Secondborn

Chapter 18

Flannigan’s Man

The next morning, I apply more concealer under my eyes at the locker room mirror.

“Do you think I could use some of that?” Hammon asks.

I pass the makeup stick to her. She brushes it on beneath her eyes, covering her own dark circles. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. I think I just ate something awful last night.”

“Maybe you should call a medical drone.”

“I feel okay now,” she replies. “I’m afraid to ask you how it went last night.”

“Do you want to help me prepare my ship? I’ll requisition for maintenance, and then we can talk about it.”

She brightens. “Put in the requisition, and I’ll meet you in the hangar after I get my tools.”

I head to the hangar, and I’m almost to my airship when I see Agent Crow lurking near it. I turn to leave, but he catches me. “Roselle Sword, I need a word with you.”

“Good morning, Agent.”

“Good morning. You look tired. Did you have a trying evening? Losing sleep over something, perhaps?”

“I’ve had a few nightmares lately, but none while I’ve been asleep.”

“The hazards of being you, I presume. I’ve actually heard that you recently lost your friend. The MPs tell me Hawthorne Trugrave put up quite a struggle.”

“I’m sure he’s over it now,” I reply.

“Quite. You wouldn’t know how it is, but the Transition from secondborn to firstborn is illuminating. It’s like being reborn.”

“You would know that better than I.” Because you murdered your own sister.

“Yes. I also know that he has all but forgotten you by now. You probably never even enter his mind.” I try not to wince. Agent Crow smiles. “I had a chance to interview the MPs who took you from me that day a year ago. They said Tula did your detention intake.”

“And?”

“And she remembers you.”

“That’s not surprising. A lot of people remember meeting me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work both ways.”

“I believe that. You’re something of a celebrity, aren’t you?” he says with faux sympathy.

“I’m just secondborn.”

“The thing I find surprising,” he goes on, “is that Tula seems to recall another young woman who was processed into detention before you came in.”

I know he’s talking about Flannigan. “They made a lot of cells for a reason. Bad girls are everywhere.”

“I have an interview with Holcomb Sword in about”—he glances at his moniker’s timekeeper—“thirty minutes. I can’t wait to find out what he remembers about that night.”

“Good luck with that,” I reply, with all the confidence I can muster.

Agent Crow turns to leave just as Hammon arrives with her toolbox in hand. A look of pure joy crosses his features, and he begins to circle back to us with a wicked silver-toothed grin. Hammon becomes alarmed.

“You’re right, Roselle. Bad girls are everywhere.” He scans Hammon from head to toe. “You’re pregnant, secondborn.” All of the color drains from Hammon’s face. It’s like an aphrodisiac to Agent Crow, and he moves closer, touching her cheek with the back of his fingers. “The thing is, we, in Census, don’t lock up bad girls. We kill them.” He casts a glance at me. “I’ll be back for you both shortly.”

He strolls away, leaving the hangar. The moment he’s gone, Hammon falls into panicked gasping. Her hand reaches out, bracing her against the side of my airship. I touch the back of her neck. “Take deep breaths, Hammon. Slow and easy. You’re all right.” I feel my own panic rising.

“He’s going to kill me, Roselle,” Hammon wheezes.

He is. He’s going to kill her for getting pregnant. He’s going to murder her in the most desperately painful way, and there isn’t a thing I can say or do to stop him. Unless—

“Hammon, we have to act now. Can you pull yourself together?”

“He’s going to kill me, Roselle.”

“I won’t let him. We’re getting you out of here. It’s going to be fine. Ask Edge to meet you in our locker room. Don’t say anything else, just get him there.”

“Right now?” she asks.

“Yes, right now.”

With trembling hands, Hammon sends the message to Edgerton as we walk—fast but without being obvious—back to my locker. Opening it, I grab for the black glove that I wear to cover my moniker. “Put this on.” I look around to see if anyone is watching us, but no one is in our aisle. I unhook a latch and slide the heel of my boot aside. Inside are two lead squares. I take them both out and hand one to Hammon. “Put this inside the glove, over your moniker.”

