Song of Edmon

by Adam Burch

  I try to find a harmony that will balance what the others are playing, but I can’t seem to find the right notes. I start to play something different, something underneath the whole of the music. Before I can ask Gorham what I am hearing, though, someone shoves me out of the circle. Taken by surprise, I smack into the wall behind me, the wind knocked out of me. My flute clatters onto the flagstones. I snatch it quickly. I look up, fuming, and come face-to-face with Nadia. Her eyes are fire-hot coals.

  “What did you do that for?” I ask.

  “You know what for!”

  This is the first time I’ve seen her attend the Eventide feast. I’m pleased, but also utterly confused; the closeness of her body near mine creates a strange sensation I’ve not felt before. “What?” I blurt.

  “My family doesn’t need your charity. We may not be as rich as you, but we have pride.” She jabs her finger into my chest.

  “It wasn’t charity.” I fumble my words.

  “We’re just as good as anyone, especially some half-Nightsider.” She starts to walk away. Her hips seem different somehow, wider.

  Why am I staring at her as she walks? I shake my head to snap myself out of it.

  “Just remember who pulled your clumsy butt up off the cliffs,” she adds as she turns back.

  “I was just . . . ,” I mumble. “I was just trying to thank you.”

  She stares at me like a hooked lumo-fish. “Oh,” she mutters as she stalks off.

  I trudge back to the circle of musicians.

  “Trouble with your girlfriend?” Gorham asks with a sly smile.

  “She’s not my girlfriend!” I respond a little too vehemently.

  “She seemed upset.”

  I explain to him what happened in the market. He nods. “I don’t get it!” I confess with exasperation.

  “Edmon,” Gorham intones, “everyone has their weaknesses. If someone mentioned your father—”

  “I hate my father!” I cut the old man off.

  “If someone mentioned him,” he goes on, “you might feel upset even if what they were saying came from the intention of helping.”

  “I wouldn’t get mad if they were trying to help,” I insist.

  “You wouldn’t?” Gorham arcs an eyebrow at me. “What if this girl didn’t know you were trying to help? Making your intention clear is all you can do. Many think of you as the lord of the isle.”

  Lord of the isle?

  “Many, in comparison to you, have very little. Maybe to this girl, it seemed you were showing off, playing the bountiful lord by being kind to a poor islander.”

  “But I wasn’t!” I insist.

  “Did you make that clear to her?”

  “I think so,” I mutter.

  “That’s all you can do.” He beats his drum. “Now keep playing. Day’s end is only just beginning.”

  I make the notes sound pure like Gorham instructed. It still doesn’t work. They sound shrill rather than clear.

  “Try what you were playing before,” he suggests. “Find your own tune. Make it work with the other musicians’ notes.”

  I start again. I glide underneath the main song. My tune punctuates the rhythm of the drums. There’s sadness to it that maybe wasn’t there before, but it makes the main melody sound richer, more intricate.

  “Yes!” Gorham exclaims. “You’ve found a counterpoint, Edmon. Very good.”

  The song goes on through the night. I can’t help but feeling, though, that I didn’t find a counterpoint at all. Rather, a counterpoint found me.

  The next day, a sondi lands on the shores. The town is buzzing over the arrival, but for me, a deep fear like a clenched fist squeezes my belly.

  My father.

  I don’t go to the docks. I don’t want to see him.

  Why is he here? What could he want?

  Nadia finds me at the cliffs, gazing at the Southern Sea. She sits beside me. The warm breeze blows our hair as we listen to the crashing waves.

  “Hey,” she says. “You didn’t come to the docks this morning.”

  “I didn’t.” My voice sounds lifeless.

  “I’m sorry,” she says tentatively. “About last night. I didn’t mean to be so angry. You were trying to help. It’s just—”

  “It’s fine.” I cut her off.

  A silence sunders us. I should just let it be.

  “I don’t know if it’s worse for you or me,” I say. “You’re ashamed of your family, but mine is ashamed of me.”

  “I am not ashamed of my family!” Nadia’s eyes flare.

