The master’s minions are here. They will board your ship by force. If you want to meet the master, you must face them . . . but remember what I told you. Death’s hand will reveal your true enemy—and Death is what you are inviting on board.
Everyone studies the text silently, and I study Hysan, who shuts off his Scan now that the information is out. Then, he barely looks at me as he slips out of the Plenum and into the village. It’s the first jab on this stage I can’t shake off.
A rumble of discussion spreads through the hall and grows loud enough to reach me. Everyone is marveling at the proof Hysan just shared, and explanations of what the codes mean are being repeated from neighbor to neighbor.
The last time we showed proof of a Psy weapon, Charon dismissed it with his more compelling evidence of cosmic rays from the Sufianic Clouds—but he can’t explain away this. For the first time, Ochus left a permanent mark. Not with violence, which fades as people heal, but with words that linger.
I hear the new Aquarian ambassador, Crompton, say to his neighbor, “A purely metaphysical being—how fascinating!”
“We will have to verify this data,” says Charon, trying to tamp down the excitement in the room. “What happened when the soldiers boarded your transport?”
I recount how the Marad threatened and subdued us, how we fought back and two of our crew members lost their lives, and how, just as the broadcast began, Lord Neith and Hysan rescued us. Everyone is silent throughout my account, and before Charon can ask another question, I say, “What’s happening to the soldiers who attacked us?”
“We are not releasing that information at this time,” he says haughtily. “Let’s continue with your tale. You then boarded their ship and found hostages, did you not? Where are they?”
I smile at him. “We are not releasing that information at this time.”
Charon’s face looks more than ever like a rapier, but before he can slice into me, Ambassador Crompton rises. He’s nearly as tall as Neith, and his silver hair is so long that he’s swept it into a neat ponytail. “House Aquarius has been convinced.”
He may be the newest Plenum member, but there’s power in Crompton’s presence. His voice emanates a warm kind of strength, the sort of sound that seems as much from the heart as the mind. “We believe Rhoma Grace’s account of Ophiuchus, and we are committed to helping her defeat him and his army.”
Cheering breaks out among more than half the room’s occupants, making it hard to hear the Taurian ambassador when he springs up and shouts, “House Taurus has also been convinced!” He’s followed by the representatives from Leo and Aries, until the only House left in the dissenting faction is Scorpio.
“Scor-pi-o! Scor-pi-o! Scor-pi-o!” The audience chants at Charon, and at last he raises the speaker’s staff to hush them.
“House Scorpio will need to examine the evidence firsthand,” he says, once the room is silent. “If the proof is indeed legitimate, we will reconsider this tale.”
It’s not exactly a guarantee, but it’s as close to an agreement as proud Charon is likely to give, and from their reaction, the audience knows it. The whole room is on its feet—the Zodiac has united. They believe in the Thirteenth House. They believe in me.
“Thank you,” I say to the whole hall as Charon returns to his place at the long table to confer with the other ambassadors. I don’t know if I’ve been given the floor to speak or if I’m expected to wait while the ambassadors finish their discussion, but since I have something to say, I seize the chance.
“Ophiuchus must be dealt with, yes, but he is not the priority. The Marad has a leader, and he is not it. We need to focus on finding the army’s hiding place and stopping it from further destruction. Ophiuchus will have his turn, but he’s not the immediate threat. The master is.”
“Thank you,” says Crompton, rising again and taking the speaker’s staff. He and the rest of the ambassadors are now all smiles. They don’t seem to have heard what I just said . . . in fact, it appears as if the whole room tuned out as soon as the Houses united. They don’t want to hear more omens and warnings. They want to hold on to hope.
“We now have an announcement,” says Crompton, his pink sunset eyes warmly sweeping across my face. “Rhoma Grace, this Plenum wants to apologize for our treatment of you on House Aries. You are a rare and gifted seer, one of the best in our galaxy, and we want to honor you with a title that hasn’t been used in centuries.”
