Secondborn

by Amy A. Bartol

  “What will they do?” I ask.

  “I have my theories. Othala has only herself to blame if she doesn’t like it. She took no part in your Transition. Your life was left in the hands of secondborn commanders. She probably thought they’d find a way to kill you quickly so she could walk away with a clear conscience. Maybe she envisioned that you’d go out like her brother—killed as revenge against The Sword. Although I believe Bazzle was killed by your grandfather’s order so that his firstborn, your mother, remained protected.”

  “There wasn’t a Secondborn Bazzle Society?”

  “No one shed a tear for him, poor creature. But the public didn’t grow up watching Bazzle like they did you. Othala didn’t anticipate that when she was masterminding her family’s legacy. And you’re not the kind of person to lie down and die. She probably never realized the impact Dune was having on your future.”

  “She said she gave me the tools to survive.”

  “You barely survived one day of active duty because of her. What she couldn’t have foreseen was that you’d create a completely honorable military job for yourself, let alone make her and Clarity Bowie quite a bit of currency. Othala may want to get rid of you to protect Gabriel, but Clarity Bowie is just warming up to all your possibilities. You haven’t gone unnoticed by the First Commander either.”

  “Grisholm?” I snort and turn away from the rose-colored windows. “He finds me repulsive.”

  “I wish that were the case, Roselle.” Clifton taps his moniker, showing me a holographic image of Grisholm at a Secondborn Pre-Trial event. He looks perfectly at ease in his private box in the exhibition arena.

  “Notice his sword, Roselle?”

  I peer at the small hologram, which plays in a seven-second loop. “It’s an X16. That means nothing. He probably likes the dual-blade design.”

  “You’re the face of the design. They all buy it because you use it.”

  “He knows a lot more than you give him credit for, Clifton.”

  We walk together around the pool and up a short staircase to the veranda. The glass doors slide open to reveal an open floor plan with a 360-degree view. An elegant seating area with a bar looks over the skyline of Forge. Standing at the thick windows, I can just make out the Salloway Munitions headquarters and the hilt of the other sword—Gabriel and the Heritage Council’s fortress. Putting me up here feels like a declaration of war, or at least a shot fired across his bow. Gabriel could see it as an implied threat.

  We take the spiral staircase up to the next level. An extravagant master bedroom makes up the tip of the sword. The silver-tinted windows peak in a dagger point at the rooftop high above my head where a magnificent chandelier hangs, its crystals crafted in the shape of swords ringed by crowns.

  “My room?” I ask, running my hand over the bright white blankets of an extremely large bed.

  He nods. “Your room. You’ll have a lot of security personnel around. They’ll stay in the apartments below the penthouse, so you’ll have privacy. I had clothing made up for you. You’ll find the wardrobes and closets there.” He points to an empty space.

  “Where?” I ask. He laughs and touches the air of a holographic console near the door. Wardrobes rise from the floor, unmasking rows of clothes in every beautiful fabric imaginable.

  “Oh,” I say breathlessly when I near a wardrobe and find clothing that Othala would envy. I can’t resist the impulse to run my hand over the luscious fabrics. “These are breathtaking.”

  “I’m tired of seeing you in rags, and you need clothing that reflects your station as a Salloway spokesperson.”

  “So this is all for me?”

  “All for you, Roselle.”

  “Where will you stay?” I ask over my shoulder, trying to keep the note of suspicion from my voice.

  “I’ll be at my apartment at Salloway headquarters.” He points in the direction of his office building. “It’s imperative now that we maintain the utmost impression of propriety. We cannot give anyone any reason to call your conduct into question.”

  “Thank you, Clifton.”

  “You’re welcome.” He glances down at his moniker’s timekeeper. “I’ll let you settle in. I have an important meeting in an hour.”

  “You’re leaving?” My smile falters.

  He looks up at me. “I’ve rescheduled this particular client several times so that I could be at someone’s bedside.” Disappointment must show on my face because Clifton chuckles. “I’ll return tomorrow to escort you to the Sword Palace.”

