Traitor Born (Secondborn Series Book 2)

by Amy A. Bartol

  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!”

  “I’ll come when I can,” I reply.

  On the walk back, she chats nonstop about her visit to the Sword Palace when we were children—her memories of me and of Gabriel. It’s clear that she has romanticized that time, talking about Gabriel as if he’s the most heroic person she has ever met. I try not to become irritated. I’m not really mad at her. I’m mad at our parents and society for turning the chivalrous boy into a bitter man. When we near her easel, she shows me her oil painting. To my untrained eye, it’s exquisite, the exact likeness of the castle in the sea before us. “This is beautiful, Balmora. You’re an artist.”

  “I’m not allowed to be an artist,” she replies, her lips pouting. But I know my compliment has made her happy because her mood changes quickly, and she pounces on my arm once more. “You have to let me paint your portrait! I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “But I—”

  “I said I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer!”

  “I don’t know the first thing about sitting still.”

  “No. You wouldn’t, would you?” She giggles. “We’ll figure something out.”

  She needles me until I say yes, and I spend the next few hours watching her paint the castle. She teaches me about perspective, using a focal point to determine the angles and lines. It’s fascinating. I use focal points to target and kill. She uses them to capture and create.

  We have a small picnic together, set up by her secondborn staff on the beach under a luxurious awning with tables and chairs and linens. We sit apart from the other secondborn women, who talk quietly among themselves about the upcoming Secondborn Trials and their favorite Diamond-Fated actors. I pick at my food, afraid to try anything not tested by Phoenix first. I only eat the finger foods from the same plates as Balmora, even when she tries to offer me things she’s not eating. A part of me feels stupid and paranoid. Another part of me knows everyone is a potential enemy.

  Balmora grills me about life at the Sword Palace, and especially about Gabriel. She listens to my tales recollecting his childhood games and acts of chivalry. These are the only stories I can give her, because after the age of eleven, I hardly ever saw him. She laps them up like the pastry cream on her fingertips.

  “Do you want some advice?” Balmora asks as she wipes her hands with her napkin. She has a smile much like her mother’s, though more sublimely impish than wickedly beautiful.

  “I don’t know. Depends on what we’re talking about.” I set my napkin aside.

  “My brother hates to be embarrassed above all else. If you want him to do what you tell him, that’s your leverage.”

  I think about it for a moment. “Thanks.”

  The tide is fully out now, and the sea castle is completely exposed. The sun is scorching. It’s so much warmer here than in Swords. By this time of year, we’d be issued heat-regulated armor. I should wear a bathing suit the next time I come to the beach.

  The dishes are just being cleared by mechadomes when combat airships suddenly fly by overhead. The teacups tremble on their saucers. I shield my eyes and track them. They’re new, heavily armored troop carriers. By the look of them, they have multiple types of guided missiles and advanced combat weaponry. The Salloway Munitions signature is in every sophisticated line of the airships. Clifton is nothing if not meticulous when it comes to his products, and I would know his designs anywhere.

  “What is it?” Balmora asks.

  Several more fly over in combat formation. “We should get off the beach,” I warn as I get to my feet.

  “Why?” Balmora asks. She doesn’t seem the least bit alarmed.

  “Something’s happening. Something’s not right.”

  The death drones blare and move into a tighter formation, herding the secondborn women into a circle around us. Some scream and overturn their chairs, skittering to get away from the drones. I remain calm. In a few seconds, the noise cuts off. Some of the women are crying.

  Airships with arsenals pointed away from the beach hover above the water in defensive positions. They appear to be protecting the Halo Palace and the Sea Fortress. On both sides of the beach, guards uniformed in black and gray swarm onto the sand, moving in our direction, fusion rifles resting just below their shoulders. They don’t have their weapons trained on us, so I know we’re not the targets. They scan the water and the cliff’s edges through the scopes on their tactical weapons. A death drone breaks formation and flies menacingly close to Balmora. In its robotic voice, it orders, “Secondborn Commander, return to your residence for lockdown.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” Balmora retorts with a scathing look. She’s not frightened, not like her attendants.