The crowd cheers, and Crompton holds up the staff to quiet them. “Before the Trinary Axis, when the Guardians ruled the Zodiac together, there was a thirteenth place at their table, which they held open in cases where a tie-breaker was needed to help sway a vote. As the role was a lifetime appointment, the Guardians chose a Zodai who was beloved among the Houses—a great seer, and most importantly, someone who rose above House affiliations to be a citizen of the Zodiac. As the Houses are now autonomous, this position no longer exists in an official capacity. But we would like to bestow on you the honorary title.”
He gives me a low bow.
“Welcome back, Rhoma Grace, our Zodiac’s Wandering Star.”
27
AS CHEERS ENGULF THE ROOM once more, every muscle within me begins to relax. Here, at last, with the universe’s forgiveness, I can finally forgive myself. I may have taken Cancer off course for a moment, but I brought Her back. Our House has risen once more to its rightful role as caregiver of the Zodiac.
The Aquarian ambassador bangs the speaker’s staff to end the session, and I’m swarmed by people. Sirna reaches my side first, but soon an ocean of others surrounds me, and I’m swept up in the hall’s warmth and excitement and hope as delegates from all over the Zodiac approach to trade the hand touch with me.
“Mother.”
I hear the voice and spin around, Rubi and Brynda clasping either arm, and see a familiar pair of misty gray-green eyes. I free myself from the Geminin and Sagittarian Guardians so I can bow to mine. “Holy Mother.”
“No,” says Agatha, shaking her head of white hair and pulling me upright. “The stars bestowed that title on you.” We wrap each other in a long embrace. “I believe our House will soon remember that.”
“I’ve worn so many titles the past few months—Acolyte, Guardian, Coward, and now Wandering Star—but the truth is I’ve barely mastered being Rho.”
“It sounds as though the stars have been whispering to you,” she says with a smile. The saying is so Cancrian it hurts to hear it. Her eyes growing mistier, Agatha adds, “I can’t believe I once wondered whether you were really Chosen. Watching you now, it’s so clear: You’re the brightest point in this already brilliant room.”
When the tears subside and my vision refocuses, a blurry face sharpens before me. Arcadia.
“Chief Executive Purecell has summoned you for a private meeting in her chambers.” She must have just tunneled through the crowd to find me, because her silky, russet hair is tousled, and the fabric of her uniform has a few large snags. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she says breathlessly, “please come along.”
I part with Agatha and the others and follow Arcadia to the Taurian embassy, which is nearly as tall as the Libran embassy and surrounded by flashing lights and holographic advertisements for the planets’ twelve sponsoring corporations. It looks like a bustling business district.
“Where are my brother and friends?” I ask Arcadia as the Taurians at the entrance hand us free samples of candies, perfumes, and lipsticks.
“Ambassador Sirna offered everyone accommodations at the Cancrian embassy,” says the Taurian. “The Sagittarian is staying there as well, but the Librans respectfully declined.”
I picture Hysan alone in his penthouse, in his gray coveralls, making adjustments to one of his amazing inventions. I wish he were with me now. Not because I’m afraid or uncertain of myself, but because I love hearing his mind at work. There’s something Ferezian about
his superhuman intelligence.
My thoughts are soon drowned out by the noise of the indoor city that is the Taurian embassy. There are shops blaring holographic advertisements, entertainment centers where people can hologram themselves into the world of a virtual reality game, restaurants that float up thirty stories to the building’s glass ceiling, nightclubs, Bull Feeds, and more.
Arcadia swipes her Blotter on a door device, and almost as quickly as we entered it, we leave the bright and busy city lobby to slip into an office-like floor that’s just as bustling. Taurians in olive green uniforms are staring at a massive holographic representation of the rising and falling Star-Stock Market hovering over their heads. Everyone is soundlessly speaking through their Rings, reporting every minute change in the market to the Psy. It’s strange seeing so much activity but not hearing a word.
