Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(2)
Firstborn Malcolm Burton’s dark hair tangles in wet clumps on his brow. He raises the back of his left hand to his tense jaw. Golden light from Malcolm’s sword-shaped moniker quivers over his flushed cheek. I bet Malcolm never saw this coming when he awoke this morning. He’s been mentor to Grisholm Wenn-Bowie, the heir to the Fate of Virtues, for years, and as the firstborn son of Edmund Burton, my mother’s military arms dealer, he has never had to fight for the position. The Burtons are part of the Sword aristocracy. It’s beneath Malcolm’s status to spar with me, a secondborn, but The Virtue insisted.
The tips of Malcolm’s ears turn red, and he hisses when my weapon burns the flesh of his upper arm. Lucky for him I switched my fusionblade to training mode. He gets to keep his appendage, but the black fabric of his Exo uniform ignites where I struck him, curling at the edges with orange embers.
“It’s time for me . . .” Malcolm says between panting breaths, “to stop . . . going . . . easy on you.” His pride is shaken. His free hand pats out the small flame. Tendrils of smoke and the scent of singed skin assail me. I’m used to it. With my ex-mentor, Dune, it was usually my flesh that burned.
“By all means,” I reply, “stop.” I pause to allow Malcolm to recover and reset. Using my thumb, I dial the energy output of my fusionblade back up to the most lethal setting. Malcolm’s sword never left kill mode. I should keep that in mind.
“I normally don’t fight women,” he growls, his dark eyebrows drawing together scornfully. “Or secondborns.”
I show no emotion. “A fusionblade is a great equalizer. It doesn’t care about gender, size, strength, or birth order.” Dune used to say this to me whenever I complained about losing to him.
When Malcolm’s ready, I half-heartedly block his lopsided strike with my own assault, beating him back several feet. A part of me longs to feel the scorching heat of his blade, any pain to replace the hollowness in my chest. My ego, however, won’t allow it. Losing even an inch of ground to Malcolm is more than I can bear.
I’m isolated in the gilded cage of the Halo Palace—cut off. Everything could use a restart. Especially Grisholm. I glance at the twenty-two-year-old Firstborn Commander. He’s above us on the observation balcony, overlooking our sparring circle. A shaft of sunlight kisses his skin. His elbow leans on the arm of a throne of gold, and he rests his chin on his fist, his halo-shaped moniker projecting a glow onto his sultry smile, as if to encircle and highlight it.
A steep flight of gleaming gold steps separates him from us. Golden Gothic pillars support the balcony, fanning out at the high ceiling like ribs. Near each pillar, a hovering stinger drone buzzes. The automated, black-armored assault guards resemble wasps that emit a hum as they ping the monikers in the room, ensuring that no unauthorized person gets too close to the heir to the Fates Republic.
Grisholm lifts his head from his hand and swipes the holographic screen of his moniker. The glass wall behind him opens, allowing a soft breeze from the roiling sea to tussle his hair. The long golden curtains decorating the royal sparring circle flap and billow in the wind. At Grisholm’s back, over two thousand stone steps descend to the ocean. I run them a few times a day.
“Here’s some sea air for you, Malcolm,” Grisholm calls from above. “You’re looking a little overheated.”
“I’m just getting”—Malcolm pants—“warmed up.” He tries to avoid my fusionblade, but he’s too slow. I dial down the weapon so that I only burn him with the searing tip across his thigh. He winces and lurches away. I let him put some space between us while I glance up at Grisholm again.
Grisholm should be training, not lazing around watching us. He’s weak with Malcolm as a mentor and military attaché. Privilege, not merit, must have played a part in the decision to employ Malcolm in that role. Or caution. Fear of Grisholm being hurt has risen to a level I haven’t encountered before—not even my brother, Gabriel, has been this sheltered from pain.
At the other end of the gallery, Clarity Bowie observes the sparring match. He summoned me today to Grisholm’s training facility, sending his personal valet with a handwritten note. In it, The Virtue hinted that I might be an improvement in the role of Grisholm’s mentor. I peer up. The leader leans against the railing, his elbows resting on the marble. He’s well built for a middle-aged man. The strength of his stare bores into us. I wonder if he knows I’m only playing with Firstborn Malcolm—prolonging this battle—hoping his son’s mentor will do something amazing so he can keep his job.
Beside Clarity Bowie, Dune watches me silently. My heartbeat drums harder. I haven’t had a private moment with my former mentor since coming here. He greeted me when I arrived two nights ago, and we walked together from the airship across the butterfly sanctuary in the south lawn. We talked only of trivialities because The Virtue had been present. Dune’s look, at the time, demanded discretion, but I already knew this lavish fortress would be infested with hidden-camera drones and listening devices, just like the Sword Palace. I’d hoped that we’d be able to meet alone at some point, but Dune’s duties with the demanding ruler of Virtue are such that it hasn’t been possible.
Malcolm trips when I sidestep his advance. He tries to right himself. I give him a shove in the back with my foot to send him farther from me. He huffs and puffs, winded by the exertion. I haven’t broken a sweat.