Traitor Born (Secondborn Series Book 2)

by Amy A. Bartol

“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.”

  Chapter 14

  Secondborn Network

  The secondborn training camps are set amid agrarian and sylvan landscapes between Purity and Lenity. Only the training and pre-trials are held on solid ground. The Secondborn Trials will take place on one of the nine landmasses suspended in the air a half mile up. These hovering islands are marvels of engineering; some are as big as thirty miles across. They contain vegetation and water sources, with wildlife created specifically for whatever challenge each island is to host. Lakes, valleys, mountains, plains, and deserts comprise the terrain, along with horrific hidden quagmires and automated deathtraps. A single crown-shaped colosseum levitates in the center, above the floating islands. Made of glass and steel, the Silver Halo hosts the opening and closing ceremonies.

  Shadows from the floating behemoths above us blot out large areas of sunlight on the training fields below, like a shadow of doom over the secondborns competitors. To compensate, mounted light grids shine down from beneath the floating structures, but the additional light the floating islands provide is much dimmer than direct sunlight.

  The training fields are sectioned into fan-shaped areas designated by number, and they meet around a circle reserved for the enjoyment of firstborns. The only secondborns allowed in are those who work there or are accompanied by a firstborn of the aristocracy, like I am.

  Reykin offers me his hand as I climb out of his two-seater airship. My Halo stingers hover outside, having followed Reykin’s vehicle to the training grounds. Along with Reykin, the two stingers comprise my security team, and they’re the only reason I was granted permission to leave the Halo Palace without Exo guards in tow.

  Grisholm isn’t so lucky. His airship lands next to ours. Fifteen Exo guards and a handful of Halo stingers alight from his vehicle and the several surrounding it. The Exos, thankfully, are not my problem.

  The levitating hoverpad gives us an aerial view of the training facilities that stretch out before us for miles. Weapons training is in the section nearest to where we’re standing. Pyrotechnics is farther afield, identifiable by the mushroom-shaped dirt clouds in the distance. Obstacle courses are to the east and west. Special-operations pavilions freckle the terrain. The most curious courses hide under dome enclosures, presumably to regulate temperature. One contains a mountain range, the other a desert.

  Dressed in stylish training fatigues as if he’ll be participating, Grisholm bounces boisterously toward us, throwing his arms wide. “Welcome to the ultimate test of champions!” He grasps me by the upper arms. “I wish I were you, Roselle! Getting to experience it all for the first time! What I wouldn’t give!” He grins like a madman.

  “I wish you could be me, too,” I murmur. And experience everything a secondborn goes through.

  Reykin puts his hand on Grisholm’s shoulder, pulling him off me. “Who do you want to look at first?”

  “I don’t know! There are so many! I’ll have to consult my brackets.” He touches his golden halo, activating the moniker.

  The firstborns herd me toward a line of waiting hoverbikes. I’ve never driven one, so I ride with Reykin. He mounts the hovering beast. It reminds me of him, black from fender to fender like his brooding personality. Sleek and forward leaning, clearly fast and agile. When Reykin starts the cycle, it purrs. He touches the throttle, and it growls, deep, vibrating the ground where I stand. It feels as dangerous as the man himself.

  Grisholm’s cycle is pure gold—shiny and overstated. Our security force has silver cycles. Some jet off ahead of us to secure the route. Others fan out to our sides and behind us.

  Reykin gives me a side-eyed look. “Do you plan on walking, or are you going to get on?”

  I straddle the seat behind him, glad that I wore a black jacket, tight white shirt, black leggings, and tall black boots. My feet rest on pegs behind me, forcing me to lean forward, my knees hugging Reykin’s thighs. I place my hands on my own thighs rather than touch his.

  “Put your arms around my waist,” Reykin or
ders over his shoulder, “or you’ll fall, and I’ll have to scrape you off the ground.”

  “I’d never fall,” I scoff. “I have excellent balance.” It sounds like a boast, but it’s true.

  “You lean a little to the right when you hold your fusionblade at a seventy-degree angle,” Reykin prods.

  My gaze should melt his back, but it doesn’t. “That’s because I have to compensate for the crooked elbow on your weak left arm.”

  Reykin chuckles. “My elbow is perfect, and I will arm-wrestle you with my left arm anytime you say. Now hold my waist, and try not to fall off.”

  I slip my arms around him. He’s solid muscle. When he leans back unexpectedly, the soft fabric of his shirt brushes my cheek. The scent of him is disturbing. I want to rest against his back and inhale deeper. I grit my teeth.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  We jet forward, going from zero to two hundred miles an hour in seconds. If I weren’t holding on to him, I’d be broken. As it is, a small backrest rose behind me and caught some of the force. My arms cinch tighter to Reykin’s waist, and I mold my chest against his back. I can feel him chuckling.

  I settle in. My arms loosen a bit. The hovercycle is exquisite for an adrenaline junkie like me. Wind whips through my hair. All I can think about is going faster. Security trails us, and so do my Halo stingers, as we take a lap around the perimeter of a fan-shaped training field. The obstacle course is mostly wooded, about fifteen miles in circumference. Perilous paths through the trees jet off from the firstborn observatory track that we cruise. Massive redwoods tower above our heads. Sunlight filters through the branches as we fly by makeshift shanties constructed of pine boughs, thatches of limbs, and toppled tree trunks.

  Secondborns in the contest aren’t living off the land yet, but they’re learning how. Exposure and dehydration will kill around 20 percent of the contestants in the first couple of weeks. It’s an agonizing way to die. The truth is that, even though they’re the property of the government, most of them wouldn’t know how to exist without it. They’re institutionalized.

  Reykin increases our altitude and slows the hovercycle. We arrive at a hoverpad outside an observatory in Flabellate One, part of the elaborate, interconnected set of tree forts high in the canopy. Grisholm is the first one off his bike, heading straight for the rope bridges to the main treetop fortress. Reykin stays with me, walking by my side. I look around, growing more and more annoyed. The observatory is really an adult playground, where firstborns can be pampered by Stone-Fated secondborn domestics while they watch the participants of the trials struggle to hone their survival skills.