Traitor Born

  He stifles a chuckle. “It’s duck liver or goose liver.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “It sounds gross. Do you like it?”

  “No. It has a peculiar aftertaste.”

  “If I’m stuck with you until tonight,” I say, “I’m going to make you my official translator.” I rise and walk toward the kitchen. Over my shoulder, I ask, “Coming?”

  He catches up, his hand brushing past mine, though he doesn’t seem to notice. “First, let’s put Phoenix back together. He can be our official taste tester.”

  The theoretical joy of a food fest just lost some of its appeal, but I try to shrug off the sense of dread at the thought of being intentionally poisoned.

  Phoenix is still lying inoperable on the table. Reykin opens the case he carries in his pocket. He extracts a star-shaped programmer and inserts it into one of Phoenix’s ports. The star whirls until it resembles a sun. When it winds down, I ask, “What was that?”

  “That was a stockpile of malevolence,” he says with a smug smirk. He motions for me to help him, and together, Reykin and I reassemble the mechadome.

  After lifting it from the table and rebooting it, Reykin gives it a series of voice commands through his moniker. He tells it to terminate the vases on the bureau, and Phoenix waddles over to them, lifts its vacuum arm, and emits short bursts of air that topple over each small urn one at a time. Shards of glass scatter on the floor.

  “Um . . . I liked those,” I mutter.

  “I’ll buy you new ones,” Reykin replies, just like a privileged firstborn who has no idea of the value of things like that.

  “They’re not exactly mine.”

  Reykin orders the bot to suck up the pieces. The mechadome performs each order without a hitch, but its hover mode is still broken. “I can’t test its new weapons in here. We’ll have to do it later.”

  “Good. I’m running out of vases.”

  “Phoenix,” Reykin says, “go to the kitchen.” The mechadome trundles away. “After you,” Reykin says, gesturing me forward.

  I go to the command center in the kitchen, where we peruse the food dispensary’s menu. Reykin explains several dishes to me, some of which I order, like the puff pastries in the shape of swans and the pan-seared whitefish in truffle butter sauce. Others, like the snails sautéed in their shells and the fried beef tongue, I want to mark so that I never accidentally order them. Reykin carefully feeds a small bit of each delivered dish to Phoenix as they arrive.

  With two fully laden platters that would make an epicure jealous, we move to the den and set them on the low graphite table in front of the sofa. The lights are dim, and the visual screen is muted. Sitting cross-legged on the soft carpet, I pass Reykin a plate, silverware, and a napkin. He sits on the floor across from me.

  He piles food on our plates. I almost die of happiness at the bite of cheese-encrusted potatoes that he insists I taste from his fork. He leans forward and feeds it to me. “That might be my favorite thing ever,” I murmur.

  “I told you,” he replies, a smug grin on his lips.

  “We would’ve killed for even a small pouch of this at the Stone Forest Base.”

  “You didn’t have food like this?”

  I give an unladylike snort. “Uh, no. We had nothing like this.”

  “Did you ever go hungry?”

  “Sometimes. In combat, when rations ran low and the supply carriers were shot down.” We both know that it was his side who shot them down. Rebels. Gates of Dawn. The enemy. I can see he’s thinking the same thing. “You know who’d like this the most?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  “Edgerton. That man can eat. It doesn’t matter what. He’s just hungry all the time.” I set my fork down. “Are Edgerton and Hammon okay?”

  Reykin nods. “They’re—”

  I hold up my palm. “Don’t tell me where they are. They’re safer if I don’t know.”

  “They’re like family to you, aren’t they?”

  I think of the two Sword soldiers who showed me the ropes when I first arrived at the Stone Forest Base. “No. They’re better than family.”

  “They’re doing well. Hammon is healthy—experiencing a normal pregnancy.”

  Tears cloud my eyes, but I force them back. Swallowing hard, I nod.

  Reykin wearily scrubs his face with his palms. “Edgerton is a problem, though.”

  My eyes narrow. “Why?”

  He drops his hands and looks at me. “He’s too ‘mountain,’ for lack of a better term. He doesn’t blend in well. When he opens his mouth, you know where he’s from.”

  “Can you teach him to hide it better?”

