Chapter 24
The Hand and the Heart
On the way back toward the ballroom to rejoin Clifton, I pause at the apex of the stone bridge. The koi pond beneath me reflects the stars of billions of other worlds. Bending the arms of the thin, star-shaped device in my hand, I break them off one by one and drop them into the water. Concentric circles ripple outward in the dark pool. Soft music floats to me from the orchestra inside. When all the pieces disappear, I exhale deeply, resting my forehead against the bridge’s cool stone railing.
Footsteps make me straighten. A man stops at the edge of the bridge. I turn toward him. It’s Hawthorne. His face is hidden in shadow, but I’d know him anywhere. He approaches me slowly, deliberately. I take a step back. I don’t have a weapon. I step toward the other side of the bridge, and he moves to block my way.
“You can’t be out here.” My voice quivers, sounding weak. He takes a couple of more steps toward me. “The maginots will shred you.”
“You’re not afraid of those vicious cyborgs,” he murmurs, “but you’re afraid of me?”
“They’ve never hurt me.”
He glances down, looking wounded. “You have to leave. Now. Just go—don’t return to the ballroom.” He takes my left hand in his. From the pocket of his uniform, he pulls out a small aerosol device and sprays the skin over my moniker. The holographic sword fades from view. “Don’t go back to the Base,” he growls. “Stay in the city. Clifton can’t protect you at the Base like he can in Forge.”
“What did you just do to my moniker?”
“I covered it with CR-40. It’s a polymer. It’ll block your signal for a few hours—enough time for you to get away from here.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Gabriel is out of his mind right now. He’s given a kill order for you. Assassins are being dispatched.”
“I’m not against him. He knows that! This isn’t him. He’s not like this, Hawthorne!”
“He’s like this now, Roselle. When I fail to kill you tonight, there will be others. Be vigilant—stay with your Salloway bodyguards at all times.”
“How long have you been working for my brother?” After seeing Hawthorne with Gabriel the day I came back from the Fate of Stars, I didn’t want to believe what I know in my heart to be true.
“Since the day we met. I was sent by him to look for you—to see if you survived the attack.”
“So Gabriel saved me from Agent Crow, or was that you?”
Hawthorne scowls. “It’s always been me, Roselle. Just me. Your family has always been fine with the idea of you dying. It’s your living that concerns them.” He looks over his shoulder, then turns back to me. Seeing that I’m not going to leave without some kind of explanation, he relents. “My brother was Gabriel’s right hand on the Heritage Council. Did you know Flint?”
I shake my head. “After I turned eleven, I was kept away from Gabriel. Over the years, I’d sometimes see members of his council at the Palace, but I was never permitted to speak to them. I was beneath their notice.”
Hawthorne nods, his expression grim. He’s on the other side of the fence now—one of them—but he knows what it’s like to be secondborn. “Flint contacted me on Gabriel’s behalf the day of the attack. You remember when I found you?”
I nod. “You thought I was in shock.”
“They’d given us your last known position. It was Flint I was talking to in my headset when I located you. He hadn’t spoken to me since I’d Transitioned, and all of a sudden, he wanted me to find you to see if you survived.”
“Were they afraid I was dead?”
“They were only worried that you’d been taken by the Gates of Dawn,” he replies. “They were afraid you’d slip out of their control. Once they found out you were alive, I was ordered to make sure you arrived at the Base for your Transition.”
I don’t think I want to know any more. My throat aches, but I have to ask. “So you thought you’d be finished with all of us as soon as you released me into Transition?”
“Yes, but it didn’t go down that way, did it? Gabriel had you placed in my air-barracks. Since the morning I found you in the locker room, I was required to give Flint and Gabriel status updates. I never told them what you and I really talked about—I gave them false reports. When I told you I’ve loved you since I was ten, that was real. Everything we’ve shared together is real.”
I don’t know what to believe. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’ve agonized about telling you everything, but your not knowing made every lie I told them more credible. And you’ve been having nightmares since I met you. What would it do to you to know that my lies were keeping you alive? I would’ve kept on lying to you—lying to them—anything so they’d leave you alone. But Flint was murdered . . . and now I know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“Gabriel is losing his mind. He’s paranoid, especially since he found out about the Rose Garden Society—and before you ask, no, I didn’t tell them. Othala found out and reported it to Gabriel. The danger to you is absolute now. Gabriel has sided with your mother. He wants you dead, Roselle.”
