Chapter 23
Secondborn Traitor
It’s now, when I’m seated next to Clifton in his airship, that I begin to panic. I’ve gotten no further instructions from Reykin regarding the malware. Time has worked against me. My sweaty palms grip my star-beaded clutch. I stare out the side window at the dark sea as we lift off.
The closer we get to the Sword Palace, the bigger the fool I believe myself to be. I haven’t been home in over a year, and I’m going to get caught for espionage before I even make it through the front door.
“What are you thinking about?” Clifton asks.
“The maginots. I miss them,” I reply, trying to hide my true thoughts.
“You mean the ferocious wolfhounds that roam the Sword Palace grounds? Those maginots?” He’s alarmed.
“Yes. They’re my sweet babies,” I reply with a soft smile.
“They’re cyborgs that will rip your throat out,” he teases me, but he also seems a little worried.
“Maybe your throat, but never mine.” I grin.
We pull up to the security barricade by the iron fence. Iono guards with handheld wands scan our monikers. We’re waved through, and Clifton pulls around the Warrior Fountain. Women in sparkling ball gowns float by, accompanied by a mix of uniformed and evening-wear-clad men and women. They make their way inside the Grand Foyer of the St. Sismode Palace.
When it’s our turn to exit the Recovener, I wait for Clifton to come around to my side. I take his offered hand. We walk arm in arm into the glowing reception. Dozens of people are here. Some are standing on our family crest. The last time I saw the symbol, I had rifles pointed at me. It was a year ago, but I still feel the shame and fear vividly. I almost expect to see Mother on the balcony at the top of the staircase, hanging over the railing, screaming for her soldiers to shoot me.
Faking a smile, I allow myself to be drawn into conversation as we queue up in front of the security checkpoint. An older gentleman with a much younger companion takes an interest in me. Clifton introduces us. “Ah, yes,” the man says, stroking his graying beard. “We watched the news of the Atoms rushing you into surgery, my dear. You took a severe beating, didn’t you?” He doesn’t sound sympathetic.
“The thing about beatings, Firstborn Houser,” I reply conspiratorially, “is that if you have to take one, it’s best to take a severe one. That way, you don’t remember it.”
He chortles. “I’ll have to remember that, Roselle.”
“Do,” I reply with a forced smile.
Clifton presses his lips to the shell of my ear. “You are masterful at this, Roselle.” His breath is warm against my skin.
“Roselle!” Gabriel’s voice resonates in the domed room. Voices around us quiet as he cuts through the crowd. He’s dressed in formal evening wear, with a midnight-blue cape styled exactly like Clifton’s. When he reaches me, it’s plain that something is not right about him. He has a feverish look. He throws his arms around me and lifts me off my feet in a tight hug. “I’ve been so worried about you. How are you feeling?”
He leans down and drops me to my feet. “I’m well, Gabriel. How are you?” I have to brace his forearms to keep him from swaying.
“Why are you in line with all of the common people?”
I try not to let my embarrassment show. “Because I’m common people,” I reply, trying to calm him. “What are you doing down here with us?”
“You’re not common people—you’re my sister, Roselle!” His speech is slurred, his face is pale and drawn, and his lips have a bluish tint.
“I’m your sister,” I agree. “And this is my friend, Firstborn Salloway.” I gesture toward Clifton.
Gabriel sobers a little, his face darkening. “I know who he is,” he leers. “What’s he doing here?”
“Gabriel!” Hawthorne steps forward, placing his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and holding him back. I’m struck dumb, staring at the man I’ve never stopped loving. “Let them go. You’re the heir to the fatedom, not her. Salloway will never be the Fated Sword, even if he has her.” Hawthorne’s words carry such scorn that I can taste the bitterness in my own mouth. I’m crushed by the weight of all the hours that I’ve loved him. I look away from Hawthorne and meet Clifton’s eyes. He stares at me, seeing everything, but saying nothing. “I’m ready to go in,” I tell him.
He leads me away from Hawthorne and my brother. I’m numb. I’m not even afraid when an Iono guard passes a wand over me and searches my clutch for weapons. Then we’re through the checkpoint, walking a line of waiting ambassadors, shaking hands with familiar faces. “Welcome home.” “Glad to see you back.” I just say “Thank you” and move on.