  “Mags is doing what she can. If anyone can help him, it’s her.” I nod, thinking of Reykin’s enigmatic secondborn assistant. I must look worried because he says, “There’s nothing more you can do for them now. Our network will take care of your friends.”

  I flop back, stretching out on the carpet. “I know.”

  Reykin crawls around to my side of the table, lying down beside me. He turns toward me, resting on his side. I do the same, meeting his gaze. The weariness of being awake for so long shows on his face. I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t, he just stares back, his eyelids drooping.

  I whisper, “You never told me how you know Grisholm.”

  Reykin’s eyes open again, and he yawns. “My father sent me to the best schools in Purity. Grisholm and I were in some of the same circles. He is younger than me. He used to follow me around because I was the best fusionblade fighter, thanks to Daltrey’s instruction on my time off. Grisholm has a fascination with weapons—and a serious obsession with betting, especially on the Secondborn Trials. Grisholm always tries to get me to help him figure out who’ll be the winner. He even offered me a seat on his council in exchange for my insight.”

  “His Halo Council?” I ask.

  “Mmmhmm,” he answers with a deep murmur. His eyes droop again.

  “Are you going to take his offer?”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “Does Grisholm ever win when he bets on The Trials?”

  “Yes.” Reykin closes his eyes. His breathing becomes heavier.

  “Will it be hard for you to betray him?” I ask, but Reykin is already asleep.

  Chapter 5

  Ebb Tide

  He’s not going to show.

  I lie in the center of the sparring circle staring up at the intricate golden ceiling of Grisholm’s training facility. Lifting my hand, I stare at my moniker’s timekeeper. Grisholm is officially three hours late for his scheduled training. I think it’s safe to say he’s never coming. He has been a no-show to every single session I’ve scheduled for him in the past few days.

  I rise to my feet and climb the golden steps to the balcony. Nothing stirs here but the breeze from the sea. I wander out onto the shimmering terrace. The stone is veined with gold, glinting in the morning sun. The blue sky—uncluttered by airships, which are restricted from flying near the Halo Palace—still holds the warmth of summer here, even as we have slipped into autumn.

  The view overlooks the stone stairs that wind through the jagged cliff to the water below. I pull off my protective wrist shields and hauberk setting them aside. My sleeveless under-armor top and lightweight leggings are warm enough for a jog along the shore. Descending the uneven steps to the sandy beach, I discard my footwear. My toes sink into the white powdery grit. I stroll to the water. It’s always a shock, the coolness of the sea as it settles around my ankles. I remember my first view of the ocean with Hawthorne and wonder what he’s doing right now—if he’s all right. If he’s alive. My heart burns from the agony of not knowing.

  I turn my gaze toward the cliff again. Lavish white silken tents topped with streaming golden pennants stand ready along the shore, erected on the off chance that one of the firstborn residents of the Palace will need to use them. None of them does. I’m alone—the only visitor.

  Secondborn Stone-Fated attendants stand near the tents to cater t
o firstborn royalty. I lift my hand to acknowledge them. Their heads lean together in suspicion, trying to figure out why Secondborn Roselle St. Sismode is in the Fate of Virtues when she should be off fighting the Gates of Dawn. I’ve been treated like an extreme outsider by all the secondborns I’ve encountered since I arrived. No one speaks to me. It’s as if they fear me, but why I can only guess.

  I jog along the shore in the direction I haven’t explored yet. The tide is ebbing. It’s peaceful, and I hardly break a sweat in the thirty minutes it takes to reach the end of the inlet. Rounding the high cliff wall of the cove, I slow to a halt. Ahead, tall stone spires reach toward the sky from a small island in the middle of the sea. Waves crash around the jagged rocks and slate-colored stone walls. The retreating water uncovers a sandbar that leads to the arching gates of the medieval fortress. I’m captivated by the triangular white flags on the forbidding parapets, each pennant adorned with a silver halo.

  The arching mouth of the castle is open. Heavy doors with a sea-foam patina stand wide. A slow procession of women emerges from the yawning maw of the castle. They travel toward the shore along a small strip of sand. At the center of the parade, a young blond woman in a flowy white dress wades gracefully through the shallow surf, holding her long skirt in her hand, exposing her ankles to the sunlight. Death literally hovers over her in the form of ten black, bat-winged death drones. The drones cast cold shadows onto the sand and water around her. Seagulls fall silent as they near, scattering in the presence of the drones.

