Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(21)
“Will it be hard for you to betray him?” I ask, but Reykin is already asleep.
Chapter 5
Ebb Tide
He’s not going to show.
I lie in the center of the sparring circle staring up at the intricate golden ceiling of Grisholm’s training facility. Lifting my hand, I stare at my moniker’s timekeeper. Grisholm is officially three hours late for his scheduled training. I think it’s safe to say he’s never coming. He has been a no-show to every single session I’ve scheduled for him in the past few days.
I rise to my feet and climb the golden steps to the balcony. Nothing stirs here but the breeze from the sea. I wander out onto the shimmering terrace. The stone is veined with gold, glinting in the morning sun. The blue sky—uncluttered by airships, which are restricted from flying near the Halo Palace—still holds the warmth of summer here, even as we have slipped into autumn.
The view overlooks the stone stairs that wind through the jagged cliff to the water below. I pull off my protective wrist shields and hauberk setting them aside. My sleeveless under-armor top and lightweight leggings are warm enough for a jog along the shore. Descending the uneven steps to the sandy beach, I discard my footwear. My toes sink into the white powdery grit. I stroll to the water. It’s always a shock, the coolness of the sea as it settles around my ankles. I remember my first view of the ocean with Hawthorne and wonder what he’s doing right now—if he’s all right. If he’s alive. My heart burns from the agony of not knowing.
I turn my gaze toward the cliff again. Lavish white silken tents topped with streaming golden pennants stand ready along the shore, erected on the off chance that one of the firstborn residents of the Palace will need to use them. None of them does. I’m alone—the only visitor.
Secondborn Stone-Fated attendants stand near the tents to cater to firstborn royalty. I lift my hand to acknowledge them. Their heads lean together in suspicion, trying to figure out why Secondborn Roselle St. Sismode is in the Fate of Virtues when she should be off fighting the Gates of Dawn. I’ve been treated like an extreme outsider by all the secondborns I’ve encountered since I arrived. No one speaks to me. It’s as if they fear me, but why I can only guess.
I jog along the shore in the direction I haven’t explored yet. The tide is ebbing. It’s peaceful, and I hardly break a sweat in the thirty minutes it takes to reach the end of the inlet. Rounding the high cliff wall of the cove, I slow to a halt. Ahead, tall stone spires reach toward the sky from a small island in the middle of the sea. Waves crash around the jagged rocks and slate-colored stone walls. The retreating water uncovers a sandbar that leads to the arching gates of the medieval fortress. I’m captivated by the triangular white flags on the forbidding parapets, each pennant adorned with a silver halo.
The arching mouth of the castle is open. Heavy doors with a sea-foam patina stand wide. A slow procession of women emerges from the yawning maw of the castle. They travel toward the shore along a small strip of sand. At the center of the parade, a young blond woman in a flowy white dress wades gracefully through the shallow surf, holding her long skirt in her hand, exposing her ankles to the sunlight. Death literally hovers over her in the form of ten black, bat-winged death drones. The drones cast cold shadows onto the sand and water around her. Seagulls fall silent as they near, scattering in the presence of the drones.
A team of secondborns scurries around the beach. Stone-Fated workers set up tents and awnings and direct a hovering easel into place. A half-executed oil painting adorns the canvas in a palette of bright hues. Paintbrushes of various sizes levitate next to the easel. Secondborns with the white roiling wave monikers of the Fate of Seas amble around, digging up clams and throwing out nets and woven traps.
Before I can circumvent the party, the young woman in the white dress drops her hem, allowing water and sand to soak it as she hurries to me. The death drones follow her. “Roselle St. Sismode!” she gushes. “I’d heard rumors that you’d come to Virtues!”
Recognition dawns abruptly. It’s Balmora, a younger version of her mother, Adora. “Hello, Secondborn Commander,” I reply with a deep nod of my head.
Balmora Virtue, formerly Wenn-Bowie before her Transition, is hardly ever photographed or shown on the visual screen. As the spare heir to the title of The Virtue, she’s kept from the public eye so as not to be a distraction to the true heir. Her secondborn Virtue-Fated attendants move away from us to a discrete distance, but their eyes and ears are all tuned to our conversation. Based on their upscale attire and silver halo monikers, I’d guess they’re secondborns of other prominent families in Virtues—all but one of them, a secondborn Stone-Fated girl around the age of twelve. She hovers near Balmora.
“How long has it been since I last saw you at the Sword Palace?” Balmora asks.
“I was ten, so nine years ago?” I ask.
“That sounds about right. I was eleven, I believe.”
“I’m surprised you remember me.”
Her eyes grow wide. “I remember you quite vividly, Roselle! How could I forget? You smashed a clock over Grisholm’s head! I also see you almost every day on the visual screen, running through a barrage of explosions or shooting at your enemies.” She holds up her hand with her thumb up and two fingers out in the shape of a fusionmag, popping off rounds. Her pouty mouth curls into a snarl. She isn’t mocking me, it’s more like admiration.