I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t know. Try another channel.”
Balmora changes it. It’s the same, except firstborns with red-rimmed eyes and golden sword monikers are emerging from the smoke with their hands over their noses and mouths. “Is that Swords?” Balmora asks, with a catch in her voice.
“Try another station!” I demand.
The next one is similar, but an announcer is saying, “An explosion, or what we believe was an explosion, has occurred in the city of Forge, where the Fated Sword was being memorialized today on his way to Killian Abbey.”
“Swords has been attacked,” I say to Balmora, though I hardly recognize the voice as mine.
“It’s unclear how many casualties there are,” the announcer continues, “and whether The Sword or Firstborn Gabriel St. Sismode were harmed in the incident that some are now calling an attack.”
Balmora reaches out impulsively and takes my hand in a death grip. She’s biting her bottom lip, holding back tears. She studies my left hand, and a look of relief crosses her face. My moniker still shines silver. My brother is alive.
Balmora wipes away a tear. “Who would do this?” she demands.
It could be any number of factions. Retribution from the Rose Gardeners for the social club. The Virtue’s response to my mother’s bid for power. The Gates of Dawn. Then I think about Reykin. Did he know? Is that why he didn’t want me to watch, or was he just trying to protect me from more sorrow?
I sink into a silk lounge chair. Another massacre.
Balmora joins me on the long cushion, still holding my left hand. Her eyes keep darting to it. The announcers are at a loss for what to say. No one knows exactly what happened, except that an explosion went off along the route to the memorial.
Footsteps approach Balmora’s room. A few of her secondborn attendants storm in, young women in elegant sundresses with flushed faces. Quincy seems flustered, wringing her hands. “Get out! All of you!” Balmora screams. Their retreat is hasty, and they close the double doors behind them in a flurry.
Neither of us speaks. Time is strange. Sometimes it doesn’t exist. The two of us stare, waiting for the clouds of smoke to clear enough for us to see the damage. I think I experience every kind of emotion there is to feel. Survival guilt threatens to choke me. None of this would be happening if I’d died on my Transition Day. Another part of me exults in supreme satisfaction that my mother’s attack against me is being avenged. A part of me died that day, and I’ve never fully mourned its loss. Shame and disloyalty tangle with the realization that I truly, deeply want my mother dead.
The smoke finally dissipates, uncovering horrific carnage. In a replay of the events leading up to the attack, a glass hearse hovers down the avenue. Nothing appears to move toward the vehicle. Then it explodes outward. Whatever weapon was used, it was inside the vehicle—the vehicle that carried my father’s corpse.
The Vicolt carrying my mother and my brother mysteriously drops back right before the explosion. The recording doesn’t show what happened to them, but I think I already know. It was staged. They knew it would explode. Whatever just happened, it was a political move to further my mother’s agenda. And it was personal. She’d rather kill innocent bystanders than allow Kennet inside the St. Sismode tomb.
“My family is fine,” I say numbly.
“How do you know?” Balmora asks.
“I just do.”
We continue to watch the aftermath of the attack for almost an hour. A feminine voice at the door rouses me from the holographic nightmare. “Roselle, there’s a man here to see you.” It’s Quincy. “He’s not allowed to enter, so he requested that someone come and fetch you before he levels the building.” The sun outside is setting. I’ve been here for hours.
“Who is it?” I ask in a daze.
“Firstborn Clifton Salloway.”
“Tell him to go away,” Balmora orders.
I lurch to my feet and take a step toward the door. “It’s okay. I need to see him.”
“When are you coming back?” Balmora asks, gripping tighter to my left hand, unwilling to let me leave. Her hair is in disarray, ribbons hanging limply on her shoulders. Her eyes dart to my moniker.
The stingers in the room react. Their weapons power up noisily. Balmora lets go of my hand when the lethal barrels turn toward her. “Don’t!”
I get between one of the stingers and her, and it moves off. “Balmora, I’ll come back soon,” I say, trying to keep my emotions in check—trying not to fall apart. Impulsively, I turn and hug her. “I promise.”
I untangle myself from her and hurry to the door, past the attendant, and through the sunroom made of glass. My stingers trail me. In the hallway, everyone who lives and works in the Sea Fortress seems to be standing around and gossiping. They fall silent when I appear. “Where is Firstborn Salloway?” I ask. An elderly secondborn with a white roiling wave moniker on her hand points.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, continuing outside and across the courtyard.
Clifton leans against the portico with his arms folded over his chest, glowering at the Exo guards and death drones hovering nearby. When he sees me, he straightens. My unshed tears blur his features, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I want to say his name, but my throat tightens. When I reach him, he catches me in his arms, hugging me.
“Roselle,” he says softly, like he’s addressing a tiny kitten. “I came as soon as I could.” He takes off his jacket, wraps it around my shoulders, and hugs me again.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Bribes,” he whispers.
I laugh and choke on tears at the same time. His arms shift from my back to my waist. We turn toward the shore. The tide has come in, and the sandbar is covered with water. Clifton’s Verringer undulates in the nearby cove, resembling a beautiful swan with its wings up. “I brought an extra pair of hoverdiscs for you, but you don’t have shoes. No matter. I’ll carry you.” He reaches under my knees and lifts me with almost no effort. My arms circle his neck, and I lay my head on his shoulder. The stingers don’t react at all.
Clifton treads out onto the water, walking just above the surface. “Why were you at Balmora’s?” he asks calmly. I shrug and bury my face against his neck. If I speak, I’ll sob. He seems to understand. “I need to talk to you, but you don’t have to say anything, just listen. I’m going to take you to my airship, all right?”
I nod. The breeze mists us. Fish swim beneath the surface, some with tiger stripes, some speckled gray and white. The hum of the airship keeps the birds away. I stare toward the shore. Exo guards gather there, pointing at us. The stingers aren’t reacting, though. They trail us like faithful hounds.
The door opens upward as we near the Verringer. “Stinger R0517 and R6492, remain where you are,” Clifton orders.
To my surprise, they heed his order, halting and hovering above the waves. He carries me over the threshold, and the door closes behind us. Clifton finally sets me down near a fat lounge chair in the airship’s great room. He takes a seat and leans toward me.
“Do you know what just happened?” he asks, concern etched in his face.
I pull his warm jacket tighter around me. “You mean the explosion in Swords?”
He nods.
“Yes, I saw the replay.”
“Then you know it wasn’t us, right?” He’s anxious.
I swallow down some of my emotion. “I know more than that—I know it was my mother. She’s probably in her office right now, rehearsing the speech she prepared days ago, condemning the Gates of Dawn for the attack. I doubt she’ll be able to shed a real tear, though. Emotion has always been difficult for her.”
Clifton leans back in his chair, studying me. “Your military acumen is exceptional.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just know Othala.”
“Things cannot continue the way they are now,” he warns. “You know this.”