Crystal pulls out an iron belt with sharp, rose-shaped throwing stars attached to it. “Careful,” she warns as I take it, “those roses detach. The petals have razor-sharp edges.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Why?”
She gestures to my fusionblade, which sits on a nearby chair. “You can’t take that with you.” Fear threatens to bury me, but I try not to show it. “Dune told me of your need to defend yourself, given the recent attempt on your life. We came up with these as a compromise. You’ll need these also.” From the box, she extracts iron bracers, the kind that archers used to wear. Clamping them on my wrists, she says, “Turn the rose counterclockwise.”
I turn the intricate iron rose on the left bracer. A dagger ejects from inside the hollow sheath and locks into place above my palm. I grip its handle. It’s stiff and hard to wield, but useful. I turn the rose clockwise, and it disappears inside the bracer.
Crystal steps back and appraises me with a critical eye.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“It needs one last thing.” From the bottom drawer of the vanity, she takes out an iron crown with nine sharp, sword-shaped points. She asks me to sit, and then she sets it on top of my head, positioning it so that it’s wreathed by my halo of hair, thorns, and roses. I gaze in the mirror. The image is unmistakably powerful. “I’d fight with Roselle—die for her and what she represents,” Crystal murmurs. “I wouldn’t lift a finger to help Roselyn. Decide who you are, so I know if it’s worth risking my life for you.”
“You’re—”
“An old woman who is tired of the way things are.” She turns from me and touches her moniker. The vanity folds away again, back into a hovering case. She hands me goggles with rose-colored lenses. “Now, let me tell you about the bracer on your right wrist . . .”
The waning sun is blocked by tall, intricate marvels of architecture that are the hallmark of the city of Purity. Each building is more impressive than the last. My reflection in the elegant hovercar’s window shines with streetlamp eyes. The image of the iron crown upon my head slices the growing darkness and twinkles, mirroring the lights outside. Lounging beside me in the back seat, Dune is the heart of darkness in his God of Dawn outfit. His boots are ebony. The dark-black fabric of his trouser legs tucks inside them, lightening to a softer shade toward his waist. His shirt is an even fainter shade of black, turning to gold as it reaches his shoulders. A golden, lionlike fur mantle covers his shoulders. His cape attaches to it, gold on the inside, and night turning to golden sun on the outside.
Our hovercar comes to a stop as we queue up for the extravagant costume gala. A slow-moving line of expensive vehicles leads to an enormous hovering glass building with seven towers jutting up from it. A frosty veneer decorates the massive structure, which appears to balance on the head of a thin needle point above the calm, glass-like surface of a deep lake, resembling a floating crystalline formation. A brilliant, burning pink sunset presides. The water beneath reflects the building in the fuchsia sky, the mirrored image like an alternate universe.
The building has only one way in from the ground level, a hauntingly beautiful transparent bridge that reminds me of ice shards frozen in a winter gale. Our hovercar stops in front of the wide bridge. Ushers dressed as fantastical snow people stand on either side of the glacial-looking supports. Frost-covered hair and skin shimmer in the glowing lights of the streetlamps. The ushers have the torsos of men and women, but the lower halves of their bodies are encased in films of faux ice, blurring them.
A particularly tall iceman opens my door and reaches to help me out. The brown mountain range of his secondborn moniker hovers above the back of his hand. I grip his fingers and step into the night air. His eyes fall on my silver sword moniker, widening before moving up to my face.
“I can assure you I was invited,” I murmur.
His smile is anything but icy. “Of course. You’re Roselle St. Sismode.”
“I’m Roselle Sword,” I correct him.
A warm breeze blows. I had been expecting wintriness.
“You look like Roselle, the Goddess of War, to me.”
I glance down at myself and laugh self-effacingly. “Only for tonight.”
His smile fades. “Let us hope not.”
Dune emerges to stand beside me. The golden fur mantle covering his shoulders makes him appear even stronger—lionhearted. The attendant’s eyes travel up Commander Kodaline’s powerful build, and then the secondborn says, “My master, Hail, the God of Ice and Flurry, welcomes you to his social club.”