The farther I move down the line, the more plastic this world seems. I feel like a real woman in a fake world. No one truly lives here. They just exist, surviving like parasites off other people they look down on and despise. I don’t miss any of it, this oppressive regime that wants to cannibalize me. Something inside me burns. Something inside me rages.
Then I approach Mother. She’s a vision in a white halter gown edged with golden accents. A golden laurel rings her chestnut hair. Large bangles ring her delicate wrists. Her radiant smile immediately fades when she sees me next in line.
“Welcome home, Roselle,” she says, air-kissing my cheeks.
Father is next to her. I blanch. Outwardly, he seems to be the same handsome man I remember.
Before we can address each other, Mother demands my attention. “Roselle!” She’s aghast at my dismissal of her. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your . . .” Her chin points in Clifton’s direction. “What shall I call him?”
“My apologies,” I relent, hating this charade. “I believe you’re already familiar with one another. May I present Firstborn Salloway. Clifton, this is The Sword, my mother, Othala St. Sismode.”
Clifton bows his head in a formal nod of respect. “It’s an honor to see you again.”
“Firstborn Salloway, I hear that you’re into gardening.” Mother barely smiles.
“It has become quite a passion of mine,” he replies warmly. “Especially roses. I have a weakness for them.”
Mother cuts a dagger-like stare at me. “And what is he to you, Roselle?”
“He’s my gardener.” I step toward Father at her side. I look at his handsome face, thinking of my time in the hospital. It was a Salloway by my side, and before that, a Winterstrom. Not one St. Sismode or Abjorn came to see me.
Father looks at me as if I’m a stranger—and I am. “So, you didn’t let them kill you, eh, Roselle? Good for you,” he says with the same smug condescension and ruined humor that I remember.
“Thank you, Kennet.” I reach up and straighten the collar of his unearned Exo uniform. “I’m sorry you let them kill you, though. I hate seeing the grass that has grown over you.” My hand rests on his chest. I pat his heart. Then Clifton takes my elbow and we walk away in silence.
We’re shown to chairs at one of the front tables by the podium. I set my handbag down as Clifton pulls out my chair for me.
“I’m not sure how you survived here, Roselle.”
“Dune,” I reply.
“Where is he now?”
“The Fate of Virtues with the Clarity.”
“Sounds as if he can’t avoid danger.” He takes two flutes of bubbling beverages from the hovering tray as it passes by. Handing one to me, he clinks his glass to mine. “To danger.”
“To danger,” I reply.
Other guests are shown to our table, and we greet them cordially. Two are secondborn Sword soldiers from the Twilight Forest Base. They’re both receiving medals for discovering spies with copycat monikers in tunnels dug into the Base almost a year ago. I feel sick.
Hawthorne sits almost directly behind me, beside a tall, attractive brunette with a soft floral tulle gown that reminds me of a beautiful flower. I straighten in my seat. Gabriel steps to the chair across from us, yanking it out for an elegant young woman in an exquisite, crimson silk dress. Marielle Cosova. She’s a firstborn from a prominent Sword family. We’ve never been introduced. I’m secondborn. No one saw the point. “Why are we sitting with secondborns?” she asks disgustedly. She inches her chair away from the secondborn Twilights on her left.
Gabriel takes the seat beside her. “Because I want to see my sister,” he replies, lounging back into his chair, his arm resting on the empty one beside him. Dark circles shadow beneath his eyes. An attendant tries to seat someone in that empty chair, but Gabriel growls. “Find somewhere else to sit.”
Marielle slides a golden case from her clutch and opens it. Selecting a slender red cigar, she holds it between her fingertips, waiting. Gabriel doesn’t move to light it for her. He’s watching me. Clifton reaches across the table and ignites his lighter. Marielle places the tip to the flame, drawing on the cigar. Cherry-scented smoke wafts into the air as she leans back in her chair. She plays with a piece of her blond hair and studies him. “Clifton Salloway,” she says. “It has been a long time.”
“It’s nice to see you again, Mari,” he replies.
“How long has it been?”
“I was nine.”
“I remember. Your brother died. What was his name, Astra?”
“Aston.”
She ashes her cigar. “He was always so funny!” she flirts, but it feels callous and cold. Clifton takes my hand under the table. Marielle is oblivious, clearly accustomed to being the most desirable woman in the room. “My father wouldn’t let me see you after that—when you lost your title.”
“Your father was protecting you.” Our food arrives. A plate is set in front of me.