I stand up and put both hands on her shoulders. “Go to your locker and take out anything you think you’ll need to survive. Put it in a small bag. Bring it back here in two minutes.”

Hammon nods and leaves. People walk by, but no one is paying attention. I take out my fusionblade and thrust the hot edge against the welds in the floor of the locker. The soldered fragments bend. I pry open the bottom. Inside is the bag full of stolen Census monikers. I pull out the bag and set it aside. With shaking hands, I weld the bottom back in place with my fusionblade.

Sweat slides down the sides of my face, and I nearly scream when I notice someone beside me. “It’s just me,” Hammon whines, sounding terrified. “I don’t know where Edge is! He’s not responding!”

I close my locker and settle the strap of the bag on my shoulder. “If he doesn’t make it here in the next few minutes, Hammon, we’re going to have to go without him.”

“Go where?” Her bottom lip trembles.

“I’ll explain when we’re in the hangar.”

My heart is in my throat as we go to the door of the locker room and wait one minute . . . and then two . . . and then three. Edgerton strolls in with a ration packet in one hand and a canister of water in the other. “I told you you’d be hungry after breakfast when you didn’t eat anything,” he says casually. “I just have a second to drop this off to you, then I have to be—”

I grab the water canister from his hand and thrust a glove into his palm before tossing the water in a bin. “Put this on. Don’t ask questions. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when we get to the hangar. Move!” Edgerton is a soldier. He follows orders. When he has the glove on, I shove the lead square over the top of his moniker. It goes dark. “Follow me.”

We make it to the hangar. No one is watching us. Entering my airship, I wave Hammon and Edgerton in and close the door.

“What is going on?” Edgerton demands.

“I’m pregnant,” Hammon whispers. “Agent Crow knows, and he’s going to kill me.”

Edgerton is struck dumb.

“We’re leaving,” I tell him, “and where we’re going could get us all killed, but it’s the only shot Hammon has now, so we have to try. Agent Crow doesn’t know you’re the father, Edge. You don’t have to come with us. It’s up to you, but we have to leave now, and when we do, you’ll never see Hammon again. So decide what you want to do while I go get clearance to leave the Base.”

“I’m coming,” Edge says before I can move.

“Good. There’s a compartment under the floor. You can hide in it. Stay here until we clear all the checkpoints. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.” He nods. Hammon moves to the seat beside the door to the cockpit and straps in.

I turn and run to my seat in the front of the airship, skip the pre-checks, and contact the Tree Fort to get clearance for the flight. Clifton has arranged for overnight access codes. I just have to hope that Agent Crow doesn’t detect that I’m leaving. As I wait for the Tree Fort to respond, every movement in the hangar gives me panic attacks.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Hammon moans behind me.

“You can be sick,” I reply in the calmest voice I can manage. “I’ve got you, Hammon. I’m going to take care of you.”

She groans. “They’re going to kill us all, Roselle. I’m murdering you and Edge.” I hear her vomit.

“No one is murdering me,” I reply. “We’re at our best in our darkest hours. This is pretty dark, so we’re going to be okay.”

“He knew, Roselle! He just looked at me, and he knew!” Hammon sobs.

“His super power is observation,” I reply. “That’s why he’s so good at his job. He’s only around because of me—it’s my fault this is happening. I have a plan, but I don’t know how it will play out. Luckily, I have a bargaining chip.”

“It better be a big chip.”

“It’s the biggest.”

My headset turns on with a soft hum. “You’re go for mission, 00-000016.”

I hardly wait for the hangar door to open before lifting off and setting a course for a Salloway Munitions facility that borders the Fate of Stars.

“You can go get Edge out now,” I tell Hammon when I cross the final checkpoint.

I hear her unbuckle her harness. She stands, comes to me, and rests her hand on my shoulder. I reach up and cover her hand with mine. She lets go and walks back to the hold.

Edgerton joins me a while later, settling into the copilot’s seat. “Hammon is lying down in the back. She’s a wreck, Roselle.”

“How are you, Edge?”

