Traitor Born Read online

  Books by Amy A. Bartol

  The Secondborn Series

  Secondborn

  Traitor Born

  Rebel Born (forthcoming)

  The Kricket Series

  Under Different Stars

  Sea of Stars

  Darken the Stars

  The Premonition Series

  Inescapable

  Intuition

  Indebted

  Incendiary

  Iniquity

  “The Divided” (short story)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Amy A. Bartol

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503936911

  ISBN-10: 1503936910

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  To Jason Kirk, for the eleventh hour

  Contents

  Nine Fates of the Republic

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Pain

  Chapter 2 Domestic Bliss

  Chapter 3 Star at Midnight

  Chapter 4 Phantom Star

  Chapter 5 Ebb Tide

  Chapter 6 Crow Sights Carrion

  Chapter 7 The Gods Table

  Chapter 8 No Way To Slow

  Chapter 9 Something Left Behind

  Chapter 10 The Nature of Dawn

  Chapter 11 The Promise of Dawn

  Chapter 12 Lullaby of Insomnia

  Chapter 13 The Bottom of the Sea

  Chapter 14 Secondborn Network

  Chapter 15 The Consolation of Oblivion

  Chapter 16 Carry these Bones

  Chapter 17 The Heir

  Chapter 18 Planning My Crash Landing

  Chapter 19 Zero Rise

  Sneak Peek: Rebel Born

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Nine Fates of the Republic

  FATE OF VIRTUES

  Symbol: Halo. Firstborn moniker: Gold. Secondborn moniker: Silver.

  The Fate of Virtues is the most powerful caste, the center of the political structure and seat of governmental power in the Fates Republic. Its leader—Clarity Fabian Bowie—is called “The Virtue” and his wife, Adora Wenn-Bowie, is the “Fated Virtue.”

  The First Family of Virtues (line of succession)

  Fabian Bowie (The Virtue)

  Grisholm Wenn-Bowie (Firstborn Commander)

  Balmora Virtue (Secondborn Commander)

  The Second Family of Virtues

  Firstborn Rasmussen Keating

  Secondborn Orwell Virtue

  FATE OF SWORDS

  Symbol: Broadsword. Firstborn moniker: Gold. Secondborn moniker: Silver.

  The Fate of Swords is the military caste. Its leader—Clarity Othala St. Sismode—is called “The Sword.” Her husband, Kennet Abjorn, is the “Fated Sword,” an honorary title, as he is not in line to succeed should Othala die. The heir apparent is their firstborn son. Roselle St. Sismode is known only as Roselle Sword after being Transitioned into the secondborn military.

  The First Family of Swords (line of succession)

  Othala St. Sismode (The Sword)

  Gabriel St. Sismode (Firstborn Sword)

  Roselle Sword (Secondborn Sword)

  The Second Family of Swords

  Firstborn Harkness Ambersol

  Secondborn Hamlet Sword

  FATE OF STARS

  Symbol: Shooting Star. Firstborn moniker: Gold. Secondborn moniker: Silver.

  Highly skilled in technical engineering, the Fate of Stars is responsible for energy and mining, including metals and elements used in the production of energy. Its leader—Clarity Aksel Vuke—is called “The Star.”

  The Second Family of Stars

  Firstborn Daltrey Leon

  Secondborn Kendall Star (deceased)

  FATE OF ATOMS

  Symbol: Carbon Atom. Firstborn moniker: Gold. Secondborn moniker: Silver.

  Specializing in science, engineering, medicine, and technology, the duties of the Fate of Atoms overlap, to some degree, with those of the Fate of Stars.

  FATE OF SUNS

  Symbol: Sun. Firstborn moniker: Gold. Secondborn moniker: Silver.

  The Fate of Suns is responsible for agriculture and most food production.

  FATE OF DIAMONDS

  Symbol: Glimmering Diamond. Firstborn: White moniker. Secondborn: Blue moniker.

  The Fate of Diamonds produces media, art, music, and other forms of entertainment and manages public relations, writers, and actors.

