Questions are shouted from many angles. “Roselle, are you and Clifton Salloway lovers? Where have you been for the past four days? How did you and Clifton meet? Did Clifton rescue you from the Gates of Dawn soldiers? Does Clifton Salloway know that you’re secondborn? How long have you been keeping this affair a secret? What does your brother think of your affair with Firstborn Salloway? Does Gabriel feel threatened by this relationship?”
“Hello,” I greet them. I look at everyone, allowing the photographers and drones to get their pictures, pausing a few seconds in as many directions as I can.
“Roselle, Roselle.” Desdemona Diamond vies for my attention. I shift in her direction, and she asks, “Is Firstborn Clifton Salloway your lover?”
Instead of frowning or scowling as I’d like to do, I laugh softly. “I only just met Firstborn Salloway a few moments ago. He very charmingly introduced himself near the door there.” I point over my shoulder at the silhouette of Clifton in the glass. He waves to the reporters. “And I could no more have a relationship with him or any other man of my acquaintance without violating a hundred different laws. The last time I checked, that was forbidden.”
Suki Diamond shouts the loudest. “How do you explain your appearance in his apartment, then?” The reporters crowd toward her.
“Firstborn Salloway was gracious enough to offer his apartment to us last night to prepare for this press conference.”
“Who is the us you’re referring to?”
“The team of secondborn soldiers who have accompanied me to the press conference.”
“How come you need a team of soldiers to accompany you while in the Stone Forest Base? Do they fear for your safety? Are you a target for the Gates of Dawn?”
“I don’t have an answer for that question. You’ll have to address it to the company commander or the admiral of the Stone Forest Base.”
“Do you believe that the Gates of Dawn were specifically targeting you in the attack on the Sword capital of Forge?” asks a dark-haired secondborn man with a small scar through the center of his top lip. He doesn’t look at me but holds an audio dictator out, reading its screen as it takes notes for him.
“The enemy soldiers were along my route to the Stone Forest Base, so to a certain extent, I believe they targeted me for the media appeal of the event.”
“How did you know they were enemy soldiers?” he asks.
“They had visors and helmets that were different from Sword soldiers.”
“Why would they attack you, do you think?”
“I don’t see this as a personal attack. I believe they wanted to do as much damage as possible and scare as many people as they could. My Transition fit that profile.”
The man looks impressed by my interpretation. “Do you have any insight as to how they entered the Fate of Swords?”
“No.”
“But if you had to guess?” he presses.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
“Did you like the white flowers they brought you?”
I don’t answer right away. His question brings unbidden tears to my eyes. I swallow hard and look down at my ring, trying to look bored rather than shocked by his callousness. The platforms have grown quiet. The clicks of drone cameras are loud and rapid. When I’m certain my voice won’t betray me, I look up and give my best impersonation of my father’s fatal smirk. “I find calla lilies more appealing than roses. I’ll be sure to bring them some in return the next time we meet.”
The reporters swarm, understanding my meaning. Voices shout questions. “Will you deploy with the next wave of Swords to the battlefield?”
“I haven’t yet gotten my orders.”
“Did you witness the explosion that brought down the airships?”
I pause. “No. I didn’t witness an explosion. I saw one airship crash.” It’s a lie of omission, and it bothers me.
Most of the questions that follow I rehearsed with the panel of leaders last night. My answers are short on details and heavy on things I didn’t see. I drill through them quickly. Eventually Emmitt emerges from the apartment behind me, stops at my side, and says, “Roselle only has time for a few more questions.” Most of them are about my current uniform and whether I plan to set new style trends for secondborns and firstborns alike. I allow Emmitt to answer those, though he pretends that a secret Diamond-Fated designer had done the work.
The final question interrupts my thanking everyone for coming. “Do you have plans to see Clifton again?”
I groan inwardly. What is the fascination with my so-called love life? Do they really not get that if I were to have an affair with Clifton, I could be jailed or killed? I look over my shoulder at Clifton standing inside his apartment. He steeples his hands, as if he’s praying for me to say yes. This gets a chuckle from the men and sighs from the women. My eyes drift to Hawthorne’s. He looks worried. I face the reporters once more. “I don’t make plans. I follow orders.”