  “I didn’t mean . . . sorry.” It’s all I can manage. I keep making mistakes it seems.

  “Your mother isn’t ashamed of you,” she says.

  “Not her,” I concede. “But House Leontes, my father, and everyone who carries the family name.”

  “You think they count more than she does?” Nadia asks.

  Maybe.

  “Your father hasn’t summoned you or visited Bone in three years. He has another son. Why should you care about what he thinks? If your father is ashamed of you, he’s the one who shouldn’t count.”

  “You were wrong,” I say. The gulls caw in the distance. She looks at me. “You said that my father wouldn’t return for me.” My voice is tinged with bitterness.

  Nadia shakes her head. “No. I said that you are free to be your own person whether or not your father returns. I never said he wouldn’t come back.”

  She stands and walks away. Over her shoulder, she adds, “Besides, your father wasn’t on the sondi that landed. It was a big man with a metal hand. And a red-haired boy he brought with him.”

  A red-haired boy?

  “What?” I turn, but she’s walked off.

  There’s only one red-haired boy I know of. Is it the same one? The one from the christening? I run back up the path toward the manse.

  “Phaestion of the Julii,” Alberich’s voice rings out as I burst into the foyer. I stop cold as everyone turns to me.

  My mother waits on the staircase flanked by her handmaids. She nods at Alberich. “What brings the scion of House Julii to the shores of Bone?”

  “Lord Edric and Lord Chilleus of the Julii invoke the tradition of fosterage,” grunts Alberich. “Phaestion will remain here as your guest; he’ll serve as regent. Your son, Edmon, will be his companion.”

  “I see.” My mother’s voice is cold. “Unfortunately, it is not Edric’s right to command here.”

  Alberich sighs as if he expected this. “My lady, you know that it is. Edric is the ruler of this island, entitled by the High Synod—”

  “The people of Bone were here long before the High Synod, long before the Great Song, long before any Nightsider set foot on planet Tao and pretended that one could own the land. Bone does not recognize—”

  “Bone recognizes the soldiers of House Leontes.”

  There is a beat of silence as my mother simmers. “It’s my understanding that in the tradition of fosterage, the hosts will receive equal hospitality in return,” she responds.

  “Edmon will leave for Meridian in a quarter cycle’s time and receive the tutelage of House Julii’s private academy,” Alberich says.

  My mother’s face turns to stone.

  “M’lady, I remind you this is a great honor. House Julii is one of the four High Houses, descended from the generals of the Great Song. They hold many seats among the Electors, including their traditional seat on the Synod.”

  “I’m aware of the political status of the Julii,” my mother replies acidly.

  “Edmon will receive an education of the finest order, an opportunity he wouldn’t otherwise have on Bone. I will oversee the boy’s tutelage in combat training.”

  “Instruction? In martial skill? Why would he need such an education, Alberich?” she asks, her voice edged with anger.

  “M’lady?”

  “If Edmon’s no longer considered Leontes’s heir, why should he leave his island home for schooling in Meridian? How does this serve Lord Edri
c? Edmon is a forgotten son. Let him remain forgotten.”

  Phaestion’s gray eyes turn toward me with dispassionate appraisal, gauging whether I’m worthy.

  He was there that day. He knows I’m not the heir of my house. Why should he bother being here?

  His features are so symmetrical, and his eyes are so innocently piercing that I feel like some kneaded clod being placed under a microscope.

  “Phaestion’s the highest ranked fighter of his generation. One day, he’ll enter the arena and continue the illustrious name of House Julii. Edgaard, the Leontes heir, is yet of an age to offer companionship, but Edmon is. Edmon is the son of the only two-time champion ever. The honor for both sons is mutual.”

  What a sham! I feel like laughing. My father sold House Julii on the premise that since I’m his son, I’ve inherited the same fighting skills he has. When Phaestion realizes I’ve never even thrown a punch in my life, I’ll bring dishonor, embarrassment, and even more humiliation to myself.

  Edric must have known that. When I fail, I’ll receive much worse than a quiet exile here on the isle. What will happen to my mother?

