Traitor Born

by Amy A. Bartol

  “Why would they do that? It’s too soon! My brother just died!”

  “In everyone’s eyes, Roselle, you’re still secondborn, and that’s a problem. The Virtue and the aligned heads of the Fates need to change your narrative, and quickly, if you’re to overcome your mother’s perceived authority as The Sword. They’re out of time, so it’s going to happen now.”

  “What are they expecting me to do?”

  “They want a new opportunity to showcase your mastery in the realm of warfare. It’s something your mother doesn’t have, and you excel at it. Grisholm suggested to his father that you and I give a display of your skill at the ceremony tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry. What?” I rub my forehead.

  “They want us to mock duel.” He says it softly, like I might explode if he’s too loud.

  I shake my head in disbelief. “They want us to fight each other?”

  “Mock duel, like we always do. An exhibition with fusionblades, to show your skill.”

  “And you agreed to this?” I teeter between amazement and derision. “Fighting with a sword is not the same as ‘mastery in the realm of warfare.’”

  “I agreed to be your sparring partner because I’m not going to allow someone else near you with a sword,” Reykin insists. “Especially not a Sword soldier.”

  “You know how insane this is, right? There should be a period of mourning for Gabriel.”

  He frowns. “Like I said, there’s no time for that. Listen, I know you’re grieving. I know you wanted things to be different with your brother.”

  “And I know you got exactly what you wanted,” I reply with a total lack of emotion. I have no energy left.

  “I did,” he admits, “but I am sorry that it hurts you.”

  “I can’t talk about this right now, Reykin. I just need a moment of peace. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No,” he replies with an air of contrition. “It’s not too much to ask.”

  “Good night.” I turn and walk to my bedroom. Closing the door, I lie on the bed and cover my face with a pillow so no one will hear my sobbing.

  No matter what I say or do, I won’t be able to avoid attending the Secondborn Trials.

  The realization gives me no small amount of anxiety. I walk the open-air corridor of the rooftop cloister, listening to Clifton Salloway give our supreme leader a status report regarding the security measures he’s directly overseeing. The picturesque cloister, built atop the floating Halo, shades us from the bright sunlight. The pace Bowie sets is brisk. He walks beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling at such a clip that the other members of Fabian’s Council of Destiny fall behind, holding their sides as we make another lap.

  The Virtue’s advisory council members are mostly Virtues. I assume that their duties usually don’t require much exercise, because only Clifton and I aren’t winded. I shouldn’t judge them too harshly. A few of the women are over a hundred and fifty years old, not that one could tell by looking. They have excellent Atom technicians who keep them appearing middle-aged or, in some cases, younger.

  Walking with my hands clasped behind my back, I gaze through the rosette framework between the columns that line the corridor. The soft scent of roses surrounds us. The formal rooftop gardens are also laid out in rosette patterns, mirroring the framework. In the center are interconnected bathing pools and ponds.

  The Virtue stops abruptly when Clifton sums up his assessment of the threat level we face if they go forward with the Secondborn Trials. “So,” Fabian Bowie replies impatiently, “what you’re telling me is, although you cannot discern any major troopship shift or Sword soldier migration that would lead you to believe that the event is Othala’s target or that of the Gates of Dawn, you still want to postpone the festivities to some indefinite date?”

  “Yes,” Clifton agrees, flashing his most charismatic smile. I fail to see how Fabian can resist it, but resist it he does.

  “The threat level is minimal,” he argues. “Othala is running scared. She’s all talk. In any case, they haven’t had enough time to prepare.”

  Clifton frowns. “You assume they haven’t been planning for months.”

  “Why would they choose the Secondborn Trials?” Fabian asks. “It’s a social event. Othala risks turning her people against her if she leads an attack. The same could be said for the Gates of Dawn. Killing innocent people doesn’t win hearts and minds.”

  “May I remind you that our social club was attacked in that manner?” Clifton asks.

  Fabian truly doesn’t know how hated Virtues is by many of the Fates, by the Gates of Dawn, by secondborns—or maybe he just doesn’t understand the magnitude of my mother’s hatred. Regardless, he’s being shortsighted. “What about the threat of a Census alliance with The Sword?” I ask.