“How am I?” He curls his bottom lip out. “I’m pretty bad. I really messed up erething. I’ve killed my best friend. She’s dead if they find her—all because I couldn’t leave her be. And I just allowed another friend to smuggle me out of the place that has been my home for most of my life—from the only world I know how to operate in. I’d say I’m pretty messed up right about now.”

“Yeah, but other than that, how are you?” I ask.

He laughs grimly. “You’re what my granny called an ol’ soul, Roselle. I knew it the first time I seen you atop a pile of rubble, siftin’ through it like the people underneath it meant somethin’.”

“They did mean something.”

“To you, maybe, but not to this world. This world just don’t care.”

“Someone once saved my life, Edge, and when he did, you know what he said?”

“Wha’d he say?”

“He said, ‘You can’t go back in. They’ll kill you. From this moment on, we go forward. We never look back.’” A tear rolls down my cheek.

“Was that when you left home?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer in a raw voice.

“But Hawthorne’s back there.” He gestures with his thumb.

“I haven’t heard from him since he left, Edge. It’s like you said, he’s firstborn now. He’s gone.”

“Nothin’ is too late if you’re still breathin’.”

I wipe my tears on my sleeve. “Then we’ll have to keep breathing.”

“What’s your plan?”

“We’re never going to make it to the Salloway Munitions testing facility.”

“We ain’t?”

I shake my head. “I’m going to make it look like this airship malfunctioned, and then I’m going to land it in enemy territory. We’re going to the Fate of Stars.”

His face falls. “That’s your plan? We’re going over to the other side?”

“It’s our only shot to keep Hammon alive.”

“Then what—the Gates of Dawn kill us, right?”

“I hope not. Your job is going to be to protect Hammon—you tell them whatever you have to tell them. You make sure they know she’s pregnant, and you’re seeking asylum. Just keep saying it.”

“What about you?” he asks.

“They’re going to hurt me, Edge.” My voice cracks. “There’s no getting around that. They’re going to hurt me until I can get someone to listen to me—then everything will be all right. I have something they want.”

It’s dodgy near the border. Alerts ping my headset, one after the other, warning of the dangers this close to the border of Stars. Airships do enter the Fate of Stars, but they have authorization and take secured routes patrolled by fighter pilots. Edgerton takes the controls and shows me how to fly at a low altitude to avoid detection. He guides us into the area where the most recent fighting took place. The ground below is covered with bloated bodies and blown apart by war machines.

He lands us in an open field. “What do we do now?” he asks.

“We wait.”

Soon a crowd of Gates of Dawn soldiers circles us. My knees knock as I rise from my seat. “This is it, Edge. I’ll go out first. You stay with Hammon and protect her for as long as you can.”

“I should go first,” he retorts.

“No. You should stay and protect your baby. I know what I’m doing.” It’s a lie.

He grits his teeth and nods. With Flannigan’s bag over my shoulder, I walk out with my hands raised. Armed soldiers shout conflicting orders at me. I walk a few feet, and then stop. “I need to talk to a man, to Flannigan Star’s man. I have an important message for him.”

“Never heard of him,” a brutish soldier replies.

The crowd of warriors begins shouting: “Kill that bloody bitch!” “It’s Roselle—The Sword’s daughter!” “Take her head off!” Mud is flung at me, striking me in the face and chest. I don’t try to wipe it off.

“I need to speak to Flannigan’s man,” I insist. “I have something for him.”

The man in front of me snarls and spits in the dirt. “I have something for you!” He swings his meaty fist at me—a left hook.

I sidestep it and try again. “Flannigan Star is female—a privateer. I need to talk to the man who will ask about her. I have a message from her. An important message!”

An ugly soldier throws an uppercut. I jump back, colliding with someone else’s fist. It knocks me sideways. My ear rings. The crowd around me cheers and laughs. My instinct is to reach for my fusionblade, but I can’t. Someone will kill me before I can get away, and then they’ll kill Hammon and Edgerton. I have to take my beating.

Fists rain down on me from every angle. I stagger and vomit, wheezing and doubling over. The blows to my kidneys are excruciating. I don’t remember hitting the ground, but the sharp edge of a boot in my sternum leaves me seeing spots, and then nothing.

