Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(41)

“I’m not a god.”

“So you say.”

“How come you didn’t drown in the throne room?”

“I’m part dragon. I can hold my breath a long time—slow down my heart, stop it when necessary. But also, it’s because I’m a god.”

“Right,” I reply, trying to keep the sarcasm from my tone, “because you’re someone who knew the original Roselle. When was that again?”

“Eh?”

“When was your last life, when you knew the other Roselle?”

“I don’t know time. All I know is that it was vastly different from the squalor I’ve been subjected to here.”

“How do you know that’s real? How do you know your memories weren’t given to you at some stage of your development, by a technician?”

“My memories are authentic,” he replies defensively. “I can recall every one of my lifetimes. I was there when you tore down Hyperion’s temple on the Cliffs of Agamaya. You slaughtered all his followers. It was gruesome and ugly, like everything you do.”

“Did—like everything I did. If you’re going to insist that I’m somehow Roselle the Death Maker—”

“The Harbinger of Death.”

“Yeah, her—then let’s talk about it in the past tense, because I’m not a god anymore. I’m just a woman.”

“Who drowns and comes back to life, who conjures weapons from thin air, who controls others with her mind.”

“But I—that’s not me. I mean it is me, but I’m not doing it. I mean, I’m doing it, but I have this thing in my head.”

“I had a thing in my head, too, until it melted. It did not give me the powers you possess.”

“Yours was different from mine, or so I’m told.”

“Well, if you see Hyperion, I wouldn’t tell him you’re not a god. He might still be angry about Agamaya. In fact, don’t tell him I’m helping you. You’re our sworn enemy. It will reflect poorly on me.”

“What?” I pause for a moment with my mouth hanging open. I snap it shut, and then I hurry along the tunnel for several miles beside Cherno, badgering him with questions. He’s completely delusional, like insane times infinity, but some of the things he tells me raise goose bumps on my skin. Before long, the air blows colder and the tunnel slopes upward. The stone walls roughen as the passageway narrows. We can no longer walk side by side, but must go on single file. The cries of gulls break the silence. Ahead, a transparent force field covers the opening to the beach. The hum coming from the force field gives it away, along with the faint, shimmering reflection of us in it as we near. On the other side of the fortification, waves surge upon the shore at mid-tide.

Phoenix pauses before the security wall. It’s the type of barrier that allows air to pass through it, but not living beings. Gusts of bracing wind billow in, lifting and twirling my hair. The sun’s light on the water wrings a small breathy sound from me. Dangerous, what it does—instilling hope that my life can go on after all this. Reykin must have control over the force field, because the security wall falls away, allowing us to pass through the crag onto the shore.

I yank off my wet boots, even though it’s cold. Sand presses between my toes. I stagger toward the frigid surf foaming onto the beach. Waves steal around my ankles. Hawthorne’s face floats in my memory. The first time I saw the sea, I was with him, in an airship, on our way to war.

I killed my best friend. Heart-wrenching emptiness envelops me.

“What now?” Cherno asks, joining me in the tide. He left Ransom sprawled behind us on the sand.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“For them to decide if they want to take a chance on us.”

“Them?”

“The resistance—if they even exist anymore.”

“We don’t need them. We have allies.”

“Who?”

“Gods.”

“The sleeping ones?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to awaken gods?”

“Not me. You.”

“Why do you think they’re sleeping?”

“They would never allow Crow to exist if they were awake.”

Behind us, Gates of Dawn soldiers materialize from alcoves in jagged rocks along the bottom of the cliff. I knew they were there. I’d felt them—their life forces, energy. It’s all connected. And as with all things, I’m one with it. High-powered weapons train on Cherno and me. From the shadow of the rocks, a figure emerges. At first I convince myself it’s Dune, my mentor, even though I know it’s not. Daltrey Leon, Dune’s older brother, strides toward Ransom alone. His dark hair catches the ocean breeze and stirs around his shoulders. His combat armor isn’t the same as when I fought the Gates of Dawn on the battlefield. It’s newly issued and bears the signature lines of a designer I know well. Clifton. The etching in the breastplate’s armor forms gates.

The soldiers with Daltrey hang back. Their weapons aim at me. They know I’ve been Crow’s assassin for a month at least. They probably believe I’m still mind-controlled—that this is a trap to draw them out into the open. Wariness in Daltrey’s sandy eyes confirms it.

I feel Reykin nearby—the essence of him. I can detect his scent on the breeze. My senses are heightened. I’ve changed. Death has given me a new understanding of life. I feel the blue of the sky—not the color, but the frequency. I feel all the frequencies. They can be my armor.