  “Bah!” He scowls, turning to me. “It’s hearsay! Until you can show me a shred of proof, I consider it a huge fantasy that you’ve concocted in your mind.”

  Some of the council members catch up, panting hard and sweating through their silken clothing. The Virtue takes one look at them and says, “Dismissed.” Clifton and I turn to leave. “Not you two. You will join me for breakfast.” He slips through the archway and out into the sunlight. Crossing the lawn, we near a tranquil pond filled with glistening koi. We enter an opulent gazebo made of stone, where a round table is set with delicious fare. Secondborns stand at attention, awaiting us.

  The Virtue takes a seat with his back to the water. Clifton holds a chair out for me. His eyes dance, as if he’s thinking of a delicious secret. Once I’m seated, Clifton claims the chair beside mine. From his position across the table from me, The Virtue dives into the minutia. “The Opening Ceremony,” he begins, “is the perfect opportunity to present you, Roselle, as the heir to The Sword. As far as it being your first public event as firstborn, it couldn’t be more suited to your particular appeal.”

  Dread filters through me, even though Reykin already told me what was being planned. I set down the piece of buttered toast I was about to eat. “Won’t it appear strange,” I ask, “when my mother isn’t by my side as I accept the honor?”

  The Virtue chuckles. “You’ve already accepted the honor,” he replies, as a secondborn attendant refills his coffee, “the moment your brother killed himself. It will look stranger if we don’t announce your ascension. You can’t return to Swords for a proper ceremony at the St. Sismode Palace until you replace your mother as the leader. This is a compromise. Not to worry, though. Soon you’ll become The Sword, and everything in that Fate will be yours.”

  Perhaps the strangest part about all of this is the fact that he’s openly discussing the demise of a member of my family, who I would’ve taken a fusion pulse to protect only a short time ago. I once labored under the notion that only secondborns were expendable, but it seems that all value for life perishes in a power struggle. I’m not delusional, though. There won’t be any tearful reconciliation with Othala. One of us will have to die. I’d change that if I could, but I can’t. Nothing good will come from my mother’s rule if she’s aligned with Census. I shudder, thinking about Agent Crow in an even more powerful position than the one he holds now.

  “Are you cold?” Clifton asks.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I reply with a fake smile.

  “I’m glad to see you two getting along so well,” The Virtue says with a smile of his own. “It makes me less worried about the future of Swords. Salloway will make a much better Fated Sword than Kennet ever did.”

  I choke on my water, slamming down the glass goblet, gagging and wheezing. Clifton reaches over and gently pats me on the back until I can take a breath.

  Nervously, and with a rueful smile, he says, “I haven’t told Roselle yet about the engagement. I was going to explain it to her in a few days—after she’d had time to recover from the grief of losing her brother.”

  The Virtue waves his fork in a gesture of dismissal. “She’s a soldier. She understands alliances and strength—she’s a St. Sismod
e, for Virtue’s sake! You don’t have to romanticize it. This needs to happen. Her family is on the verge of decimation. She needs someone on her side that she can trust. She already trusts you. I see it between you two. Don’t make her go through this alone.”

  “Excuse me?” I gasp, wiping my teary eyes with my napkin, trying to regain my composure. “Am I to understand that you made an alliance on my behalf?”

  Fabian nods. “I’ve accepted Firstborn Salloway’s offer for you. He’ll be your husband, the Fated Sword. You’ll be wed as soon as we can settle things in Swords.” He takes a bite of his meal and chews, gesturing at me with the knife in his hand. “You’ll want to start trying for an heir right away. Your brother was an idiot. He refused to choose a Fated Sword and provide an heir. It would’ve kept the Rose Gardeners from becoming so powerful. Not one for strategy, your brother. Although they tell me that he might not have been able to reproduce near the end of his life. Whatever he was taking made him sterile.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask defensively.

  “His autopsy was very revealing. We’ll spare you the details. It wasn’t pretty. I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did.”