My head feels solid. I can’t see anything except a red light. I try to open my eyes but my eyelids won’t move. “Hey, you. Wake up!” Someone slaps my cheek.

“For your sake, don’t hit her again!” a man roars. “The next person who hits her is dead! Do you understand? If she dies, I’ll slaughter every last one of you stupid, filthy animals!”

“You weren’t delirious, Reykin,” another voice says. “Roselle St. Sismode really did save your miserable life. Look at her hand!”

“I can see it!” the first man barks.

I retch again, my body wracking with dry heaves. An arm behind my shoulder and another behind my knees pick me up. I moan. My head slumps against a solid chest. “I know it hurts,” a low voice says. “I’m not going to let them near you again. Get her bag, Danny, and take it to him. Tell him she’s with me in triage.”

I smell like blood, pee, and vomit, but mostly pee. I try to open my eyes, but something slimy covers them. I try to pull it off, but someone grasps my hand and holds it gently in his own. “Don’t touch them. The leeches will fall off on their own.” A man’s voice.

“Medieval . . . torture . . .” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.

“The leeches will take the swelling down so that you can open your eyes. Do you know where you are?”

“Stars . . .” I rasp. “Dawn.”

“That’s right—a Gates of Dawn base. Do you know who I am?”

“Flannigan’s . . . man . . .”

“No. I’m not Flannigan’s man.”

I growl in despair. “Need him.”

I feel his thumb trace the scar on my palm. “I’m a friend . . . and a friend sticketh closer than a brother, even to a black-hearted angel.”

I lick my lips. “You.”

“Me.”

“Hurts . . .”

“I know. You can sleep now.” Something sharp jabs into my arm.

I jerk awake, groaning with a half sob. I’m in a bed in a beautiful room, but I feel as if I’m lying on embers. I’ve been in pain before, but never like this. Everything aches. My eyelids feel thick and heavy. My head throbs. Focus, I tell myself.

Mahogany wainscoting lines the walls. Snowy-white curtains drape over the large windows. I see a high ceiling with decorative molding and bright chandeliers above me. Maybe this is what death is like.

My hand moves over the blankets. The bedding is masculine, but no less gorgeous for that, soft sheets like those at the Sword Palace. As I turn my head on the plump pillow, my neck muscles revolt. I wince and moan.

The man has aquamarine eyes and dark hair shaved close on the sides, but the top is longer, like Gabriel’s fashionable style. He looks to be around twenty-four or twenty-five, a year older than when I last saw him on the battlefield. “Winterstrom.”

“You know my name,” he replies in the deep voice that I sometimes hear in my dreams. I lift my right palm out to him so that he can see his crest burned into it. “Why didn’t you get it removed?” he asks.

I drop my hand, mostly because holding it up hurts so much. “I would’ve had to tell the physician how I got it. They make a point of reporting wounds like this. They would’ve researched the crest, like I did, and then Census agents would’ve been dispatched here to find you.” I look down at myself. I’m clean. Someone bathed me. I hope it wasn’t him.

“So you protected me yet again. Why?”

“I wanted to find you myself and tell you what a stupid move it was to bring your family fusionblade to a war.”

“Really?” He leans forward, forearms on his knees. His shoulder doesn’t seem to be troubling him. His right collarbone is straight under his fashionable dress shirt.

“No,” I reply. “Not really. I never thought I’d see you again.” I touch my head. It’s wrapped in a bandage, which I begin unwinding.

Winterstrom sits down on the mattress next to me. He tries to stay my hand. “What are you doing? You have a concussion.” The bandage is bloody by my temple. I probe the wound. It’s deep.

“I need you to stop fixing me! I need every single bruise and contusion your soldiers gave me. My Fate needs to see my wounds so that they don’t accuse me of being a traitor.”

“You plan to go back? You’re going to have to explain yourself.”

“My friends—the ones I came with—are they here, too?”

“Yes.”

“Are they hurt?”

“The male is. The female was untouched.”

“How bad is he?” I ask.

“Better than you,” he says grimly. “They’re safe.”