  “Fosterage is commonplace among the houses. Youths bonded by it are more than brothers. They are companions.”

  Alberich is no longer asking.

  “You’ve not answered my question, seneschal,” my mother persists.

  “Edmon is betrothed to Old Wusong’s daughter. Though he is not the heir, he still must serve his Patriarch.”

  There is a cold beat. Mother knows she must accept the red-haired boy into our home and that I must accept him as my friend. Then we both realize that I’ll be gone in three months for an “education.”

  “Welcome, Phaestion of the Julii.” She looks at the red-haired boy. “This is my son, Edmon Leontes.”

  I step forward.

  “I know who he is,” the boy interrupts with a casual indifference. I’ve never been spoken to before in such a dismissive way.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to begin their training,” Alberich says.

  “Training?” My voice cracks. My mother glances at me.

  I’ve given it away! I can’t fight at all. This game is over before it’s started.

  “I’ll find lodgings in the town proper and return before the start of daily hours to instruct Phaestion and Edmon together.”

  “Then be a good servant and run along,” my mother says.

  Alberich suffers the insult admirably and simply bows and takes his leave.

  I can tell that my mother is tense, afraid for me. Edric may still intend for me to compete in the Combat when I come of age. Starting the training now, however, seems absurd. At twelve, I’m significantly behind almost every other noble boy my age. I’d be no match for someone like Phaestion.

  What chance do I have?

  Then it occurs to me. Maybe my father hopes I have no chance? If I’m thrown in the ring, I’ll be torn apart. He’ll be free of me, and he can marry my brother to Old Wusong’s daughter.

  Mother exits with her handmaidens, and I’m left in the foyer alone with the red-haired boy.

  But if that’s the case, why bother training me at all?

  Phaestion and I stare at each other for a beat. He’s impossibly overdressed in a crisp black uniform and a purple cloak. The silver circlet around his head flashes as he looks down at me over the bridge of his small, perfectly straight nose.

  “Well?”

  He expects me to say something. I’m not sure what.

  “Well . . . what?” I respond more sarcastically than I intend.

  He cocks his head to the side. He looks like he’s computing whether I’m mentally deficient or merely rude.

  “Gather my things and show me to my room, of course,” he says and strides confidently toward the hallway, leaving me with several metallic cases of luggage to carry. I consider ignoring his order, but I know that my mother will admonish me for leaving his things in the foyer. I pick up the heavy metal boxes and drag them on the floor behind me with a dark scowl on my face. I may carry his things, but that does not make me his slave.

  I find him looking at a small guest room at the end of the hall.

  “You just expect me to carry your bags for you?” I demand, exasperated.

  Again he cocks his head to the side. “Yes,” he says, effortlessly. “You’re now one of my companions.”

  The way he says companion sounds as if it’s a title like servant.

  There’s more to this fosterage custom than I’m aware of.

  “Is this where you sleep?” He nods toward the small guest room.

  “No. I sleep there.” I point a few doors down.

  The red-haired boy turns on his heel and walks into my room. I follow, shocked that he’s simply entered my quarters without permission. He stands in the center of the room, gazing out the large bay windows. “Is it always this bright?” He shields his eyes from the Tao sun.

  “Shades,” I call out. Shutters slide across the windows. “Globes,” I follow up. The warm orange of the fireglobes ensconced in the adobe walls bathes the room in soft light.

  “That’s better.” Phaestion nods.

  “Your eyes aren’t strong enough for the isles,” I mock.

  His gaze narrows. He isn’t sure if he’s being purposely insulted. “My night vision’s much stronger though, Daysider.”

  I ignore the taunt. “Shades are mechanized to do a gradual fade to mark the diurnal schedule of Ancient Earth.”

  “Primitive.” He nods.

  “Primitive?” I’m getting angry.

  “Ancient traditions are stagnant in the face of the thousands of different worlds we will one day reach once we have explored the Fracture beyond Lyria.” He’s showing off. His haughty tone is clear—my ways are stupid. I clench my jaw.