“Okay,” Emmitt says, waving to the reporters. “Thank you for coming today. You can pick up press packets from the Base Commander at the Warrior Gate. Have a pleasant journey back to your Fates.” Emmitt links arms with me, as if we’ve always been the best of friends, and we stroll to the glass doors. “Well done, Roselle! You were flawless!”
Hawthorne meets me just over the threshold. Re-dressed in his combat uniform, he has his rifle slung on his back and his helmet on his head, without his visor deployed. The downward slash of his eyebrows feels ominous. Angry-faced, he grasps my upper arms and growls, “We’re leaving. Now.” I let go of Emmitt’s arm as I hurry to keep up with Hawthorne. He marches me to the door.
I try to stop him. “I should say good-bye to our host and thank Emmitt and Clara for their help. It’s rude just to leave like this.”
“Move,” he barks. “That’s an order.” I stop resisting. My leather coat slips from one shoulder. We are at the door of the apartment in a couple of heartbeats. Emmitt blusters behind us, shocked by our lack of decorum. Gilad holds the door open for Hawthorne and me while Hammon holds the elevator doors and Edgerton points his rifle menacingly at some target over my shoulder.
From behind me, Clifton Salloway calls out, “Consider my offer, Roselle. I’d love to work with you.”
Hawthorne swears under his breath. He stomps right past Gilad, who slams the door behind us. We enter the elevator and face the glass that overlooks the immense drop to the ground. Gilad and Edgerton step into the lift as well. Hammon closes the door and selects the ground floor. As we descend, I try to ease my arm away from Hawthorne’s grip. He tightens it, and then realizes that he’s hurting me and lets go. I take off my coat, folding it over my arm to hide the bruises that Agent Crow left.
“Do you mind explaining what just happened back there?” I ask.
“Whoo!” Edgerton yells. I flinch from the surprise and sheer volume of it. It takes all my willpower not to throat-punch him. He slaps his thigh, and then doubles over, hands on top of his knees, laughing. “Damn, that was fun!” He wipes a tear from his eye. “Did you see the look on his face when we evac’ed to the elevator without giving him a chance to worship at the altar of Roselle?” Hammon snorts with laughter beside Edgerton, and even Gilad cracks a smile. “That ol’ boy can hunt!” he continues. “He wants Roselle somethin’ fierce!” He points at me. “And you! You got to be the coolest customer that I’ve ever set eyes on when it comes to handlin’ those Diamond-Fated douchebags!”
I rub my forehead, at a complete loss. “Who is ol’ boy?” I ask.
Hammon takes pity on me and explains. “We sometimes call a firstborn ol’ boy or ol’ man. He was talking about your boyfriend, Clifton, back there.”
“Don’t call him her boyfriend,” Hawthorne scolds. He’s really angry. “Talk like that could get her killed! That kind of relationship isn’t just flirting with danger, it is danger.” Hawthorne points at me. “You, stay away from him. He’s no good for you. He asks you again for private lessons, you tell him no, and th
en you tell your commanding officer that you’re not interested in training anyone. Do you understand me?”
“I take it private lessons have nothing to do with weapons training.” I lean my forehead against the glass of the elevator and watch the rapidly approaching ground. A part of me hopes to be splattered by it so that I don’t have to face the soldiers in this lift.
“Aw, he wants his weapon trained, all right,” Edgerton hoots, doubling over again.
“Thanks for the warning,” I reply. “I’ll stay away from him.”
We reach the ground floor and Gilad is first off the lift, followed by Hammon and Edgerton. Hawthorne holds the door open for me. I’m glad he doesn’t touch me. I’ve reached my limit for being manhandled today. The next person who tries will wind up hurting.
Chapter 9
That’s Mine
We file through the ground floor of the firstborn officer Tree. Hawthorne still radiates rage. Gilad marches beside him. Hammon and Edgerton are ahead of them. I trail behind, my heeled boots and shorter legs making it hard to keep up.
