Traitor Born

by Amy A. Bartol

  “Gabriel has always been kind and gentle, a man who hated being the heir to the cruelest Fate of the Republic. Unlike you, Father, he never thought my being secondborn was a curse, or that it made me inferior. He loved me despite my birth order. We were going to change the world together, he and I, but now it’s too late. He’s dead, and I’ll be joining him soon. So I won’t waste much more of your time with my insignificant prattle. I know how you hate that.

  “Gabriel made me promise I’d give you a message from him. He said his mother is set to bring a wave of war and terror to your shores, the likes of which you’ve never seen. He said there was no way for him to stop her. He believed that only his sister is cunning and strong enough to do that. So he’s stepping aside as the heir to the Fate of Swords. He took his own life so that Roselle could take his place.” Bitterness shows on her face. She swallows hard. “Personally,” she growls through gritted teeth, “whatever monsters Othala is bringing, I hope they destroy you and your entire dynasty. Good-bye, Father. May your death be long and painful.”

  The hologram projection blinks out. The Virtue’s mouth is unhinged, resembling the severed head from the bronze statue in the Trial Village, locked in its last moment of horror.

  “She’s mad,” he whispers. The Virtue clears his throat. “If Othala wants a war with me, she’ll get a war.” He points at me. “I’ll see that you become The Sword, Roselle. You’ll lead the Fate of Swords. Secondborn soldiers will follow you, not your mother! After all, you were one of them!” To the two trembling assistants, he barks, “Assemble all the Clarities of the Fates Republic, except for Swords. I want a meeting today! Roselle shall have a private suite in Upper Halo. I need her close to me at all times. Move!” The assistants scatter.

  I’m herded out of Dune’s apartment. Quincy and Rogue get diverted by a pair of The Virtue’s assistants. Before they go, the assistants assure me that they’ll take Quincy to my new apartment to await me.

  Dune and Reykin flank me as we pass through security and into corridors I haven’t seen before. The hallways don’t make sense at first. The outside of the hovering structure appears to be hollow, but to my complete amazement, it isn’t. The architecture is circular, but it’s solid throughout, with surfaces that give the illusion of sky.

  Arriving at The Virtue’s command post in the center of the Halo, I realize that Upper Halo is a massive airship. I can’t imagine what it’s like flying a building, but I’m certain that my Class Seven pilot’s license doesn’t cover it.

  Inside the war room, The Virtue argues with Dune over strategy for the meeting he intends to hold with the other Clarities. Eventually he informs the other Clarities that my brother has taken his own life and that I have elevated to firstborn status. Holographic images of the Clarities extend jovial congratulations. Through all of it, I nod in acknowledgment but say nothing.

  All the Clarities, except for my mother, have been apprised of my brother’s death. I steel myself for the virtual meeting with Othala, but nothing could have prepared me for her appearance when her holographic image alights in front of us. Seated behind her glass desk in her Sword Palace office, she slouches in her seat with a cocktail in reach. Her red-rimmed eyes stand out in the light of the holographic image. She looks as if she hasn’t changed her clothes in days. Her hair is limp and oily. Deep lines of grief carve the sides of her mouth and line her forehead. Her sorrow causes my heart to bleed anew. I have come to despise my mother, but something inside of me is still crushed by her sorrow.

  “Return my son to me and I won’t torture you, Fabian,” she says, her voice deep and raspy, her words slurred. “Do it now and I’ll give you a quick death.” She lifts the fat tumbler to her lips, drinking a large gulp.

  “You’re in no position to—”

  “I’m not finished, you blubbering man-child!” my mother screeches. She lurches to her feet. “Send me my son’s murderer, Roselle, so I can eviscerate her myself. Then, and only then, will I not pluck out your eyes and feed them to my maginots!”

  “You’ve gone insane! How dare you speak to me—”

  “I dare, you pompous ass! You won’t last a day against me now.”

  Fabian ignores her threats. “No one had to murder Gabriel, Othala. He did it himself. The first thing he’s gotten right in his miserable life! Now we have a competent heir to Swords.”

  “You’re blind and stupid, Fabian!” my mother replies. “Roselle will always be ten steps ahead of you. I’m actually doing you a favor, and you don’t even know it. Send her to me along with my son’s body.”

