“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 Edric? 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.