My entourage walks right by the cluster of chairs closest to the outer doors without seeing the devil seated in one of them. I slow my pace, staring at Agent Crow. He smiles. Steel teeth shine. Pointing to the life-size virtual monitor encompassing the nearest pillar, he directs my gaze. My image is on it, a replay of the news conference. I blink. I seem so much older than I am—it’s the air of confidence I’m feigning, a trait I’ve learned from watching my mother. It exudes from behind my carefully applied war paint.
I come to a stop when I notice the hilt of my fusionblade on Agent Crow’s hip. It’s unmistakable, bearing my family crest. My heart squeezes tight. My grandfather gave me that sword when I was born. It’s the only thing I ever received from him.
Agent Crow says, “You didn’t even mention me once in your news conference.”
“You’re not important, Agent Crow.”
“You wound me, Roselle.”
“I’d like nothing better.”
“Don’t tease me,” he replies.
“That’s my sword,” I state. The fact that he’s wearing it on his person is so offensive that I’m laser-focused.
“Was, Roselle. This was your sword.” His eyes almost sparkle.
“No. It is my sword. You stole it from me.”
“Careful.” His smile evaporates. “You don’t want to go around making accusations you cannot possibly prove.”
“I can prove it’s my sword. It has a rose embossed on the center of the hilt.”
“I like roses.” He shrugs with an amused smirk.
“The rose is interwoven into the St. Sismode crest.”
“Coincidence.”
“I think not. I want my sword.”
“Well, you cannot have it.”
“Why not?”
“Your commanding officer is only going to take it from you anyway. You’re no longer a St. Sismode. You’re Roselle Sword. Roselle St. Sismode no longer exists. This is just a representation of who you used to be. What do you say I keep it for you . . . for later?”
“I say no.”
Hawthorne is so close behind me that he accidentally brushes up against me as he whispers, “Stand down.”
“No.”
“Agent Crow’s right,” Hawthorne explains. “They’ll only take it from you, Roselle. Let it go.”
“No. It’s my sword.” It’s the only tie I have left to my identity—my family. I’d rather fight and pay the consequences than back down. I lunge at Agent Crow.
Hawthorne is ready for my attack. My feet lift off the ground as he pins my arms behind me before I can touch Kipson Crow’s smug face. I struggle against him, and he wrestles me down onto the marble floor. My cheek hits hard and bounces. On bended knee beside me, Hawthorne grits his teeth. “Calm down, Roselle! You die if you hit him unprovoked in public. Be smart!”
I kick Hawthorne in the knee with the heel of my boot. It doesn’t hurt him through his combat armor, but his knee slips out from under him. He crashes to the floor beside me and loosens his grip on my arms. I shake free, but Gilad’s knee digs into the middle of my back, keeping me down. I throw my head back, connecting with Gilad’s nose. He moans and swears. Hawthorne tries to get up, but I pull him by the ear until his head hits the floor like mine did. The golden ring on my hand leaves claw marks across his cheek.
As I struggle, I almost have Hawthorne and Gilad off me, despite their size and weight. I crash back down, though, as Edgerton tackles me, too. The wiry soldier from the mountains of Swords gets my arms behind me once more. Everyone hangs on. Wrist restraints clamp onto me while Gilad and Hawthorne hold my legs.
Hammon gets down at eye level with me. Her brown ponytail sticks out from her helmet and sweeps the floor. “Look at me!” she orders. “You’ll survive this! We won’t let you die for a family that no longer wants you. You’re a secondborn Sword. You’re our family now!”
All I can do is pant, unable to take a full breath with their weight on top of me. Gilad and Edgerton slide off. Hawthorne hauls me to my feet by my wrist restraints. I refuse to cry out, even though it’s excruciating.
Agent Crow starts clapping. “This is so touching. What a little family unit you’ve become in such a short time.” He’s less than pleased, though. He wanted me to hit him.