The betrayal I feel is at war with my love for both Hawthorne and my brother. I understand everything Hawthorne’s telling me. I might even be able to accept it, later, when the crushing turmoil and wretchedness abate. By earning Gabriel’s trust, Hawthorne has kept me safe. I know Gabriel trusts him—it was in his eyes back in the Grand Foyer. And now Clifton has pushed Gabriel to the brink. “What are you to my brother, now that you’re not his secondborn spy?”
Hawthorne winces at the term. “I took Flint’s place as your brother’s first lieutenant on the Heritage Council.”
“You’re Gabriel’s right hand?” I pale. That’s not a position awarded lightly. Killing me would prove Hawthorne’s loyalty, but he’s warning me instead.
“He’s made me his right hand. But you, Roselle, will always be my heart.” I can’t deny the aching tenderness in his voice.
“Hawthorne, don’t hurt Gabriel,” I plead, grasping his forearm. “He’s sick. Mother has made him ill.”
“He has made himself ill, Roselle!” Hawthorne’s jaw clenches. “The chemicals he ingests have rotted his mind. He’s paranoid and delusional. One minute he believes you want him dead, and the next he’s ranting that you’re the only person who understands him and loves him. He’s hardly ever rational, and your mother can no longer hide it. It comes down to your life or his. I have no choice. It’s always been you. He has to die.”
“Let me talk to him, Hawthorne,” I implore. “He’ll listen to me! I can make him—he’s just afraid!” I try to push past Hawthorne, but he holds my arms.
“You can’t talk to him, Roselle. He’ll murder you if you get near him again. Your brother is beyond irrational. He’s taking Rush.”
My eyes search his face in the light of the glowing moon.
“It’s a drug that turns your world inside out, makes you believe you’re a god. It makes him insane. You have to go into hiding until after the Secondborn Trials.”
“Why? What happens then?” I demand.
“Trust me. You have to go now!”
The desperation in Hawthorne’s tone breaks through to my survival instincts. A part of me still trusts him, even though he’s been lying to me since I met him. “I’ll go,” I whisper. Hawthorne wrenches me to him. My hand braces on his chest, the slab of virile muscle hard and unrelenting. His hand fists roughly in my hair. My blood roars in my ears and my knees weaken with fear and desire.
“You mean everything to me, Roselle,” he whispers. He breathes heavily, fighting for restraint. His nose skims the surface of my neck. His mouth finds mine. He kisses me hard, demanding. “I’ve always loved you—I swear it,” he says. “I never stopped. I’ll never let them hurt you.”
“I miss you so much, Hawth—” His kisses silence me.
His hands run over the thin fabric covering the sides of my breasts, my hips. I crave his skin against mine, the rigid bulk of his muscles. “We’ll be together soon,” he promises, “but you have to go now, before someone finds us.”
His grip eases. I feel weak, but movement up ahead triggers my alertness. Iono guards are branching out, coming our way. Hawthorne sees them, too. He grabs me from behind and hauls me off the bridge and down the slope of the hill. We hide in the tunnel of darkness under the stone bridge, on a small lip at the water’s edge. I hear them on the path above.
“Do you have a weapon?” His voice is hushed.
I shake my head. I’m shivering from fear and the damp night air. Hawthorne detaches the black cape from his Exo uniform and drapes it over my shoulders. With the aerosol can, he sprays his own moniker. It goes dark.
A harrowing shriek pierces the air.
“Where did the guards go?” My voice quivers.
He inches forward and peeks around the edge of the stone. “They went into the kennel.”
I frown. “Which kennel? East or west?”
“West.”
The pack of maginots I fed earlier answers the cry with a collection of howls. “We have to go! Now! They’re programming the maginots for a hunt.” I slip off my heels and unzip my dress on the side. I toss my shoes and my clutch into the water. Hawthorne’s hand engulfs mine. Turning, we creep farther under the bridge, hugging the stone wall until we emerge on the other side of the tunnel. The pond here empties into a small river that winds into the woods. Another unnatural-sounding howl—something between the cry of a wolf and a thunderclap—echoes from the far side of the tunnel. We run.
In about a half mile, we come to a round stone structure within a wooded area near the perimeter wall of the Palace grounds. The river continues, but Hawthorne and I head for a tall, black iron gate with sloping steps in front. Gray stone pillars wrap around the structure, holding up the domed roof. It’s only two stories high with four rooms inside. It’s a meditation building, formerly used to make tributes to a god that has either faded away or died, as did the people who once used it. As a child, I’d come here to get away from the cameras. It was my secret place.
