there’s a ceremony for those in Troika who are deserving of punishment. The ceremony is about to start, and I’d like you to watch it.”
This. This is why Killian sent me up here. Archer is about to experience the Exchange. He wanted me to see it, to turn my back on Troika once and for all. But...that doesn’t explain why Deacon wants me to see it.
“I don’t understand you,” I say. “What’s your motive for showing me this?”
“You once expressed curiosity about the Exchange. Now you can see it for yourself.” He stalks to the bed and stretches out in the center, and wow, it’s difficult to track him; I manage it only because his iridescent flesh ripples like waves in an ocean. “Come,” he says.
Sloan reaches out and squeezes my hand before taking the spot at Deacon’s left. My knees shake as I close the distance and lie at his right. He types in the light projected from his hand and, just like the time Killian gave me a tour of Myriad, an image appears on the canopy above the bed. An image that begins to expand, until the entire bed is surrounded by the most breathtaking garden I’ve ever seen. There are hanging vines of wisteria, honeysuckle and ivy. The fruit trees are in full bloom, branches heavy with peaches, oranges and lemons.
“Usually we can use cameras to guide you, but cameras are forbidden in this part of the realm. I’m linked to a friend of mine,” Deacon says. “You’re seeing Troika through her eyes.”
“Her?” Sloan waves a hand, as if she doesn’t care. “Whatevs. You two get married and have a million babies.”
The friend is clearly walking, taking us deeper and deeper into the garden. We pass an archway, a patch of wild strawberries and blackberries, and navigate a maze of wildflowers. Someone comes up beside us, a grim-faced girl with freckles on her nose and fire-engine-red curls.
“Don’t want to be late,” she says. “Better hurry.”
We clear the garden and come to a sea of people. No one looks as if they’re over the age of thirty-five. There’s not a gray hair or wrinkle in sight.
“They’re so beautiful,” Sloan says.
“Yes. Only the human body decays,” Deacon replies.
“Why is everyone wearing a robe?” In Myriad, the people wore clothing from what I assume was the era of their Firstlife. But here, almost everyone is draped in a violet robe with gold trim, elaborate and ornate, absolutely stunning. Those who aren’t in violet are draped in red. I count one, two, three...six. Definitely the minority.
“Ceremonial robes,” Deacon says.
Up ahead is a dais and behind the dais a palace, the walls glittering like diamonds, the trim...ah-maz-ing. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds. Topaz, beryl, onyx and jasper, each pure and flawless. Three people exit the palace to stand in the center of the dais. They, too, are dressed in robes, but unlike the others, they also wear crowns.
A tall, strong man consumes the middle. I can’t make out his features. There’s a light behind him—a rainbow, as if he carries it on his back, like a bow and arrow—and it glows so brightly he’s partially obscured.
Power radiates from him. So much that I can feel it through the connection Deacon has with the girl. It makes my blood fizz, and my skin feels as if lightning is zinging over the surface.
“Behold. The Firstking,” Deacon says, his tone reverent. “Creator of the realms. Father to the Kings.”
At his left is a woman with long braided hair the color of newly fallen snow. Her features are more apparent, but I almost wish they weren’t. Her beauty is overwhelming, overpowering, and as I stare at her, I’m tempted to edge closer just to touch her.
Look away, look away. The third person—a male—is younger than the Firstking. His features are clearer than the others, but he lacks their beauty. In fact, he’s almost plain. But his eyes...oh, his eyes. They are striking, as blue as the morning sky, and when he meets my gaze—
I gasp. He’s looking straight at me, as if he knows I’m watching.
He smiles in welcome.
“The Troikan King is the Firstking’s firstborn son, known here as the Secondking,” Deacon says with the same reverent tone. “The woman is the Secondking’s future bride.”
The Firstking, the Secondking and the Secondking’s fiancée. Troika, meaning three. Numbers always tell a story.
Despite the masses, not a single word is spoken. Not a whisper is heard until the Secondking steps forward. There are brands on his hands. Brands that are