I exhale in relief. “Flannigan’s man?”

“He’s here as well. He’s waiting to speak to you.”

“I need to meet with him now. I don’t have a lot of time.” I inch toward the far side of the big bed. Every move is a struggle. The metal apparatus attached to my right arm slides a little as I straighten my elbow with a small stab of pain. I yank its needle out and scoot to the edge of the mattress.

Winterstrom rises to his feet. “You’re in no condition to move. You’re weak. You’ve been sedated for two days.”

“Two days!” I breathe hard with fear. I stand and immediately regret it. A disorienting rush of blood to my head almost knocks me to the floor. I catch myself with both my hands, and Winterstrom helps me back into the bed. I realize that the only thing I have on is an oversize shirt, and by the smell of it—a soft scent of lemongrass—it belongs to him. “How is it that they haven’t found me yet?”

“We’ve been jamming your signals since you entered our airspace—that includes your moniker. No one knows you’re here. Why did you come?” he asks. “Are you seeking asylum, like your friends?”

“I have to make a deal—with Flannigan’s man. Do you have my bag?”

“I gave it to him.”

“Did you see what was in it?”

“State-of-the-art moniker chips, thousands of them. Moncalate. Profile programmer. Worth a fortune.”

“Flannigan died for it. Was it worth her life?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“What’s his name?”

A deep voice behind Winterstrom answers me. “We’ve been introduced. My name is Daltrey Leon.” He enters the room and closes the door. I remember him as a hologram in the middle of the night at the debriefing with the Clarities. In person, he’s not ghostly. He’s tall, with long dark hair tied back at his crown. His full beard is meticulously well groomed, and his sandy eyes bear an uncanny resemblance to Dune’s.

“Is that your real name?” I ask. “Your brothers have different ones. It’s so hard to keep up.”

“So you did recognize me that night we met. I often wondered. I took a chance by not wearing the colored eyewear that I normally use. Your mother is usually so observant, but I think she only had you on her mind that night.”

“Are there more of you about?” I ask wearily. “I know of three—you, Walther, and Dune.”

“I’d rather not answer that question.”

“Why? You know everything there is to know about me. I’m at a disadvantage.”

Daltrey’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Thank you for arranging this meeting, Reykin. I’d like to speak with Roselle alone.”

“I’ll stay,” Reykin Winterstrom replies.

“This is family business, Reykin.”

“I wasn’t aware she was a member of your family, Daltrey.”

“She’s my brother’s daughter.”

“By blood?” Reykin asks.

“No, but there are stronger ties than blood. Ask her who her real father is. I doubt she will tell you Kennet Abjorn.”

“She has my protection,” Reykin says.

“Are you both serious right now?” I ask. “I have a list of demands, and then you’re going to let me return to the Fate of Swords. You can argue about who has more right to hear what I’m about to say after I’m gone.”

“I think she’s delirious, Daltrey,” Reykin says, reaching out to touch my forehead. I would swat his hand away, but it’s cool and soothing against my skin. “You should come back after she’s had more time to recover.”

“No, this is who she is,” Daltrey responds. He picks up another chair and brings it to the side of the bed. “She’s been taught to think—to reason—to strategize. She’s performing to the high standards of her training, and I’m very interested in what she has to say.” Reykin’s hand slips away, but he doesn’t leave my side. He’s sticking around. It’s somewhat endearing.

“You have Flannigan’s bag?” I ask Daltrey.

“I do. Thank you for delivering it to me.”

“She had a message for you.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“She said, ‘Tell him it was nearly flawless.’ And then she said to tell you to miss her every day.”

A sad smile touches his lips. “Tell me how she died.”

I explain in detail our meeting and subsequent foray into Census. “I’ve had the monikers for a year. I haven’t known what to do with them—who to contact.”

“You didn’t need anything until now,” Daltrey replies. It’s a harsh assessment that paints me in a self-serving light.

“Oh, I’ve needed plenty, Daltrey,” I counter angrily. “I just had to survive on my own.”