A few Promisaries pull away from the blinking data to peek at me, but most of them stay focused. Once we get past the crowd, Arcadia and I arrive at Chief Executive Purecell’s chambers.
“How may I help you?” asks a young, sharply dressed guy sitting at a desk outside her door.
“Wandering Star Rhoma Grace is here for her appointment,” says Arcadia.
“Great,” he says pleasantly. “May I see your Guest Blotter?” I pass it to him, and he swipes it on a portable screen, then hands it back to me. “Please go in. Chief Executive Purecell is waiting.”
“I’ll be here,” says Arcadia, pulling out a small mirror to fix her ruffled, boy-cut locks.
“Thanks.” Then I open the door and step into a room that’s missing a wall.
The office’s fourth side is completely open, and a gargantuan tree from the surrounding forest reaches its thick, snaking branches inside. The largest branch has been shaved down to a flat surface that ends in a burst of leaves and petals—that’s the Guardian’s desk. The next biggest branch has also been filed into a flat surface, and it’s smothered with feathery pillows—the couch. Other branches form a table, a coat hanger, and a footstool. No limb touches the ground, but they’re so sturdy and solid that they don’t seem movable.
“Call me Fernanda.” A tall, middle-aged woman with fine, short hair sits at the tree-desk and extends her hand for mine. “I’m so pleased we could meet. Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” We shake hands, and I sit across from her on the tree-couch’s fluffy feather pillows.
She leans forward. “You were holding back today.”
“I will not disclose the hostages—”
“The Marad is all Risers.”
We stare at each other as though frozen in place. “How do you know that?” I finally venture.
“How much do you know about me?”
I know Fernanda has been Guardian nearly ten years. I know she’s the one who established the Taurian four-day weekend. But I don’t know much else because she came after Mom’s time. “Not much,” I admit.
“You must’ve been eight when the stars promoted me to Chief Executive, so you wouldn’t be aware of the scandal it caused.” She says scandal as if it’s something that’s good for business. “I’m the first Guardian of Riser parentage.”
The shock must show on my face, because she laughs. “My father was born a Geminin, and he was a Zodai University student when the changes began to manifest. Instead of sticking around and suffering inevitable prejudice, he moved to Taurus and tried starting over. His shift was so smooth that a few months after the changes began, he passed for a natural Taurian, and he stayed that way for the rest of his life.” She seems proud of the completeness of his transition. Of course, as Guardian, she can’t help but think of him as a true Taurian.
“Still,” she goes on, “everywhere he went, his astrological fingerprint betrayed him as a Riser, so he struggled to find employment and worked harder than most parents do to provide for me. Even though the contemporary Zodiac is more accepting of Risers than it was in his day, I still had to fight incredibly hard to win over my detractors. However, I’m happy to report that my leadership has resulted in great progress toward the acceptance of Risers on Taurus and even across all the other Houses. That’s why they feel they can talk to me—Risers,” she explains when she sees my flicker of confusion.
“No one else listens to them, and they don’t have a true home in the Zodiac. When I ascended, I think they were happy to know there was someone in power who sympathized with them.” Her words remind me of Corinthe and the kind of world the master promised her and the other soldiers.
“A couple of years ago,” says Fernanda, her voice now lower and more serious, as if to demonstrate that the pleasantries are over, “I had a troubling experience. My Riser correspondents confided in me that they’d been approached by an activist group. The organization seemed professional and well funded, and my correspondents were thinking of getting involved with them. Within weeks, most of them had cut ties with me.
“This was before the attack on Cancer, back when we thought the mudslides in the Hoof were caused by natural disasters, so I wasn’t suspicious. But a few months ago, one of my former Riser correspondents contacted me again. She told me, in confidence, that by the third activism meeting she attended, the tenor of the conversation had changed. The organization’s leaders were no longer discussing legal protections and equal pay for Risers. They were enlisting members into combat and weapons training.”