Hawthorne shoves me into Gilad and Edgerton with a murderous look. They each take me by an arm and lift me off the ground, though I’m no longer struggling. They walk me out of the building while Hawthorne stays behind with Agent Crow, who calls out after me. “I’ll keep your sword safe, Roselle! Not to worry!”
Outside, the sunlight makes me squint. “Secure a hover,” Gilad growls to Hammon. She complies, asking the Tree valet to call a lightweight commuter hover for us. She motions for Gilad and Edgerton to bring me, and I’m half dragged, half lifted off my feet and pushed into the vehicle. Gilad and Edgerton place me between them, their broad shoulders squashing me. Hammon gets in and sits in the row behind us.
I taste blood on my tongue. I lick my lips. They’re bleeding. Hawthorne appears a few moments later. He gets into the front of the vehicle, throwing my leather jacket at me from over the seat. It hits my chest and falls to my lap. The sleeve of my blouse has torn at the shoulder, exposing my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing tears to recede. I open them when I have my emotions restrained. My throat aches with the effort.
“Sector 4-15. Tree 177,” Hawthorne hisses, touching the scratches I left on his cheek. His fingers go to the shell of his ear, presumably to feel if it’s still attached. The hovercar moves forward, navigating the traffic on its own.
Gilad wipes blood from his nose onto the sleeve of his combat armor. It doesn’t do much to stem the flow of it. He says nothing.
Edgerton chuckles. “You’re a spitfire, Rose—”
“Shut it!” Hawthorne orders, glaring at him from the front seat.
“Well, she is,” Edgerton mutters under his breath. He tosses the golden claw ring that I was wearing to Hawthorne. “Here, I got you a souvenir.” Hawthorne catches it and files it away in one of his armor compartments.
Not another word is spoken in the fifteen minutes it takes to travel to the concrete Tree. Gilad gets out of the commuter vehicle first, followed by Hammon. Edgerton makes a spinning motion with his fingers while he whistles. I turn and present him my back. He takes off the wrist restraints. I straighten in my seat and rub my wrists while he clips the cuffs back onto his combat belt, and then exits the vehicle.
I slide over to get out, but Hawthorne stops me. “A word, Roselle.” I pause, staring out the windscreen. He sighs in frustration. “Do you know the average life expectancy for a secondborn Sword from the aristocracy after his or her Transition Day?”
I don’t answer.
“It’s four weeks. That’s around thirty days. Do you know why they don’t last very long?”
I don’t answer.
“It’s because no one likes them. They�
�re unlikable. They usually don’t know how to do things, and they’re arrogant and lazy and expect things to be done for them. They believe their hardships are worse than everyone else’s. I can tell already that that is not you. You’re strong, capable, and you don’t complain. But you’re arrogant, and arrogance will get you killed faster than the other traits combined. Listen, I know what it’s like—”
“You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t have any idea what my life is like!” My throat constricts. “I know things you couldn’t possibly know. No one expects anything from you, Hawthorne, except for you to follow orders. Go where they tell you. Sit where they tell you. Sleep where they tell you. And you do everything they tell you, and when you do it well, you get merits.”
“How are you different than that?”
I don’t say anything.
“Aw, I get it,” he says disgustedly. “You think you had so much more to lose than I did. You’re from a better family than mine, is that it?” That’s partly it, but not all of it. What I don’t tell him is that no matter what I do, I’m always at a disadvantage. Everyone has a preconceived notion of who I am because of the family I was born into. Everyone has had virtual access into my life. The idealized role I have had to play as a symbol of a secondborn Sword follows me, makes me different. The worst thing that I can be in a situation like the one I’m in is different.
Hawthorne sees none of this. “Well, like it or not, Roselle, we’ve wound up in the same place. You’re no better than me now and, unlike you, I know how to survive here. You still have to figure it out.” I hug my leather coat, pulling it closer to my chest. Hawthorne rubs his temples with his fingers, like he’s trying to think. He drops his hands, and his eyes meet mine. “Just so you know”—his hand gestures in my direction—“there are already bets on how long you’ll last.”
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