I hate when they look at me, I think. They’re always looking, judging.
I leap over a spout of flame the training mech blasts at my feet. I feel shooting pain with the movement but force myself anyway. I land with wobbling balance. I feel my ligaments tear with excruciating pain, then almost as suddenly, pull back into taut alignment. This is the new normal—pain, damage, fast healing. I hate it.
“Yeah, you were great, Edgaard,” I spit out through my concentration. I wish the boy were dead more days than not, but the others look at him almost like a mascot. He tags along on whatever they do, but it’s me that he always looks at with a hopeful gaze, wanting some kind of approval. Ironic that all I can see is my replacement, a miniature version of my father.
The training automaton fires a spray of acid. I misjudge the timing, and it splashes my eyes. “Damn it!” I scream in agony and fall to the floor.
“Cease!” Alberich calls out.
Edgaard runs to my side and puts his arm around me. “Edmon, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say more harshly than I intend. I shove him off me and stand blinking through the sting. My tears flush out the acid, and I can feel my skin healing the burn already.
“Edmon, what level is this automaton on?” Alberich asks as he inspects the cylindrical monstrosity.
“Chaos pattern,” I respond angrily.
I should have been more aware. My stupid brother distracted me.
“Whale turd!” Perdiccus shouts, incredulous.
“I told you to set the machines for repetitive only,” Alberich says, castigating me.
“What can I say?” I mutter. “It was becoming . . . repetitive.”
“I’m impressed.” Hanschen saunters up. “And not just with your recovery.” His eyes scan me up and down, like he’s picturing me without my clothes. Even though the other Companions have been told not to harm me, they find ways to take liberties, to make me feel less powerful than they are.
“That’s enough for the day,” Alberich commands.
“I don’t think so.” I’m sick of sitting on the sidelines. I’m sick of being treated as second rate, incapable of competing. I hate them, yet I want to prove that I’m good enough to be one of them. I’m tired of being injured. I’m tired of following rules. “Automaton: training sequence advanced chaotic. Lethal force, engage.”
The gears of the cylindrical metal dummy whir to life, forcing the others back. I dive into attack mode, raising my sword to parry thrusts and cuts from the robot’s multiple limbs. Lights flash, and I dive under trip wires that fire from its base. I hold my breath as plumes of neutralizing gases are puffed into the air. I can almost feel a rhythm to the machine, a drumbeat.
Relax into it, Edmon. I feel Gorham beside me pounding on the drum.
Each melodic line may seem like chaos, but layered, they become a symphony, The Maestro reminds me with each tap of his baton.
I slice down with my sword, a final stroke, and suddenly the music ceases. Smoke emanates from the machine. A few of its limbs are bent at odd angles. I’ve won the sequence. I wipe sweat from my brow. The whole room stares at me with a look of shock.
“That was rip-curl!” Edgaard is the first to break the silence. He can’t contain himself. He runs to me and wraps his arms around me.
I’m too exhausted to shove him off. “Yeah, thanks,” I mutter.
“Not bad.” Sigurd stalks forward, mace in hand. “Of course, training machines aren’t the same as the living.”
The idiot actually takes a swing at me. My heart thumps in terror for the briefest moment, but the rhythm of his movement is so easy. I have more than enough time to maneuver in front of Edgaard, protect him, and still duck the blow. One, two, three . . . it’s like one of The Maestro’s carefully crafted exercises. I fire my fist forward, unthinking, and land it squarely into his solar plexus. I feel the give of his diaphragm as he doubles over, gasping for air.
“You’re right, Sigurd,” I say. He stares at me, eyes wide with disbelief. “Training machines are definitely more difficult.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man in a hooded robe, Talousla Karr, nod to me and then exit the training room without a word.
Alberich drills us until we sweat, until we cry tears from exertion. Sometimes we bleed, too, but we are always healed. I cross swords with Hanschen, fists with Perdiccus, and wills with Sigurd. I become one of them, as much as I can be. I am a companion.
Perdiccus is the first to really warm to me. Every session he greets me with a smile and a punch on the shoulder. Hanschen makes a sly comment at someone’s expense and then gives me a look, knowing that I’m the only one clever enough to understand without explanation. Sigurd is still dour—he thinks he’s better than everyone—but he accepts me, knowing that I’ve survived his beating. He watches me slowly improve. We will face each other again, I know. Forgiveness is not expected in this Nightsider world. Vengeance, however, is considered inevitable.
My growing abilities gain me acceptance, but I can’t shake my feelings of otherness. Outwardly, I mimic their behavior, I jest as they do, I fight as they do, and we compete and push one another. Inside, I feel that they will never believe I’m equal. I’m born of a race that is considered inferior. Had the surgery not enabled me to hold my own in their deadly games, I wouldn’t even be worth their notice. A seed of resentment and hate sprouts inside me, but I shove it down, deep as it can go. Just try and fit in, Edmon. Do as they do, I tell myself instead.
Every day I grow stronger. My mind turns to Phaestion. I haven’t seen him for months. Is he watching us? Is he training in the Arms of Agony? A part of me itches to explore the parts of the tower he showed me, the areas beyond the levels delegated to cadets.
“Edmon, stop daydreaming!” The Maestro taps his baton. “I need your sforzando to crescendo to a full, round note.”
“Yes, Maestro.”
Music is still my solace, the time when I am truly myself. In all else, I learn to behave as the others do. When cut with an insult, I return their gibes with a laugh, a counter insult, or a punch to the gut when necessary. I keep my mouth shut in classes. I desperately want to fit in with these boys. In music, I can let that drop and just dream and sing.