  A team of secondborns scurries around the beach. Stone-Fated workers set up tents and awnings and direct a hovering easel into place. A half-executed oil painting adorns the canvas in a palette of bright hues. Paintbrushes of various sizes levitate next to the easel. Secondborns with the white roiling wave monikers of the Fate of Seas amble around, digging up clams and throwing out nets and woven traps.

  Before I can circumvent the party, the young woman in the white dress drops her hem, allowing water and sand to soak it as she hurries to me. The death drones follow her. “Roselle St. Sismode!” she gushes. “I’d heard rumors that you’d come to Virtues!”

  Recognition dawns abruptly. It’s Balmora, a younger version of her mother, Adora. “Hello, Secondborn Commander,” I reply with a deep nod of my head.

  Balmora Virtue, formerly Wenn-Bowie before her Transition, is hardly ever photographed or shown on the visual screen. As the spare heir to the title of The Virtue, she’s kept from the public eye so as not to be a distraction to the true heir. Her secondborn Virtue-Fated attendants move away from us to a discrete distance, but their eyes and ears are all tuned to our conversation. Based on their upscale attire and silver halo monikers, I’d guess they’re secondborns of other prominent families in Virtues—all but one of them, a secondborn Stone-Fated girl around the age of twelve. She hovers near Balmora.

  “How long has it been since I last saw you at the Sword Palace?” Balmora asks.

  “I was ten, so nine years ago?” I ask.

  “That sounds about right. I was eleven, I believe.”

  “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “I remember you quite vividly, Roselle! How could I forget? You smashed a clock over Grisholm’s head! I also see you almost every day on the visual screen, running through a barrage of explosions or shooting at your enemies.” She holds up her hand with her thumb up and two fingers out in the shape of a fusionmag, popping off rounds. Her pouty mouth curls into a snarl. She isn’t mocking me, it’s more like admiration.

  “That isn’t real. Those are just Salloway Munitions ads.”

  “Yeah, but you got to meet Firstborn Derek Burgeon!”

  My brow wrinkles. “I’m sorry, who?”

  “The soldier . . . the one who lifts you up at the end of that one ad and carries you to the waiting airship.” She wraps her arms around herself in an embrace.

  I remember the ad. It depicted a scenario very much like Hawthorne’s rescue of me from the battlefield in Stars. “I didn’t catch that Diamond’s name,” I reply.

  “If I were that close to Diamond Derek, I would definitely remember his name.” She holds her hand to her heart with a dreamy expression.

  I frown. “He . . . he’s okay. It’s just . . . it wasn’t real.” The real Derek, if put into a situation with megaton bombs exploding in actual combat, would probably wet himself and never leave the airship. He’d be cringing in the corner beneath his artificial helmet of hair products, crying and sucking his thumb. It’s men like Hawthorne and Reykin—who repeatedly dive into danger despite the threat to their own lives—that I find attractive. More than attractive. Irresistible.

  “Do you think he’ll visit you here?”

  “Who?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Derek!”

  “No.”

  “That’s a shame. I was hoping you’d introduce me to him.” She pushes out her lower lip.

  “Sorry, Secondborn Commander.”

  She waves her hand. “Please, call me Balmora! ‘Secondborn Commander’ is so formal.” Her grin stretches wide, showing her perfect teeth. “When did you arrive?” Her fingers catch her windswept hair from her cheek, tucking the long blond strands behind her ear.

  “A little over a week ago.”

  “Why are you here?” she blurts out. “No one knows. It’s the most delicious question on everyone’s lips.” She moves forward and links her arm in mine with a familiarity that I cannot fathom. We’ve only met that one other time. Back then, Balmora had been more interested in Gabriel than me.

  One of the death drones breaks formation and veers closer to me. Turning its harrowing gun barrels in my direction, its initiating whine sends my hand to the hilt of my fusionblade. “Step away from the Secondborn Commander,” it warns in a rumbling robotic tone. I can see my reflection and Balmora’s on the drone’s veneer. My fingertips slowly ease the hilt from the leather sheath secured to my thigh.