  The first wave of Exo guards from the Halo Palace makes it to us. The highest-ranking officer steps to me. With his forearm raised to his mouth, he speaks into his moniker. “Secondborn Commander secure. We’ve also located Secondborn Roselle Sword.”

  The holographic soldier projected from his moniker says, “Commander Kodaline’s orders are to protect Roselle Sword and bring her to the safe area.”

  The firstborn Sword Exo frowns. “What about the Secondborn Commander?”

  “Secondborn Commander will be shown to her residence by her security detail.”

  The lead soldier nods, ends the communication, and drops his forearm. “Roselle Sword, you’re to come with us,” he states. Balmora’s death drones surround her and her entourage, aggressively prodding the secondborn Virtue-Fated women to retreat to the sea castle. Something’s wrong. Balmora is the most important secondborn here, isn’t she? And yet they’re more concerned about securing me than her. Of course, the orders did come from Dune, but it’s still counterintuitive.

  “Promise you’ll come visit me!” Balmora calls in a desperate plea as the drones urge her away. I give her a quick nod so she’ll stop resisting and return to her home. She smiles and turns away, moving at an unhurried pace across the sandbar toward her towering fortress of stone.

  Chapter 6

  Crow Sights Carrion

  A horde of security personnel forms a wall, cutting me off from Balmora. I’ve no choice but to go with the soldiers back to the Halo Palace. We run across the sand toward shelter on the clifftop. The stone stairs are just ahead, but we don’t use them. A concealed elevator in the face of the rock opens behind the colorful tents. The head Exo and ten of his detail all cram into the elegant lift, with me at the center. The rest of the unit falls back and waits. The doors close, and we rocket up to the main level of the Halo Palace.

  We emerge from the marble belly of the giant sea god statue. Its head and beard resemble an ancient mariner’s, and its torso merges into the tail of a merman. A downward-thrusting trident is in his grip, frozen as if just before slaying us all.

  I’m escorted to Grisholm’s private residence. Cutting through his seaside garden sanctuary next to the formal rose garden, we enter the arching doorways into a labyrinth of indoor bathing pools and bubbling spas. The walls and floors are tiled in mosaics of gold and lapis. Vaulted ceilings and archways are supported by columns carved with mythical sea creatures. The soldiers’ footsteps echo through the bathing chambers. Diamond patterns of light reflect off the water in waves.

  We come upon a hall with a glass-domed ceiling. It features the largest, deepest pool at its center. To one side, smaller hot pools bubble and flow together, forming a river with waterfalls. A golden walkway made to resemble shells separates the steaming water from the enormous, cooler pool. Exotic plants and flowers infuse the room with intoxicating scents.

  On the other side of the domed hall, posh furniture arranged in cluster
s circumscribes a lounging area. The floor is glass. Water flows beneath it. A bar of pure glass gleams near the far wall, a massive aquarium, in which vibrantly glowing jellyfish undulate in the calm water. Lighted glass shelves occupy each side. High-end bottles of alcohol line the pristine shelves. Lighted from behind, the bottles smolder with a unique fire.

  Seated around a circular table by the bar are Grisholm and six of his entourage. The Firstborn Commander is appropriately attired in a dark-purple swimsuit with a loose shirt, unbuttoned to expose his tanned chest. His companions, all male except for one female, are similarly dressed. Cards are strewn about the table. Sweating bar glasses, with colorful liquors and ice cubes infused with gold-leaf shavings, chill on frosted stone coasters. Blue, green, red, and yellow plumes of cigar smoke hover in the air.

  Among the firstborns at the table, the bare-chested one in the black bathing suit catches my eye. He’s fitter and more handsome than the others. His dark hair is wet and slicked back, and his eyes rival the sublime aquamarine of the pool. The moment Reykin spots me, his shoulders lower, and he eases back against his chair with a look of relief. The expression vanishes almost immediately behind a green puff of smoke he exhales.

  When he sees me with the guards, Grisholm’s eyebrows lower, slashing together. “They managed to find you alive, Roselle. I was giving odds on it, after the events of a few nights ago. They weren’t very good odds.” He sets his cards facedown on the onyx table and gets to his feet. To the leader of the Exo guards, he says, “You’re dismissed.”