  “I train to stay awake for forty-eight hours at a time,” he goes on. “I can fight with only half an hour of sleep if I need to.”

  “Big deal,” I retort. “Can you fish? Do you know how to row? Or rock climb? I’ve climbed the whale’s tooth, the siren’s hump, and the manta face. I even crack-climbed the high fathom.”

  In truth, I’ve climbed none of those things. Nadia is the climber. I have two left feet. I’d mention my prowess at music, but I remember the reception that got at the christening all those years ago. Still, there’s no way I’m being out-boasted by this boy. Even though he seems impossibly more handsome and strong than I.

  He strolls the perimeter of the room. My room.

  “I’m not impressed by any of your island hobbies,” he says simply.

  “Of course you aren’t. You can’t even see in the daytime.” I snicker.

  He holds my gaze placidly. “Do you read?”

  “Of course,” I say, thrown off balance.

  He picks up the aquagraphic tablet on my desk and taps it. The gel screen leaps to life. “The Chironiad?” His eyes widen with surprise.

  “Yeah?” I respond sullenly.

  “My father is named after the hero of the story, Chilleus.”

  He places the tablet down and picks up a model rocket that my mother purchased from a Meridian trader.

  “You like space travel.” It’s not a question.

  “Yes.”

  This is my room. These are my things. He’s acting as if he owns it all.

  “That’s important.” Before I can ask why, he says, “Where do you sleep then?”

  “Bed,” I call out a little more forcefully than I intend. A thin bed panel slides out from the wall just a few inches over the floor.

  “So low to the ground?” He sits on the panel. The gel cushion forms to his body. “Interesting. This will do. Thank you.” He smiles simply.

  “What do you mean?” I don’t understand.

  Again, he cocks his head to the side. Everything he does seems so graceful and absent of guile. It’s as if I’m the one who isn’t following the rules, not him. It’s maddening.

  “I mean this will do for my quarters,” he says
.

  “Your quarters?” Heat rises to my cheeks.

  “Surely.” He stands and grabs one of the heavy metallic cases. He presses a thumb to the identifying lock on the luggage. One case snaps open. He pulls out strips of metal and begins assembling them.

  “Where am I supposed to sleep?” I ask.

  My eyes are glued to his task, fascinated by what he’s doing.

  “I don’t know,” he answers calmly. “Maybe the guest room down the hall?”

  He finishes assembling the instrument. He connects a taut string from the bottom to the top.

  “What’s that?” I ask, my anger momentarily forgotten.

  “A compound bow,” he says, stretching his arms while gripping the string, testing the tensile strength of the wire. “You’ve never seen a bow before?”

  I shake my head.

  “I suppose that’s normal for your kind.”

  He pulls out a case holding thin metallic tubes with featherlike things attached to the ends. “Sonic arrows,” he says as he holds one up. “You shoot them. The sound blast of a well-placed arrow can bring down a whole regiment.”

  He thumbs another case open, revealing a sword with an ornate handle. It’s sheathed in smooth black synthetic leather.

  “A sword!” I exclaim. I’ve seen my father carry one in aquagraphics, but nothing like this, not up close.

  “A siren sword,” he corrects. He whips the blade from its scabbard with a whisper. “Rapier and dagger,” he adds as he pulls out a smaller matching knife from the case. He practices against his shadow, moving the blade with lightning speed and precision. Thrusts, pivots, and graceful, flowing retreats. It’s like watching a ballet. “My father had it crafted for his first son, Augustus.”

  “His first son?” I ask.

  “It took armorers twenty years to make the long blade in the forges of Albion. Another five for the dagger.” He holds the long tapering blade out for me to admire. It’s ringed by an intricate silver handguard with an ivory handle. “I’m the heir of House Julii now, so my father gave it to me.”

  “What happened to Augustus?” I ask.

  There is a long silence, too long. I start to shift uncomfortably.

  Suddenly the sword sings! It sounds like a woman, a siren. He twirls the blade. The sword calls out a melody. The dagger hums, too, in harmony.