Song of Edmon

by Adam Burch

  “Thank you, Mentor.” I’m getting better, faster, I think.

  For the past several months, I’ve been cooped up on this level of the Wusong Palatial Towers. My days have been filled only with eating, sleeping, and training against the Mentor program. Over and over, repeat, repeat. My father knows that Phaestion has been training with the Arms of Agony since he was a boy. Mentor is Edric’s countermeasure. I would refuse to comply with my father’s demand that I ready myself for Combat, but the exertion keeps my body and mind sharp, and the abundance of food is a much-needed change from the meager offerings of the Wendigo.

  Edric knows I’ve killed in prison to survive, but he doubts that I will do so at his command. He’s right. I have no intention of entering the arena. My desire is escape. Soon . . .

  I’ve been looking for a way out since I’ve returned to Meridian, but I’ve been under heavy lock and key. Security camglobes hover through every corridor, and I’m closely guarded by my father’s men, too. I was freer in the Citadel, but if I can survive there, I can survive this. If I’m getting faster, my chances of evasion increase.

  Yet even if I could escape Wusong Palatial Towers, where would I go? I’d not make it far on foot. I must wait for opportunity . . . What that opportunity is, I’ve no idea, so I stay aware and patient. My escape will not come from hidden air vents or a service pneumovator. It will not come from battle or glorious rebellion. In the world of Meridian twilight, it will come from political subterfuge.

  I was never adept at employing machinations or deceit to achieve my aims, but I promised my mother and Nadia I would make their deaths have meaning. If that’s the skill I must gain to do it, so be it. I originally thought that taking revenge on my father was the way to honor their memories. Now all I can think is that somehow escaping my fate is the answer. Where to go? The golden city of Prospera on Lyria? The Maestro would speak of its glittering spires and libraries. Or maybe to the treasures of Miral, whatever they may be? Faria seemed to think finding that would give his life meaning. Will it bring meaning to mine or the memory of my family? Did Faria, my last friend, betray me to my father? That question still gnaws at my brain.

  The plump form of my younger sister, Phoebe, and her fat husband, Beremon Ruska, suddenly appear at the end of the corridor to block my path. Here’s a surprising deviation from the monotony, I think.

  “Mentor,” I whisper. “Mute vocalizations.”

  The couple greet me with cherubic faces. I haven’t seen them since the funeral, and I don’t think I’ve ever spoken more than two words to them in my entire life.

  “Brother Edmon!” Phoebe embraces me. I’m caught off guard. Phoebe has never been cunning like our sister Lavinia, but she is a Leontes, so anything is suspect.

  “Phoebe?” I peel her off me. “What do you want?”

  “Edmon, it’s good to see you.” Beremon steps forward. The bronze buttons on Ruska’s house uniform threaten to burst off his coat. He trips over himself to clasp my hand in his.

  “Beremon, Edmon is tired from training,” Phoebe chides. “Forgive us, Edmon. We’re both just glad to see you. We’ve been trying to get Father’s permission, but he hasn’t allowed anyone other than Alberich in the barracks.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I mutter.

  “Don’t think ill of him, Edmon,” Phoebe chides.

  She suggests I should be kind to our father? Now I suspect her intentions in meeting me even more.

  “He has tried to do the best for all his children in the best way he knows how.”

  Anger wells inside me. “What do you speak of? You’ve no idea what he’s taken from me.”

  The little girl who hid behind her mother’s skirts doesn’t flinch at my fury. Beremon bumbles forward. “Now, Edmon, if you take that tone—”

  “It’s fine, Beremon.” Phoebe holds up a hand to silence her husband. “Edmon is right. We don’t know what he’s been through. But”—she steps forward, voice dropping to a whisper—“you’re not the only one who has experienced abuses. Some of us are just wise enough not to say it in this house.” Her eyes flick to the walls and the ceiling, indicating listening devices.

  I file away that knowledge.

  “Perhaps.” I smile, impressed by her intelligence and courage, neither of which I knew she had. “But Father knows what I think of him, sister.”

  “Maybe,” Beremon says. His jocular demeanor drops. “But that doesn’t mean you know your true allies or enemies.”

