Secondborn
Page 1
Also by Amy A. Bartol
The Kricket Series
Under Different Stars
Sea of Stars
Darken the Stars
The Premonition Series
Inescapable
Intuition
Indebted
Incendiary
Iniquity
The Divided (short story)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Amy A. Bartol
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477848357
ISBN-10: 1477848355
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
For Jason Kirk,
the lion-hearted poet of
“Two thousand heartless brilliant autumns odes.”
Onward.
Contents
Nine Fates of the Republic
Prologue
Chapter 1 Crown of Swords
Chapter 2 No Sudden Moves
Chapter 3 Fate Traitors
Chapter 4 Pulse Pummeled
Chapter 5 Mine Now
Chapter 6 In Census
Chapter 7 Moment of Clarity
Chapter 8 Exo and Ohs
Chapter 9 That’s Mine
Chapter 10 Intake
Chapter 11 That Newcomer Smell
Chapter 12 Detention
Chapter 13 Ugly Moles
Chapter 14 Little Fish
Chapter 15 A Beautiful Crime
Chapter 16 Where They Bury Me
Chapter 17 Shattered
Chapter 18 Flannigan’s Man
Chapter 19 A Serious Hat
Chapter 20 Sword-Shaped Heart
Chapter 21 White Rose
Chapter 22 Rose-Colored Crown
Chapter 23 Secondborn Traitor
Chapter 24 The Hand and the Heart
Chapter 25 A Rose Gardener
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Nine Fates of the Republic
FATE OF VIRTUES
FATE OF SWORDS
FATE OF STARS
FATE OF ATOMS
FATE OF SUNS
FATE OF DIAMONDS
FATE OF MOONS
FATE OF SEAS
FATE OF STONES
Prologue
It’s agony and relief to watch my life end.
I’m not dying, though my heart aches as if it might. Blood pounds drumbeats through my veins. My temples throb while my mother takes the podium. Spotlights shine on us, burning away the gloom of predawn light. Pausing like a seasoned conductor before an orchestra, Mother waits for the applause to die down. She’s the consummate politician, serene before the gathered crowd in the courtyard. She surveys the cameras before her, knowing the effect her stoicism has on the citizens assembled beneath the grand balcony of the Palace of the Sword. Their hearts break for her—for a mother’s sacrifice. These are her supporters, handpicked to be here, to witness history.
The cool morning air teases a wisp of silky brown hair from the elegant knot at her nape. Navy-colored banners twist in the wind, images of golden swords flapping behind her in the breeze. She holds back a smile.
“Citizens of Swords and all of the Fates,” she begins. Her melodic voice amplifies over the grounds of her estate, the sound of it falling from the balcony like a stone, crushing the crowd below into silence. “Today, our very way of life is threatened, not only from outside the Fates of the Republic, but also from within. The destiny of our once-great nation lies in the palms of our hands, and never more than today—Transition Day.”
I’m unable to suppress a shudder. Transition Day. I’ve heard the words often over the eighteen years of my life. It’s the stuff of nightmares, what people say when they want to scare you: one day soon you’ll become a stranger to the people you love. A picture in a frame. I’ve always known today would come. I thought I’d be ready for it. I’m not.
Fine beads of sweat form on the back of my neck. I clutch my hands behind me so no one can see them tremble. My long brown hair blows in the wind.
“At no other time in our history has the draft been more vital,” Mother says. “We are embroiled in a fight to the death—a bloody civil war, brought on by the lawlessness of Fate traitors who would violate our very right to exist. We, the firstborns, must rule. It is our birthright to sacrifice our own for the protection of the Fates. It is an honor for secondborns to serve as champions in this proud tradition—to give their lives to their Fate and to the call of service.”
Her arm sweeps in my direction. Every eye in the crowd shifts to me. Enormous virtual monitors project my image. I’m larger than life on the screens. I have to fight to maintain a serene expression. The cameras see everything, and my performance will be critiqued later. Loyalty to the Fates above all else.
Tiny brown holographic swords project from the lapel of my new, dirt-colored uniform. Tropo. I try not to wince. The emblem denotes the lowest secondborn rank in the military, the mark of the infantry—the expendables. My throat constricts. I swallow hard, attempting to clear it. Dune’s tall frame beside me is comforting. That my mentor, the Captain of the Guard, insisted on being here for the announcement means more to me than I can say. He cares about what happens to me, maybe more than my own family does.
The holographic swords on Dune’s lapels flicker in my peripheral vision. It had always been my hope that when I reached my Transition Day, I’d wear silver swords like Dune, even though I’m not firstborn. I’d guard a Clarity—a leader of one of the nine Fates of the Republic—protecting her from threats to her life. A leader like my mother, Othala St. Sismode, Clarity of the Fate of Swords. As commander of the military, she is one of the most powerful Clarities, second only to the Supreme Leader, the Clarity of the Fate of Virtues himself. If she had granted me the rank of Iono, made me an officer in her personal guard, I could have proved my worth to her. I could have stayed with my family and Dune. I could have protected them.
But she didn’t.
