Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(30)
Crystal pulls out an iron belt with sharp, rose-shaped throwing stars attached to it. “Careful,” she warns as I take it, “those roses detach. The petals have razor-sharp edges.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Why?”
She gestures to my fusionblade, which sits on a nearby chair. “You can’t take that with you.” Fear threatens to bury me, but I try not to show it. “Dune told me of your need to defend yourself, given the recent attempt on your life. We came up with these as a compromise. You’ll need these also.” From the box, she extracts iron bracers, the kind that archers used to wear. Clamping them on my wrists, she says, “Turn the rose counterclockwise.”
I turn the intricate iron rose on the left bracer. A dagger ejects from inside the hollow sheath and locks into place above my palm. I grip its handle. It’s stiff and hard to wield, but useful. I turn the rose clockwise, and it disappears inside the bracer.
Crystal steps back and appraises me with a critical eye.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“It needs one last thing.” From the bottom drawer of the vanity, she takes out an iron crown with nine sharp, sword-shaped points. She asks me to sit, and then she sets it on top of my head, positioning it so that it’s wreathed by my halo of hair, thorns, and roses. I gaze in the mirror. The image is unmistakably powerful. “I’d fight with Roselle—die for her and what she represents,” Crystal murmurs. “I wouldn’t lift a finger to help Roselyn. Decide who you are, so I know if it’s worth risking my life for you.”
“You’re—”
“An old woman who is tired of the way things are.” She turns from me and touches her moniker. The vanity folds away again, back into a hovering case. She hands me goggles with rose-colored lenses. “Now, let me tell you about the bracer on your right wrist . . .”
The waning sun is blocked by tall, intricate marvels of architecture that are the hallmark of the city of Purity. Each building is more impressive than the last. My reflection in the elegant hovercar’s window shines with streetlamp eyes. The image of the iron crown upon my head slices the growing darkness and twinkles, mirroring the lights outside. Lounging beside me in the back seat, Dune is the heart of darkness in his God of Dawn outfit. His boots are ebony. The dark-black fabric of his trouser legs tucks inside them, lightening to a softer shade toward his waist. His shirt is an even fainter shade of black, turning to gold as it reaches his shoulders. A golden, lionlike fur mantle covers his shoulders. His cape attaches to it, gold on the inside, and night turning to golden sun on the outside.
Our hovercar comes to a stop as we queue up for the extravagant costume gala. A slow-moving line of expensive vehicles leads to an enormous hovering glass building with seven towers jutting up from it. A frosty veneer decorates the massive structure, which appears to balance on the head of a thin needle point above the calm, glass-like surface of a deep lake, resembling a floating crystalline formation. A brilliant, burning pink sunset presides. The water beneath reflects the building in the fuchsia sky, the mirrored image like an alternate universe.
The building has only one way in from the ground level, a hauntingly beautiful transparent bridge that reminds me of ice shards frozen in a winter gale. Our hovercar stops in front of the wide bridge. Ushers dressed as fantastical snow people stand on either side of the glacial-looking supports. Frost-covered hair and skin shimmer in the glowing lights of the streetlamps. The ushers have the torsos of men and women, but the lower halves of their bodies are encased in films of faux ice, blurring them.
A particularly tall iceman opens my door and reaches to help me out. The brown mountain range of his secondborn moniker hovers above the back of his hand. I grip his fingers and step into the night air. His eyes fall on my silver sword moniker, widening before moving up to my face.
“I can assure you I was invited,” I murmur.
His smile is anything but icy. “Of course. You’re Roselle St. Sismode.”
“I’m Roselle Sword,” I correct him.
A warm breeze blows. I had been expecting wintriness.
“You look like Roselle, the Goddess of War, to me.”
I glance down at myself and laugh self-effacingly. “Only for tonight.”
His smile fades. “Let us hope not.”
Dune emerges to stand beside me. The golden fur mantle covering his shoulders makes him appear even stronger—lionhearted. The attendant’s eyes travel up Commander Kodaline’s powerful build, and then the secondborn says, “My master, Hail, the God of Ice and Flurry, welcomes you to his social club.”
This is all a bit silly, but I play along. “Thank you.”
Dune simply nods.
“Please,” the usher continues, “allow me to escort you to the doors.” His arm sweeps in the direction of the bridge.
“That won’t be necessary,” Dune says, taking my arm in his. We walk to the north-facing bridge. Firstborns, mostly Swords, garbed in costumes ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime, stroll near us, all moving in the direction of the shimmering ice fortress.
The bridge is a marvel of design, with a long arch that doesn’t appear to have any support between its two ends. Beneath us, the water is so clear and deep that it’s not hard to imagine that we’re the ones walking upside down in a different world. Before us, enchanting snowflake-shaped doors roll open.