Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(24)

Our boots stomp the ground. People in the street scatter. Ticker-tape words slither around sharp-edged cornerstones and over elegant architecture while a booming, tinny voice from somewhere above us barks out dire warnings. “We are Census. We are everywhere. We are inside your sons, your daughters, your parents, your neighbors, and your friends. We are in firstborns. We are in secondborns. Do not resist us. The Fate of Swords is dead. Report to the Census Bureau nearest you to receive your new moniker today! Become a number!”

I’m not sure what scares Swords most—Census’s appalling new social order, the uniformity of the cyborg army, or me, their symbol of Sword piety, sporting a Black-O moniker and leading the charge to the Sword Palace.

We reach the security gate. Spectrum sends a signal for me to stop, so I do. Cherno and I stand at attention in the street. The bracing wind lifts wisps of my hair against my cheek, but I don’t raise a hand to brush them away. The metal-infused men and women behind us form single-file lines and take up positions against the Palace fence facing the street.

I feel the cagey mental pacing of these enhanced Black-O minds stalking me. The mental barrier I’ve erected against them keeps them back. Spectrum’s inaudible siren wailing slips through to me uninhibited, because I’m not trying to block its programming . . . yet. Wordlessly, my body reacts to its influential call.

Following the summoning of the AI, only Cherno and I turn and traverse the street to the guard post. Our steps are much less stern or pounding now—but the gait isn’t mine. It makes me feel like a stranger in my own body.

We climb the stone steps of the dark, foreboding Sword Palace in synchronicity. Doors held by servants I don’t recognize swing wide for us. Cobalt-blue light glows up from the doorman’s left hand. It’s a moniker identification I’ve never seen before—numbers at least twenty digits long hover above pale flesh, turning it a cadaverous hue. It takes my entire focus not to turn my head and study it further.

Cherno and I cross the Grand Foyer, desecrating with our sharp bootheels the Fate of Swords crest inlaid in the marble floor. Everything I look at invokes vague childhood memories, until we get to the St. Sismode elite’s private family residences—Mother, Father, and Gabriel’s personal living and entertaining quarters. I’ve rarely been permitted inside their hallowed walls.

Verdant and gray stones line the passageways. Thick tapestries soften the walls and deaden the sound. Weathered weapons stand behind gleaming glass at equal intervals. Military armor spanning the millennia act as tour guides through the St. Sismode legacy, embodying our dominance and ability to endure change over time—to evolve when necessary.

The passageway forks. The one we take funnels downward, winding around and around on a spiraling ramp. We descend several levels. The dizzying snail’s-shell structure flattens. We walk along a cold, damp hallway. Finally, we come to a part of the Sword Palace that I never knew existed. The Spectrum programming stops us in front of a colossal golden broadsword with the sharp point directed into the stone floor. If it were a real sword, it could be wielded only by a giant. It stands at least a story high. The crease down its middle indicates that it’s a huge entryway. One side of the golden sword swings open, shaking the ground and revealing a medieval throne room and hall where behemoths could sit and hold council.

The summons by Spectrum become almost irresistible. The urgency of its draw now has a sickening, sinister feeling woven into it—a coldness. My instincts tell me to resist, to not be drawn into the trap almost certainly awaiting me ahead. The alternative would be to run. I already know it’s too late for that—it’s been too late for that since the moment I was hurled off the platform into the arms of a Black-O at the Silver Halo. Whatever this is, I have to face it alone.

Cherno and I share the same rhythm as we enter the great hall as one, our steps echoing in unison. My jaw tightens, and my fingers ache to reach for a fusionblade that isn’t there.

The walls are carved stone, depicting ancient battles. The stunning renditions must have been done by masterful artists. They remind me of the ornate carvings that decorate the floors high above us. In front of the murals stand several rows of Black-Os. Their savage minds hack at mine, fighting to force me into their mental horde. My mind fends them off, just as it did the others—with fierce aggression. I beat them back with a powerful frequency that pierces their minds, causing them pain. Their ghostly spirits cower from me as I continue to move.

I focus on the hall. The broadsword-shaped glass ceiling allows slanting sunlight into the mystical chamber. The light wavers in watery patterns, throwing diamonds everywhere. My heartbeat quickens.

I know where we are! We’re beneath the sword-shaped water feature in the formal gardens! It lies between the Sword Palace and the St. Sismode family shrine.

The pool itself is protected from trespassing by an invisible energy barrier, allowing in only small robots with limited AI programmed to clean the pool. Signs posted around it warn pedestrians of the lethal security measures. Even with that, several Stone servants die each year attempting to reach it—maybe they can’t read and want to swim, or maybe they no longer want to live. I believe it’s the latter.

Ahead of us, a dais with two enormous gilded thrones occupies the hilt of the great hall at the far end. My mother and Agent Crow occupy the glimmering metallic seats. Each of the newly minted monarchs wears a golden crown. Agent Crow bears the one belonging to The Sword. The sharp points of its metallic blades circle his ashy hair, lending him height. Othala wears my father’s crown—the Fated Sword’s—upon her dark, flowing hair. The crown’s smaller blades are ringed by golden halos. It takes everything I have to keep my face expressionless.