Chapter 13
The Bottom of the Sea
Reykin wears black. I wear white. We spar with fusionblades, and I imagine it’s like watching someone sparring with a shadow. We tangle and fold in on each other. Our swords are dialed down to their lowest training setting, but if they weren’t, neither of us would survive. As it is, skin regeneration treatments are required after each interaction in Grisholm’s sparring circle. We savage each other. I’ve taken to using protective eyewear when I fight him because he has nearly cut my eyes out on a few occasions. He dons eyewear, too, for the same reason. Neither of us has yet to win a duel.
Grisholm snorts, watching us. “The sexual tension in here is savage. Find a way to be together so I don’t have to be subjected to your mating dance every day.” He takes a sip of water, still breathing hard from the training I put him through. He’s slowly getting better with his fusionblade. It’s been a month since I began training him, and I’m just now losing some of my worry that he’ll chop off his own leg.
Reykin pauses and scowls at Grisholm. “She’s secondborn.” His tone contains no small amount of disgust. I murder him with my eyes.
Grisholm takes another sip of water. “Hey, I know, it’s slumming, but I do see the attraction.” A backhanded compliment, the best I can hope for, though it still makes me want to skewer him with my sword. Instead, I walk away, toward Grisholm’s spa, to get my burns treated. They trail behind me.
The sophisticated spa area is just down the hall from the main pool. Its tranquility comes from rough black tile on three of the walls. There isn’t a fourth wall. It’s just an opening with an indoor-outdoor pool and pool deck providing a stunning view of the sea. Ocean breezes stir large potted palms. Atom-Fated secondborn technicians wait for us at hovering medical tables.
I change into an emerald bathing suit and join the Firstborn Commander and Reykin. Grisholm is lying facedown on one table while an attractive female secondborn works on the burns I gave him across his back and calves. Reykin, bare chested and attired in a black swimsuit, sits on the opposite table, holding his forearms up to his female attendant. I take the middle table. My attendant is a tall, leggy female, too. Grisholm selects them. Like Reykin, my arms need attention, but nothing else.
“We’re still on for tonight,” Grisholm says. “You’re not going to back out on me, are you, Winterstrom?”
“No,” Reykin replies. “I’m still in.”
“And you’re coming, too, right, Roselle?”
I sigh heavily. “Do I have a choice?”
“No,” they both say in unison.
“You’re my slave,” Reykin says. “We need you to assess the competitors.”
“Then I’ll be at your stupid Secondborn Pre-Trial event.”
“You make it sound horrible,” Grisholm replies with a chuckle, “but it’ll be fun.”
“It is horrible,” I retort, “if you’re on the other side of it, Grisholm. Are you sure your father said it’s okay for us to go?”
The Virtue only just agreed to let The Trials move forward. I’d hoped that when Clarity Bowie postponed the Secondborn Trials, it would be indefinitely. It’s only been two weeks since the chaos of my father’s funeral. The Virtue declared a state of mourning, and secondborns slated to be in The Trials were shipped back to their Fates to resume their duties. Now, apparently, they’re all coming back to compete. Well, most. Some of the Swords have gone into active duty or died fighting the Gates of Dawn.
“Of course I’m sure!” Grisholm replies. “And I’ll wager that, by the end of the evening, you’ll place a bet on someone, Roselle.”
“I bet I won’t.”
Grisholm hisses at his attendant. “Are you using a wire brush to scour my skin? Why don’t you try numbing it first!”
“Stop being a baby,” Reykin replies with a smirk. “You don’t hear Roselle crying about her burns.”
“That’s because she has no feelings,” Grisholm replies. “I’m convinced she’s a cyborg.”
“Is that true, Roselle?” Reykin asks with a condescending grin. “Are you a cyborg?”