  “I don’t think so. I need the right St. Sismode on the throne of Swords to stabilize the Fates and quell the open rebellion. With Roselle in charge, every secondborn Sword soldier will leap to do her bidding. They’d follow her off a cliff. She’s one of them. No one will lift a finger if you go against her. Your army will turn on you in an instant.”

  “And she’s your best hope?” Othala laughs derisively. “You’re a fool. You’ll never be able to control her. She’ll run circles around you, and you won’t even know it. Won’t you, Roselle? Just like you did by aligning with the Rose Gardeners right under our noses. You had one job. All you had to do was die. If you had, Gabriel would be alive. This is all your fault.”

  Her words tear open my invisible wounds, but I don’t rise to her drunken logic. Instead, I ask, “Who are your monsters, Mother?”

  She smiles sadistically. “Oh, you’ll find out,” she rages. “You’ll all find out! And stop calling me ‘Mother.’ I never wanted you! I demanded artificial insemination so that I wouldn’t have to touch your father again. Did you know that? Did you know that every moment that you grew inside of me was torture? Every time I look at you, all I see is Kennet. I couldn’t wait for you to Transition so I could get rid of your pathetic face. You look just like him. An evil little spawn. I had fun planning your death. The Fusion Snuff Pulse was supposed to be the perfect cover, but I was betrayed. Dune protected you. He joined The Virtue and let you live. He’s a coward, your mentor. But now, killing you seems too kind, Roselle. No, I should keep you alive long enough for you to understand what it’s like to be married to someone you despise. Maybe I’ll have you give me an heir to raise before I cut your heart out. How does that sound?” She cackles with glee. “I have just the man in mind. I think he’d be up to the challenge, too.”

  My stomach roils. I fear she means Agent Crow. “I’m sorry that you were hurt, Othala,” I reply, “but I think you know me well enough by now to see that I have no intention of ending up like you.”

  “How dare you pity me, Roselle! You think you’re better than me? I’ll make sure you know what a disgusting little insect you are.”

  I bury any outward sign that I’m affected by her drunken raving. Inside, though, I grieve for her and loathe her at the same time.

  Othala looks back to The Virtue. “Send Roselle to me, or pay the price.” Her holographic image winks out.

  The Virtue wears a stunned expression. He expected my mother to cower on her knees, begging him to spare her life. The fact that she didn’t confirms that she’s in a much stronger position than anyone imagined.

  The Virtue calls for his advisory council, including Dune, Walther, Clifton, and Grisholm, along with Grisholm’s closest advisors, which includes Reykin. Most of The Virtue’s inner circle now are either Gates of Dawn or Rose Gardeners, or they’re simply the inept, privileged offspring of other members of the aristocracy. The Virtue is surrounded by his enemies, and he doesn’t even know it. I almost pity him.

  As the advisors assemble, Grisholm enters with Reykin. The Virtue-Fated firstborn shows no outward sign of grief over the passing of his sister. I wonder whether he will blame me, too, or has Reykin explained what happened? I’m about to ask him when I hear a deep voice say my name from the doorway.

  My heart flutters as my eyes meet Hawthorne’s. Dressed in an Exo military uniform, he’s a striking figure. I bite the inside of my cheek.

 
; Striding directly to me, Hawthorne offers a military salute. “Firstborn Sword,” he greets me, using my new title, “as your acting first lieutenant, may I offer you my condolences for the loss of your brother?”

  His formality reminds me not to show weakness. “Thank you,” I murmur, feeling my cheeks heat.

  He kneels on one leg, bowing his head. “I’m here to pledge my loyalty to you as your acting right hand.” When he looks up, I nod in acknowledgment. Hawthorne rises, towering over me. “It’s essential that we discuss nominations and appointments to your Heritage Council. Do you have a private space available for this discussion?”

  Reykin pushes his way between Hawthorne and me. “No one trusts soldiers from the Fate of Swords,” he says. “Especially those in the aristocracy. How can anyone be sure that your loyalties don’t lie with Othala St. Sismode?”

