MAGIA
Months pass. Intense months. Laborious months. Days are spent on the sands drilling—sprints on the beach, standing on one leg for hours. I sit and watch Alberich and Phaestion duel. I want to practice, too, but the techniques and moves Alberich teaches are far beyond me. Alberich sees my frustration and, as recompense, forces me to punch rocks. The pain is blinding but quickly over with use of the salves and treatments Phaestion imports from Meridian. I heal so completely I’m able to endure it all over again on the morrow.
My mother circles the confines of her room like a caged shark. She wants to lash out but can do nothing for fear of repercussions. It comforts her little that I actually begin to enjoy the training. Instead, she assures me that she’s planning something.
“The other islands—Rock, Shell, Conch, Leaf—they tire of rule by their Pantheon overlords, too. We will rally. You won’t be taken to Meridian. I promise.”
I’ve never seen her like this before, standing over maps, talking with the other villagers about trade. She’s like an ancient battle commander discussing sieges, politics, and tactics. It occurs to me that she’s more like Edric than I ever realized.
I just nod in agreement to her statements, but fear she can’t stop my leaving. If she defies Edric, nothing will prevent his wrath. The technology of Meridian and the Pantheon is far beyond anything we have on the islands. We are not strong enough to defy my father. I’m not strong enough to defy him yet.
I will find a way to protect her if she rebels, I think. Patience. One day I will be full grown. Then . . .
Phaestion and I steal away for private sessions. He breaks down what Alberich teaches into simpler techniques I can learn. Eventually, I spar with him. He yawns, parrying the thrusts of my sword using only one arm. The second I admire his skill is the second I’m knocked onto my back in the sand.
“It’s dangerous to respect one’s opponent,” he says. “Honor and admiration may be savored only after your enemy is beaten.”
Alberich will occasionally catch me practicing a move that he knows I didn’t learn from him. He’ll correct my form before giving me some other task that will wear me out.
Nadia spies on us once. She climbs the rocks above our makeshift arena on the sands.
Phaestion admonishes her. “You break our concentration.”
“I can fight as well as anyone!” Nadia fumes.
Phaestion grins rakishly. “You can. He can’t.” He jabs his thumb at me. “Don’t distract us.”
Nadia stays away from our practice but blames me for the exile in the few moments we still meet on the cliffs.
“Little Lord can’t bear to have a girl watch him,” she taunts.
I find myself tuning out her words more and more, though. Instead, I stare at her lips and her legs. When she leans down and snickers, my eyes go to the V of her tunic and the narrow shadow created by her blossoming breasts.
When did that happen? I wonder.
I’m pulled from my reverie when her japes segue to her true topic of interest—Phaestion. She wants to know everything about him.
“Where does he come from? What things does he like? Does he talk of any girls back home?”
I tell her with hot jealousy, “Meridian, fighting, and I don’t know.”
The last is a lie. He talks of girls, but only to say he has many who love him and that seems totally natural. Sometimes I think of myself in contrast to him: my arms skinny, my knees knobby, and my hair dirty and dark. I start to feel that if I was more like Phaestion, my father would love me. Maybe Nadia would love me, too.
Daytime belongs to combat, but the Eventide is mine. Phaestion and I practice the notes of songs. We try the flute first, then the sampo guitar. We try singing. I use an aquagraphic tablet to write notation for him. He studies with intensity, but it doesn’t come. He plays the flute with too much force, piping a shrill tone. Or he’ll try too softly, and no sound emerges at all.
He throws the instrument across the room, shattering it against the wall, his usual calm demeanor devolved to frenzy. “I’ll never learn!” he paces, arms gesticulating violently.
“Give it time. You weren’t always good at fighting.”
“Yes, I was!” he insists. “Like I can see a man’s movement and know what he will do before he thinks it. I don’t know why.”
“You still had to be taught.”
“But it wasn’t like this!” He pounds a fist against the wall. “Even if I learn it, I’ll never be great. What’s the point? It won’t help me win or conquer anything. It won’t help me lead.”
“How is fighting supposed to help you do that?” I ask sullenly.
I’m reminded of my audience before Old Wusong. The one thing I’m good at is considered useless. I put my flute in its case now that the lesson is finished.
“Humanity’s savageness is what makes it civilized,” he answers.
Do all people from Meridian think this way? I wonder.
“Technology, trade, computers, space travel,” he goes on. “All are products of competition and conflict.”
“So art and music and learning—all those things don’t make civilization, too? The sand between your toes, the sun on your face. Don’t those things make you happy? Isn’t being happy what makes things worth it?” I ask.
“Stretching my physical capabilities, pitting myself against a worthy opponent, and defeating the challenge—that’s what makes me happy.”
“I wasn’t the one who wanted to learn this,” I say bitterly. “Just remember to keep your end of the bargain, even if you can’t learn.”
“You think I can’t?” he challenges.
“I know you can’t,” I say slyly, baiting him.
“Give me your flute,” he demands.
“No!” I whisk the case away from his grasp.
“Give it here.” He reaches. I pull it away again. The game is on.
“It’s mine, and you can’t have it!”
Finally, he lunges with a speed I can’t match. The flute case skitters across the floor. We wrestle until he bests me. I struggle furiously. “Get off me, Nightsider!”
Calmness comes over him. I try to knock him off, but his skill at positioning is too good.
“You’ll always be my friend, won’t you, Edmon?” His voice sounds far-off, though his eyes hold me in their grasp.
“Yes,” I say confusedly.
He seems somewhere else. His panting breath suddenly calms, and his face flushes.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he whispers.
I feel my heart beating in my chest. He slowly leans down.
What is this feeling?
He presses his forehead to mine.
The gesture of brothers.
More than a kiss, this is the symbol of a bond greater than blood. A bond between warriors. For a moment, it feels like I’m him and he’s me and we’ll be this way forever. Then he pulls back with a haunted look in his eyes.
“Phaestion?” I ask.
The sound of his name snaps him back to reality. He smiles, carefree again, and helps me off the ground.