  “How did his addiction start?” I ask. “Do you know?”

  “That’s a question for someone at the Sword Palace, I would think,” The Virtue replies.

  I plan to pursue the question if given an opportunity.

  The topic turns to logistics. Clifton is to accompany me to the Silver Halo, where the Opening Ceremonies will be held. My introduction as the Firstborn Sword will take place as the competitors are brought to the field.

  While Fabian drones on, Clifton’s eyes are on me, trying to gauge my reaction to the announcement that he’s my fiancé. When the meal finally ends, Clifton and I stand. The Virtue bids us a good day, with a promise to see us both this evening, and then he strides away.

  I walk from the table with a piece of toast in my hand, feeling Clifton trailing me. The fat koi swim to the surface near when I tear off pieces and toss them into the water. Standing next to me, Clifton waits until I’m bereft of bread to take my hand gently in his. The contact is sensual, and my heart doubles its pace. My belly fills with butterflies. My cheeks color for some reason. It’s still just Clifton. Don’t be an idiot.

  “Oh, my swords!” Clifton gasps with a soft chuckle. His green eyes sparkle. “Are you blushing, Roselle?”

  “I’m not blushing,” I mutter. “You’re blushing.” I try to take my hand back without hurting him, which I so could. I could beat him senseless for not telling me that he petitioned for me.

  “I am blushing,” he says softly. He puts my hand against his chest so I can feel his heart. It’s racing, like mine. “You’re going to have to tell me what you’re thinking, because I’m back-footed right now,” he says, putting it in fighting terms we both know. “You’re aching right now, and this is the worst timing in the history of the world, but you’re not alone. I need you to know that I’ll always protect you. No matter what. I don’t know how we’ll work out together, Roselle, but I’d like you to know that I want us to.”

  “Is this . . . never mind.” I try to lift my hand, but he tangles his fingers through mine.

  “Please, ask me anything,” he begs.

  “Why did you petition for me? Is it power that you want? Because I’ll give you power. You can be my right hand anyway. You wouldn’t have to—” Clifton leans down and kisses me. I wasn’t expecting his perfectly full lips on mine. It scares me—the intense ache that his exquisite kisses cause. I shouldn’t feel anything. It’s Salloway. Inter-Fate Playboy. In a league of his own. Arms dealer. Massive ego. Unrelenting cunning. Extremely dangerous. String of broken hearts. That Salloway. But . . . my pulse flares. My fingers clutch his shirt. My knees weaken. This feels like when I handled explosives for the first time—formidable, deadly, like something is about to be destroyed.

  I step back, breaking our kiss. “Clifton—” But he pulls me back to him.

  “I’ve wanted to do that since the day we met.”

  “You mean the day you asked me for private lessons?”

  He groans and bites his bottom lip, adorably, before saying, “You cannot blame me for that. I’d just been introduced to the most confident and poised women I’d ever met. I thought I knew you. I’d been expecting the girl I’d watched for years. Nothing could have prepared me for the reality. You were no girl. You were a goddess. You had me at your mercy.”

  “I don’t remember it like that.”

  “How do you remember it?”

  “My mother had threatened me with severe consequences if I didn’t perform well at the press conference. You were an interesting thread in a terrifying web.”

  The light in his eyes fades a little. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have been in that situation. It took me too long to tear you away from our enemies. Nothing about your Transition went as planned.”

  “You didn’t fail me,” I reply, reaching up and smoothing the hair away from his eyes. His expression softens. “I don’t want you to be disappointed, Clifton. I care about you deeply.”

  It’s true. I do care about him. I don’t want to see him hurt. But I know a union will never happen. If I become The Sword, it will only be for as long as it takes for the alliances that I’ve made to bring down the empire. After that, there will be no Swords. No Fates. No Fates Republic. He’ll more than likely end up despising me for destroying what he has worked so hard to achieve.

  “Why would I be disappointed?” he asks.

  I can’t answer him honestly, so I don’t. Instead, I change the subject. “Are you as worried about tonight as I am?”