  Both Hawthorne and I are startled by Reykin’s insinuation. “As acting first lieutenant,” Hawthorne barks in a clearly military tone, “I’m here to swear my allegiance to Roselle St. Sismode, the Firstborn Sword.” His agitation is palpable. “My loyalty is to her, first and foremost. It’s my duty to enact the protocols between the Heritage Council and the heir to the Clarity of the Fate of Swords. You will not interfere with that duty, Star, or you will be subject to our laws.”

  Reykin isn’t intimidated. He goes nose to nose with Hawthorne. “She doesn’t go anywhere alone with Sword-Fates.”

  “She is a Sword-Fate,” Hawthorne counters, “and she has a duty to uphold.”

  “I can speak for myself,” I interrupt. “Thank you, Firstborn Winterstrom, for your concern. I’ll discuss my future council with Acting First Lieutenant Trugrave. Alone.”

  I pull Reykin aside for a private word. “Reykin, you know I’m capable of handling myself with Hawthorne.”

  “Never forget that he has had divided loyalties in the past,” he insists.

  I want to dismiss what he’s saying, but it’s true. “I’ll keep it in mind.” To diffuse his anger, I place my hand on his heart. His rough fingers cover mine. It does something to me. My belly flutters. Surprised by my response to his touch, I pull my hand away and drop my eyes. “Thank you for your advice,” I manage.

  I request a private room to meet with Hawthorne. A firstborn Exo shows us to a lounging room filled with soft, fat chairs. Coverage of the Secondborn Trials training camps plays on every screen in the room. It makes me want to scream and throw things at the walls, but I keep my frustration locked down. Hawthorne already thinks I’m a Fate traitor. I don’t want him to think I’m a raving lunatic as well.

  “How are you?” Hawthorne asks, taking a seat. I sit in a chair next to his. He doesn’t take my hand—doesn’t touch me.

  “I don’t know.” I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Numb, I guess. Scared. Confused. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. I’d hoped that Gabriel would somehow come through his addiction. You warned me that he wouldn’t. I should’ve listened to you.”

  “What can I do to help you with your changeover to firstborn?” he asks. “I have some experience with it. It takes a while to get used to it.” His eyes soften. They have a silver tint to them in this light.

  “I don’t plan on getting used to it, Hawthorne, but you know that.”

  He looks around. It’s possible that we’re being monitored, and he knows it. “I’m in, you know,” he whispers, “for everything.”

  My eyebrows rise in surprise. “Everything?”

  “Whatever you want, Roselle. I’ll fight for it—for you.” He reaches out and covers my hand with his. He squeezes, and I grind my teeth so I don’t sob.

  “I need you to put together a list of candidates for Heritage Council positions and a list of who currently fills them,” I tell him. “I don’t care about rank and privilege. I want smart people, not entitled ones. I want inter-Fate advisors, not just Swords. To start with, I want you to focus on finding the most innovative Stars and Atoms. I’m looking for forensic investigators not affiliated with Census. And I need a list of all Census holdings, maps of bases, lists of personnel, budget reports. I want to know where Census allocates its assets.” He frowns and begins to take notes on his moniker. I stop him with a hand on his sleeve. “We can’t use monikers to communicate or to do research. I need you to devise another form of communication. Census is inside most of our systems.”

  “What other form of communication?” he asks, grinning. “Carrier pigeons?”

  I sigh. “Write it down if you have to, but burn it when you’re done. We no longer use monikers for anything. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Hawthorne replies.

  “Before Gabriel died, he warned me about my mother,” I continue. “He said something . . . he said, ‘Too many zeros.’ Do you have any idea what that could mean?”

  “Zeros?” Hawthorne holds his hand to his forehead. “I heard him say something like it before, but only in drug-induced ramblings about freedom and freewill. None of what he said before I left made any sense.”

  “What about Census?” I ask.

  Hawthorne drops his hand. “I haven’t been back to Swords. Your mother wants me dead. Reports from my friends tell me Census is everywhere in Swords now, like they own the place.”

  “I think they do, Hawthorne. I think they’re Othala’s allies.” I lean forward and put my elbows on my knees, holding my chin in my hands. I stare at his eyes. They’re cloudy. He must be as tired as I am.