Daltrey studies me. “Until now, but you have very little to bargain with, Roselle—I’m in possession of everything you and Flannigan stole from Census. You held nothing back from me. You’ve lost your position of power.”

“Have I?” I ask calmly. “That’s interesting, because I feel like I have all the power in this room. You may have the bag, but it’s useless without a way to upload your fake profiles. If they never make it into the Republic’s networks, then what do you really have? A bunch of holograms that won’t scan.”

“We’re Stars—infiltrating networks is what we do.”

“It’s what you used to do. Your network of spies has been decimated. Admit it. Your operatives in the field couldn’t get out with their copycat monikers and were all cut down. Those still alive have had to go to ground. You’re losing everything.”

He’s unruffled. “You have set us back as well, Roselle—you and your hydrogen-powered alternatives. You’ve made the antiquated method of weaponry sexy. Our best hope for winning this conflict is being thwarted by you.”

“I’m interested in saving the lives of secondborn Swords. All your Gates of Dawn soldiers are doing is killing secondborns. It’s completely senseless, your war. You’re changing nothing. If you want to rebel, rebel against firstborns. Instead, you’ve let them go on with their lives while you murder us in droves. You can choose to walk away anytime you want. Secondborn Sword soldiers have no choice but to fight you or die. Either you kill us or they kill us. There are zero options for Swords.”

“Secondborn Swords have options,” Daltrey replies. “You could lay down your weapons and revolt against firstborns. You can join us whenever you wish.”

“We can cross your line and get our heads beaten in, you mean.” I touch the wound on my temple.

“The secondborns of your Fate need a leader to show them the way,” he replies.

“I can help you with your moniker problem, and then you can leave me alone. I’ll never tell who is really a thirdborn or a spy.”

“You have no power to make demands, Roselle.”

“I fail to see your point of view.”

“I have your friends. You’ll do as I say or I’ll kill them, and then I’ll kill you.”

“I think this is called mutually assured destruction, Daltrey. Without me, there is no more you. I’m your best chance to operate in the Fate of Swords—or any of the Fates of the Republic. If you don’t return me, a certain arms dealer will come looking for me. He makes weapons that are not currently accounted for in any ledger. A lot of those weapons find their way here. He’d hate it if his spokesperson didn’t come back. It could make him very angry.”

Daltrey gives me a genuine smile. “Dune will be so proud. What are your demands?”

“My friends each get a new moniker and new lives as firstborns—someplace near the sea where they can live without the constant threat of war. You protect them with everything you have. I’ll provide currency for them to live on. We will make arrangements for the transfer when I’m back in my Fate.”

“You have money?” he asks. He doesn’t seem at all surprised.

“I’m a spokesperson for a weapons dealer during a civil war. Money is not hard to come by.”

“How will you convince your Fate that you were the victim of circumstance here? You look guilty—flying in here with your friends and landing in enemy territory.”

“It’s not going to be easy. I might not be able to convince a certain Census agent, who wants me as his personal punching bag, that I’m innocent. He might have to die.”

“That can be a problem for you. Maybe you should rethink your options and remain with us.”

“That would be bad for you. You need me to go back. You just let me win our argument—you want me to think I’m not being controlled, but I’m really doing exactly what you want me to do. All this, this war, it’s an exercise in futility.”

His stare sharpens, and he sits up straighter, waiting for me to explain.

“This has all been a lesson so that when you make me The Sword, I do things differently—so that when I have true power, power you’ve given me, I change things.”

He tries to suppress a smile, but it’s there, in his eyes. He’s impressed that I’ve figured it out. “You know what it’s like to be a Transitioned secondborn, Roselle. The one person you’ve loved your entire life is a thirdborn. Your moniker was disabled before you were processed. You were exposed to the lawlessness of Census, hunted by an agent who subjected you to his unwavering cruelty. You’ve been embroiled in a war where no one wins—where you’re expected to slaughter wounded soldiers.” He gazes at Reykin before looking back at me. “Many people have died to show you just how bad things are in our world, and you alone will be in a position to change things.”

I was only guessing, but it really is true. “If I become The Sword, I’ll have Fabian Bowie and his son Grisholm as my constant adversaries. One word from either of them and my position of power would vanish in the wind.”

