drive this thing?” I ask.