  This just got far more interesting.

  “Are you my allies?”

  “No.” Phoebe shakes her head. “We don’t trust you yet. Whatever happened to you, it’s made you uncommitted to any cause other than yourself.”

  “Your father fights what is happening,” Beremon whispers, “but does so out of desire for power. House Ruska follows because at the least he seeks survival of the planet through means other than war. But he’s dying. He tries to keep the secret, but people suspect. Edgaard’s public funeral didn’t help. His physical deterioration is obvious. It’s time for a new leader. Choices are few. House Ruska would follow someone with your father’s goals, but who would serve the people who give him power.”

  “Me?” I ask, flabbergasted at the implication. They do not turn away, so I laugh in their faces. “Forget it.” I shove past them toward my room.

  Phoebe stops me. “If you don’t claim your birthright, someone else will.”

  “Edgaard was his perfect son. He would’ve been father’s puppet,” I sneer. “Not me.”

  “Edgaard was a good boy who idolized you,” she says bitterly, seemingly no longer concerned by the listening devices. “He was twisted by a father he was trying to please. He wasn’t ready to fight The Companions on his own, but you weren’t here.”

  “There are no options left,” Beremon says. “For you, House Leontes or Tao.”

  Or perhaps they’ve been sent as part of Father’s plans to twist me as well? Either way, I’m too broken for what they wish. I want no part of this.

  “Father plans to pit me against Phaestion. If I survive, Edric will not leave his house to a half-breed son who won’t follow his plans.”

  “There’s no one else,” Beremon repeats. “House Ruska is your friend.”

  Make friends with me and end up dead. It’s a kindness to say, “I have no friends.”

  “You’re one of the few in a position to do something,” Phoebe pleads. “You have a duty—”

  “I’m a prisoner. I owe you and this family nothing!”

  Tears well in Phoebe’s eyes. “The boy you were, the one who sang about freedom, he’s gone, isn’t he? You know, I had all your recordings, all your songs. I knew all the words. We all did.”

  I want to turn away, ashamed, but I steel myself. Doing what they ask will only result in my death and theirs. They say that I’m the only one who can do anything, but only by killing. When will it ever stop?

  “You’re getting ahead of yourselves.” Lavinia’s porcelain face stares at us at from the end of the hall. “First, Edmon has to win the Combat.”

  “You doubt I can, Lavinia?”

  “We all doubt, brother,” Lavinia says, smirking. “You most of all.”

  “Beware eels in the nest, Edmon,” Beremon whispers. “Honeyed tongues hide poisoned teeth.” He takes Phoebe’s arm and walks past Lavinia.

  I turn into my quarters, and Lavinia trails behind. “I didn’t invite you in,” I remark.

  “I don’t need permission,” she replies.

  I sit as the bed automatically slides out from the wall. Anxious for sleep, I close my eyes as Lavinia waits impatiently. “I’m the majordomo of House Wusong-Leontes, second only to Father. Since his illness, I lead—”

  “You weaken yourself by asserting your own significance,” I interrupt. “If you were so important, you wouldn’t need to mention it at all. You want something. So speak.”

  “Mentor, recording devices on barracks level, off!” she commands. “What did o
ur fat, little sister and her imp of a husband offer?”

  “Friendship.” I keep my eyes closed.

  “Did you accept?”

  “Acceptance isn’t required if friendship’s true.”

  “That’s no answer,” she says.

  Annoying her is fun, but I really need to rest. What would my mother want me to do? What would Nadia want? Would they want me to become a Nightsider and fight for Tao’s better tomorrow as one of the elite? Would they want me to murder again and again, desecrate my soul to achieve a new world? How can a ruler bring peace who rises by blood? I’m a shadow of the boy I was.

  “I’ll ask again, what do you want, Lavinia?”

  “To remind you of who you are.” She walks to the table, the only adornment in my quarters save the bed. On it, she places a glass cube. “Play,” she says. Water leaps from the cube, creating a liquid screen. The image of a swarthy, bearded man fills the aquagraphic, and the room erupts with opera.