This is all a bit silly, but I play along. “Thank you.”
Dune simply nods.
“Please,” the usher continues, “allow me to escort you to the doors.” His arm sweeps in the direction of the bridge.
“That won’t be necessary,” Dune says, taking my arm in his. We walk to the north-facing bridge. Firstborns, mostly Swords, garbed in costumes ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime, stroll near us, all moving in the direction of the shimmering ice fortress.
The bridge is a marvel of design, with a long arch that doesn’t appear to have any support between its two ends. Beneath us, the water is so clear and deep that it’s not hard to imagine that we’re the ones walking upside down in a different world. Before us, enchanting snowflake-shaped doors roll open.
Pairs of Diamond-Fated secondborns greet us inside the doors. One young woman is garbed in a tight, icy bodice. Her counterpart wears a fiery red ensemble, her skin licked with decorative flames. The one with the short blue bob and snowflake-patterned skin scans my moniker with a handheld device. “You have a VIP all-access pass! Are you ready for a seat at the Gods Table?”
“Or are the depths of the Underworld more to your liking?” her redheaded counterpart asks.
Dune’s eyebrows slash together, and his demeanor becomes stern. “We’re here to see the host,” he replies with an air of authority.
“Of course,” the blue one says, all business now. “You’ll need these to reach the Gods Table at the summit. You’ll find the God of Ice and Flurry there.” She points up before handing us both a set of hoverdiscs. The round, metallic pieces are each about two inches in diameter. Lifting my boot, I press one to my sole. It latches onto the stiff leather. I do the same with the other foot. The hover mode engages and lifts me several inches off the floor. I can access the controls of the hoverdiscs through my moniker because they’re attached to me, and therefore not blocked. We walk forward, only we don’t touch the ground.
“Rise and fall in the recommended channels, or you’re liable to get hurt,” the red one warns us.
I gaze back over my shoulder to watch the greeters fawn over the next arrival—a decadent, bare-chested god with a very lethal-looking white snake wrapped around his broad shoulders. The fiery greeter directs him to the left and over to a dark ballroom, where a sinister fog and a flare of hellfire creeps over the threshold. He sees me watching him and sends me a sultry air-kiss.
Ahead is a winter palace. Icy fog covers a glass floor. Costumed firstborns use it like an ice rink, only their feet never touch the surface. Above the rink, a holographic field displays a scene from last year’s Secondborn Trials, where several of the contestants from different Fates were forced to cross an icy lake. Some tried to tread where the ice was too thin and fell through. Others waited too long for the ice to harden, dying of hypothermia before reaching the other side, freezing solid during the night. A group that constructed primitive sleds to distribute their weight did well. Others assembled hoverdiscs to accomplish the crossing. The ingenuity of the various competitors is astounding, but watching the losers makes my belly ache.
Dune and I move away from the rink. We find a channel, essentially a dedicated path leading upward. The building has tiers of floors, but in the middle, there’s open air up to the ceiling. As we rise through the channel, we pass an ice wall with firstborn Swords clinging to its surface, using glacial pickaxes and cliff boots with hoverdiscs to make the climb
a breeze. A holographic field in the cliff depicts three-dimensional secondborns in a challenge in last year’s Secondborn Trials. The contestants were required to climb a treacherous mountain to obtain golden ration tickets that could be used to purchase food supplies.
My mood sours as I watch the footage. Cyborg mountain lions pounce on Sun-Fated secondborns who couldn’t climb fast enough. Their bodies are torn apart in the most horrific ways. The drone cameras cut away to a Moon-Fated team. The climb up is simply too much for one. He calls something to his partner before letting go of the ledge. My heart pounds, watching his body free-fall into the mist below. His partner chooses not to continue the climb, letting go as well and falling to her death. The terror of that moment must have been excruciating. I shudder.
Dune whispers in my ear, “Remember all of the things you’ll no longer tolerate when you have the power to change them.”