Now I know that it was only a fantasy. I’ll never be one of them. I’ll always be just a secondborn, a shadow, soon to fade from their lives.
Mother’s lips are a delicate pink in the frosty air. She lowers her voice. “I’m not immune to your suffering,” she resumes. “I have not placed my needs as a mother above those of the citizens of this embattled nation. No. I accept the sacrifice that we all make as just and necessary to our survival. Today, I give over to our cause my only daughter, Roselle. My heart. My life. My secondborn.”
Tears wet the faces of the spectators. They believe that they know me well. I’ve grown up in front of their eyes—in front of the cameras. They watched me take my first toddling steps, say my first words, lose my first fight, win my second one, and train rigorously with Dune in order to one day defend the Fates of the Republic from all threats to their sovereignty.
Mother’s eyes remain dry. “Roselle may be young,” she continues, “but you have witnessed her evolve into a soldier. She’s ready to do her duty—to join the ranks of Swords who now fight to strike the Gates of Dawn rebels from our land, from our world, and from our minds forever.” The roar of applause is deafening. Mother b
ites the inside of her cheek. “It is a sad day for me and for my family, but we will endure the Transition. We will flourish in the knowledge that another St. Sismode will be protecting us.”
She turns to me and joins the crowd in its applause. I don’t move. I don’t acknowledge them in any way. I’m like the banners waving behind us, a symbol, blown by forces over which I have no control.
Mother leans into the microphones. “It is my wish to have a few final moments alone with my daughter. You can follow Roselle’s journey to Transition as she leaves the estate today. Thank you for your support. Long live the Fates!”
“Long live the Fates!” Chanting begins in earnest as my indomitable mother steps away from the podium. She squares her small shoulders and breezes past without looking at me.
Chapter 1
Crown of Swords
I trail my mother, her personal assistant, and four public relations specialists as they retreat toward the beveled-glass doors of the St. Sismode Palace. Clara, the newest PR assistant, hands Othala a glass of water, waits for her to sip it, and takes it back from her. Fumbling, she spills some on herself. Clara’s sparkling moniker, the holographic symbol that projects up from the back of her hand, shines like crystal as she dabs at the water droplets with a lacy handkerchief.
She’s a Diamond, I think. She won’t last long here among the Sword aristocracy. I feel a twinge of pity. It’s not as if Clara ever had a choice. She’s secondborn. She was placed in this den of lions, and if she fails, it will be a long fall. Females who don’t make it in their secondborn Transition positions usually end up in the entertainment sector. I shudder. She’ll probably become a plaything for some firstborn officer. Clara teeters on her elegant high heels and tries to keep up with my mother’s rapid pace.
As we enter the mansion, my eyes are drawn to the stone pediment above the doors. I wonder if Clara even notices the ancient warriors carved above the frieze, or that our name, St. Sismode, is etched upon the swords of the soldiers. Does she realize that a St. Sismode has been the Clarity of the Fate of Swords since anyone can remember?
“Let them try to criticize me for the draft now!” Mother says. She paces over the midnight-blue carpet embellished with a golden fusionblade called a St. Sismode sword, after our ancestor who designed it. Pausing on the point of the carpet’s wooly blade, she hugs herself in victory. “No Clarity of any Fate has ever given more than I have!” She turns to Emmitt Stone, her personal assistant. He’s glowing with pride.
“Your Fate loves you!” Emmitt gushes, adding flamboyant applause. “All of the nine Fates love you!”
“They do, don’t they?” Othala smooths her hair back, losing herself in the moment. If she were a cat, she would purr.
Dune growls low. “You don’t have to do this,” he says bitterly. “Roselle’s still too young. She’s not ready for war!”
Othala sobers. She narrows her eyes at her assembled staff. “Leave us.” Clara and Emmitt nearly bump into each other in their hurry to the door. I turn to follow them out.
“Stay, Roselle,” Dune commands.
I hesitate, looking to Mother for confirmation. She remains silent until the others have left, closing the bronze doors behind them, then whirls to face Dune. “It’s done,” she says, sneering.
“You can undo it,” Dune insists. “You can save Roselle.” He is rigid with barely suppressed anger, except for one hand, which twitches near the sword sheathed at his waist. My eyes widen. I know his aggressive posture well. It’s the stance he uses before he attacks.
“You underestimate her,” my mother replies. “She’s resilient and capable of surviving whatever is thrown at her. She has my blood.”
“You will spill her blood!” Dune’s sand-colored eyes narrow. He takes a menacing step toward Mother. My response is automatic. I move between the Clarity and my mentor, as I’ve been trained to do. My hand rests on my own sword’s hilt. I face Dune, my warning unmistakable. “You see?” Dune flicks his hand toward me. “She wants only to protect you, Othala. You have nothing to fear from her. She would never harm you or Gabriel. She loves you both.”
“And you care for her,” Mother hisses. She walks around the golden silk settee, putting it between her and us. Dune grinds his teeth. It’s an accusation I don’t fully understand.
“Of course I care for her. Roselle has been my student since she could crawl!” He rubs his hand over the short, dark stubble of his new beard. “I have always treated her with the utmost respect.”