The doors of the building are always unlocked. Panting as I reach them, I push one heavy bronze slab open. It whines on its rusted hinges. The only light comes from tiny slivers that pierce the round dormer windows in the ceiling and the narrow stained glass windows on the main floor. The scent of incense is thick and old. We bar the doors and engage their thick metal bolts. I lean against the cold bronze, trying to catch my breath. Hawthorne takes his fusionblade from his scabbard and ignites it so we can see. Statues of warrior-gods line the walls. The marble floor is dingy with dirt and leaves, but it’s in perfect condition otherwise.
Something heavy crashes against the doors, bowing them in and pushing me forward. Another blood-curdling yowl splits the air. “This way,” I whisper. The stained glass beside us shatters. Colorful shards rain onto the floor. The monstrous muzzle of a maginot tries to push through the narrow window. Its jaws snap at me, dripping saliva, but it’s unable to fit through. It isn’t Rabbit; it must be a newer model because I don’t recognize the silver markings by its eyes.
The gigantic maginot paces outside, throwing itself against the door again. The crash echoes in the domed building. Hawthorne fixates on the window. His jaw tightens. “Is there another way out of here?”
I lead him across the marble floor and behind a bronze statue of a beautiful male god who wears a crown of laurels and very little else. I reach for a notch in the wall. A piece of gray stone slides open to reveal a shallow staircase. Hawthorne’s fusionblade lights the way as we take the passage down, the wall closing behind us.
“Where does this lead?” Hawthorne asks.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I reply. “I’ve never been strong enough to pry open the door at the other end, but I know this hallway is long enough so that it must be beyond the Palace wall.” We walk together down the corridor. I take the lead. “You need to stay on the west side of the tunnel up ahead. There’s a security wall that you don’t want to trip into.”
We come to an animal graveyard. Piles of decimated rodent bones and molding fur litter the ground. I pick up a small pebble and toss it ahead on the left side of the tunnel. It explodes. Hawthorne picks up another and throws it to the right. It bounces on the ground. “C’mon.” When we’re on the other side, he asks, “Any more surprises ahead?”
“I don’t think so, but like I said, I’ve never gotten through to the outside.”
“How far does this go?” he asks.
“A mile or so.”
“And you did this alone?”
“I do most things alone, Hawthorne.”
“You don’t need anyone, do you?”
“That’s not true. I desperately need someone I can trust.”
“I love you,” he says softly, “and I’ll earn back your trust again, even if it kills me.”
“Don’t let it kill you,” I reply. “I don’t think I’ll make it if you’re gone.”
We walk on, coming to a spiraling ramp upward. It leads to a small rectangular room. I gesture to a heavy outline in the stone. The walls and the floor are embedded with small metal swords in a repeating diamond pattern.
Hawthorne passes me his fusionblade and pushes against the door. It doesn’t budge. “There has to be a lever,” he mutters. He pushes on a sword on the wall. It moves inward. Nothing happens. He lets go of it and it moves back out. He presses another one. It slides in and comes back out. He presses all of them he can reach. Nothing moves the door. He growls in frustration.
Cool air wafts through the crack in the doorway. Peeking through it, I feel mist on my face and hear the distinct sound of running water. I look up. I can’t see very far, but I can tell that the walls curve inward above us. “This shape—an obelisk,” I say. “We’re west of the Palace, so that puts us in the park—Westerbane Heath. Is this . . . is this the Tyburn Fountain?”
“I think you’re right.”
“Tyburn was one of the earliest lessons Dune drilled into me.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I hand Hawthorne his Exo cape and move into the center of the small room. “Which way do you think is west?”
He pulls out a pocket compass. Typical soldier. He points to the wall adjacent to the closed door. “That’s west.”
With Hawthorne’s fusionblade still in my hand, I explain, “Tyburn is a demigod, known as the Warrior of the West Wind. To pay homage to the West Wind, you assume the warrior pose, facing the west.” I extend my right hand out in front of me with my left arm behind, bending my right leg in front of me at a right angle, and my right foot to the west. My left leg extends behind me, my toes pointing south. I hold the pose for a moment. Then, extending the sword in my right hand, I point it straight up. Rising on the points of the toes of my right foot, I bring my left foot up behind me, holding it in the palm of my left hand until the pad of my foot touches the back of my head. I hold it for a few breaths, and then twist, jumping into the air and turning in circles over and over, like a whirling tornado. When I stop, I’m in the warrior pose once more, facing west.
