Secondborn

In about a half mile, we come to a round stone structure within a wooded area near the perimeter wall of the Palace grounds. The river continues, but Hawthorne and I head for a tall, black iron gate with sloping steps in front. Gray stone pillars wrap around the structure, holding up the domed roof. It’s only two stories high with four rooms inside. It’s a meditation building, formerly used to make tributes to a god that has either faded away or died, as did the people who once used it. As a child, I’d come here to get away from the cameras. It was my secret place.

The doors of the building are always unlocked. Panting as I reach them, I push one heavy bronze slab open. It whines on its rusted hinges. The only light comes from tiny slivers that pierce the round dormer windows in the ceiling and the narrow stained glass windows on the main floor. The scent of incense is thick and old. We bar the doors and engage their thick metal bolts. I lean against the cold bronze, trying to catch my breath. Hawthorne takes his fusionblade from his scabbard and ignites it so we can see. Statues of warrior-gods line the walls. The marble floor is dingy with dirt and leaves, but it’s in perfect condition otherwise.

Something heavy crashes against the doors, bowing them in and pushing me forward. Another blood-curdling yowl splits the air. “This way,” I whisper. The stained glass beside us shatters. Colorful shards rain onto the floor. The monstrous muzzle of a maginot tries to push through the narrow window. Its jaws snap at me, dripping saliva, but it’s unable to fit through. It isn’t Rabbit; it must be a newer model because I don’t recognize the silver markings by its eyes.

The gigantic maginot paces outside, throwing itself against the door again. The crash echoes in the domed building. Hawthorne fixates on the window. His jaw tightens. “Is there another way out of here?”

I lead him across the marble floor and behind a bronze statue of a beautiful male god who wears a crown of laurels and very little else. I reach for a notch in the wall. A piece of gray stone slides open to reveal a shallow staircase. Hawthorne’s fusionblade lights the way as we take the passage down, the wall closing behind us.

“Where does this lead?” Hawthorne asks.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I reply. “I’ve never been strong enough to pry open the door at the other end, but I know this hallway is long enough so that it must be beyond the Palace wall.” We walk together down the corridor. I take the lead. “You need to stay on the west side of the tunnel up ahead. There’s a security wall that you don’t want to trip into.”

We come to an animal graveyard. Piles of decimated rodent bones and molding fur litter the ground. I pick up a small pebble and toss it ahead on the left side of the tunnel. It explodes. Hawthorne picks up another and throws it to the right. It bounces on the ground. “C’mon.” When we’re on the other side, he asks, “Any more surprises ahead?”

“I don’t think so, but like I said, I’ve never gotten through to the outside.”

“How far does this go?” he asks.

“A mile or so.”

“And you did this alone?”

“I do most things alone, Hawthorne.”

“You don’t need anyone, do you?”

“That’s not true. I desperately need someone I can trust.”

“I love you,” he says softly, “and I’ll earn back your trust again, even if it kills me.”

“Don’t let it kill you,” I reply. “I don’t think I’ll make it if you’re gone.”

We walk on, coming to a spiraling ramp upward. It leads to a small rectangular room. I gesture to a heavy outline in the stone. The walls and the floor are embedded with small metal swords in a repeating diamond pattern.

Hawthorne passes me his fusionblade and pushes against the door. It doesn’t budge. “There has to be a lever,” he mutters. He pushes on a sword on the wall. It moves inward. Nothing happens. He lets go of it and it moves back out. He presses another one. It slides in and comes back out. He presses all of them he can reach. Nothing moves the door. He growls in frustration.

Cool air wafts through the crack in the doorway. Peeking through it, I feel mist on my face and hear the distinct sound of running water. I look up. I can’t see very far, but I can tell that the walls curve inward above us. “This shape—an obelisk,” I say. “We’re west of the Palace, so that puts us in the park—Westerbane Heath. Is this . . . is this the Tyburn Fountain?”

“I think you’re right.”

“Tyburn was one of the earliest lessons Dune drilled into me.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

I hand Hawthorne his Exo cape and move into the center of the small room. “Which way do you think is west?”

He pulls out a pocket compass. Typical soldier. He points to the wall adjacent to the closed door. “That’s west.”