  “Andreas Catalano?” I ask, my eyes opening.

  “He’s in his nineties now. Still middle-aged for most denizens of the Nine Corridors—”

  On Tao, most die long before that because we murder one another. All except the decrepit old rulers who gain power at the expense of their one chance at glorious death in their youth.

  “Get on with it,” I say.

  “He tours the stars playing for chairmen, CEOs, and kings. You were thought by some to have a voice as lovely as his once, weren’t you? Forward,” she calls out.

  The voice that fills the room now is mine. I’m singing “The Song of Edmon,” the lullaby my mother sang to me and The Maestro wrote words for, the song that caused my father to throw me into the Wendigo. The young face on the screen sports a shock of thick, dark hair and a look of hope.

  “Your music played in the streets of Meridian and on every island from Leaf to Rock,” she says.

  I stand, towering over her delicate frame. “Make your move or leave. I’m on borrowed time.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve already told you, dear brother. I’m here to make you remember who you are.” She points at the aquagraphic. “You’re an artist. Not some fighter. Not some Patriarch. Maybe Phoebe was right? Maybe you have changed?”

  So she overheard at least some of the conversation in the hall. I should have been more aware. Faria taught me better than to be caught off guard. Phoebe was also right—I’m unfocused.

  “The old Edmon would never have allowed Father to keep you trapped. I offer a way out,” she says plainly.

  She’s trying to manipulate me, but she isn’t lying. I hear her heartbeat. I watch her pupil dilation.

  “I’ve suffered too long for this house to let it fall,” she says. “Our coffers are dwindling. With Edgaard dead, we’ll have no stake in the Pantheon or the College of Electors after Father’s expiration. Our only chance is through my leadership and marriage to another noble house.”

  I laugh. “You’d be Matriarch?”

  “There’s precedent. Empress Boudika led all of Tao once.”

  “Boudika was duplicitous, treacherous, and a hedonist. The hybrids, the Pavaka—all were her doing. The difference between you and her was she fought in the Combat and earned her place to make a mess of things.”

  “I’m no fighter,” Lavinia retorts. “Look at me.”

  She’s right. Lavinia is fierce but in a different way. She’s slender and petite. I’ve no doubt that she would scrap until her last breath, but fighting requires bone structure, musculature, and athleticism. Lavinia does not take after our father in this regard. Even her dark hair is an aberration.

  “You’re not the only disappointment Edric has had, you know,” she says bitterly.

  For a moment, my heart goes to her. I’ve always felt different, like I didn’t belong. But many of my years were spent on Bone among the Daysiders, who accepted me no matter the color of my skin or hair. I was one of the tribe. Lavinia had to experience growing up the odd fish here in Meridian from the day she was born, among a ruthless and unforgiving people. Her mother would have been no great comfort to her, if memory serves. I had teachers, a mother, a lover, the support of my people at my back. She’s had no one. The tune of her ambition, drive, and deceit suddenly harmonizes when played at this tempo.

  “We all must know who we are, brother, and what gifts we have to offer. Mine aren’t in Combat. However, I do know politics. House Wusong-Leontes holds the Wendigo, but Father hoards its resources to build a fleet, an enterprise that has exorbitant cost and thus far, no recompense. Meanwhile, the Julii have united all the other houses under their banner. They’ve cut off trade with House Wusong-Leontes and surrounded the Fracture Point with their existing fleet in an attempt to monopolize the port. Edric’s actions alienate and bankrupt us. I’d reverse that.”

  “Seems to me you would sell out to the Julii, give them access to our resources, and allow them to enact whatever plans they have for Tao. Isn’t that explicitly what Father doesn’t want?” I ask.

  “Our only path is to acquiesce and reinforce our position through political alliance.”

  “So our sweet Lavinia wants to wed,” I mock. “Aren’t you promised to another?”

  “Magnus Johan of House Angkor.” She scoffs. “He’s weak. He didn’t even enter the Combat, nor was he considered to be one of Phaestion’s Companions.” She stands straight-backed and proud. “Besides, as Matriarch, there’s nothing to prevent me from taking more than one husband.”

