Secondborn

Chapter 22

Rose-Colored Crown

Clifton arrives midmorning and arranges for my release. Emmitt shows up carrying a highly stylized version of a Strato-ranked uniform that few real soldiers would be caught dead in. I hide the star-shaped device inside the calf of my boot. Clifton hands Emmitt an address. “Meet us here tomorrow afternoon. You can help Roselle get ready for her medal ceremony and accompany us to the Sword Palace.”

Emmitt looks like he just tasted the most delicious morsel of his life. “I will be there by noon!” he squeals. “Everything will be ready! Trust me!”

We leave the hospital amid a circus of reporters, drone cameras, and—to my utter shock—fans. People are lined up outside to see me, shouting my name the moment I leave the relative safety of the lobby. Clifton’s black bullet-shaped Recovener, the most ridiculously priced aircraft in production, is parked at ground level. His security team is ready, shoving the crush of people away from us.

Once we’re inside the aircraft, he shifts into flight mode and veers off in the direction of the sea. “There.” Clifton points as we near a gorgeous building that stands out from the others lining the beachfront. The shape of a silver-bladed broadsword rises from the sand, similar to the Heritage Building except that this sword stands on its hilt, pointed to the sky. The sword itself resembles an ancient blade, thick and heavy, with a steely sheen of metal and glass. A rose-colored crown rings the blade near the top. It’s the physical representation of my moniker. We circle it a few times before Clifton lands the Recovener on the airship pad beside the crown-shaped penthouse.

“This,” he says, “is your apartment.” I stare at it a moment, speechless. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.” We walk hand in hand through a rooftop garden. “The plans for it were made a few years after you were born, but it wasn’t constructed until nearly five years ago.”

“Who else knows about it?”

“Up until now, not many people, but I gave this address to your mother’s assistant yesterday. I’m sure Gabriel, Admiral Dresden, the Clarity of Virtues, and his son—the First Commander—know about it now as well. They can all track your moniker, anyway, so secrecy is not going to win the day.”

“What will they do?” I ask.

“I have my theories. Othala has only herself to blame if she doesn’t like it. She took no part in your Transition. Your life was left in the hands of secondborn commanders. She probably thought they’d find a way to kill you quickly so she could walk away with a clear conscience. Maybe she envisioned that you’d go out like her brother—killed as revenge against The Sword. Although I believe Bazzle was killed by your grandfather’s order so that his firstborn, your mother, remained protected.”

“There wasn’t a Secondborn Bazzle Society?”

“No one shed a tear for him, poor creature. But the public didn’t grow up watching Bazzle like they did you. Othala didn’t anticipate that when she was masterminding her family’s legacy. And you’re not the kind of person to lie down and die. She probably never realized the impact Dune was having on your future.”

“She said she gave me the tools to survive.”

“You barely survived one day of active duty because of her. What she couldn’t have foreseen was that you’d create a completely honorable military job for yourself, let alone make her and Clarity Bowie quite a bit of currency. Othala may want to get rid of you to protect Gabriel, but Clarity Bowie is just warming up to all your possibilities. You haven’t gone unnoticed by the First Commander either.”

“Grisholm?” I snort and turn away from the rose-colored windows. “He finds me repulsive.”

“I wish that were the case, Roselle.” Clifton taps his moniker, showing me a holographic image of Grisholm at a Secondborn Pre-Trial event. He looks perfectly at ease in his private box in the exhibition arena.

“Notice his sword, Roselle?”

I peer at the small hologram, which plays in a seven-second loop. “It’s an X16. That means nothing. He probably likes the dual-blade design.”

“You’re the face of the design. They all buy it because you use it.”

“He knows a lot more than you give him credit for, Clifton.”

We walk together around the pool and up a short staircase to the veranda. The glass doors slide open to reveal an open floor plan with a 360-degree view. An elegant seating area with a bar looks over the skyline of Forge. Standing at the thick windows, I can just make out the Salloway Munitions headquarters and the hilt of the other sword—Gabriel and the Heritage Council’s fortress. Putting me up here feels like a declaration of war, or at least a shot fired across his bow. Gabriel could see it as an implied threat.

We take the spiral staircase up to the next level. An extravagant master bedroom makes up the tip of the sword. The silver-tinted windows peak in a dagger point at the rooftop high above my head where a magnificent chandelier hangs, its crystals crafted in the shape of swords ringed by crowns.

“My room?” I ask, running my hand over the bright white blankets of an extremely large bed.

He nods. “Your room. You’ll have a lot of security personnel around. They’ll stay in the apartments below the penthouse, so you’ll have privacy. I had clothing made up for you. You’ll find the wardrobes and closets there.” He points to an empty space.

“Where?” I ask. He laughs and touches the air of a holographic console near the door. Wardrobes rise from the floor, unmasking rows of clothes in every beautiful fabric imaginable.