  “Stand down!” Balmora orders her security drone with a wave of her arm, as if swatting away a nagging insect. “This is my friend, Roselle St. Sismode.” The drone takes a moment to process her words before it powers down and shifts away to join the others in formation. “Now then, let’s go for a walk,” Balmora continues, holding on tighter to my arm.

  I relax my grip on my fusionblade, replacing it in its sheath. We stroll the shore together. The young girl trails behind us. Balmora seems not to notice. “Don’t mind my sentinels,” she says. “I rarely have visitors. The drones are unaccustomed to new faces.”

  I glance again at her “sentinels.” They aren’t Sword stingers, like the ones that guard Grisholm. Stingers are meant to defend. Death drones are meant to kill. It’s their only job. I wonder if they’re protecting Balmora, or if they’re her prison guards, ready to kill her if she tries to slip away.

  “Do you live there?” I nod my head in the direction of the stone fortress amid the waves.

  Balmora’s smile fades as her gaze goes to the enormous structure surrounded by water. “The Sea Fortress? It’s the Secondborn Commander’s residence,” she counters with a sharp note of bitterness. “Where else would I live?”

  “It’s lovely.” It’s something from a fairy tale. The water is clear enough to see the coral reefs. Diamond patterns dance on the weathered stone. The spires are topped with silver tiles that sparkle in the sunlight.

  “It is, but it’s also very lonely.” She sighs with the kind of melancholy I remember from my days living at the Sword Palace. But I had no companions. She has several. The gaggle of females follows us, whispering behind their hands. Balmora tightens her grip on my arm. “They’re not good company,” she hisses. “They’re no better than spies. One must watch everything one says around them. And anyway, they’re boring. The only one I can trust is Quincy.” Balmora indicates the freckle-faced twelve-year-old behind us. “You’ll have to visit me while you’re a resident of my father’s home. Which reminds me, you haven’t yet told me why you’re her
e.”

  She holds her breath while she waits for me to answer. It gives me pause.

  “I . . . I’m to assume Firstborn Malcolm Burton’s position as Grisholm’s mentor.”

  Her expression turns incredulous. “You are going to instruct Grisholm in the art of warfare?” She giggles and tries to smother it with her hand.

  “Yes.”

  “And how is he taking that?” she asks, wiping a stray mirthful tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Not well,” I reply, straight-faced.

  “I should think not! His overinflated ego won’t stand for a secondborn telling him anything, let alone a young woman half his size.”

  “His ego is in for a beating, then.”

  She snorts. “And my father knows about this?”

  “He’s the one who gave me the job.”

  “If only I could be around to see that,” she says wistfully.

  “Come to Grisholm’s sparring facility tomorrow and see for yourself. I could teach you both at the same time—if he ever shows up for training.”

  She gives me a side-eyed look. “You’re not serious?”

  “Why not?”

  Her cheeks puff out as she exhales. “I can think of a few reasons. First, I’m not allowed inside The Virtue’s Palace, or even beyond this beach, without his invitation. Second, I’m not allowed anywhere near Grisholm. And third, I’m forbidden by law to train in the art of war unless I become Firstborn Commander.”

  “You’re confined there?” I cast my eyes out to the Sea Fortress once more.

  “You see that stone formation ahead?” she asks me, gesturing to jagged rocks on the beach. “That’s the farthest I can go without creating chaos among the Exo and Iono guards on the estate.”

  She’s their prisoner. We’re not so different, she and I, secondborns to the two most powerful Clarities in the world. But unlike me, Balmora’s family wants her alive, in case something happens to Grisholm. Mine wants me dead so there will be no alternative to Gabriel.

  “What do you do here all day?” I ask. “Do you have a job of some sort?”

  She shakes her head. “I have no duties and few interactions with anyone, apart from my staff and the occasional visitor. But now that you’re here, you can be my special friend and come for tea and tell me about all the things you’re doing out there in the world.” I’d hardly call the Halo Palace “the world.” It’s more like the most privileged island in the world. “Please say you’ll come!”