Hawthorne follows the line of my right hand to a bronze sword on the wall. He presses it. It locks in place. Turning, he follows the line of my left arm, depressing the sword it points to. It locks into place. The door doesn’t move.
“Try the ones by my feet.” I wiggle my toes. He moves to the sword in front of my right foot on the floor. As he presses it, it locks. My left foot points to the last one. He touches it, and suddenly the whole building starts to rumble. A stone door drops from the ceiling, cutting off our way back to the Palace. The door on the north wall makes a horrible scraping sound and rolls open. Water cascades in front of it, and as soon as it opens all the way, it begins to close again. We scramble forward together, jumping through the wall of water, and land in a deep pool. My grip on Hawthorne’s sword loosens and it extinguishes, but I manage to grab it before it sinks. I come up coughing and sputtering.
Hawthorne is beside me. He hugs me to him. “You’re brilliant. Do you know that?”
I hold him, my breasts pressing against his chest. My lips move to his. I kiss him like I’ve longed to kiss him since his moniker turned golden. He stands and lifts me out of the water, my legs wrapping his waist as he wades through the fountain. Reaching the low wall, he sets me on it and sits next to me. I pass him back his sword and he puts it in his scabbard.
The fountain is lit from underneath. In the center, the stone obelisk points to the night sky. Wild-eyed bronze horse statues kick their hooves into the air. Ferocious sword-wielding soldiers and fierce demigod statues in horrific poses adorn the multilevel water feature that circles the obelisk. Tyburn is the largest, most virile statue, slashing with his vicious sword at Hyperion, the demigod of water. Water flows from the wound in Hyperion’s side, an enactment of the tale of the West Wind giving water to the people.
The door we came through is on the north side of the monument. A statue points to it with a rose in its hand, a young naked woman—Tyburn’s lover, Roselyn. She stares with a devil-may-care smirk. A thick crown of roses hangs low on her beautiful brow. Breathing hard, I whisper, “I think my secret hideout is a Tyburn temple.”
“I think we should start worshipping him.” Hawthorne sees me shiver violently. “We have to go,” he urges.
We start jogging, looking for a way out of the park. It must be past midnight by now, and the park is empty. We stay on the grass and avoid the lighted paths.
“I don’t know which way to go. I’ve never been in Westerbane Heath. I only know it from pictures,” Hawthorne growls as he looks around, trying to decide in which direction we should go. “My family spent very little money educating me before turning me over to our Fate.” He sounds ashamed of that. It must have been a rough few months trying to Transition from secondborn to firstborn. I can only imagine the ridicule he has faced not understanding their etiquette and rules. He must feel like a club-wielding barbarian among butterflies.
“Your training is better than their education,” I tell him. “You know how to catch a fish, gut it, and cook it. You know how to pilot a fighter airship and rebuild its engine. You know how to defend yourself, and what it feels like to help a friend.” City lights shine up ahead. We step up our pace.
“Exo training has helped Transition me,” he continues. “It’s soldiering, something that makes sense to me. It’s geared toward special operations. I’m in a unique position, already having core secondborn training—a fact that appeals to Admiral Dresden.”
“Admiral Dresden is an unscrupulous killer, Hawthorne. If he has taken an interest in you, it’s nefarious at best.”
“He has definitely taken an interest in me.”
“He’s my mother’s right hand. Be extremely cautious where he’s concerned.”
We come to a wrought iron archway. Passing through it, we’re on the sidewalk of a city street. Hawthorne hails a hovertaxi. We pile inside it, and the automated driver says, “Please scan your moniker.” Frustration infuses Hawthorne’s features. We’re about to jump out when a shadow blots out the light from the streetlamp. A maginot broadsides the car with its thick head. The door crushes in, shattering glass all over us. The impact drives the hovertaxi from the curb into the middle of the street.
The automated driver garbles, “Please scan your moniker.” The black beast with the silver markings circles the car. Its yellow eyes stalk me. Its open mouth drips with saliva. Hawthorne yanks me out the opposite side of the vehicle. Brandishing his fusionblade, he pulls me behind his back.
The maginot leaps onto the roof of the hovercar. Hawthorne slashes at it, but the cyborg deftly avoids the thrust. It poises on its haunches. Before it can pounce, a fast-moving hovercar slams into the disabled hovertaxi. Sparks and smoke blast from the wreckage. The maginot is thrown from the roof, and the hovertaxi explodes in a ball of fire.
