Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(77)

The guards won’t let Reykin through, and he shouts for me to wait, but I keep going. Once inside, I accost the first person I can find—an elderly Sun-Fated secondborn carrying a multi-tiered tray full of intricate cakes and pastries. I latch on to her arm, nearly spilling the tray. “How do I get to the top of the tower?” I demand.

Her eyes widen, and the lines around them stretch. She starts to answer me, but Quincy’s small hand on my arm pulls me forward. She navigates hallways—a labyrinth of stone walls—with me in tow. A winding staircase with carved wooden railings spirals up the middle of the tower, its hundreds of flagstone steps covered by aqua-colored carpet. I move toward the staircase, but Quincy yells, “No, wait!”

Near the staircase are several small hover vehicles, some of them rusted around the edges. Most look as if they are whimsical novelties made for children, resembling miniature ancient sea vessels, but a couple are larger—big enough to carry adults. Quincy goes to a two-seater parked by the wall, near a balustrade carved in the shape of a cresting wave. She climbs onto it and activates the controls. The vehicle’s dragon-shaped masthead comes to life, its eyes glowing yellow, and the vehicle lifts off the floor.

I climb onto the glittering golden seat beside her, and she launches the vehicle forward, driving it up the steep stairs. We follow the staircase in a dizzying, ever-climbing corkscrew. Passing stained-glass windows and floors with scores of doors at breakneck speeds, Quincy urges the vehicle on ever faster, slowing only when we arrive at the top floor’s landing. I look down over the railing at the ground floor far below. A commotion is forming. People are gathering there. Reykin is one of them. He probably bullied his way in here, using his connection to Grisholm or The Virtue as a threat.

I rush to the open door at the end of the hallway. Sunlight shines in through the stone terrace overlooking the sea. White curtains flap. The breeze is warm. I’m sweating from the run and wet with salt water, but I shiver anyway, as if chilled to my marrow. Gulls squawk and cry outside. Balmora stands barefoot on the wide, lichen-dappled wall facing the cloudless blue sky. Her beautiful hair is long and loose, flowing past her shoulders and over her white nightgown.

In the bed at the other end of the room, my brother’s body lays against the white damask pillows. My scalp tingles as my hairs rise in horror. Someone has taken off Gabriel’s leaded glove. Apart from his moniker’s golden light, it’s obvious that he’s dead. His ashen skin sags lifelessly over his hollow cheeks.

I ache—a stabbing pain in my chest. Bile rises in my throat and my knees weaken. Hope is a vicious thing. I allowed myself to feel it, and now it’s bent on destroying me. My ears ring as blood pounds through them. Beside me, Quincy pants hard, her chest heaving. Wringing her hands, she implores me with her eyes to do something.

I trudge heavily toward the stone terrace, weighed down by fear, my steps echoing on the flagstone floor. “Balmora,” I say gently.

Wind lifts her hair. “Nothing ever changes here,” Balmora says flatly, without looking at me, from her position on the wall overlooking the sea. “Clouds roll in and roll out. Waves crash in and slide out . . . on and on, day after day, year after year, and I’m always here. Alone. That never changes either. I hate this place.”

“Please come down,” I beg.

“He said it has to be this way.”

“It has to be what way?” I ask apprehensively. “Gabriel was sick—out of his mind—he—” Balmora leans forward a little. I consider rushing her and pulling her off the ledge, but the risk that she’ll fall is too great. I inch closer.

Balmora turns and gazes down at me. Wind lifts her hem and stirs her hair. Her waving gown reminds me of the flags that top each tower of the fortress. “He said he couldn’t stop your mother, but you can.” It’s like she’s in a trance. Emotionless. Withdrawn.

“Stop her from what?”

“From taking over the world with her monsters.”

“What monsters?” I ask. Balmora’s foot moves, and her heel now teeters off the edge of the wall. I reach out to her, gesturing for her to take my hand and climb down. “Don’t, Balmora,” I beg. “We can change the world together—you and me.”

“He said, ‘Tell Roselle to follow the crow to the trees in the sea.’”

“Kipson Crow? Did he mean Agent Crow?”

The sound of another hovercart crashing into our abandoned one rattles the air behind us. Reykin calls my name, and I hear a few of Balmora’s attendants with him. I want to scream at them to leave, but I don’t dare take my eyes from Balmora.

“I don’t know what he meant,” she drones. “He made me promise to tell you, and then, he said, I could join him.” Her dazed eyes shift to the young girl next to me. “Good-bye, Quincy,” Balmora whispers. And steps off the ledge.





Chapter 17

The Heir

I lurch forward, hoping to grab Balmora, but she’s gone. A strangled sob comes from Quincy beside me. Screams tear through the air from the secondborn attendants behind us. I force myself to look over the edge, hoping to find her clinging to a ledge, but the tide is out, and the stones that support the base of the fortress are uncovered. Balmora’s body is a mangled mess on the rocks far below.

The wind beats my hair against the sides of my face. I turn away and catch Quincy before she can look over the balcony wall. “Don’t,” I whisper, holding her to me in a hug. I can’t tell which of us is shaking worse. Quincy whimpers softly, the quiet crying of a girl who has been taught not to show her sorrow. I gaze toward the tower. Reykin is standing on the threshold to the balcony. By the grim expression on his face, I think he witnessed what happened.