  His expression grows grim. “Worry is a wasted emotion. We need to instead be vigilant. The Virtue is reckless for the sake of popularity, but I plan on making sure that, whatever happens tonight, we never lose the advantage. Do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “When we’re in power, and someone gives us good advice, let’s remind each other to take it.”

  We walk together, discussing our plans for the night. My arm tightens on his, and I can’t help worrying about what will happen the day that Clifton discovers my betrayal. I refuse to feel too bad about it, though. The Virtue and the Rose Gardeners have been planning my crash landing, right into their arms, for far too long. But I intend to keep flying.

  Chapter 19

  Zero Rise

  Floating above the Secondborn Trials training camp, the Silver Halo gives the illusion of being hollow, like the one The Virtue resides in. It isn’t. Inside, it’s an enormous, bowl-shaped colosseum. Massive airships shuttle excited attendees to the venue. Glass gondolas the size of city blocks also transport crowds to the Silver Halo. I watch the spectacle from the safety and luxury of The Virtue’s private balcony.

  This mezzanine is reserved for Clarities and their guests. Nine distinct balconies circle the Silver Halo, each named for one of the Fates and comprising an open-air balcony, supported by Gothic pillars, for the exclusive use of a Clarity and his or her entourage. Three extravagantly large thrones stand prominently at the fore of The Virtue’s balcony, one each for Fabian, Adora, and Grisholm.

  Directly across is the Sword balcony. Blue banners with golden swords hang behind it. Normally it’s reserved for Othala, Kennet, Gabriel, and their guests, but two of my family are dead, and one is glaringly absent. But that’s not to say that the balcony is empty. Today it’s occupied by Census agents dressed in formal evening attire. They’re my mother’s guests, which isn’t going unnoticed by the masses as they find their places in the arena. People point to the Sword balcony and look to each other, wondering about the unique spectacle of Census agents in such a place of honor at the Secondborn Trials. The agents toast each other and sip from tall, fluted glasses as last-minute preparations are made on the field below.

  Streams of firstborns fill the arena until nearly every seat is taken. I remain at the back of the balcony, near the rustling silken white b
anners adorned with enormous golden halos. I’m hoping to avoid Adora. She hasn’t noticed me, but then again, she might not notice much of anyone or anything. Her expression is dopey. She’s not entirely present, as if she has been given something to subdue her.

  Clifton doesn’t let me far from his side. I’m not sure if he’s guarding me or if he just likes being near me. He wastes no time introducing me to The Virtue’s guests as his fiancée. He knows everyone. Everyone wants to be his friend. Every woman who gets near him wants to rub against him. Delicate fingertips touch his sleeve. Smiles grow broader. More teeth. Louder giggles when he smiles. I’m not sure he even notices.

  A Diamond-Fated production assistant interrupts a rather pointless story that the saintly bank chairman is telling us about his excursion in the secondborn training camps. “Excuse us, Firstborn Salloway, Firstborn St. Sismode,” the assistant says, “it’s almost time for Roselle’s presentation.” He scrutinizes me. “We should get you closer to the front of the balcony. Is Firstborn Winterstrom here as well?” The man scans his moniker, going over a holographic checklist.

  “I am,” Reykin says from over my shoulder. Attired in an all-black sparring outfit, he’s lethal-looking, his dark hair tied back in a knot, his fusionblade—the one with his family crest on it, the one that burned me on the battlefield—in its sheath at his side. My finger grazes the small star scar on my palm.

  “Do you have a St. Sismode sword?” the attendant asks me. He eyes my white sparring outfit, settling on the hilt of the fusionblade sheathed on my thigh.

  “I prefer a Salloway blade,” I reply.

  The woman next to me murmurs, “Wouldn’t we all.”

  Reykin’s jaw ticks tensely.

  The production assistant gestures to the front of the balcony, motioning us forward. “If you two would just come this way. We’re going to start soon.”

  “Go easy on the poor Star,” Clifton says, leaning down and giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek. Those around us laugh, except for Reykin. Clifton’s lips linger a bit longer than is exactly polite. “Show him what a Sword can do,” he whispers. “I’ll wait for you down by the field.”