“Did you tell the other Guardians?”
She glares at me. “What do you think would have happened if I did? I’d be setting Risers’ rights back a thousand years, to the days before the Datsby Decree.”
“Datsby Decree?” I can’t help my curiosity, even though I’m guessing Fernanda has little patience for tangents. “Is that named after Vecily Matador’s friend?”
Fernanda’s eyebrows shoot up in gratified delight. “The very same. You know your Taurian history! Before taking part in the Trinary Axis, Chief Executive Matador had been trying to pass the Datsby Decree, which would grant refuge and equal rights to all Risers who came to Taurus. It was only ratified forty years ago, after my predecessor pushed for it.” Fernanda’s features crinkle with concern. “You kept quiet about the army of Risers because you know as well as I do that those in power only look out for themselves. You did the right thing, and I asked you here to thank you.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I can’t. The word Riser never came out of my mouth, despite the fact that this emergency Plenum session was called due to an abundance of them. Even though Ferez warned me they’re the future. I didn’t mention them because of what Fernanda said—I wanted to protect that population from further humiliation.
“What about imbalanced Risers?” I ask.
“What about them?” she asks snippily. “The change is as much out of their control as it is for the balanced ones.”
“Of course . . . but I think they need more help than we’re giving them. I never met an imbalanced Riser until this attack, and though I agree they’re victims, many are still violent and unhinged—dangerous—and it doesn’t benefit the larger Riser population to ignore that.”
Fernanda’s small-picture approach to Risers’ rights reminds me of how I handled things last time around, when I obsessed over Ophiuchus and ignored the Marad. “There’s a saying on Libra,” I say. “When we open our minds too wide, we risk closing them. We have to look at the situation fairly—not just from the perspective we want. Don’t you think?”
I’m worried I’ve insulted her, but she looks at me almost pityingly. “Rho, your idealism is admirable, but you’ve seen what popular opinion is like. If we give the masses more reasons to hate and fear Risers, most of them won’t pause to make a distinction between balanced and imbalanced—they’ll just hear Riser and dismiss the whole group.”
“Then we educate them,” I say, conviction making my voice grow firm. “We can’t give up on people anymore. Even if most react like you say, some w
on’t. So we start with the hearts we can change. That’s how we make a difference—we begin with a ripple to end with a wave.”
28
I LEAVE FERNANDA’S OFFICE THINKING a lot about Vecily. Her name will forever be tainted in the Zodiac’s eyes for taking part in the Trinary Axis, just as mine will be stained by the blood spilled in the armada. Vecily and I suffered for the same mistake: trusting in others more than ourselves.
We gave control of our voices to older people who we thought were wiser. If I don’t want to end up like Vecily, I can’t keep relying on my friends’ trust to carry me when my strength wanes—I have to become my own biggest believer and start finding that strength within myself.
Candela was right: I can’t let the way things work guide my behavior, because things aren’t working so well. Those older, wiser people Vecily and I trusted have already proven they don’t always know better. Because there is no better. The Zodiac has twelve worlds, all with unique cultures and governances. If one lifestyle were objectively superior to the others, we would all live by the same systems and sets of rules.
Ferez predicts the worlds of tomorrow will be the ones we choose, not the ones we’re born into, and even Hysan believes that’s what’s best for us. We’ve been adhering for one thousand years to laws that applied to people living in primitive times with outdated technology and beliefs. Librans are legally required to update their wills every year of their adult lives—shouldn’t we be required to review our laws every century to make sure they’re still worth following?
When Arcadia walks me out of the embassy, I’m surprised to realize I’m not ready to go home yet. “I want to learn more about Vecily Matador,” I say.
“Then you’ll want to see her house,” says Arcadia. “Follow me.”
We hop back on the Bullet Express, zipping past the busy, triple-tiered downtown to what appears to be a quieter suburb. Here the highways unfurl in straight lines, and there are no starscrapers chomping up the horizon.