For some reason, his question stings. Maybe it’s because it’s only one of a handful of words he’s said to me in the past two weeks. He has kept his distance from me since the night I last saw Hawthorne. Reykin and I see each other almost every day, at training or in council meetings, but he never comes to my apartment anymore—at least, I don’t think he does. I’ve awoken a few times and thought I heard the door close. And sometimes, I think I smell his scent when I wake up, or see the indention of his shape in the chair by my bed, but I can’t be sure.
“Sometimes I wish I was,” I reply, “but I can assure you that I do think for myself, and my heart is my own.”
As soon as my skin is repaired, I slide off the table and go to the tranquil pool. I wade down the stone steps, plunge beneath the surface, and swim underwater to the far end. When I emerge, I’m in the sunlight, squinting. I lean my arms on the stone deck of the pool. A shadow falls over me, and I gaze up directly into Agent Crow’s killer stare.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, crouching. He’s the most dressed down I’ve ever seen him, in rolled-up casual pants and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. “I came to see you.” He smiles, his steel teeth glinting in the sunlight.
“I don’t want to see you.”
His icy eyes turn colder. “Last time I checked, you’re still secondborn. I don’t need your permission.”
Grisholm and Reykin wander out onto the pool deck toward us. “Census,” Grisholm says, “do you have information for me?”
“There’s been an interesting development that I thought you might not be aware of,” Crow says.
“Oh?”
“It’s been reported that the Second Family of Virtues, the Keatings, have suddenly misplaced their newly minted firstborn heir, Orwell. It’s such a shame. Firstborn Rasmussen Keating is murdered. Now his brother is missing. The Keatings will lose their position as Second Family of Virtues. They might even find themselves having to leave Virtues altogether because they no longer have an heir to guarantee their position in society.”
“How long has Orwell been gone?” Grisholm asks.
“A week or more,” Agent Crow replies.
“Well, find him.”
“There’s a high probability that he’s already dead. No one is getting any feedback from his moniker. I’d like your permission to question Roselle regarding the matter.”
“Why do you want to question her?” Reykin asks. His voice is calm, but there’s tension in his body language. “She’s not the next in line for the title. Her mother and her brother are.”
Agent Crow frowns. He doesn’t like his authority questioned. “I would like to ascertain what, if anything, she knows about the disappearance.”
Reykin crosses his arms over his chest. “How can she possibly know anything when she’s been here on lockdown for the past two weeks?”
“People go missing all the time,” I interject. “Why, just a couple of weeks ago, I saw that a secondborn went missing from this very palace. What was his name? Cramer . . . Clarkston . . . Cranston—that’s it, Cranston Atom. He was a mortician, I believe. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about his disappearance, would you, Agent Crow?”
Agent Crow looks like he’d like to drown me in the pool. “Who did you say?”
“Cranston Atom,” I repeat. “It’d be interesting to find out who was the last person to see him alive. I bet someone like him kept records of his appointments. The question that keeps swirling around in my mind is: ‘Why would anyone want to hurt a mortician?’ What could he possibly know that would threaten anyone?”
“Maybe he’s a deserter.” Agent Crow’s voice is deadly calm.
“A man like that—in love with his job—I don’t think so,” I insist. “I think he knew something that someone wanted to keep secret.”
“You have quite an imagination,” Agent Crow hisses. “Secondborns desert all the time. He’ll probably show up in the Gates of Dawn body count. A defector.”
“I wonder, if he does, will he have a moniker?”
A bead of sweat slides down Agent Crow’s cheek. His fingers twitch to where his fusionblade should be, but it’s not there. He had to relinquish it before he entered Grisholm’s private domain—a new security measure that was recently mandated.
“You might have made a good Census agent, Roselle,” Agent Crow says with a chilling look.
“Probably not. There’s just one person I’d enjoy killing, Agent Crow, but he isn’t thirdborn.”
Reykin steps between me and Agent Crow. “I believe you have the wrong St. Sismode,” he says. “If you’re attempting to uncover information on the disappearance of Orwell Virtue, you should start with Othala and Gabriel St. Sismode.”
