Secondborn

Chapter 3

Fate Traitors

Dune ushers me to the waiting hovercar. Fine mist from the Warrior Fountain settles on my skin. Bronze statues tower fifty feet or more above our heads. I lift my eyes to their vicious-looking swords. Their snarls are ferocious even on the best of days, but this is the worst day of my life. In a daze, I duck my head and climb into the back of the driverless vehicle, a Vicolt. This model hasn’t been manufactured for hundreds of years. The rear of the hovercar is made of chrome and glass. It reminds me of an overturned fishbowl, and me, the beta fish on display.

Dune gets in beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. The doors seal shut, trapping us inside. I wring my hands and attempt to explain. “I wasn’t trying to kill him—I swear! Gabriel drew his sword and—”

“The Fate of Swords would be better off if you had killed him, Roselle.”

“What?” I was expecting reprisals, not disappointment.

“Smile, Roselle,” Dune orders. His tone snaps with anger. “Let them all know they can’t break you.” My lips move into a grin that’s mere muscle memory. I grip the rounded edge of the seat. It’s hard to breathe. Mother ordered them to kill me. I’m never coming home again. It takes every ounce of will to refrain from retching.

“Mother thinks I was going to murder Gabriel.”

“She doesn’t know you at all.”

“Will you tell her that I’m not a monster—that I’d never—”

The windscreen illuminates. It’s a heads-up display, literally; the image of a Palace guard’s head fills the screen. The female face merges with the landscape outside. She has gray eyes that match her Iono uniform. “We’re ready for departure, Patrøn,” she says, addressing Dune as a superior officer. “The route is programmed through the city of Forge and has not deviated from the plan we discussed.”

“Thank you, Seville,” Dune replies. He settles back in his seat.

“Is there anything you need before we begin?”

“No.” Dune glances at me. “Er, yes. Water.” Two pear-shaped glasses of ice water emerge from the console between us. “Thank you. We’re ready now.”

“Very well, Patrøn.” Seville’s image fades. The Vicolt glides forward, driven remotely by a team that has been practicing for this day for weeks. The stone façade of the Fate of Swords Palace fades as we move away. I lift my water to my mouth, drain it, and set the empty glass back in the console, where it descends out of sight.

The hovercar creeps along the fence and passes through the gate. Smiling well-wishers swarm us, anxious to get a good look at me. The long tails of their brightly colored woolen coats sway in the cold breeze. Stylish high collars protect them against the autumn chill. They touch the chrome veneer of the Vicolt and wave blood-red roses in adulation. The metal pavers of the road move the magnetized hovercar forward. Because this vintage vehicle is only used in ceremonial processions, we slink along so that everyone gets a good view. I try to hide my turmoil.

An enthusiastic man about my age presses forward from the crowd and runs alongside the hovercar. The head of a red flower bounces in his clutched fist. “Wave, Roselle.” I lift my hand, complying with Dune’s order. The man presses his hand on the window, crushing the rose against it and leaving a smear of petals and fog from his sweaty palm.

I study the buildings, which I’ve only seen before from the rooftop of the Palace or in on-screen images. I’ve missed a lot by being tethered to the estate. The structures rise to the sky, their details coming alive. I spot the iconic Heritage Building where the annual firstborn selections are held—an event in which the elite firstborns are sworn into service as leaders of our fatedom. One day, Gabriel will go there and vow to protect the Fate of Swords, and all the Fates.

Massive streams of golden energy flow down the walls of the Heritage Building’s sword-shaped tower. The source of the energy is hidden high above our heads, tucked away in the clouds, at the hilt. The base of the building resembles a mountainous rock. A channel of energy runs along the blade into the base. It’s a sword lodged in stone—a metaphor depicting the Fate of Swords’ supremacy over the Fate of Stones.

The Heritage Building fades behind us. My real-time image is splashed upon the next group of towers, every move I make reflected back at me. I’m tiny next to Dune, though that’s not at all how I see myself. A vast world exists inside of me. I have a hard time comprehending how it all fits. Being secondborn in a world ruled by firstborns has often forced me to retreat into my imagination, to avoid the constant shame and innuendos flung at me for my inferior birth. I’ve filled my mind with dreams. In them, I’m not beneath notice. I’m not so low that it’s impossible for my family to love me. A small tear rolls down my cheek. I should be throwing kisses and saying good-bye to all of it.

A round drone camera outside the hovercar shimmies closer to me, obstructing my view. Its eyes never blink as it attempts to catch my mood, my movement, any reaction that can be shared, pulled apart, and overanalyzed by a violently bored society of firstborns. I stare back blankly, giving the Diamond-Fated media nothing to gossip about.