“Yes, you two are quite close. She looks at you like a father.”
“You and I both know how little interest her own father has taken in her.”
Othala waves her hand as if to dismiss my father from the conversation, or maybe from her life. “Kennet is not one to form attachments. But you treat her as if she were your own daughter. You’ve taught her everything you know about being a leader, a fighter, someone who could maybe one day be the commander of this Fate?”
“I’ve tried to prepare her for any eventuality.”
My mother grips the back of the settee, her bejeweled fingernails digging into the fabric. “You’d just need to get rid of anything that stands in her way, wouldn’t you?”
Dune rubs his eyes, for a moment looking older than his thirty-eight years. “So, this is revenge against me! My decision to end my personal relationship with you, Othala, has nothing to do with Roselle.”
“It has everything to do with her, Dune. You’re her mentor. We both know that if something were to happen to Gabriel and me, she’d be The Sword.” A snarl twists my mother’s lips.
My hand, still on the silver handle of my sheathed sword, grows damp. Dune meets my eyes, and his soften. “Your daughter has no idea what you’re talking about, Othala. She’s a student of chivalry. Her only thought is how to win your love, not steal your power.”
Mother’s blue eyes look upward. “Even if the thought never crossed her mind, she’s still too dangerous, Dune. I have to protect Gabriel. He will rule the Fate of Swords one day, not her. It’s his birthright.”
I cringe, turning to face my mother. “I would never hurt my brother. I only wish to serve him—to protect him.”
Mother’s normally supple mouth pinches. “You say that now, Roselle, but what happens in the next few years after your Transition Day? Gabriel will marry—have children. You’ll come to realize that you’ll never have a family, never hold a baby in your arms and call it your own. Gabriel will inherit all our wealth and property. What will you do when you realize the only option open to you for the rest of your life is government service? You are secondborn. The Fates own your life. It’s better that you leave us now. The abrupt change will be easier than a slow, excruciating march to your destiny.”
“It will be easier for you, you mean.” My eyes widen at my own audacity.
For once, she seems not to notice my breach in protocol. “It will be easier for us all when you’re gone.”
Dune glares at Othala. “You could make her an Iono soldier—part of this guard or one for another Clarity. She could—”
“Even if I concede that she poses no threat to Gabriel,” Othala interrupts, “which I don’t, and I make her the rank of Iono and assign her duties for one of the other Clarities, every secondborn of any consequence will cry ‘Nepotism!’” She lets go of the settee and paces.
“You expect me to believe that’s why you made her a Tropo?” Dune asks. “It’s equivalent to throwing her to the wolves, Othala, and you know it! And for what? So you don’t have to listen to a few complaints? They’ve never bothered you before. Secondborns may mutter about unfairness, but you strike them down hard whenever they do.”
She stops. “I show them their place!”
“And you wonder why we have a rebellion of secondborns? You never hear their suffering.”
“Their suffering?” she sputters. “You would side with the Gates of Dawn over the Fates? That’s treason!”
“You of all people know that my l
oyalty is to the Fate of Swords and to all the Fates of the Republic. I have fought for them since the day I was born.”
“Since the day you were firstborn,” she corrects. “Never forget you’re one of us, Dune.”
“Othala, see reason! Once Roselle is processed, she’ll be chattel. They could put her on the front line.”
“She’s eighteen years old—and a St. Sismode! Our commanders will have better sense than to do that.”
“So you haven’t even specified where she will be placed? You’re going to leave it to the secondborn commanders—or whatever algorithm they’re using—to decide your daughter’s life?”
“I have to trust that the Fates work, Dune. Otherwise, the Gates of Dawn are right. My father believed in the system. He allowed for an organic Transition for his secondborn child. He would expect me to do the same, were he alive.”
“Bazzle was dead within a month of his Transition.”
“He served the Fates with honor,” she says weakly. She walks to her desk and faces us from behind its broad expanse of glass and touchscreens.
“Your brother paid for your father’s position as The Sword, Othala. He was murdered as revenge for what some secondborns see as injustice in a system that makes them slaves.”
Dune grasps my left arm. He leads me to Mother’s desk, extending the back of my hand in front of her. In the shape of a fiery sword, the chip implanted under the skin between my thumb and index finger glows golden. My moniker is who I am. All my information is stored within it, from my name to my age, address, DNA profile—almost everything that makes me me can be accessed by scanning it. It contains all the codes that allow me to travel both within the Fate of Swords and into the eight other Fates.
“Once they process her and find out you’re her mother,” Dune says, “Roselle will be made to suffer for your decisions as The Sword. Do you want that?” Othala’s eyes dart to my moniker. I quickly pull my hand from Dune’s and hide it behind my back. My moniker has always been a source of irritation for my mother. It isn’t like everyone else’s. I have a small crescent-shaped birthmark on my left hand. When the holographic image from my implant shines through my skin, it is partially obscured by the birthmark, so the hologram looks as if a dark crown rings the top of the sword. Gabriel teased me about it, calling me the Crown of Swords.