“This is the second time you’ve come between me and this secondborn,” Agent Crow seethes.
“Listen, ol’ man,” Grisholm says. “I like your style—it’s creepy, and that works for a man like you.” He slaps Agent Crow on the back. “But Winterstrom’s right. You got the wrong St. Sismode. I can vouch for her. She’s been here on lockdown for weeks. We’re so bored that any one of us might kill Orwell if he shows his face here, just for fun, but he hasn’t, and we didn’t. So go to the Sword Palace, ask those same questions about Orwell, and then report back to me.” Grisholm cuffs him on the shoulder.
He turns and winks at me, completely missing the glowering look from Agent Crow. “Very well, Firstborn Commander,” Crow caves. “I will return with a full report soon.”
Grisholm is already walking away. He puts up his hand in a dismissive gesture. Reykin doesn’t move until Agent Crow disappears down the garden path, then he turns, glowers at me, and sits down on the pool deck, putting his legs into the water. “What was that all about? Who is Cranston Atom?”
“The mortician we encountered on our trip to the morgue. He has been missing for two weeks.”
“You didn’t bother to tell me?” he grumbles and then looks in Grisholm’s direction. The firstborn has returned to the table and is now receiving a massage.
“You haven’t exactly been talking to me, so no, I didn’t bother to tell you.”
“I’ve been busy!”
“Okay. Do you have time to talk about it now?”
“What do you know?”
“You saw Crow’s face when I said the part about the mortician’s moniker.”
“He reached for a weapon that wasn’t there.”
“He’s ready to kill to keep a secret.”
“What secret?”
“I don’t know, but Census and my mother are working together. He came to see if the Halo Palace’s guard is down. He wants to take me from here.”
“You think he’s aligned with your mother?”
“I have no proof, but yes. I’ve thought it since my father’s funeral.”
“Why haven’t you said anything?” His grip on the rim of the pool turns his knuckles a shade lighter. His handsome face is more forbidding than usual.
“Like you said, you’ve been busy.”
“I’m never too busy to discuss something as important as this,” he growls.
Quincy, the young secondborn attendant from Balmora’s Sea Fortress, enters the private sanctuary, clad in a summer dress. Her feet are covered in sand. She’s met at the door by a member of Grisholm’s staff, who turns and points to me in the pool.
Quincy nods and approaches us. “Roselle Sword, Secondborn Commander requests the pleasure of your company for lunch at her residence today at noon.”
Since my father’s funeral, I’ve been spending more and more time with Balmora. She’s kind and easy to talk to, even when she’s painting the same landscape over and over. It’s borderline obsessive-compulsive, but I try not to judge. I do a lot of things most people would find insane, just to keep my panic at bay. Her paintings don’t hurt anyone.
“Tell her I’ll be there at noon,” I reply, “but I can only stay a short time. I have an appointment with the Firstborn Commander this afternoon.”
“Very good.” Quincy sighs with relief and walks away.
“You shouldn’t grow attached to her,” Reykin says.
Heaviness settle on my chest as I climb out of the pool. “I could say the same to you about Grisholm.”
“Don’t be late for our appointment,” Grisholm calls to me as I leave.
Balmora is in her private drawing room when I arrive. Inside the lofty, round tower room, scores of paintings of the same seascape, her secondborn Sea Fortress, hang everywhere: big murals on the walls, small miniatures on the tables.
The moment she looks at me, I know there’s something terribly wrong.
“Everyone leave us!” she bellows in a fine rendition of her father, The Virtue. Her attendants scurry away, closing the doors behind them. The death drones remain hovering near the doors. So do my Virtue stingers.
Balmora opens her palm, revealing a whisper orb. She clicks the device, and an iridescent bubble forms around us. The hovering machines seem not to notice. She motions for me to come closer. I do, and she pulls me into a hug. Her blond hair smells like sunshine.
