Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(5)
Chapter 2
No Sudden Moves
Gabriel has changed so much since we last spoke. Once upon a time, he would sneak into my training sessions to watch me fight. He’d ask me to teach him combat—a boy in love with war but with no one to instruct him in the art. No one dared raise a hand to him. Now he’s a man—a man doing everything in his power to forget that he’s firstborn.
My heart feels sore as I gaze at his reflection. He has a puffy, night-after look about him. He’s probably still coming down from some drug-induced fun. He and his firstborn crowd are notorious for their fetes, which are little more than excuses to get intoxicated and destroy their palatial apartments, leaving the wreckage for the secondborns of their estates to sort out. I hear his secondborn attendants whisper about it when they think I’m not listening.
On a normal day, they say he doesn’t leave his apartment before noon. I’m a little surprised he has made this exception for me. It hadn’t been easy for him, as his appearance attests. He’s too thin. His shoulders lack the bulk of muscle that men of the guard achieve through constant physical training. Gabriel compensates by wearing a thicker cape. The midnight-blue wool attaches to his shoulders with golden clasps in the shape of swords, flowing down his back from his impressive height. It drapes one bicep, the other uncovered. His one-of-a-kind sword is sheathed at his waist—a gift from our maternal grandfather to the heir to The Sword.
I lean against his shoulder. “It shouldn’t be you, Gabriel. You’re not meant for Transition. The Fate of Swords needs you here. It’s you who carries the burden of everyone’s tomorrow.”
Shame turns to anger. “There is no burden! I get everything I want, Roselle. I don’t work for anything. I’m useless.”
“You’re the next Clarity of Swords.”
“I don’t even know how to use the sword that I carry.” His chin juts out. The skin over his cheekbones is gaunt. I wonder when he last had a meal.
“I taught you to fight.”
He snorts. “When you were eleven. I haven’t touched my sword since.” His fingers move to the arch of his eyebrow, where the hair no longer grows. A small white scar runs from his brow over his eyelid to just beneath the bottom lashes of his left eye. I remember the terror of the moment when I sliced through his skin. It had been unintentional, a lapse in concentration, but it cost me almost all contact with the brother I adore.
To my immense relief, he hadn’t lost his eye. It’s still as blue as ever. The wound was superficial, just a graze from the tip of my fusionblade. There was no blood. The intense heat of the golden light of my sword seared his flesh as it moved through.
Gabriel sees me staring at the scar, and his face clouds with shame. “It wasn’t your fault. I begged you to show me how to fight.”
“You threatened to have me sent to Transition if I didn’t. Listen, you look tough, Gabriel. Practice your scowl, and you’ll intimidate the Heritage Council into siding with you on all of your important issues.”
He lets out a small sigh and gives me a grudging smile. “I already do. They all fear me for my ferocious glare.”
They fear your temper. I think of the pieces of gossip passing between Sword guards and Stone chamber workers. “Is that why you haven’t had your scar removed?” I ask. Skin regeneration is commonplace, takes only a few hours, and is nearly painless.
“Mother thought I should keep it.”
His scar is a reminder not to get too close to me. I blink back tears and force a smile. “Ah. Your sneer will be legendary.”
“I’m sorry I never came to see you after . . .”
A sharp pain slices through my heart, a black mark on my soul that mirrors Gabriel’s scar. “I know you were forbidden to see me.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
A part of me is glad he didn’t come right away. Dune had been forced to punish me—twenty lashes with a heavy cane. I couldn’t walk for weeks. But days stretched into years and not a word came to me from Gabriel. I tried to see him countless times, but my requests were always denied. I was reduced to spying on him from windows and balconies—watching reports of him on-screen while he performed ribbon-cutting ceremonies and the like. “You’re here now.”
His eyes blaze with restrained guilt. “You shouldn’t have to go away. I’ll speak to Mother. She’ll see reason—”
“I missed you, Gabriel.”
He fumbles for my hand. His skin is smooth, his palm not calloused from training with a sword. Turning my hand over, he opens my palm, running his fingers across it.
“You’re a fighter.”
“It’s my destiny.”
“I wish it were mine.” His honesty holds a note of jealousy. He turns my hand to the side, his warm fingers following the line of the implant moniker beneath my skin. When his holographic symbol is parallel to mine, our two swords glow golden. A shiver of dread quivers through me. Soon, my sword’s light will turn silver. It’ll no longer be golden after my Transition. Its radiance will pale and my life will change forever.
Gabriel traces my crown-shaped birthmark. “The Crown of Swords,” he whispers. “What do you think it means?”
“Nothing.” I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t relinquish it. His grip turns painful.