The wolfish creature rolls. The fur on its left flank shears off, revealing its metal frame. A lopsided ear twitches as it gets to its feet, shaking its body, rebooting its systems.
A lumbering garbage vehicle trundles up a side street, driven by an elderly man. We rush to the passenger side of the hovertruck’s cab. Yanking the door open, Hawthorne climbs inside. The fusionblade in his hand is enough incentive to convince the sanitation worker to vacate the cab. He jumps out. Hawthorne reaches down and hoists me up before sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Do you know how to drive this thing?” I ask.
“No.” He notches the gears, eliciting a horrible grinding sound. “You?”
“No!” I panic because he usually knows how to do everything. He shifts a lever and we lurch forward. The hovertruck lists into the vehicles parked on the side of the street. Sparks fly. Hawthorne corrects the levers and guides us back into the center of the channel. “This thing is like driving a humpback whale,” he complains. “Can you see the maginot?”
I open my window. Cold air blows inside the cab. Sticking my head out, I search the area behind us. At first, the blackness is complete, but as my eyes adjust, the darkness takes the shape of a wolf, and it’s gaining ground. “Give me your sword”—Hawthorne tosses me the fusionblade—“and just keep moving.” Hoisting myself up, I sit on the edge of the open window. Holding the handrail on the side of the cab, I climb onto the roof. I brace my feet and ignite the fusionblade. It glows golden in the moonlight.
The yellow-eyed maginot is just a few paces back. It moves alongside us for a few strides, then leaps upward, almost making it to the roof. It falls back into the channel and continues without breaking stride.
I jump the small gap from the cab to the top of the garbage collector. Tapping my heel against the metal of the humpback, I hear a hollow ring. Wielding Hawthorne’s sword, I slash through the metal roof, cutting as I run to the other end. I make a right-angle turn, carving a perpendicular line. Reaching the flank, I pause. The creature running below hurdles onto the top of a parked hovercar beside us and crashes over other vehicles that line the channel until it pulls abreast of us.
I make another right-angle turn and continue to slice through the rooftop. The metal glows orange, melting away. I run back toward the front, a spine-chilling howl shivering the air behind me.
Suddenly the whole vehicle shakes as the maginot lands on the roof near the tailgate. We sway, and my thighs burn with the strain of maintaining my balance, but Hawthorne keeps us in the channel. Hackles on the cyborg’s crest stand straight up. The flews on the sides of its mouth rise, exposing its sharp fangs. Its massive forepaw steps toward me. Steely claws grip the surface of the humpback. I hold Hawthorne’s sword in my sweaty hand, the burning blade angled toward my feet. I wait. One breath. Two.
The maginot lowers its head and rushes toward me. I plant the fusionblade into the roof and rake it across the hold, creating the final seam. The back of the rectangle falls first. The cyborg slides backward, its razor-sharp claws digging into the metal, trying to find purchase. Then the rest of the ceiling gives way. The beast falls, disappearing inside the belly of the whale.
An angry yowl comes from inside the humpback, and the rampaging maginot rams the side. The hovertruck careens. I sprawl onto my stomach, dropping Hawthorne’s sword. It slides away. I reach for it, but another cataclysmic jolt to the flank of the hovertruck throws me toward the edge. I stop just short of falling over. The sword slides toward me. I stretch out and catch it.
Tearing away a piece of my hem, I hold the fabric against the fusionblade. The cloth ignites. I drop it into the garbage hold. Smoke rises, and the reek of burning garbage is almost unbearable. A terrifying wail echoes from the hole. Turning, I leap back to the cab of the truck. Lying on the rooftop, I swing myself over the side and back in through the window.
“Stop!” I order, slumping against the seat.
Hawthorne reverses the engine. The chassis crashes to the ground and skids to a halt amid a shower of sparks. I’m about to speak when the cab pitches sideways again. Inside the refuse hopper, the maginot is ramming the walls of the hull. Through the side mirror, I see enormous dents radiate from the inside out. I pull a blue lever between Hawthorne and me labeled “Compaction.” It triggers the hydraulic system. The garbage compactor whines, compressing. Smoke pours out of the hole in the rooftop. The framework rumbles and shakes, and a horrific howl cuts short, leaving only the sound of crunching metal. The blue handle shifts back to its resting position and the night grows quiet.
Sirens arise in the distance. “Can you run?” Hawthorne asks me. I nod. We get out on the shadowy side of the channel, ducking between the nearest buildings, and slip away into the night.