Traitor Born (Page 23)
“Rise and fall in the recommended channels, or you’re liable to get hurt,” the red one warns us.
I gaze back over my shoulder to watch the greeters fawn over the next arrival—a decadent, bare-chested god with a very lethal-looking white snake wrapped around his broad shoulders. The fiery greeter directs him to the left and over to a dark ballroom, where a sinister fog and a flare of hellfire creeps over the threshold. He sees me watching him and sends me a sultry air-kiss.
Ahead is a winter palace. Icy fog covers a glass floor. Costumed firstborns use it like an ice rink, only their feet never touch the surface. Above the rink, a holographic field displays a scene from last year’s Secondborn Trials, where several of the contestants from different Fates were forced to cross an icy lake. Some tried to tread where the ice was too thin and fell through. Others waited too long for the ice to harden, dying of hypothermia before reaching the other side, freezing solid during the night. A group that constructed primitive sleds to distribute their weight did well. Others assembled hoverdiscs to accomplish the crossing. The ingenuity of the various competitors is astounding, but watching the losers makes my belly ache.
Dune and I move away from the rink. We find a channel, essentially a dedicated path leading upward. The building has tiers of floors, but in the middle, there’s open air up to the ceiling. As we rise through the channel, we pass an ice wall with firstborn Swords clinging to its surface, using glacial pickaxes and cliff boots with hoverdiscs to make the climb a breeze. A holographic field in the cliff depicts three-dimensional secondborns in a challenge in last year’s Secondborn Trials. The contestants were required to climb a treacherous mountain to obtain golden ration tickets that could be used to purchase food supplies.
My mood sours as I watch the footage. Cyborg mountain lions pounce on Sun-Fated secondborns who couldn’t climb fast enough. Their bodies are torn apart in the most horrific ways. The drone cameras cut away to a Moon-Fated team. The climb up is simply too much for one. He calls something to his partner before letting go of the ledge. My heart pounds, watching his body free-fall into the mist below. His partner chooses not to continue the climb, letting go as well and falling to her death. The terror of that moment must have been excruciating. I shudder.
Dune whispers in my ear, “Remember all of the things you’ll no longer tolerate when you have the power to change them.”
We reach the top of the tallest tower and power off our hoverdiscs, preferring to walk on solid ground. Security is tight here. Firstborn Exos and secondborn Sword soldiers stand in position all around the penthouse level of the tallest tower. Stingers hover in legions. Dune and I are subjected to a battery of security checkpoints, including body scans for high-tech weaponry. I wait for a soldier to balk at my belt of razor-sharp roses or the bracers on my wrists. No one does. Do they consider these weapons merely decorative?
Ahead, large golden gates representing the entrance to the Kingdom of the Gods lie open, awaiting the chosen few. This is the gallery level. Dimly lit, it gives an impressive view of the ballroom below. The gilded railing is shaped like a horseshoe and decorated with ancient deities. At the far end, opposite me, is a wall of glass windows, providing a view of the cloudless night sky.
The gods on this level are nefarious at best. I can’t help thinking, as I observe them frivolously spilling their cocktails and grinding on each other, that they’ve been the ruin of secondborns. Some are swathed in latex and lace, others are bathed in cosmic fog and little else, each paying tribute to different gods and goddesses from recorded history.
Below us, down a sparkling glass staircase, is the ballroom’s main floor. In the center of the room is the Gods Table, an elevated, Gothic-columned platform where the elite of the Sword aristocracy have gathered to play games of chance. Bright lights stream from it. Elaborate gilded tables, shiny with animated holographic figurines resembling secondborn competitors from all the Fates, do battle in different gaming scenarios. On the dance floor surrounding the Gods Table, couples sway to driving music performed by a Diamond-Fated man resembling the God of Thunder. The glass ceiling above him is an awning against the sky.
A gray-bearded firstborn with a wide mouth, dressed as the God of the Sea, stands at the top of the stairs, announcing arriving socialites. His salt-laden eyebrows weigh heavily over the creases of his eyes, which scrutinize me. “The tide has swept in a prize.” The deep rumble of his voice is amplified and echoes around us. He opens his fist, and out swim tiny, holographic porpoises that disappear after sailing by. He leers at my cleavage. I could kill him with the trident in his hand. That thought makes me smile.
“I’m no one’s prize,” I reply, passing him and descending the glass steps.
“Roselle, the Goddess of War!” he bellows behind me. His gravelly voice carries, coinciding with the final chords of the God of Thunder’s song.
His announcement of Dune is lost in the collective gasp from the crowd. Nearly everyone on the floor, and in the gallery, turns to us. I’d give anything to be the Goddess of Peace at this moment. War is easy to perpetuate. Peace, on the other hand, is nearly impossible. It will be hard-won, if it’s achieved at all.
The crowd in front of me parts. Thankfully, the music starts again, so I’m not subjected to the hissing whispers of the revelers. A mixture of hostility, pointed stares, and open admiration pummels my invisible armor. I lift my chin. Dune takes my wrist. We thread through the firstborns on the dance floor. A watery moat and glistening fountains wind around the Gods Table, separating it from the dancers. To reach the table, we cross a small arched bridge and climb a short flight of stone steps. Passing between Gothic stone columns, we emerge on the other side of a glittering, transparent sound barrier. The music from the God of Thunder fades, replaced by high-pitched voices and cheering from firstborns crowded around gaming tables.
Within the chaos and revelry of the blinking lights, I find Clifton. He has taken a position at the far end of this exclusive club. Seated amid a table of gamers, he’s engaged in a rousing match of Pyramid Conspiracy. I know the card game well. The arms dealer himself taught me how to play it. It’s a game at which he particularly excels, and he loves this diversion, but by the way his eyes drift over me, I get the sense that cards are the furthest thing from his mind.
Clifton sets his hand aside, opting out of the match in which he has a substantial bet placed. The officiator takes the stack of chips away without a word. Clifton gets to his feet, lifting his shiny cigar case from the table. He opens it and extracts a thin blue cigar. Putting it to his lips, he lights the end with a flame from the case. Blue smoke rises into the air. He snaps the case closed, rubbing the pad of his thumb on the smooth metal surface. The rigid set of his shoulders relaxes.
His normal blond whiplash of bangs is swept back into a knot at his crown. He’s dressed as Cassius, the ancient Lord of Raze and Ruin, with a golden sickle attached to a wide leather belt over a rustic kilt. Thick leather straps crisscross his otherwise bare chest. At the center, where the leathers meet, a gold circle glints. Etched into the thick metal is the face of a rose. A long rust-colored cape hangs from his broad shoulders. With the face of a film star, he reminds me more of a sun god than a harbinger of annihilation.
I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. Clifton’s sultry green eyes pass over me, their golden flecks shining. I stop in front of him. He leans over to the table, crushes out the blue cigar, straightens, and reaches out, teasing a small rosebud from my hair. Stroking the delicate flower, he brings it to his nose and inhales its scent. The gesture is surprisingly intimate. “I’ve been worried about you,” he says softly, as if no one else is around.