  “Promise?” I’m surprised by just how pouty I sound.

  “I promise.”

  Clifton leaves and I play with the console. Glass walls rise out of the floor to hide the teacup-shaped tub from the bed. Another option frosts the glass wall of the bathroom. I can configure the walls in the bedroom into any floor plan I desire. A fireplace rises from the floor. A vent opens in an exterior window.

  I reconfigure the room to my taste, then change into a tiny red bathing suit with sword-shaped metal buckles that rest on my hips. The weather is much warmer here today than it was earlier in the week in the Fate of Stars. I hang my clothing in the closet, hiding the star-shaped malware device that Reykin gave me in my boot that I stuff onto one of the shoe shelves. I spend the day by the pool.

  By nightfall, I’m feeling restless. It seems unnatural now to be alone. I walk outside onto the terrace in my pajamas. Going to the railing, I gaze down at the ocean, inhaling the scent of the sea. It’s so quiet here. Not since the Sword Palace have I known this kind of solitude. My stomach starts to hurt—my hands tremble. Impulsively, I climb up on the thin glass railing, teetering on its edge. The fall to the shore below would take some time. One misstep and I’ll never have to worry about being alone again.

  I walk the handrail like it’s a tightrope. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me feel alive again. My hands stop shaking. My eyebrows draw together. Something’s wrong with me; I know that. This isn’t normal. I shouldn’t need to do this in order to breathe. Climbing down from the railing, I hug my arms around me.

  Later, in bed, I stare up at the chandelier. The stars glow through the glass ceiling.

  I awake sometime before dawn with a scream caught in my throat. A nightmarish version of the beating I took in Stars has left me panting. I touch my forehead and find it slick with sweat. I close my eyes, remembering the brutality of my dream. An angry mob was gathered around me, stalking, but the person who stumbled forward to hit me the hardest was Hawthorne.

  Emmitt and Clara arrive to help me prepare for the medal ceremony this evening. Clara styles my hair, piling it high and decorating it with golden star pins. She applies a dark, smoky eye shadow to my eyelids and a light dusting of golden glitter to my cheeks. I wonder if she knows what I’m to do this evening. When she’s finished, she excuses herself and leaves.

  Emmitt helps me dress in a clingy night-sky-inspired gown. It has a daringly low neckline and a leg-hugging hem that flows into a small train. Black stiletto heels with a thick ankle strap complete the ensemble. Appraising myself in the mirror, I exude a risqué air of defiance.

  “Where are they supposed to pin my medal?” I ask Emmitt.

  “Not on this dress!” he screeches. “Just hold out your palm and let them hand it to you.”

  I know better than to argue with him. He gives me a small golden clutch.

  “I think it’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.

  “It could be better.” He clucks and smooths the fabric again.

  “No, it couldn’t. It’s perfect. You’re a genius.”

  “Do you want to see the best part?” he asks coyly.

  “It gets better?”

  “You can unzip this seam on the side so that you can dance later at the event.” He shows me the cleverly hidden zipper.

  “That’s brilliant, Emmitt.” Impulsively, I find his hand and squeeze it. “I think I’m ready. Should we go now?”

  He frowns at
my hand on his. I quickly drop it. “Yes, it’s time.” He looks down his nose at me.

  As we leave the room, I hesitate. “I forgot the lipstick. I’ll get it and meet you downstairs.” I rush back in alone and go to the closet. Locating the thin metal malware device in my boot, I hide it between the pad of my foot and the sole of my shoe before snatching up my lipstick on the way out the door.

  Clifton meets me at the bottom of the stairs, attired in a black Exo dress uniform. A cape covers one shoulder, held in place by a braided rope attached to the other. On him, the look is roguish. He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “There are no words for your kind of beauty, Roselle.”

  “It’s a stunning gown,” I admit. “Emmitt outdid himself. The only problem is there’s no way I can wear my X16. The thigh scabbard doesn’t work with this dress.”

  He smiles cunningly. “You’re all the weapon we need.”

  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 her
e, 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.