  “What do you plan to do about that?” Hawthorne asks. He’s as close as he can be without touching me.

  “I don’t know yet.” I scrub my face with my hands, trying to think. “Census is entrenched everywhere that secondborn Swords are. They’re the roots of every Tree on every Base. They control our monikers—they have access to our communications. They have a stranglehold on every Fate, not just Swords. The advantage is theirs. We have to take out their leaders.”

  “We don’t know who they are,” Hawthorne says. “Census acts like every one of them is a leader.”

  “Census has leaders,” I insist, “or you never would’ve gotten me away from Agent Crow when I was his prisoner. He answers to someone higher up, or he would never have let me go.” There’s a faraway look in Hawthorne’s eyes, and I wonder if he’s thinking of Agnes and what Agent Crow did to her for helping me. I reach my hand out and tangle Hawthorne’s fingers in mine. “Remember when I promised you that I’d help you kill Agent Crow and avenge Agnes when the time was right?”

  “Yes,” he replies.

  “The time is now, Hawthorne.”

  Chapter 18

  Planning My Crash Landing

  No funeral or memorial is planned for Balmora. The official cause of her death is ruled an accidental drowning. Her body is incinerated within hours of the pronouncement and her ashes disposed of. The coverup of my brother’s drug overdose is a much more elaborate conspiracy. The Virtue pushes it forward with the same swift efficiency and whitewash as his daughter’s death. Gabriel’s corpse is loaded into an exquisite aircraft and an accident is staged so that it looks as if a tragic malfunction occurred near his estate in Lenity. The fiery crash, with Gabriel’s body inside, is executed with the utmost care. By nightfall, it’s reported on by every Diamond-Fated media outlet the world over. When the flames die down, there’s very little left to send to Othala for burial.

  The speed with which this all happens is significant. This way, there’s no chance of Othala getting Gabriel’s body back and making accusations against me or The Virtue that could be medically corroborated. The Virtue has no intention of letting me return to Swords for a memorial either. Instead, an official announcement states that, in light of the tragic circumstances surrounding my father’s memorial in Swords, a small, private ceremony will be held at the Halo Palace, which means there won’t be one.

  It’s almost midnight by the time I’m released from The Virtue’s presence. I’m shown to my new quarters by a member of his staff. My new suite befit
s my stature as firstborn. Decadently appointed in shades of gold, it’s excessive to the point of gaudiness. My footsteps echo against the high ceiling in the drawing room. Projections of the cosmos play upon its lofty heights, but I can change the image to whatever I want, from storm clouds to a sun-filled sky.

  One arching glass wall affords a view of the sea. Dismissing my new secondborn staff, I walk to the window, staring at the moon shining on the water.

  “How are you?” Reykin asks from behind me.

  Startled, my pulse speeds up. I want it to be because I wasn’t expecting him, but my heart thumps more from a combination of his deep voice and his extremely handsome appearance in tailored dinner attire. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  He comes closer. “Quincy’s here, too—sleeping in one of your unoccupied bedrooms with Rogue. I’ve been keeping an eye on her. She’s taking the events of today very hard.”

  “I think she loved Balmora. As for how I’m doing, the answer is I don’t know,” I reply truthfully. My emotional self-awareness shut down hours ago. Now I’m simply numb. “Where’s Dune?”

  “Strategy meeting with his brothers.” My eyes flare with alarm. I look around at the opulent furnishings, any number of which could be spying devices. “Don’t worry,” he reassures me, “I’ve secured the room. No one will overhear us.”

  “Where’s Phoenix?” I ask.

  “You want me to get your mechadome?”

  “Of course,” I reply. “It’s part of my . . .” I was going to say “family,” but I don’t want to sound crazy. “Why are you here?” I ask instead. His eyebrows rise. I sigh and rub my forehead. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised they let you in here. Did you sneak in?”

  “I didn’t have to sneak. You’re firstborn now. You can do whatever you want. Entertain whomever you’d like, whenever you’d like. But I am here on official Halo Palace business.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Virtue and the other Clarities are planning to present you to the world as the heir to the Fate of Swords tomorrow night at the Secondborn Trials Opening Ceremonies.”