Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(69)

A temple to a god isn’t an unfair way to describe Clifton’s not-so-humble abode. The stairs lead to an open-aired portico with large cauldrons on either side of the entrance. Walls of black stone run with water. Stone pillars—with twisting rose vines studded with large white blooms—support the main floor. Inside the magnificent stone structure, enamel tiles with pale roses on them cover the floor.

We find our way through to another lush garden. At its center sits a round, dark-stained, wooden table that must be hundreds of years old. Clifton shows me to a seat at the table and orders tea from one of his staff. The young man bows and walks away silently. Reykin sits beside me. Cherno gravitates to the seat beside him. The dragon-man lifts an unlit candle from the table and studies it for a moment before pursing his lips and blowing. The wick ignites, and Cherno sets the ceramic candleholder back with a gentle hand.

Helpless to resist a smile, I try to hide it behind my hand. A tea set is brought out, along with a light repast. Reykin peppers Clifton with questions about his city. I’m content to listen to them. After a few minutes, labored footsteps approach. Ransom walks into the room with robotic steps. Clad in a Gates of Dawn uniform, he looks like a rebel. He has a brace on his left knee and a slight grimace on his face. Sweat beads on his brow and upper lip. He smiles at Clifton and bows his head in greeting.

“You have a lot of stairs,” Ransom quips, wiping his brow with a small kerchief. He’s pale and in pain but vastly improved from the last time I saw him.

The chair next to mine scrapes against the floor. Reykin stands and turns to greet his brother for the first time in years. Initially, the two just stare at each other. Reykin snaps out of it first, reaches for Ransom, and clasping him around his shoulders, draws his brother in for a tight hug. Ransom’s face scrunches up like he’s fighting tears. I look away and lift my tea to take a sip. I set the delicate cup down before glancing at Clifton. He’s watching me. His strong hand reaches out and covers mine. He gives me a little squeeze, as if he knows I was desperate for a reunion like this with my own brother, and when it happened, I was too late to change our destinies.

“I missed you,” Reykin says when they release each other.

Ransom uses his kerchief to wipe the mist from his eyes. “Yeah, me, too.”

“You got big!” Reykin’s a hair shorter than his brother. They look so much alike—same vulpine shape to their faces, same aquamarine eyes, dark hair, jawline, and complexion. It makes me wonder if their other brothers resemble them, too.

“Naw, you shrunk,” Ransom replies with a gravelly voice.

“Would you like to sit?” Reykin asks, offering his chair to Ransom, who nods and takes a seat.

“Here, Reykin. Sit next to your brother.” I pop up from my chair and move to the other side of Clifton. Reykin sits in the chair I vacated. An attendant enters and pours Ransom a cup of tea before leaving again.

“How are you feeling?” I ask Ransom.

“I have a massive headache that won’t go away, but I don’t care, because the voices in my head are gone. I don’t have to inject beta-blockers anymore. It’s just me in there now.” Ransom gazes at Cherno, and then at me again. “You two got me out of the Sword Palace.”

“Reykin helped,” I reply, smiling in his brother’s direction. “He showed us the way to the beach and brought a rescue team.” I leave out the part where Daltrey tried to kill us.

Ransom looks shocked. “I didn’t believe it when I woke up in that vessel with those soldiers—the Gates of Dawn. I thought I was deep inside Spectrum and it was a ploy to get me to talk. I sometimes still don’t believe I’m out of there—beyond Spectrum’s control. I didn’t think it was possible, but I can’t feel its signal. I thought they’d be able to get to me anywhere, but the depth we’re at doesn’t allow for it. We’re out of range for the piece-of-crap implant in my brain.” He has the vulnerability of a lab rabbit who just escaped the pen but isn’t sure which way to run yet.

“I think I may have had some contact,” I say, “not with Spectrum exactly . . . but maybe an individual who’s trapped inside.” I select an almond sliver from a bowl in front of me and eat it. It has a honey coating. I take a couple more.

“I’m not surprised,” Ransom replies, lifting his teacup to his lips. His hand trembles. “Your implant should dominate all the others. It was made to create avenues in your mind that access and expand your cerebral cortex. What we need to do is work on infiltrating Spectrum so we can reverse engineer its existing world to suit us.”

“That sounds great,” I reply, “if I can live long enough to master the implant in my head.”

“What contacted you, and what did it want?” Ransom asks. “You’re sure it wasn’t Spectrum’s ploy to entrap you?”

“I’m not sure about anything. What I know is that I’ve seen Hawthorne twice in the span of a day or so. Both times he appeared in a reflective surface. The second time, he looked to be calling my name, but I couldn’t hear him.”

“So you don’t know what he wants.”

“Yes, I do,” I reply. “He wants me to get him out of Spectrum.”

“Does he know he’s dead?” Ransom asks. He reads my surprised expression and adds, “I saw him in the morgue when I checked on your body.”