  The Exo team leader walks forward, pointing his fusion rifle down and away from the heir to the Fate. “We have orders to stay with the secondborn Sword and keep her safe.”

  “Safe from what?” I ask. “What’s happening?”

  Grisholm scowls in derision, scoffing at my ignorance. “Didn’t you hear? Rasmussen Keating was found dead.” Grisholm snorts rudely. “You don’t know who the Keatings are, do you, Roselle?”

  “They’re the Second Family of Virtues,” I reply. “Firstborn Rasmussen Keating is third in line to the title of The Virtue, just behind you and Balmora. I just . . . How did he die?”

  “He was murdered,” Grisholm replies. “Why do you think there are guards everywhere?”

  His disdain eats at me a little, and my pulse leaps. “How? By whom?”

  “If we knew that, none of us would be on lockdown—we’d be out at the Secondborn Trials training camps, evaluating the stock.”

  His crudeness makes me want to cut his lips off with my sword. I don’t touch the hilt of it, lest I’m tempted to follow through with the urge. I mutter, “How tedious for you.”

  Grisholm stares at the guards. “You’ll leave this hall—secure the baths from outside. We don’t need you hovering.”

  The jaw of the Exos’ leader tightens. “I’m under orders to remain with Secondborn Roselle Sword.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Commander Kodaline’s.”

  “Ah, what a surprise,” Grisholm says. “She’ll be fine. She can probably slaughter all of us.” His eyes drift to Reykin. “Not him, though.” Grisholm points at the Star across the table. “He can cut her into a pile of flesh in less than sixty seconds.”

  I want to refute that claim, but I remain silent. I haven’t sparred with Reykin. We have no way of knowing who is better.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Reykin retorts with a pirate smile, holding up his hands in a show of humorous surrender. “I might fix her a drink, though.”

  “Wait outside!” Grisholm orders the Exos between gritted teeth. When they don’t move immediately, he roars, “Now!” I turn to go with them, but Grisholm growls, “You stay.” The lead Exo and his armed men retreat from the sweltering hall.

  The scrawny, ferret-faced firstborn next to Reykin punches him in the arm. Reykin doesn’t seem to notice, but the other firstborn immediately regrets it, rubbing his knuckles with his other hand. “How come your parents let you train in weapons with a mentor? Didn’t they like you?” the weaseling man asks.

  Reykin’s smile never falters, but his eyes turn cold. “You forget, Simont. My parents had more than one backup for me. I think they loved my thirdborn brother best.” The bitterness in his tone is thick. Radix was really fifthborn, and Reykin loved him.

  “They got theirs, ol’ man,” Grisholm says in a soft, conciliatory tone. “Census brought justice and gave you back your dignity.”

  The aqua light in Reykin’s eyes dims. There’s darkness, and then there are the things that inhabit darkness. Reykin’s one of those things. I know how he really feels about his murdered brother and parents. It led him to the battlefield in Stars—to slaughter as many Swords as he could until they took his life. But he didn’t die, because I wouldn’t let him. His anger toward his family is a mask he wears to keep his position and protect his other younger brothers. He’s a star floating in the abyss, and a part of me wants to save him from it.

  Reykin gracefully rises from his seat in a slow uncoiling of muscle and sinew. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Reykin Winterstrom.” The other firstborns’ laughter sets my teeth on edge. They think he’s mocking me. No other firstborn here would think to stand for a secondborn. His outstretched hand is an invitation. I straighten my shoulders. Moving forward, I take his hand. He lifts mine to his lips, kissing the back of it. A small shiver slips through me.

  “Roselle Sword,” I murmur with a small curtsy. His fingers linger on mine a bit too long. I pull my hand back.

  The firstborn man next to Grisholm clears his throat. Pushing his chair out, he slaps the tops of his thighs with his hands. “Why don’t you come sit here, Roselle?”

  The crowd erupts in laughter again, but it’s quickly silenced by Reykin’s frown. “You should be thanking her for her service, Charon.”

