Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(9)

The signal spiked again, tugging at his code. D09 jerked—and his metal elbow hit the wall with a resounding ding.

Rasovant’s assistant snapped her gaze over. Her eyes narrowed.

D09 went rigid as he raised firewalls against the signal. Another glitch picked at his code, pulling like kite strings.

“Is something the matter?” asked Lord Rasovant.

The young woman shook her head. “Nothing important. Let us go—the Grand Duchess should be announcing her heir soon. . . .” She grabbed her elder by the hand and tugged him along the hallway. She did not look back.

The spiking signal faded, until only an echo remained.

He sank to his knees, twitching as his programming righted itself again. If that assistant saw him, why did she not say so? The glitch tugging at his processors ebbed, giving him access to his own functions again.

“Jax?” He sent out a comm-link to the skysailer. There was no answer for a moment, and then—

“Messier. Stupid—gotta—trying hard—marina!”

That did not bode well.

Rerouting his energy to his legs, he got to his feet. He would not glitch. Not now. Not yet.

He must find Ana.





Robb


The cityscape of Nevaeh passed below, a grid of grimy, dilapidated buildings.

Nevaeh had been the only safe haven from the Plague twenty years ago, so everyone who was not infected had moved here—including Ironbloods, who created the gardens to separate themselves from the citizens. An extra layer of protection from the Plague. But soon the space station fell into disarray, with too many citizens and too little space and no money left to buy land on-world on Eros or Iliad after the Plague was eradicated.

At least the view from the floating garden was still beautiful, he reasoned, as he rotated the piece of iron ore his father had given him between his hands. It was an old habit, and he always felt closer to his father when he did it. The ore rusted in his grip.

His father had given it to him the night he’d left for the Iron Palace seven years ago, mere hours before the Rebellion, when the palace’s North Tower went up in flames. The fire killed the royal family and—as rumors went—his father as well.

“Keep it safe until I get back, son,” his father had said. Robb still remembered the way he looked in the light that leaked through the cracked doorway into his room, thick beard and blue eyes and a lightsword on his back. “Don’t let anyone know you have it. I’ll be back by morning.”

Then he’d kissed Robb’s forehead and was gone into the night.

It was the last time Robb ever saw him.

In the seven years since, Robb still couldn’t puzzle out why his father had given him a rock, reminding him every day of what he was not. It was a piece of the same iron that made the crown, and like the crown, it rusted for everyone who touched it. Except those chosen by the Goddess to lead the kingdom. For the last thousand years that had been the Armorov bloodline, until they died in the Rebellion.

Would it rust for his brother, a Valerio?

Would it even matter?

Erik was the next in line, despite not being of Armorov blood. The Valerios were related to the Armorovs by marriage—their late aunt had married the late Emperor. But when they died in the Rebellion, the Grand Duchess became the interim ruler until the Moon Goddess chose another Emperor.

The Moon Goddess never did.

So now, what alternative did the kingdom have other than Erik Valerio? Besides, the other side of the Armorov bloodline, the Aragons, had gone reclusive after they’d lost their only daughter to outlaws.

Emperor Erik. The title made Robb sick.

The Valerio family was the wealthiest in the kingdom and ruled over twenty-three districts on Eros and Iliad, and a mining continent on Cerces, so they were expected to present themselves with a certain flair—especially at parties.

He straightened his vintage blue evening coat—it was his favorite, but after that altercation in the shrine there was a tear at the elbow. He hoped the flowers covered up the stench from the back alley of Nevaeh and no one would pay attention to the scratch on his cheek. He smoothed back his brown curly hair and took a calming breath.

“Please remove that unpleasant look from your face, darling, people are watching,” said an arsenic-and-honey voice.

Robb jumped, almost dropping the ore. He quickly pocketed it, rubbing the rust off on his dark trousers.

His mother came to rest against the railing beside him, her tea-length crimson dress, diamonds sewn into the lace, glittering like a bloodred sky.

“Was it too much to ask for you to be on time to a party for once?” she asked.

“Forgive me, Mother,” he said with a short bow. “I lost track of time.”

“And where were you this time? The horse races? A gambling den?”

“A shrine.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “The less I know about whatever you do these days, the less I’ll dislike. But you can at least be present at your brother’s celebration,” she added after a moment, pursing her red lips. “Your brother will be named heir to the Iron Throne—”

And crowned on the thousand-year anniversary of the Iron Kingdom, on the morning the three planets of Eros, Iliad, and Cerces aligned—Holy Conjunction—as if his brother could get any more insufferable.

The coronation next week couldn’t come fast enough.