“When we arrive at the secondborn Stone Forest Base, at the Golden Transition Circle,” Dune says, “there will be more cameras. You’re to make your speech there before processing.” I’ve come to recognize Dune’s brooding tone. The first time I recall hearing it, I was no more than six or seven. We were training with fusionblades on the pristine lawn behind the estate. It was dawn, and the fresh dew had turned the blades of grass silver. A pack of wolfhounds, giant beasts with vicious jaws and claws that patrol the grounds at night, was being called back to its pens for feeding. Fleet and ferocious, they raced across the wet lawn—black canines streaking like phantom shadows.

As I sparred with Dune, matching his strikes with sizzling strokes from my own much smaller sword, I stepped back, down the slope of a small hill, and stumbled over a lump in my path. Falling, I rolled away and sprang up, but what I saw brought bile to my mouth. Nightfall had resulted in the slaughter of one wolfhound, left in pieces but still breathing shallowly. Its mandible was broken. Its pink tongue hung out of its mouth. Sparking circuitry bristled beneath its organic exterior.

“Someone has slaughtered a maginot!”

I knelt by its side and reached to stroke its ebony fur, but Dune stayed my hand. He crouched next to me. “It wasn’t a someone that did this, Roselle. Its own pack tore it to pieces.” Carrion circled above our heads, waiting to move in on the carcass.

“Why would they do that?” I watched the shallow rise and fall of the wounded cyborg’s torso.

“It must have displayed a weakness—a limp, a tic, an uncharacteristic frequency—something that they perceived as threatening to the pack.”

I placed a childish hand on its flank, feeling its thready breathing. “But if it was broken, it could’ve been repaired.”

“It outlived its usefulness, so it was killed. There’s something to be learned in that.”

“Never outlive my usefulness?”

“Never, ever trust the pack.” With that, he raised his sword and sliced open the whirling brain of the canine, extinguishing its operating system. The smell of burning dog flesh rose from its corpse.

The memory fades as the drone camera veers upward from my window to get an aerial shot. I return to watching the buildings lining the thoroughfare, trying to lose my thoughts in their beauty. A golden face flashes in the crowd, distracts me from the architecture. Its featureless mask shines from beneath a shrouded hood, dazzling with rays of simulated sunlight. In a blink, he’s behind us. I look back, but he has melted into the crowd. “Did you see that?” I ask Dune.

He gazes out my window. “See what?” We turn another corner. The street grows narrower.

“I thought I saw something bright.” The crowd closes in, the whack of red roses growing louder with their nearness.

Dune clears his throat, touching a switch on the console that turns off the monitors and microphones. “After your speech, there won’t be time for us to say good-bye, Roselle. We should do that here. Now.”

A thousand things that I want to say—need to say—come to mind, but I can’t seem to get them past the growing lump in my throat. My vision blurs with unshed tears.

“You don’t have to say anything, Roselle, just listen. I’m going away. I’ve left my position with your mother.”

It takes me a moment to process this. “Where will you go?” I ask, knowing that it really doesn’t matter. I won’t be allowed to see him again.

“I’ve been accepted as personal security for Clarity Bowie. I leave for the capital city today. I’ll be in their fatedom by this evening.”

“You’re going to Purity? But what about my mother—Gabriel? They need you.”

“They don’t need me,” he snaps, his bitterness filling the air around us. “I raised you. I trained you. You’re all that matters now.”

I’m stunned by his words. “I . . . matter?”

“More than you know.”

My eyes brim with fresh tears. I can’t imagine Dune as far away as the Fate of Virtues. He’ll live in the lavish capital city of Purity, and I’ll be here. I’ve never even been outside my Fate.

“There’s a man—secondborn—Walther Petes. Say his name.”

“Walther Petes.” It comes out in a croak.

“Find him after they place you. He’s stationed somewhere in this fatedom. He’ll get word to me and tell me where you are.”

“Who is he?” I ask.

“My brother.”

“But . . . your last name is Kodaline.”

“Is it?” Dune’s eyebrow lifts.

“Isn’t it?” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “You’ll always be my firstborn, Roselle, even if you’re not of my blood. I’ll find you when it’s time.”

The lump in my throat bobs. “Time for what?”

“Time for our paths to cross again.”

“But—” My questions are interrupted by the Vicolt’s windscreen coming back online. Dune shoots me a look that orders discretion.

Seville frowns at us from her hologram. “Is everything all right?” she asks, her voice piping through our headrests. “We lost audio and our visual was obscured.”

Dune leans forward and flicks the microphones back on. “We’re fine. I must have tripped this by mistake.”

Seville lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad to hear you’re doing well. Is there anything you need?”

“No,” he replies.

I stare out the window once more, half listening as Dune makes small talk with our navigator, but my mind is reeling. Who is Dune? Do I even know him? But of course I do. He taught me everything I know. I owe him my very existence. Without him, I’d have had no love at all.

I want to ask him more questions, but Seville refuses to shut up so we can mute the microphone. I feign interest in the scenery, hoping she’ll get the hint. The gorgeous buildings begin to fade from sight, replaced by less grand structures. Everything is foreign-looking now. I’ve not been this far from the Sword Palace estate in my entire life. The crowds are just as ardent here, though—their roses just as bright, though their clothing is less posh, more practical.