  “Oh, I’d like to thank her for her service,” the Moon-Fated man replies, leering at me. He can’t be older than twenty. If he were a secondborn Sword, I’d simply punch him in the teeth, but these aren’t secondborns. Retaliation is ill-advised.

  Reykin holds out his chair. The harmony of his skin over defined muscles is distracting. “You can have my seat.” I frown. I want to say no. He should probably be ignoring me, but maybe this is better. I don’t know that I can hide the intimacy between us, so establishing an acquaintance could conceal our true relationship. “Thank you,” I reply and take a step in his direction.

  “No one sits here without a suit,” Grisholm drawls with a smug smile. “Even this highborn secondborn.” He mocks me with an oxymoron.

  Reykin takes it in stride. “There’s a wardrobe closet just over there, Roselle. You can change while I order you a drink.”

  “Get me one, too,” the redheaded woman next to Grisholm says.

  “What do you want, Cindra?” Reykin asks.

  “Something lethal,” she replies with a wide grin. Her ice cubes clink together as she raises what’s left of the last drink to her full lips. She watches me over the rim of her glass. Condensation drips onto her skin, sliding down the valley between the sides of her ruby-colored bikini top. She wipes it away with her finger. Her moniker resembles a carbon atom. Lights representing protons and electrons orbit over her hand.

  Reykin nods. He touches his holographic shooting star. A command screen projects from it. He locates a bar menu and orders drinks. Flying mechadomes rise into the air by the bar, selecting bottles of alcohol and setting them on the glass in front of the automated bartender.

  I drift away in the direction of the wardrobe closet. Entering it, I lock the door behind me. Facing the holographic mirror, I touch the menu on the side. My reflection wears the first bathing suit on the list—a tiny black bikini. I swipe it away. The next one is white and even more revealing. I scoff. After swiping twenty more to the side, it’s clear that the only suits in this program are meant for style rather than function—possibly for Grisholm’s special late-night “friends.” I settle for a shimmering metallic-silver bikini top
with matching bottoms and a graphite wrap skirt.

  The ensemble arrives in a silver box. Inside, the outfit is wrapped in delicate, lavender-scented tissue paper and tied with a graphite-colored satin ribbon. I lift the package from the box that ferried it through the air-driven conveyor in the wall, toss my clothes in, and send them back into the chute to be laundered.

  Once suited up, I adjust my fusionblade’s sheath so that it wraps around my right thigh. Slipping the hilt of the sword into the black straps, I leave the wardrobe. Four of Grisholm’s friends grin as I approach. Grisholm, seated at the onyx table, scowls at me from head to toe. Reykin’s face darkens with a frown of disapproval. Cindra raises an appraising eyebrow. My fingers twitch near my fusionblade.

  A hovering drone delivers a tumbler to the table in front of Reykin. A slice of lemon floats in the center of clear liquid and gold-leaf ice cubes. As I join him, he stands and holds out his chair. I settle in opposite Grisholm. Reykin pulls another chair away from a nearby table and squeezes it in between me and the ferret-faced man, making Simont scoot over. Reykin seats himself close to my side.

  On the other side is a firstborn with a blond cowlick in front. His belly pushes down a rather loud, maize-colored swimsuit as he leans toward me. He extends his hand in a way that leaves me wondering if I should kiss its sun moniker or slap it away. I choose to do neither. His cheeks turn ruddy at the slight. “Ahem.” He clears his throat, dropping his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m—”

  “Shove off, Milken,” the firstborn next to him says as he strokes his dark beard. The light from his aqua cresting-wave moniker makes it look as if one could surf his hairy chin. “She’ll never be interested in you.”

  If Milken’s bluster is any indication, then he’s genuinely offended. “I’m a firstborn heir to the most powerful growing operations in the Fate of Suns! Why wouldn’t a secondborn be interested in me?”

  The bearded man leans back in his chair, propping an elbow on the backrest. The wave of his Seas moniker crashes over and over. “I heard a rumor that she’s not going to be secondborn for long.” His appraising eyes make me feel more naked than the locker room in my air-barracks ever did, but I try to hide it. “She’s going to be The Sword one day, and your plantations won’t mean a thing when she’s in control of all of our armies.”