We reach the top of the tallest tower and power off our hoverdiscs, preferring to walk on solid ground. Security is tight here. Firstborn Exos and secondborn Sword soldiers stand in position all around the penthouse level of the tallest tower. Stingers hover in legions. Dune and I are subjected to a battery of security checkpoints, including body scans for high-tech weaponry. I wait for a soldier to balk at my belt of razor-sharp roses or the bracers on my wrists. No one does. Do they consider these weapons merely decorative?
Ahead, large golden gates representing the entrance to the Kingdom of the Gods lie open, awaiting the chosen few. This is the gallery level. Dimly lit, it gives an impressive view of the ballroom below. The gilded railing is shaped like a horseshoe and decorated with ancient deities. At the far end, opposite me, is a wall of glass windows, providing a view of the cloudless night sky.
The gods on this level are nefarious at best. I can’t help thinking, as I observe them frivolously spilling their cocktails and grinding on each other, that they’ve been the ruin of secondborns. Some are swathed in latex and lace, others are bathed in cosmic fog and little else, each paying tribute to different gods and goddesses from recorded history.
Below us, down a sparkling glass staircase, is the ballroom’s main floor. In the center of the room is the Gods Table, an elevated, Gothic-columned platform where the elite of the Sword aristocracy have gathered to play games of chance. Bright lights stream from it. Elaborate gilded tables, shiny with animated holographic figurines resembling secondborn competitors from all the Fates, do battle in different gaming scenarios. On the dance floor surrounding the Gods Table, couples sway to driving music performed by a Diamond-Fated man resembling the God of Thunder. The glass ceiling above him is an awning against the sky.
A gray-bearded firstborn with a wide mouth, dressed as the God of the Sea, stands at the top of the stairs, announcing arriving socialites. His salt-laden eyebrows weigh heavily over the creases of his eyes, which scrutinize me. “The tide has swept in a prize.” The deep rumble of his voice is amplified and echoes around us. He opens his fist, and out swim tiny, holographic porpoises that disappear after sailing by. He leers at my cleavage. I could kill him with the trident in his hand. That thought makes me smile.
“I’m no one’s prize,” I reply, passing him and descending the glass steps.
“Roselle, the Goddess of War!” he bellows behind me. His gravelly voice carries, coinciding with the final chords of the God of Thunder’s song.
His announcement of Dune is lost in the collective gasp from the crowd. Nearly everyone on the floor, and in the gallery, turns to us. I’d give anything to be the Goddess of Peace at this moment. War is easy to perpetuate. Peace, on the other hand, is nearly impossible. It will be hard-won, if it’s achieved at all.
The crowd in front of me parts. Thankfully, the music starts again, so I’m not subjected to the hissing whispers of the revelers. A mixture of hostility, pointed stares, and open admiration pummels my invisible armor. I lift my chin. Dune takes my wrist. We thread through the firstborns on the dance floor. A watery moat and glistening fountains wind around the Gods Table, separating it from the dancers. To reach the table, we cross a small arched bridge and climb a short flight of stone steps. Passing between Gothic stone columns, we emerge on the other side of a glittering, transparent sound barrier. The music from the God of Thunder fades, replaced by high-pitched voices and cheering from firstborns crowded around gaming tables.
Within the chaos and revelry of the blinking lights, I find Clifton. He has taken a position at the far end of this exclusive club. Seated amid a table of gamers, he’s engaged in a rousing match of Pyramid Conspiracy. I know the card game well. The arms dealer himself taught me how to play it. It’s a game at which he particularly excels, and he loves this diversion, but by the way his eyes drift over me, I get the sense that cards are the furthest thing from his mind.
Clifton sets his hand aside, opting out of the match in which he has a substantial bet placed. The officiator takes the stack of chips away without a word. Clifton gets to his feet, lifting his shiny cigar case from the table. He opens it and extracts a thin blue cigar. Putting it to his lips, he lights the end with a flame from the case. Blue smoke rises into the air. He snaps the case closed, rubbing the pad of his thumb on the smooth metal surface. The rigid set of his shoulders relaxes.
