The Kricket Series
The Premonition Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Amy A. Bartol
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781477848357
ISBN-10: 1477848355
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
Nine Fates of the Republic
Prologue
Chapter 1 Crown of Swords
Chapter 2 No Sudden Moves
Chapter 3 Fate Traitors
Chapter 4 Pulse Pummeled
Chapter 5 Mine Now
Chapter 6 In Census
Chapter 7 Moment of Clarity
Chapter 8 Exo and Ohs
Chapter 9 That’s Mine
Chapter 10 Intake
Chapter 11 That Newcomer Smell
Chapter 12 Detention
Chapter 13 Ugly Moles
Chapter 14 Little Fish
Chapter 15 A Beautiful Crime
Chapter 16 Where They Bury Me
Chapter 17 Shattered
Chapter 18 Flannigan’s Man
Chapter 19 A Serious Hat
Chapter 20 Sword-Shaped Heart
Chapter 21 White Rose
Chapter 22 Rose-Colored Crown
Chapter 23 Secondborn Traitor
Chapter 24 The Hand and the Heart
Chapter 25 A Rose Gardener
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
FATE OF VIRTUES
FATE OF SWORDS
FATE OF STARS
FATE OF ATOMS
FATE OF SUNS
FATE OF DIAMONDS
FATE OF MOONS
FATE OF SEAS
FATE OF STONES
It’s agony and relief to watch my life end.
I’m not dying, though my heart aches as if it might. Blood pounds drumbeats through my veins. My temples throb while my mother takes the podium. Spotlights shine on us, burning away the gloom of predawn light. Pausing like a seasoned conductor before an orchestra, Mother waits for the applause to die down. She’s the consummate politician, serene before the gathered crowd in the courtyard. She surveys the cameras before her, knowing the effect her stoicism has on the citizens assembled beneath the grand balcony of the Palace of the Sword. Their hearts break for her—for a mother’s sacrifice. These are her supporters, handpicked to be here, to witness history.
The cool morning air teases a wisp of silky brown hair from the elegant knot at her nape. Navy-colored banners twist in the wind, images of golden swords flapping behind her in the breeze. She holds back a smile.
“Citizens of Swords and all of the Fates,” she begins. Her melodic voice amplifies over the grounds of her estate, the sound of it falling from the balcony like a stone, crushing the crowd below into silence. “Today, our very way of life is threatened, not only from outside the Fates of the Republic, but also from within. The destiny of our once-great nation lies in the palms of our hands, and never more than today—Transition Day.”
I’m unable to suppress a shudder. Transition Day. I’ve heard the words often over the eighteen years of my life. It’s the stuff of nightmares, what people say when they want to scare you:
Fine beads of sweat form on the back of my neck. I clutch my hands behind me so no one can see them tremble. My long brown hair blows in the wind.
“At no other time in our history has the draft been more vital,” Mother says. “We are embroiled in a fight to the death—a bloody civil war, brought on by the lawlessness of Fate traitors who would violate our very right to exist. We, the firstborns, must rule. It is our birthright to sacrifice our own for the protection of the Fates. It is an honor for secondborns to serve as champions in this proud tradition—to give their lives to their Fate and to the call of service.”
Her arm sweeps in my direction. Every eye in the crowd shifts to me. Enormous virtual monitors project my image. I’m larger than life on the screens. I have to fight to maintain a serene expression. The cameras see everything, and my performance will be critiqued later.