  FATE OF MOONS

  Symbol: Full Moon. Firstborn moniker: Gold. Secondborn moniker: Silver.

  The Fate of Moons is responsible for social work and advocacy. Its leader—Clarity Toussaint Jowell—is called “The Moon.”

  FATE OF SEAS

  Symbol: Cresting Wave. Firstborn moniker: Aqua Blue. Secondborn moniker: White.

  The Fate of Seas is responsible for fishing and ship building.

  FATE OF STONES

  Symbol: Mountain Range. Firstborn moniker: Gold. Secondborn moniker: Brown.

  The Fate of Stones is the servant caste and performs tasks ranging from janitorial services and sewage management to factory work and assorted nonmilitary functions.

  CENSUS

  Symbol: Peregrine.

  Census is a governmental entity that operates outside the nine Fates of the Republic. It is composed of agents whose mission is to hunt down and kill unauthorized thirdborns and their abettors. The Census uniform is a white military dress shirt, black trousers, black boots, and a long tailored leather coat. Census bases are located underground, beneath the Sword military Trees like the Stone Forest Base and the Twilight Forest Base.

  SWORD MILITARY RANKS

  Firstborn

  Exo—This rank is higher than all other ranks with the exception of Admiral and Clarity. Exos wear black uniforms. Clifton Salloway is an Exo.

  Iono—Iono soldiers are tasked with protecting the heads of Fates, the Clarities, and their families. Ionos wear gray uniforms. Dune Kodaline was an Iono soldier when posted at the Sword Palace.

  Secondborn

  Thermo—the highest secondborn military rank. Thermos wear sky-blue uniforms.

  Meso—the second secondborn military rank. Mesos wear royal-blue uniforms.

  Strato—the third secondborn military rank. Stratos wear midnight-blue uniforms. This is Hawthorne Trugrave’s rank when he meets Roselle.

  Tropo—the lowest secondborn military rank. Tropos wear beige and brown uniforms. This is Roselle’s rank on her Transition Day.

  Prologue

  I’m a Fate traitor. I’ve betrayed everything I once believed in.

  The starry sky outside the window of our airship blurs with streaks of midnight. Maybe I’d be sorry for what I’ve done tonight if my brother hadn’t tried to murder me. I don’t know. My thoughts are chaotic. Savage fear constricts my throat and chokes my breath. I shouldn’t blame Gabriel for wanting me dead. It’s self-preservation. Plenty of powerful people are conspiring to slaughter him—replace the firstborn with his secondborn sister. They view me as the stronger St. Sismode. The one who will crush their enemies for them.

  My family never expected
me to live this long.

  Mother has been trying to have me executed since I became a soldier in the secondborn military. She wants to protect her firstborn son from all threats to his ascension to the Sword. In Othala’s mind, I must die to save Gabriel. Secondborns like me are nothing more than pawns. Chattel. To be bartered away or killed without thought.

  I’m beginning to hate her for that.

  I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the airship’s window. My warm breath hides the night behind a small circle of white fog. I wouldn’t be alive if not for Hawthorne.

  He’s been lying to me since the day we met.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms. I try to rub them away. Hawthorne is firstborn now, but he still has the heart of a secondborn soldier. Saving me has become a thing for him—from Census and psychotic Agent Crow, from war and the horrific battlefield in the Fate of Stars . . . from loneliness.

  But he lied to me. He’s been my brother’s spy. How can I ever trust him again?

  A painful ache brutalizes my hollow chest. Hawthorne has risked everything to help me. He warned me about Gabriel’s plan to assassinate me. Our escape through the Tyburn Fountain will be discovered. The bloodthirsty maginot that tried to eviscerate me will be exhumed. Even though we crushed the cyborg wolfhound in the belly of a rubbish collector, I fear the secrets it could reveal if it’s recovered.

  To be fair, I haven’t told Hawthorne everything I’ve done either. He doesn’t know about my pact with our enemies, the Gates of Dawn, or that I’ve stolen monikers and traded the identification processors for the lives of Edgerton and Hammon, our two best friends. I have no plans to tell him either.

