“She didn’t do anything!” Gabriel insists. “Roselle’s innocent!” His eyes dart from Mother to Dune, and then to his advisors. “Tell her!” he shouts at Susteven.
Light from a glistening chandelier shines off Susteven’s balding head. “Roselle drove him to his knees,” he says with a cunning look in our direction. Bile rises in my throat.
Gabriel scoffs. “It’s not what you think! She was trying to stop me.”
My mother seethes. “Gabriel, move!”
I dare not breathe. Unless Gabriel convinces them otherwise, the moment he fails to shield me, I’m dead. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t manage even one word in my own defense. I should never have touched him. They can end my life for that infraction alone.
Dune moves from behind Othala and hurries to the Grand Staircase. He descends the stairs two at a time. As he approaches us, Gabriel’s voice cracks—a plea. “It wasn’t her fault, Dune! It was me—I did this!”
“I’ll see to her, Gabriel.” Dune moves between Gabriel and me, turning me toward the immense doors that lead to the waiting crowd outside. I take a shaky step, and then another. Dune is right behind me. No one can get off a shot without hitting him, too. Maybe Mother still holds some affection for him, because she doesn’t give the kill order.
“I’m sorry, Roselle!” Gabriel’s tortured voice strains behind us.
We make it to the doors. I push one open. Squinting in the sunlight, I stop just over the threshold. The roar of the crowd is a punch to my stomach. Dune grasps my upper arm and raises his other hand in a wave. “You can’t go back in. They’ll kill you,” he says through a false smile. “From this moment on, we go forward. We never look back.”
Chapter 3
Fate Traitors
Dune ushers me to the waiting hovercar. Fine mist from the Warrior Fountain settles on my skin. Bronze statues tower fifty feet or more above our heads. I lift my eyes to their vicious-looking swords. Their snarls are ferocious even on the best of days, but this is the worst day of my life. In a daze, I duck my head and climb into the back of the driverless vehicle, a Vicolt. This model hasn’t been manufactured for hundreds of years. The rear of the hovercar is made of chrome and glass. It reminds me of an overturned fishbowl, and me, the beta fish on display.
Dune gets in beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. The doors seal shut, trapping us inside. I wring my hands and attempt to explain. “I wasn’t trying to kill him—I swear! Gabriel drew his sword and—”
“The Fate of Swords would be better off if you had killed him, Roselle.”
“What?” I was expecting reprisals, not disappointment.
“Smile, Roselle,” Dune orders. His tone snaps with anger. “Let them all know they can’t break you.” My lips move into a grin that’s mere muscle memory. I grip the rounded edge of the seat. It’s hard to breathe. Mother ordered them to kill me. I’m never coming home again. It takes every ounce of will to refrain from retching.
“Mother thinks I was going to murder Gabriel.”
“She doesn’t know you at all.”
“Will you tell her that I’m not a monster—that I’d never—”
The windscreen illuminates. It’s a heads-up display, literally; the image of a Palace guard’s head fills the screen. The female face merges with the landscape outside. She has gray eyes that match her Iono uniform. “We’re ready for departure, Patr?n,” she says, addressing Dune as a superior officer. “The route is programmed through the city of Forge and has not deviated from the plan we discussed.”
“Thank you, Seville,” Dune replies. He settles back in his seat.
“Is there anything you need before we begin?”
“No.” Dune glances at me. “Er, yes. Water.” Two pear-shaped glasses of ice water emerge from the console between us. “Thank you. We’re ready now.”
“Very well, Patr?n.” Seville’s image fades. The Vicolt glides forward, driven remotely by a team that has been practicing for this day for weeks. The stone fa?ade of the Fate of Swords Palace fades as we move away. I lift my water to my mouth, drain it, and set the empty glass back in the console, where it descends out of sight.
The hovercar creeps along the fence and passes through the gate. Smiling well-wishers swarm us, anxious to get a good look at me. The long tails of their brightly colored woolen coats sway in the cold breeze. Stylish high collars protect them against the autumn chill. They touch the chrome veneer of the Vicolt and wave blood-red roses in adulation. The metal pavers of the road move the magnetized hovercar forward. Because this vintage vehicle is only used in ceremonial processions, we slink along so that everyone gets a good view. I try to hide my turmoil.
An enthusiastic man about my age presses forward from the crowd and runs alongside the hovercar. The head of a red flower bounces in his clutched fist. “Wave, Roselle.” I lift my hand, complying with Dune’s order. The man presses his hand on the window, crushing the rose against it and leaving a smear of petals and fog from his sweaty palm.
I study the buildings, which I’ve only seen before from the rooftop of the Palace or in on-screen images. I’ve missed a lot by being tethered to the estate. The structures rise to the sky, their details coming alive. I spot the iconic Heritage Building where the annual firstborn selections are held—an event in which the elite firstborns are sworn into service as leaders of our fatedom. One day, Gabriel will go there and vow to protect the Fate of Swords, and all the Fates.
Massive streams of golden energy flow down the walls of the Heritage Building’s sword-shaped tower. The source of the energy is hidden high above our heads, tucked away in the clouds, at the hilt. The base of the building resembles a mountainous rock. A channel of energy runs along the blade into the base. It’s a sword lodged in stone—a metaphor depicting the Fate of Swords’ supremacy over the Fate of Stones.
The Heritage Building fades behind us. My real-time image is splashed upon the next group of towers, every move I make reflected back at me. I’m tiny next to Dune, though that’s not at all how I see myself. A vast world exists inside of me. I have a hard time comprehending how it all fits. Being secondborn in a world ruled by firstborns has often forced me to retreat into my imagination, to avoid the constant shame and innuendos flung at me for my inferior birth. I’ve filled my mind with dreams. In them, I’m not beneath notice. I’m not so low that it’s impossible for my family to love me. A small tear rolls down my cheek. I should be throwing kisses and saying good-bye to all of it.
A round drone camera outside the hovercar shimmies closer to me, obstructing my view. Its eyes never blink as it attempts to catch my mood, my movement, any reaction that can be shared, pulled apart, and overanalyzed by a violently bored society of firstborns. I stare back blankly, giving the Diamond-Fated media nothing to gossip about.
“When we arrive at the secondborn Stone Forest Base, at the Golden Transition Circle,” Dune says, “there will be more cameras. You’re to make your speech there before processing.” I’ve come to recognize Dune’s brooding tone. The first time I recall hearing it, I was no more than six or seven. We were training with fusionblades on the pristine lawn behind the estate. It was dawn, and the fresh dew had turned the blades of grass silver. A pack of wolfhounds, giant beasts with vicious jaws and claws that patrol the grounds at night, was being called back to its pens for feeding. Fleet and ferocious, they raced across the wet lawn—black canines streaking like phantom shadows.
As I sparred with Dune, matching his strikes with sizzling strokes from my own much smaller sword, I stepped back, down the slope of a small hill, and stumbled over a lump in my path. Falling, I rolled away and sprang up, but what I saw brought bile to my mouth. Nightfall had resulted in the slaughter of one wolfhound, left in pieces but still breathing shallowly. Its mandible was broken. Its pink tongue hung out of its mouth. Sparking circuitry bristled beneath its organic exterior.