him. He is nothing if not a keen strategist. I may have met my match with him in that regard.
So I’m surprised one afternoon, when I’m strolling along the beach, to hear the hum of an engine overhead. I shield my eyes from the glare of the sun to locate the aircraft in the sky. Wisps of my blond hair dance in the ocean breeze. Gazing in the direction of the main house, a small, silver, hawk-shaped airship flies over it, idling for a moment above the hoverpad on the rooftop. It floats down in a spiral, like a lost feather, to rest on the two talonlike claws that piston down from its belly. The airship powers down while the side of the craft melts to form a doorway with levitating steps. A tall, brawny blond man appears in the doorway of the craft, descending the stairs. He’s not dressed for the beach. He’s attired from head to toe in a military uniform. Squaring his broad shoulders, he walks purposefully into the spire that resembles a crow’s nest at the top of the house.
I stuff the shells I have in my hand into the burlap satchel that rests on my hip. My eyes stray to Kyon, who has also seen him. He emerges from the surf at an unhurried pace and moves toward the house. I know him well enough now to understand that he has been expecting this visitor, or the aircraft wouldn’t be here.
I feign disinterest in our visitor, continuing to collect shells while Kyon rinses off in the outdoor shower. He wraps a towel around his hips and enters the house through our bedroom. I cautiously make my way there too. I press against the adjacent wall before I peek around the corner. The room is empty. I wait. I pull back from the opening and press flat against the wall when Kyon emerges from his dressing room attired in a black Striker uniform.
He moves through the bedroom. I follow him at a slower pace, making sure he doesn’t see me trailing him. He takes the stairs at the end of the gallery. I follow him up to the top of the house in the direction of his office. My feet make no noise but I leave a sandy trail on the floorboards that I have no hope of hiding. Clutching the burlap satchel on my hip so the shells don’t clink together, I reach in and grasp the knife that Kyon gave me. When I come to the top of the stairs I pause. Looking down the short hallway that leads to his office, I don’t have to strain my ears to hear the raised voice coming from it.
“You’re being summoned! This isn’t a request!” the angry voice of our visitor states. I watch as Kyon leans against the front of his wooden desk. His arms cross over his broad chest.
Goose bumps break out on my arms. I know our visitor—at least, I’ve seen him before. He’s my half sister Nezra’s consort—or whatever they are to each other. When I spoke to her, she claimed that he owns her. She was given to him by the Brotherhood, a fact that she despises. She wanted to be claimed by Kyon. For a moment, I wonder if I should pity our visitor.
Nezra’s consort continues to pace, saying, “You cannot ignore a summons from the Brothers. They want to compromise. They see they were wrong in seeking extermination.”
“What has happened to bring about their change in attitude?” Kyon asks.
“We need her. The war is not over as everyone would like to claim. There’s a rebellion being mounted against us as we speak. A counterattack was implemented on a scale that we didn’t anticipate.”
“What do you mean?” Kyon feigns surprise.
“Wurthem was targeted—a sophisticated strike.”
“Targeted by whom—Rafe?”
Our guest shakes his head. “No. Rafe is broken and scattered. We don’t know who it is, but they’re smart. Whoever they are, they made it look as if the attack came from us. Kalafin was completely decimated—everything within seventy clicks of Wurthem’s capital is annihilated. Their communication satellites were taken out as well. They’ve gone black. Our allies are turning against us. Brother Excelsior himself has sent me here to bring you back. I can assure you that he wants the priestess alive. Her protection is of the utmost priority.” It’s true, or at least he believes that.
“She knows nothing of the attack, Chandrum,” Kyon lies.
“Does she not? Really? She’s a self-taught precognitive who