  Sitting up straight in my seat, I glance at The Virtue, Fabian Bowie. He paces in circles around the exquisite apartment of his luxurious Verringer aircraft. Strong and cunning, he emanates ruthless aggression. I’ve personally witnessed him order the assassination of some of his closest allies for little more than an affront to his considerable ego. What makes him most dangerous is his insatiable appetite for power.

  And now he has taken a disturbing interest in me.

  In the soft interior light of the airship, the golden rose-shaped pin on his uniform’s lapel winks at me. Our ruler has joined the Rose Garden Society, the secret purpose of which is to see me one day take my mother’s place as The Sword. I’m the “rose” they want in power. Fabian’s wearing of the symbol seals Gabriel’s death warrant. Even after my brother and mother’s attempt to have me assassinated, I still don’t want my brother to die. Gabriel’s addiction to Rush, a powerful drug, doesn’t allow him to think clearly. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  He’s scared—and he should be.

  Chewing on my bottom lip, I pluck dirt and grass from the tattered sleeve of my gown. Clifton Salloway is responsible for Clarity Bowie’s personal interference in my life. The firstborn arms dealer and owner of Salloway Munitions has left nothing to chance in his desire to place me in power. He has been my constant ally over the past year. Unlike Reykin and the Gates of Dawn, who want to use me to take down the Fates of the Republic, Clifton is very much interested in maintaining the status quo. The only thing he wants to change is my status, from secondborn to firstborn. Well, that, and he’d like to be more than just my commanding officer.

  My hands wring. My knees tremble. By now, the malware that I uploaded into my favorite maginot should be infiltrating the industrial systems of the Fate of Swords. Unless someone detects the worm, Reykin and the Gates of Dawn will be able to access everything they need—from within the intelligence centers of the Fate of Swords—to operate their network of spies.

  I should feel some shame or remorse, not only for forsaking my family but for committing treason. This isn’t what I was raised to do.

  But I don’t feel guilty. What I feel is terror . . . and maybe . . . maybe somewhere beneath fear, a purpose.

  Chapter 1

  Pain

  Pain. It’s the one thing that reminds me I’m alive.

  The unfortunate part about relying on pain is the disturbing lack of it in the Fate of Virtues. The firstborn residents of the Halo Palace pursue only pleasure and beauty and avoid any discomfort. With so little pain to go around, I no longer know if I’m real. Maybe everything is fantasy. Maybe only this shell of a world exists.

  My opponent’s eyes shine with burning shafts of golden light, reflecting my fusionblade. The lightweight silver hilt of my sword in my grip spits molten energy from its strike port. The man facing me wants to cut my heart out with his equally lethal sword. But I’m like a seek-and-destroy algorithm that he doesn’t understand.

  Firstborn Malcolm Burton’s dark hair tangles in wet clumps on his brow. He raises the back of his left hand to his tense jaw. Golden light from Malcolm’s sword-shaped moniker quivers over his flushed cheek. I bet Malcolm never saw this coming when he awoke this morning. He’s been mentor to Grisholm Wenn-Bowie, the heir to the Fate of Virtues, for years, and as the firstborn son of Edmund Burton, my mother’s military arms dealer, he has never had to fight for the position. The Burtons are part of the Sword aristocracy. It’s beneath Malcolm’s status to spar with me, a secondborn, but The Virtue insisted.

  The tips of Malcolm’s ears turn red, and he hisses when my weapon burns the flesh of his upper arm. Lucky for him I switched my fusionblade to training mode. He gets to keep his appendage, but the black fabric of his Exo uniform ignites where I struck him, curling at the edges with orange embers.

  “It’s time for me . . .” Malcolm says between panting breaths, “to stop . . . going . . . easy on you.” His pride is shaken. His free hand pats out the small flame. Tendrils of smoke and the scent of singed skin assail me. I’m used to it. With my ex-mentor, Dune, it was usually my flesh that burned.

  “By all means,” I reply, “stop.” I pause to allow Malcolm to recover and reset. Using my thumb, I dial the energy output of my fusionblade back up to the most lethal setting. Malcolm’s sword never left kill mode. I should keep that in mind.