“I need to ask you for something, but I’m afraid,” she whispers.
“What is it?” I whisper, too, though I know I don’t have to be quiet.
“Please tell me I wasn’t wrong—during the attack on your father’s funeral procession, you were afraid—afraid for Gabriel.”
I nod. “He’s not well, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get better.”
“Your brother needs help,” she insists, “and you’re the only one I can trust. I know where he is.”
“He’s in Swords, right?”
“No. He left Swords after your father’s funeral. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He’s in Virtues.”
My hands move to her upper arms. “He can’t be here. If your father finds out, he’s dead!”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Her eyes narrow to slits. “I’m desperate to protect him from my father. I need you to find him for me and bring him here. I’ll hide him until we can figure out how to help him.”
“Why would you protect him?” I ask suspiciously. I know I’m not getting the whole picture here.
“Because we’re in love.” I stare at her, not sure if she’s being honest or delusional. “You don’t believe me?” she asks. “I’m not making it up.” She lifts a small gilt-frame miniature of her Sea Fortress and shoves it into my hand. “Look at that!”
“I’ve seen a hundred of them,” I say softly, trying not to provoke her.
“No, I mean really look at it!” she insists.
I stare at it, trying to see whatever it is in it that she wants me to see. My eyes blur. A gasp hitches my breath, and my heart begins to race. I turn the painting upside down. The negative space forms a profile of Gabriel. The water is his face. The fortress is his neck and torso. My lips part. My head snaps up, and I glance at every landscape in the room. They reveal themselves to be portraits of my brother. Now that I see it, it’s as obvious as a six-fingered hand.
“He gave me this,” she says, pulling a necklace from beneath the fabric of her white sundress. A ring hangs from the golden chain. It’s one of Gabriel’s Sword-Fated rings, very old, small enough to fit on a child’s finger. “When Gabriel becomes The Sword, he’s going to change everything. He’s going to marry me. We’ve been planning it since we were children.” Her voice grows frayed and raw. Tears fill her eyes. “It’s always been Gabriel and me. Who do you think he visited when he came here? Grisholm? Fat chance!” Scorn twists her face. “It was me. He loves me.”
I hug her to me as she sobs. “Shh . . . I believe you.”
She sniffles. “You do?”
“Yes. What do you want me to do?”
“My father isn’t the only one with spies, Roselle. I’ve been able to locate Gabriel, but no one is willing to bring your brother here.”
“Why not?”
“It would be treason. My father will kill them if he finds out.”
“Where is he, Balmora?”
“You’ll get him and bring him here?” Her eyes are both pleading and suspicious.
“Will he come with me?” I ask. “The last time I saw him, he was certain that I wanted him dead.”
“Make him come with you,” she replies desperately.
“Where is he, Balmora?” I ask again.
Pure fear shows in her eyes. She wants to tell me, but she’s terrified of what I’ll do with the information. This is her battle. I can’t fight it, so I wait silently. Desperation wins out.
“He’s at Club Faraway. He has a private room under the name Firstborn Solomon—” She falters. “Solomon—”
“Solomon Sunday,” I murmur.
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“When Gabriel and I were really young—six and seven—we used to play ‘swords’ with sticks whenever no one was around to scold us. He’d let me be the heroine, Fabriana Friday”—a tear slips from my eye, and my chin wobbles—“and he’d be the villain, Solomon Sunday.” I wipe the tear away. “I’ll find him, and I’ll bring him here if I can. I promise.”
“I have an underground network of people who will help,” Balmora says, relieved. She takes the miniature from me and sets it back on the table. Next to it rests a small box, which she picks it up and hands to me. “Inside is an old wrist communicator. With the new monikers, these have become obsolete, but they’re perfect for modified communication on frequencies that no one seems to be paying attention to. I’ve established a private one for you and me. Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you.”
“I need to know how your network operates.”