A glimmer of light catches my eye, a golden mask in the crowd. It’s really a visor attached to a combat helmet. I’ve never seen one like it. The visor has illuminated striations of sunlight, as if a small sun is caught beneath the shrouded hood of the man’s dark cloak. Another visor passes by in the crowd—and then another. Dark galaxies obscure the faces of other masked men, their visors a swirl of stars and violet nebulae. Copper-colored atoms orbit the surface of other masks. Rippling blue water forms concentric circles on others.

Our hovercar slows, detecting an obstruction. Ahead of us, through Seville’s talking head, a man stands in the middle of the road. He’s wearing a mask of the night sky. His visor obscures his features. A black cape blows around his powerful shoulders. Black leather polymer covers his chest and torso. Scrolling iron gates are etched into the plates of his armor. His legs, planted in a wide stance, are clad in black combat boots.

I’ve never seen armor like his, only Swords armor worn by Fate of Swords soldiers. To have other Fates represented in combat is unprecedented. It violates the purpose of our Fate.

“Gates of Dawn,” Dune murmurs. “Accelerate to maximum speed. Do not avoid the obstruction.”

Seville’s image disappears. The hovercar lurches forward with murderous velocity. Dune’s smile falls when the night-faced man sidesteps the chrome hood and avoids being struck. His swirling black cape blots out the sunlight through my window. In his hand, the petals of a white flower skim past my window like lightning.

Shifting in my seat, I stare out the back, watching the renegade turn back to face us. Suddenly hundreds of white flowers pelt us from all angles. They’re calla lilies—death flowers. The last time I saw them was when my grandfather died and his body was displayed in a funeral precession to his tomb at Killian Abbey.

I flinch as a stone crashes into my window, cracking the glass near my face. A mountain range shifts across the visor of the man who threw it. Other Stone-masked men begin to throw rocks, leaving dimples in the Vicolt’s veneer.

Dune leans forward. He touches the navigation screens, pulling up maps and charts. A manual control panel activates, exposing the Vicolt’s operating system. “Seville.”

“Patrøn?” Seville’s voice sounds confused.

“I’m deviating from the planned route.” He engages the wings, which slip out on either side, transforming the vehicle into an aircraft.

“But, Patrøn, protocol dictates—”

“I don’t care about protocol!”

The vehicle’s wings begin to retract. “You’re to remain in glide mode,” Seville says with a phony smile. “Wingers have been dispatched to clear the area of enemy forces. You’ll proceed on the designated route as planned. Everything is under control—”

Dune leans forward and disconnects the circuitry beneath the console. The heads-up display disappears. “Message received,” he mumbles. He tries to engage the wings, but they’re still controlled by Seville and her team. Outside, people are panicking, running from the masked men. The Vicolt slows to a stop. We idle as the Gates of Dawn soldiers form a wide circle around us. “We’ve become bait, Roselle. Protocol dictates we wait for troops to arrive to annihilate the threat.”

“How close are our troops?” My hand grips my sword on my hip.

“I don’t know. The Gates aren’t attacking us, Roselle. They’re waiting.” He opens the Vicolt’s door and climbs out. “Stay here.” He closes the door. Drawing his fusionblade, he cuts through stones thrown at him, pulverizing most into dust and taking hits from others as he makes his way back to where the night-masked soldier walks slowly toward us. I wonder why our enemies are throwing stones. Surely they have more sophisticated weapons at their disposal—unless they were unable to smuggle them into our fatedom. I try to see the monikers on their hands, but gloves cover them, shrouding their true origins.

The gruesome night-faced man has already traded his flower for a fusionblade. The sword swishes in his black-gloved hand. Dune moves to meet him. My heart hammers. I can’t leave my mentor out there alone, unprotected. Disobeying Dune’s direct order, I fumble with my door. It swings open and I jump from the hovercar, drawing my sword. Drone cameras circle us.

The sky begins to rumble with troopships and death drones. The traitor in black tilts his masked face up. He extinguishes his sword, sheathing it. From the lining of his cape, he pulls out a silver orb that fits in the palm of his hand. He rests his thumb on top of it. Dune skids to a halt and looks up. Enormous airships soar above us. He glances over his shoulder at me, then starts waving his arms, fear carving lines in his face.

Our enemy depresses the button on the device in his palm. I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating a catastrophic explosion. But nothing happens. I open my eyes. My sword has gone out. I shake it, hoping to reignite it. It’s as useless as a brick. Confused, I search for Dune. He reaches me, grasping my shoulders, turning me back toward the hovercar. Beside us, something falls from the sky and crashes onto the metal pavers. It’s a drone camera. Another one crashes and shatters, and then another. Our enemies begin retreating, melting into the fleeing crowd.

Dune shoves me in the direction of the Vicolt. I lift my face to the sky. A troopship above us pitches to the side, its thunderous sound replaced by the soughs it creates as it falls.