“Your charisma and your mind far exceed theirs. They are pure entitlement, but you will win the hearts of your people. I have faith in you, Roselle. You have not disappointed me once since you were born. You are the Crown of Swords.”

“There’s just one thing—I love my brother.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It changes nothing in your eyes, does it?”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“I need to go back to my airship. I’d like to leave by tonight.”

“I don’t think that’s the best option. You’ll leave the airship here. They won’t be able to check the logs and your ruse of a malfunction won’t be discovered. We’ll get you passage back to Swords on a watercraft. Reykin can make the arrangements. He’ll also provide the self-replicating malware that will allow us to penetrate their industrial control systems. You’ll simply have to find a way to deliver it. And since you and Reykin have an affinity for each other that goes deeper than with anyone else I could assign, he’ll be your contact. It’s best to have a natural connection, and he’s smarter than he seems. With the exception of your scar, he rarely makes a mistake. And he’s a bit more ruthless than most, which has its uses. I trained him myself to fight—I also trained Dune, so you’re well matched.” Daltrey rises from his seat. “If you need me, get a message to me through Reykin.” He glances at the younger man. “Make sure her scar is removed before she returns to Swords.”

“It’ll be done,” Reykin agrees, then he stands and walks Daltrey to the door.

“Hawthorne . . . Hawthorne Trugrave,” I call after them. “Was he ever a part of this?”

Daltrey looks back. “No,” he replies. “He was never one of us.”

“Did you kill his brother Flint to separate us?”

“No, we liked the secondborn Sword. He made you happy. I believe it was your other ally who killed his brother—your arms dealer.”

And there it is. The thing I feared since asking Clifton to take Hawthorne out of the infantry. I showed Clifton how to hurt me.

“The Gates of Dawn are interested in change, Roselle,” Daltrey continues. “Your other allies—the Rose Garden Society—they’re committed to the status quo, the preservation of the firstborn hierarchy. Don’t confuse us. We only overlap when it comes to your welfare.”

The door closes behind Daltrey. I stare at the ceiling. My head pounds. I can’t find a comfortable position. Everything hurts. “What would you do if someone killed your brother, Reykin?”

Reykin is quiet. He walks to the window. Standing in the sunlight, he resembles a sculpted god. “I’d take my fusionblade to the battlefield and kill as many of my enemy as I could find until I was cut down, and then saved by a little Sword soldier.” He pulls something from his pocket. It’s my penlight. He studies it. “I’d return this, but I’ve grown rather attached to it.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“A Census agent killed Radix. He was only ten years old.”

“Was he thirdborn?”

Reykin gives a humorless laugh. “He was fifthborn, but they don’t know that. They thought he was thirdborn. They killed my mother as well, and dragged her body through the streets of our town.”

“I’m sorry.” I glance at his left hand. He has a new golden shooting star moniker. “You’re firstborn.”

“Yes. I still have three younger brothers. The two youngest are in hiding. I’ll make sure they both get one of the new monikers you brought.”

“Where is your secondborn brother?”

“I haven’t been able to locate him in the two years since he Transitioned.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ransom Winterstrom. My father had an offbeat sense of humor. I’d introduce you to him, but he died last year, defending my mother.”

It’s no mystery now why Reykin was on the battlefield that gray day last year when I found him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know Ransom, but I’ll make inquiries for you.”

“Maybe he’s better off not knowing anything that happened here. I wasn’t always the best brother to him. Maybe he wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’ll want to see you. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

He turns to face me. Something about him tugs at me. Maybe it’s the sameness I see in him. He was trained like I was—his mentor trained mine. I recognize the intensity and control with which he holds himself. He looks at me as if he sees me, not just the girl that grew up in front of cameras. “You’re going back to protect your brother,” Reykin says softly. “It’s what I’d do, if I were you. Know this, Roselle, so that there are never any lies between us. I’ll kill Gabriel if or when I’m ordered to. I won’t hesitate to cut his throat, and there will be nothing that you can say or do to stop me.”