  I laugh, fully and loudly. “Forget a second husband. Who’d want to be your first?”

  “I’m not desirable because I’m a woman with ambition?” she asks with eyes of violet fire.

  “No.” I lie back on the cot. “Because you’re a hissing siren. I was raised on the islands, Lavinia. My mother was leader. My true wife was the strongest woman you’d ever meet. In fact, I think the right woman would do a much better job of things. You’re just not the right woman.” She and I should have traded places. If I were a woman, Father never would have taken much interest in me. Lavinia, were she a man, would have been his heir. “I won’t destroy Edric simply so you can rule.”

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she asks. “Edric destroyed? I merely suggest a mutually beneficial alliance.”

  “Edric’s already dying a painful, slow, death. There’s nothing more I can contribute.”

  “Father has proved more resilient than the doctors first predicted,” she seethes.

  Interesting. Still, I need more information.

  “I only ask that you consider my suggestion. I can save you from the fate Father plans.”

  “The last time you spoke to me like this, I spent five years in an ice prison,” I say.

  She turns on her heels, the sound of my voice from the aquagraphic lilting in her wake.

  When she’s gone, I call out, “Stop!”

  The music ceases. I pick up the cube and examine it. It’s a rudimentary recording device, not simply a display-only interface. A thought occurs to me—there should be plenty of room to record something else on the device should I find words worth recording. I sit back on my bed, interlace my fingers behind my head, and close my eyes, smiling for the first time in months.

  CHAPTER 27

  SOTTO VOCE

  Footsteps in the hall. Multiple assailants. I’m out of bed and crouching in the shadows in less than a second. Beads of sweat perspire on my brow. I flash back to the darkness of the Citadel and Faria’s training.

  Count the sounds. Listen for the heartbeats.

  Faria. If his reasons for taking me under his tutelage remain suspect, does that mean his training is, too?

  I shut off these thoughts and concentrate.

  One, two, three men wearing heavy boots. Guards in full spider-silk body armor. Another step—heavyset but deliberate and athletic—Alberich. A final pair of feet, creaking, shuffling, accompanied by an erratic heartbeat. The syncopation of something tapping the floor? A cane. Edric, too.

/>   They’re coming for me.

  If they were here to kill, they could do so more easily. If it was surprise training, why bring guards? Why would they surprise me under the threat of armed guard. I’ve made it clear that I will not fight for Edric . . .

  That’s it, I realize. They are going to force my hand. Should I try and escape?

  My gaze flicks to the ventilation system. I could easily defeat them all, but then what? I’d be on the streets, a fugitive with no means of transportation. They’re at the door. At least I’ll not be caught unaware.

  “Lights,” I call out. I stand as the door slides open. My father is silhouetted in the frame.

  “You’re awake,” he observes.

  “Let’s get this over with.” I brush past him and stride through the doorway.

  Later. House Wusong-Leontes is in full celebration. I’m accorded the privilege of leaving the barracks to attend a banquet in the throne room in honor of my first “victory” in the arena. I don’t bother. I want no part of any celebration. I run through the hallways of the Wusong-Leontes Palatial Towers instead. Running, running in circles. Sweat drips from my eyes, and I angrily wipe it from my brow. My thoughts are a cacophony, full of doubt and fury.

  Grinner, Goth, Bruul Vaarkson, even Toshi—all would have ended me if I hadn’t ended them first. The men of the Under Circuit who I just battled may not have been innocent, either. I could smell the faint ozone pouring from their veins, the mark of a tag user. Tag is an enhancement drug from the jungle world of Thera, the same place that originated the poison that slowly kills Edric. It makes one stronger, faster, some say even smarter at the expense of years of life and extreme addiction. If the underclass is now turning to such narcotics and fighting in death matches, it’s a sign of how desperate they have become to escape their poverty. But then I remember Jorund’s words from so many years ago: We’re here to stop the theft of our sons and daughters for the Combat. The men I fought might have been conscripted, forced to fight for the amusement of others. No matter how they ended their lives, none of them started that way. Each was a child with a mother once. Somewhere at some time, someone loved them at least a little, at least once.