“There’s a lot more to miss now.” She gives him a girl-of-summer smile. “You should never let your firstborn high go to waste, Clifton.” Her eyes fall on me.
“You have no idea what gets me high, Marielle,” he replies. He looks away from her to me.
“I’m interested in what gets you high, Salloway,” Gabriel says. He pushes his food around on his plate. I wish he’d eat some of it. It might make him feel better.
Clifton lowers his eyes, cutting his steak. “Visionary highs, Gabriel. Creating something from nothing. Collaborating with brilliant minds who don’t understand muted emotions or thoughts.”
“Like visionary plans for rose gardens?” Gabriel asks with a hollow tone.
“Exactly like that. I’d like to plant one in a cemetery that I know. It’ll cover up the bones of the dead. I was showing my plans to some investors in the Fate of Virtues. Their interest is absolute.”
“You don’t know her at all,” Gabriel says with a sad smile on his face.
“And you do, Gabriel?” Clifton asks.
My brother toys with his food. “I know that if you look in her clutch you’ll find half of a steak stashed inside it—treats for her sweet babies.”
Mother steps to the podium. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you all here tonight. It’s a night that is very special to me. We are here to honor the brave men and women who serve our Fate and all the Fates as their secondborn birthright.”
Everything about this evening suddenly makes sense to me. Mother arranged for this—my medal ceremony—to motivate Gabriel into taking action against me. This is her way of pressing for my death warrant. Clifton knows it. He’s issuing a threat of his own, letting Gabriel know that I’m not without allies. And Gabriel feels betrayed by me.
“For bravery behind enemy lines,” Othala says, “I’m pleased to bestow the Medal of Valor to secondborn Roselle Sword.”
I rise from my seat to a smattering of applause, picking up my clutch. As I near Gabriel, I lift my sharp knife. He doesn’t move or show any emotion, merely stares at Clifton. He never flinches when I stab the knife into his steak, skewering it. I open my clutch and thrust the steak into it, a treat for the maginots later, though it makes my point now. Closing the clutch, I set the knife on the table and walk to the podium.
Mother lifts the medal, intending to pin it on Emmitt’s dress. I hold out my hand instead. She places it in my palm. “Would you like to say a few words, Roselle?”
I nod and look out at the sea of firstborns before me. “I accept this on behalf of secondborn Swords everywhere, whose valor protects all of you every day.” Instead of returning to my seat, I walk to the door at the back of the ballroom and slip outside to the stone veranda. Iono guards stand watch at all the entrances to this fortress, but they ignore me because I’m breaking out, not breaking in. I take the stone stairs down to the grounds at the back of the house. The lights overlooking the manicured lawns show off the glorious topiary maze and bronze statues of soldiers from other eras. I used to love to get lost among them.
My high-heeled shoes crunch on the gravel. I walk to the stone bridge over the koi pond and toss the medal into the water. The sound of the splash fades. I keep walking. The stone-tiled rooftops of the kennels come into view. The wolfhounds know me by my scent, and my sweet babies run to me and surround me, their iridescent yellow eyes following my every movement. They sniff the air and whine in anticipation of treats. I wait for the boldest among them to come to me. Opening my clutch, I take out Gabriel’s steak and tear off pieces of it, tossing them to the pack.
My favorite maginot approaches me. “I missed you, Rabbit,” I whisper. The giant wolfhound nudges me with his vicious-looking muzzle. “How’s my good boy?” Standing on all four of his legs, Rabbit and I are at eye level. I scratch the thick fur of his neck. He licks my face. My fingers slide under his metal collar, and I feel for the lever there. The pin eases from the bolt, and Rabbit automatically sits and becomes still.
I nudge the bolt open. A port slips out of Rabbit’s neck. From my shoe, I tug out the device that Reykin gave me. Inserted in Rabbit’s port, the star-shaped metal spins like a glowing sun. Rabbit’s muscles twitch as the cyborg accepts the device’s program. The golden star slows and stops.
“Never outlive your usefulness, sweet baby,” I whisper, “and never trust the pack.” I hug him. In the morning, when Rabbit is called back inside the kennel, he’ll be connected to the Sword Palace’s main systems. His handlers will upload his security logs. They won’t realize that when they do, Reykin’s program will be among the data. The rootkit drivers in the malware will conceal it. “We’re gonna burn it all down, Rabbit. You . . . and me.”