Reykin increases our altitude and slows the hovercycle. We arrive at a hoverpad outside an observatory in Flabellate One, part of the elaborate, interconnected set of tree forts high in the canopy. Grisholm is the first one off his bike, heading straight for the rope bridges to the main treetop fortress. Reykin stays with me, walking by my side. I look around, growing more and more annoyed. The observatory is really an adult playground, where firstborns can be pampered by Stone-Fated secondborn domestics while they watch the participants of the trials struggle to hone their survival skills.
Beside the observatory, with its aerial views of the clearing below, Sword-Fated secondborn commanders who will not be competing in The Trials give live demonstrations. Targeting games are set up high in the canopies so firstborns can test their own skills with various weapons. When a firstborn’s aim strays, live ammunition finds its way down to the fields where the secondborns train.
Grisholm beckons us to the central observation deck. “Tourists!” he growls, shunning the other activities with a scornful sneer. “You’re ruining the sport!” he shouts at the nearest firstborns with their hunting crossbows and grenade-tipped arrowheads. The security team starts to manhandle the firstborns, and they scurry off to a different target, leaving us alone on the observation deck.
The hovering platform is made of a lightweight material with the look of wood. It blends in with the surroundings. The open face is guarded by an invisible, restrictive energy field that allows air flow but prevents anyone from falling off the edge and plummeting to a horrifying death. Grisholm passes out enhanced telescopic eyewear, and I’m able to observe the combatants on the field below us as if I’m standing right above them.
He points out his favorites. He has a surprising understanding of their skill sets and knows details down to their vitamin supplements. One combatant is his particular favorite—a man by the name of MacGregor Sword. He’s a redheaded twenty-three-year-old man of epic proportions. I note that MacGregor holds back from aggressive training today. I mention as much to Grisholm.
“It’s strategy,” Grisholm says with assurance. “He doesn’t want others to know how skilled he is.”
“It’s pain, Grisholm,” I reply, “not strategy. He likely has a hamstring tear. See the back of his left leg? Notice how the muscle looks lumpy? It’s going to pop soon, and he’ll be useless until it’s fixed. He’s probably taking all kinds of medications to numb it. Look at the way he’s clenching his jaw and favoring his other leg. An injury like that is excruciating and takes a few days to recover from, once the muscle is reconstructed. He only has a few days left until the Opening Ceremonies. It may not be enough time, and that’s if he has the merits to get it repaired. But he can’t back out, can he? Once he committed, he’s in whether he wants to be or not.” That part I say with no small amount of scorn.
Grisholm must think my scorn is for MacGregor, because he says, “What a scam artist! I bet the odds makers are counting on him keeping his mouth shut about his injury so they can capitalize on it.”
“Why would he reveal it?” Reykin asks sarcastically. His eyes look right through Grisholm. “It would let his adversaries know how to attack him effectively.”
“Well, you both need to keep it to yourselves,” Grisholm demands. “Uncovering the winner is only a small part of this. There are other bets along the way—like who won’t survive certain challenges.”
“Is there a way out of this for him, Grisholm?” I ask. MacGregor probably enlisted in The Trials when he was healthy. Now he’ll likely be killed in a gruesome exhibition.
“He chose this. He must live with it. Come to think of it, he has to die with it, too,” Grisholm quips.
Violence touches every part of my life. It’s unavoidable. It’s in every breath I take. Watching the competitors train, I begin to loathe myself for not using all my resources to put an end to it. They might have chosen to enroll in the Secondborn Trials, as Grisholm says, but doing so is a suicide note to the world: You’ve brought my spirit to its knees, and now you may rip apart my body as well. Some probably believe they have a chance, but most know they don’t. They just want their pain to end.
Grisholm logs everything I say on his moniker. After we exhaust this field of competitors, Grisholm is anxious to move on. Mounting the hovercycles, we fly to the next section, staying close to the ground as we ride. I rest my cheek against Reykin’s back. We pass a small lake, and the air suddenly gets cooler. Passing meadows, the wind grows sweet with lush flowering plants. I’m disappointed when we get to Flabellate Two. I’d rather keep riding, bumping over pockets of air, letting the tension of this world ebb.
Flabellate Two is hauntingly similar. After it, we tour the other sections until the sun sets and the competitors are excused to scrounge for meals. Grisholm suggests we take a break and find some food ourselves. Mounting the hovercycles once more, we fly to the center of the training matrix.
The fan-shaped training fields encircle the Trial Village. Reykin slows the hoverbike as we near the epicenter for firstborns and the media, a wooded glade filled with fantastical architecture and surrounded by gleaming walls of fusion energy. Round orbs of light float above and cast a glow over the bustling crowds. Security is tight here at the enormous arching stone portico to the modern-medieval village. Armed Exos stop us at the entrance. As part of Grisholm’s entourage, we’re waved through, but others—those not high enough on the aristocratic ladder—are turned away.
Grisholm and Reykin park their vehicles. Reykin’s hand drops from the throttle. His fingers skim the outside of my thigh. The gesture is possessive, even if it’s brief. He climbs off the bike and extends his hand to me. This suddenly feels very intimate. I’m not sure why. He’s told me that he doesn’t care about me. I should listen. Reykin always means every word he utters, but it’s confusing nonetheless. I decline his help and climb off on my own.
A cool wind blows through the trees, rustling the needle leaves. A gorgeous starry night peeks through the redwood canopy. Paved paths lined with wrought-iron lampposts branch in several directions. I pull my jacket closer around me.
“Are you cold?” Reykin asks. His dark hair is windswept, but no less attractive for that.
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine.”
A festival atmosphere prevails. Dressed for clubbing, the throng around us is jovial, thrill seeking. I’ve never been in a crowd this happy before. Firstborns are dance-walking, moving to the beat of live instruments. Glitter tints the women’s hair and skin in vibrant colors, with small holographic fireworks displays bursting around them like crowning laurels. Strings of holographic bluebirds fly around the heads of others. Some men sport holographic angel wings that flutter with white light. Others carry miniature holographic monsters that sit reaper-like on their shoulders and lurch out at passing women, whose screams mix giddy fascination with surprised terror.
Unsettled by the strangeness of it all, I reach for my fusionblade, but I don’t have one on me. I feel exposed. Reykin’s hand brushes mine as we walk. He seems closer than normal. I can still feel his shape against me, and I wonder if he feels mine. The paved path forces us closer still as we follow Grisholm, surrounded by his security force.
I recognize a famous face as it passes—Firstborn Gerard Hampton, a Diamond-Fated actor who plays a secondborn Sword in a popular drama. He’s with a Virtue-Fated firstborn woman I don’t recognize. He recognizes me, though. He says my name and gives me a soldier’s salute as we pass. It makes me want to crush him. He’s clueless about what it’s like to be secondborn.