Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(3)

Dune’s appearance hasn’t changed. Even standing a few steps behind his sovereign at the railing, he’s the taller, more powerful-looking figure. His long dark hair is swept from his face in a knot at the back of his head. The length of his hair hangs to his shoulders, not a bit of gray in it or in his beard. The intensity of his sand-colored eyes weighs on me. He stares, unblinking.

Malcolm barrels at me with his sword aloft, exposing every inch of himself for me to carve up. I duck under his downward swing, raising my fusionblade and angling it just short of the firstborn’s ear. Several locks of his stylish hair float to the floor. His cheeks burn with fury. Guffaws from Grisholm fill the air. The firstborn claps and shouts, “I was just saying how your hair needed a new style, ol’ boy!” Grisholm’s voice booms through the automated voice amplification in the room, making him sound like a god on high.

Malcolm says nothing. He grits his teeth and lowers his head, careening toward me again, overwrought-gorilla style. Wrapping the fabric of the banner hanging from the ceiling around my wrist, I clutch it in my fist and swing away. My feet touch down in the center of the sparring circle. I release the drape. It floats backward, covering Malcolm’s face in a swath of gold. He snarls, snatching it away from his eyes.

“Roselle!” Dune barks. I flinch.

Immediately, I attack Malcolm, swinging my fusionblade with blurring speed. It whirls, making shadows bleed with golden light. Malcolm lurches back until he stumbles and falls at the edge of the circle. His sword tumbles out of reach. Chin pointing at the ceiling, he cowers at my feet. The deadly point of my sword singes the hairs on his throat. Sweat slides down his cheeks, and his Adam’s apple bobs in silent agony.

We wait, neither of us moving. Cold fear whistles through me. Malcolm feels it, too, if his shudder is any indication. Will The Virtue order Malcolm’s death? My stomach curls and knots, but my hands stay steady. Patience is power in its truest form.

If I must kill him, his pain ends. Mine lives on.

Malcolm’s eyes stare up—the color of November moons.

“Roselle, you may”—The Virtue pauses; Malcolm holds his breath—“execute him.”

Malcolm emits a strangled sob.

Grisholm jumps to his feet. “Wait! Hold, Roselle! Father!”

I remain still, awaiting confirmation of the kill order.

“He’s Edmund Burton’s firstborn!” Grisholm pleads. “Burton Weapons Manufacturing supplies all of the munitions to our military.”

The Virtue glowers at his son from across the open air of the balcony level. “Not anymore. We have new contracts. Salloway Munitions will supply our weapons, as well as new armor for our Sword soldiers. Clifton has developed secret military vehicles—ones that won’t drop out of the sky if fusion power is disrupted.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Grisholm replies with a note of desperation, “but why kill Malcolm? He has nothing to do with the military contracts. He has been my loyal friend for years.”

Gripping the marble railing, The Virtue’s knuckles turn bloodless. “Edmund Burton is Othala’s man.”

Grisholm raises his shoulders in confusion. “So?”

“So, he’d be the one to supply The Sword with the kind of support she’d need for a military coup.”

Grisholm chuckles in derision. “That’s absurd. Othala St. Sismode can barely look you in the eyes, let alone overthrow you.”

“You’re blind,” The Virtue snarls. “I’ve raised a fool!”

“Then enlighten me.”

“Othala will do anything to protect her firstborn.”

“Protect Gabriel from whom?”

“From us,” Grisholm’s father replies.

“Because of her!” Grisholm points to me. “Because you brought her here!”

“Roselle’s a much better choice to stand by your side and defend you from our enemies than Gabriel. He’s weak. Your enemies will destroy you with him running the Fate of Swords. Roselle will make them cower at your feet.” The Virtue tips his head in my direction. Malcolm trembles in fear.

“Malcolm isn’t my enemy!” Grisholm retorts.

“He has taught you nothing!” his father says scornfully. “You can barely hold a sword!”

“No one’s allowed to hurt me!” Exasperation drips from Grisholm’s tone.

“That changes today!” The Virtue replies.

“You cannot kill Malcolm for following the rules you yourself set forth!” A part of me feels a grudging respect for Grisholm as he points out his father’s hypocrisy. He knows loyalty.

“I can do whatever I like. I’m The Virtue.”

“She’s not firstborn. This goes against everything we believe in!”

“Exceptions have to be made from time to time to maintain power,” The Virtue replies.

“Malcolm is more valuable to you alive,” Dune interjects, the low resonance of his voice bolstered by the amplifiers. “Burton won’t help Othala if you hold his firstborn and secondborn sons. Keeping Malcolm close and detaining his secondborn brother, Kendrick, would serve to collar Edmund’s ambitions, instead of giving him a reason to strike.”

“You really expect a coup?” Grisholm asks. The Firstborn Commander’s arrogant smirk is absent now.