“Oh,” I say breathlessly when I near a wardrobe and find clothing that Othala would envy. I can’t resist the impulse to run my hand over the luscious fabrics. “These are breathtaking.”

“I’m tired of seeing you in rags, and you need clothing that reflects your station as a Salloway spokesperson.”

“So this is all for me?”

“All for you, Roselle.”

“Where will you stay?” I ask over my shoulder, trying to keep the note of suspicion from my voice.

“I’ll be at my apartment at Salloway headquarters.” He points in the direction of his office building. “It’s imperative now that we maintain the utmost impression of propriety. We cannot give anyone any reason to call your conduct into question.”

“Thank you, Clifton.”

“You’re welcome.” He glances down at his moniker’s timekeeper. “I’ll let you settle in. I have an important meeting in an hour.”

“You’re leaving?” My smile falters.

He looks up at me. “I’ve rescheduled this particular client several times so that I could be at someone’s bedside.” Disappointment must show on my face because Clifton chuckles. “I’ll return tomorrow to escort you to the Sword Palace.”

“Promise?” I’m surprised by just how pouty I sound.

“I promise.”

Clifton leaves and I play with the console. Glass walls rise out of the floor to hide the teacup-shaped tub from the bed. Another option frosts the glass wall of the bathroom. I can configure the walls in the bedroom into any floor plan I desire. A fireplace rises from the floor. A vent opens in an exterior window.

I reconfigure the room to my taste, then change into a tiny red bathing suit with sword-shaped metal buckles that rest on my hips. The weather is much warmer here today than it was earlier in the week in the Fate of Stars. I hang my clothing in the closet, hiding the star-shaped malware device that Reykin gave me in my boot that I stuff onto one of the shoe shelves. I spend the day by the pool.

By nightfall, I’m feeling restless. It seems unnatural now to be alone. I walk outside onto the terrace in my pajamas. Going to the railing, I gaze down at the ocean, inhaling the scent of the sea. It’s so quiet here. Not since the Sword Palace have I known this kind of solitude. My stomach starts to hurt—my hands tremble. Impulsively, I climb up on the thin glass railing, teetering on its edge. The fall to the shore below would take some time. One misstep and I’ll never have to worry about being alone again.

I walk the handrail like it’s a tightrope. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making me feel alive again. My hands stop shaking. My eyebrows draw together. Something’s wrong with me; I know that. This isn’t normal. I shouldn’t need to do this in order to breathe. Climbing down from the railing, I hug my arms around me.

Later, in bed, I stare up at the chandelier. The stars glow through the glass ceiling.

I awake sometime before dawn with a scream caught in my throat. A nightmarish version of the beating I took in Stars has left me panting. I touch my forehead and find it slick with sweat. I close my eyes, remembering the brutality of my dream. An angry mob was gathered around me, stalking, but the person who stumbled forward to hit me the hardest was Hawthorne.

Emmitt and Clara arrive to help me prepare for the medal ceremony this evening. Clara styles my hair, piling it high and decorating it with golden star pins. She applies a dark, smoky eye shadow to my eyelids and a light dusting of golden glitter to my cheeks. I wonder if she knows what I’m to do this evening. When she’s finished, she excuses herself and leaves.

Emmitt helps me dress in a clingy night-sky-inspired gown. It has a daringly low neckline and a leg-hugging hem that flows into a small train. Black stiletto heels with a thick ankle strap complete the ensemble. Appraising myself in the mirror, I exude a risqué air of defiance.

“Where are they supposed to pin my medal?” I ask Emmitt.

“Not on this dress!” he screeches. “Just hold out your palm and let them hand it to you.”

I know better than to argue with him. He gives me a small golden clutch.

“I think it’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.

“It could be better.” He clucks and smooths the fabric again.

“No, it couldn’t. It’s perfect. You’re a genius.”

“Do you want to see the best part?” he asks coyly.

“It gets better?”

“You can unzip this seam on the side so that you can dance later at the event.” He shows me the cleverly hidden zipper.

“That’s brilliant, Emmitt.” Impulsively, I find his hand and squeeze it. “I think I’m ready. Should we go now?”

He frowns at my hand on his. I quickly drop it. “Yes, it’s time.” He looks down his nose at me.

As we leave the room, I hesitate. “I forgot the lipstick. I’ll get it and meet you downstairs.” I rush back in alone and go to the closet. Locating the thin metal malware device in my boot, I hide it between the pad of my foot and the sole of my shoe before snatching up my lipstick on the way out the door.

Clifton meets me at the bottom of the stairs, attired in a black Exo dress uniform. A cape covers one shoulder, held in place by a braided rope attached to the other. On him, the look is roguish. He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. “There are no words for your kind of beauty, Roselle.”

“It’s a stunning gown,” I admit. “Emmitt outdid himself. The only problem is there’s no way I can wear my X16. The thigh scabbard doesn’t work with this dress.”

He smiles cunningly. “You’re all the weapon we need.”