His normal blond whiplash of bangs is swept back into a knot at his crown. He’s dressed as Cassius, the ancient Lord of Raze and Ruin, with a golden sickle attached to a wide leather belt over a rustic kilt. Thick leather straps crisscross his otherwise bare chest. At the center, where the leathers meet, a gold circle glints. Etched into the thick metal is the face of a rose. A long rust-colored cape hangs from his broad shoulders. With the face of a film star, he reminds me more of a sun god than a harbinger of annihilation.
I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. Clifton’s sultry green eyes pass over me, their golden flecks shining. I stop in front of him. He leans over to the table, crushes out the blue cigar, straightens, and reaches out, teasing a small rosebud from my hair. Stroking the delicate flower, he brings it to his nose and inhales its scent. The gesture is surprisingly intimate. “I’ve been worried about you,” he says softly, as if no one else is around.
“I’m okay,” I reply. “I’m bored, actually. I have very little to do now that I’ve been working for Grisholm.”
“That isn’t what I heard. I heard there was an attempt on your life.” His eyes drift accusingly to Dune’s, pure malice seething in them. “No one’s protecting you.”
“She has my protection,” Dune replies with polite menace.
Thinly veiled hostility marks Clifton’s tone. “Those assassins should never have gotten to her.” He rarely loses his cool, and the rage that contorts his normally playful expression surprises me.
I try to reassure him. “I don’t need protection, Clifton. I’m a secondborn Sword. You know this.” I look around to see who else is listening, and my eyes fall on Valdi Kingfisher, seated at the table next to where Clifton had been. I recognize him as the bookmaker we sold arms to earlier in the year. I know his last name probably isn’t Kingfisher. At Salloway Munitions, we replaced last names with bird names to protect clients’ anonymity. Valdi’s powerfully built, with a thick red scar that runs from his temple to his cheek. The brutal-looking man at the table rises and grins.
Clifton swings his hand in the direction of the firstborn Sword. “Roselle, may I introduce Valdi Shelling, your host for this evening.”
I pretend not to know him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Firstborn Shelling. Thank you for your kind invitation.”
His lips twitch with repressed amusement. “It is my honor.” He takes my hand in his and kisses the back of it, an unlikely welcome for a secondborn. It makes me uncomfortable. Others might draw the wrong conclusions. I tug my fingers from his.
“You have a lovely social club.” The word “club” seems wrong. “Glass palace” is probably more fitting.
“Thank you. Most of the guests at the Gods Table are members of the Rose Garde
n Society. It’s usually not like this. The theme is my wife’s doing.” He gestures toward a young firstborn woman attired in a sparkling silver gown with icicles dripping from it. Her delicate hand rests on the arm of the rugged-looking God of Rain and shines with a golden sword moniker. The stormy deity holds a pair of dice and puts them to her mouth, and she blows on them with a sensual purse of her lips. Wintry snowflakes emerge from between them, a clever trick. The rain god brings the dice to his own lips and kisses them before shaking his fist and tossing them across the table. Tiny storm clouds follow the dice, raining as they tumble and bounce across the table. “The Snow Queen has outdone herself tonight,” Valdi continues. He says it with a sour note, watching his wife fawn over the rain god at her side. “Take my advice, Salloway, don’t wait too long to settle down. All the good ones will be taken.”
Clifton gazes at me with surprising heat. “Oh, I intend to leave nothing to chance when it comes to that.”
Dune moves nearer to me, his annoyance plain. “Do you always make your wishes aloud, Salloway?” he asks.
Clifton’s laugh is humorless. “I do when it’s warranted. So, you’re the God of Dawn?”
“The dawn to end all nights.”
“Does she know what you’re selling?” Clifton asks with a nod in my direction.
“What am I selling?”
Clifton leans in. His pointed finger touches Dune’s chest. “You’re peddling the end of the world.”
“I could say the same of you. Does Roselle know about the Rose Garden Society’s end game?” Dune asks.
“What’s to know?” Clifton asks. “We’re but a group bent on making the world a more beautiful place, one garden at a time.”
“The more you sell, the more you’re bought,” Dune replies.
Clifton’s expression turns stormy. “You cannot protect her like I can.”