“Better a silly, foolish girl than a sullen boy like you, skulking in the darkness.” She sniffed. “Besides, I like the colors.” With a flourish of her skirts, she spun in place. Her dress flashed through a series of rainbows. Rhone recognized the material. It was among the most costly to procure, made of a special cynesilk woven from the strands of many tiny mirrors. Mirrors too small to see with the naked eye. Far too many mirrors for any one person to count.
When Altais was done spinning, she glided nearer to the aquamarine waves. The colors of the ocean rippled across her flowing skirts, deepening until they became a beautiful complementing color, tinged by the rose of a setting sun.
She looked like a girl, for once, instead of the next in line to rule Oranith.
A sudden realization took hold of Rhone. “Are you meant to catch a man at Mother’s dinner party with that ridiculous dress?”
“Excuse me?”
“Because you should know it won’t work.” Despite his best efforts, Rhone could not conceal the petulance in his voice.
Altais’s pale brown eyes softened. “Why are you being so hateful tonight, Rho?”
A small pang of remorse flared near his heart. Rhone hated the note of pity in her words. “You’ve never wanted to marry before. And I can only imagine a dress that hideous to have an equally insidious purpose.”
His sister’s shoulders sagged for an instant. Then Altais stood taller. “I’m only sixteen. No one is going to force me to marry. Mother wouldn’t allow it.”
“You say that . . .” Rhone had found a footing. Something to cow his usually confident sister. And he refused to relinquish his hold a moment too soon. “But the matriarchy passes to you—the eldest of the Imuriv daughters. Eventually, you will have to marry to continue the lineage.”
“I’m not the eldest Imuriv,” Altais grumbled back with a nod to him. “But I am the only Imuriv daughter.”
“A fact for which I’ve been constantly reminded my entire life. And . . . a burden I do not want for myself.” He tried to sound sympathetic, but the chord he struck did not ring true, even to his own ears.
“Be glad it isn’t you, Rhone Valtea Imuriv. Or else you might be the one forced to wear a silly dress.”
A ghost of a smile drifted across his lips. “That would indeed be a fate worse than death.”
“Or maybe you harbor a secret love of fashion.” She grinned back. “Then perhaps you can pray some tragedy befalls me in the near future.” Altais stepped closer. “Should that happen, I swear on the fourth star that I will leave you this dress.”
Rhone snorted, almost amused. In moments like these, he recalled how close they’d once been. How easily they’d championed each other as children. How much they’d shared. So many memories. “That alone would be reason enough to wish your death.”
“Careful, Rho,” she whispered, biting back a laugh. “Should anyone overhear you, they might be apt to accuse you of treason.” The last word echoed into the holographic blue sky. As the sound ricocheted from the rounded ceiling, a murder of beggar birds scattered in its wake.
Altais’s cheeks colored. Her gaze drifted to one side.
Though his sister had pronounced the statement in an unmistakably lighthearted tone, her words nevertheless conjured an entirely different picture.
One of blood and fiery retribution.
Grandmother.
“Careful, Altais,” Rhone murmured. “That word spoken by an Imuriv is a promise of impending doom.” He took a step back, almost satisfied to see a sudden pallor descend on his sister’s face.
Rhone sobered, thoughts of impending doom beginning to take shape. “A bot delivered a message to Mother not long ago. Is there any word on the unrest happening on the planets along the eastern quadrant of the Byzana system?”
Altais took a deep breath. “I have yet to hear anything of substance.” Nevertheless, her eyes glittered knowingly.
The sight rankled Rhone. Another sneer formed across his lips. “The Byzana system lacks the resources to mount a proper defense. If they don’t pay restitution, then we will simply obliterate what remains of their harvest.”
“Mother does not agree with your assessment.” Altais frowned. “Neither do I.”
“You’d rather levy empty threats at those who defy us?”
She shook her head slowly. “Mother and I would rather meet with the Byzanate leaders and seek a diplomatic solution.”
“Then you both are the greatest fools of all.”
Dismay flashed first across Altais’s features, followed quickly by anger. “How can you say that when Mother sacrificed—”
“Don’t offer me a history lesson, little sister. And I’ve heard quite enough of your lectures on filial devotion.”
A groove formed between her brows. “Mother would take you to task for such words, Rho. It’s wrong to—”
“Given her lack of filial devotion toward her own mother, I’m not certain I care what she thinks.” Rhone turned his back on his sister and focused instead on the small, cylindrical control center near the back of the spherical chamber. It was camouflaged in the trunk of a gently swaying tree with leafy fronds that grazed the shimmering sand.
Rhone watched the leaves dust the holographic surface as a discomfiting silence filled the space between Altais and him. The silence settled into the cracks, bringing them further to light.
A soft touch fell upon his shoulder. “Come . . .” Altais’s voice was gentle. “I didn’t plan this so that we would bicker about politics. I came because I wished to play a game with you.”
Rhone remained silent. For a brief instant, he considered throwing off her touch. But they were standing in the room with the best of his childhood memories. And Altais had been a part of so many happy ones. Before power, family, and responsibility threatened to pull them apart. Before he realized he had no place in his own family. Rhone glanced past his shoulder, his gaze flitting across her gauntlet, its jewels cut to mask intricate dials and gleaming screens no bigger than his thumb. Finally, his eyes paused on her face. “Not d’jaryek,” he said curtly.
Her laughter was impish. “You’ve already turned me down twice. If you turn me down once more, I’ll tell everyone you’re afraid to play against me.”
At that, Rhone did throw off her touch with a disdainful roll of his shoulder. “It has nothing to do with fear.”
“Then why won’t you play?”
“Why don’t we shoot instead?” Rhone walked toward the small white chest near the control console. The box had once gleamed as bright as the bare walls around him. Now it was scored by tiny marks, and its corners were worn smooth.
He pressed the latch, and the cover of the chest rolled back with uneven clicks. Rhone removed two miniature carbines, their surfaces similarly damaged. The silver barrels of the two laser weapons were notched by years of play. When he pressed the switch on one, the muzzle of the carbine sputtered before flashing to life. He aimed it at the wall, then quickly spun in place to shoot one of the squawking beggar birds from the sky. It fell to the sparkling sand with an ear-piercing cry. With a satisfied smirk, Rhone brandished his weapon, watching the tiny sparks and residual smoke curl from its barrel.
“It still works,” he mused.
“Of course. Mother made sure we were given only the best.”
Rhone tossed the other carbine to Altais. “First one to take down ten birds wins.”
“No.”