  “I normally don’t fight women,” he growls, his dark eyebrows drawing together scornfully. “Or secondborns.”

  I show no emotion. “A fusionblade is a great equalizer. It doesn’t care about gender, size, strength, or birth order.” Dune used to say this to me whenever I complained about losing to him.

  When Malcolm’s ready, I half-heartedly block his lopsided strike with my own assault, beating him back several feet. A part of me longs to feel the scorching heat of his blade, any pain to replace the hollowness in my chest. My ego, however, won’t allow it. Losing even an inch of ground to Malcolm is more than I can bear.

  I’m isolated in the gilded cage of the Halo Palace—cut off. Everything could use a restart. Especially Grisholm. I glance at the twenty-two-year-old Firstborn Commander. He’s above us on the observation balcony, overlooking our sparring circle. A shaft of sunlight kisses his skin. His elbow leans on the arm of a throne of gold, and he rests his chin on his fist, his halo-shaped moniker projecting a glow onto his sultry smile, as if to encircle and highlight it.

  A steep flight of gleaming gold steps separates him from us. Golden Gothic pillars support the balcony, fanning out at the high ceiling like ribs. Near each pillar, a hovering stinger drone buzzes. The automated, black-armored assault guards resemble wasps that emit a hum as they ping the monikers in the room, ensuring that no unauthorized person gets too close to the heir to the Fates Republic.

  Grisholm lifts his head from his hand and swipes the holographic screen of his moniker. The glass wall behind him opens, allowing a soft breeze from the roiling sea to tussle his hair. The long golden curtains decorating the royal sparring circle flap and billow in the wind. At Grisholm’s back, over two thousand stone steps descend to the ocean. I run them a few times a day.

  “Here’s some sea air for you, Malcolm,” Grisholm calls from above. “You’re looking a little overheated.”

  “I’m just getting”—Malcolm pants—“warmed up.” He tries t
o avoid my fusionblade, but he’s too slow. I dial down the weapon so that I only burn him with the searing tip across his thigh. He winces and lurches away. I let him put some space between us while I glance up at Grisholm again.

  Grisholm should be training, not lazing around watching us. He’s weak with Malcolm as a mentor and military attaché. Privilege, not merit, must have played a part in the decision to employ Malcolm in that role. Or caution. Fear of Grisholm being hurt has risen to a level I haven’t encountered before—not even my brother, Gabriel, has been this sheltered from pain.

  At the other end of the gallery, Clarity Bowie observes the sparring match. He summoned me today to Grisholm’s training facility, sending his personal valet with a handwritten note. In it, The Virtue hinted that I might be an improvement in the role of Grisholm’s mentor. I peer up. The leader leans against the railing, his elbows resting on the marble. He’s well built for a middle-aged man. The strength of his stare bores into us. I wonder if he knows I’m only playing with Firstborn Malcolm—prolonging this battle—hoping his son’s mentor will do something amazing so he can keep his job.

  Beside Clarity Bowie, Dune watches me silently. My heartbeat drums harder. I haven’t had a private moment with my former mentor since coming here. He greeted me when I arrived two nights ago, and we walked together from the airship across the butterfly sanctuary in the south lawn. We talked only of trivialities because The Virtue had been present. Dune’s look, at the time, demanded discretion, but I already knew this lavish fortress would be infested with hidden-camera drones and listening devices, just like the Sword Palace. I’d hoped that we’d be able to meet alone at some point, but Dune’s duties with the demanding ruler of Virtue are such that it hasn’t been possible.

  Malcolm trips when I sidestep his advance. He tries to right himself. I give him a shove in the back with my foot to send him farther from me. He huffs and puffs, winded by the exertion. I haven’t broken a sweat.

  Dune’s appearance hasn’t changed. Even standing a few steps behind his sovereign at the railing, he’s the taller, more powerful-looking figure. His long dark hair is swept from his face in a knot at the back of his head. The length of his hair hangs to his shoulders, not a bit of gray in it or in his beard. The intensity of his sand-colored eyes weighs on me. He stares, unblinking.