“Not bad, Leontes,” he says. He lashes out with an elbow, smacking me in the face. I’m stunned. He wraps his white arms around me in an embrace. “But not good enough.”
Suddenly, my body vibrates as Phaestion’s mouth opens. He releases a scream. My nose and ears bleed. My brain feels like it will liquefy. Lightning swirls around us. The Arms of Agony, I realize.
“What level is this?” I cry above the noise.
“Level one,” the voice says almost directly into my mind.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I shout. “Give me more!”
“Commencing level two.”
“More!” I scream.
“Initiating level three.”
My body vibrates with so much energy that I feel it is disintegrating atom by atom. Then suddenly all is black. I awake panting on the floor of the practice room in a cold sweat. Phaestion, the real Phaestion, stands over me.
“Did you see that?” I gasp with giddiness. “The Arms of Agony, Phaestion. Level three.”
I look up into his face. He is not smiling. All I see is the accusation of betrayal behind his gray gaze. “You think you’ve beaten me?” he asks. I’ve seen haughtiness in him before, competitiveness, yes, airs of superiority, sure, but never has he seemed truly angry. Is it because he’s actually threatened by the fact that I’ve achieved something he hasn’t? Or is it that I went behind his back to do it and used our friendship for my own gain?
Now he’s not the only one who can use and manipulate friends, I think.
I slowly stand. I feel almost the same as when I awoke from Talousla Karr’s twisted surgery—reborn. “I don’t think I’ve beaten you. I know.” It’s the cruelest thing I can think to say to him in this moment, challenging his precious pride. I don’t know why I hit him so decisively where I know he is vulnerable. Is it because I’m hurt by the fact that I’m no longer special to him, above the other Companions? Is it because I know he has secrets and plans that he doesn’t share with me? Maybe it’s also partly because I just want to see if I can.
Rage boils inside him; I see it in his eyes, and it is frightening. For the first time since our friendship, I’m scared that challenging him will lead to serious hurt.
Then it is gone instantly, and he walks away, saying over his shoulder, “It’s just a simulation. I’ll have a real test for you soon, son of Leontes.”
CHAPTER 9
BANDA
I await a punishment that doesn’t come. Time passes more swiftly than I realize, and my dread slowly recedes as I carry on at the Julii Academy. Respite from cares comes with music lessons at the end of the day. It’s the only time the camglobes are not hovering and watching everything, the only time I feel alone and truly unconfined. Even with the constant criticism . . .
“Ho-ho! Ho-ho! Ho-hey!” I sing.
“From the dan t’ian, Edmon!” The Maestro shouts.
“Schmie-de mein ham-mer ein hartes Schwert!”
“Attack the notes!”
“Ho-ho! Ha-hei! Ho-hey!”
“Sforzando! Remember, you are Siegfried reforging your father’s sword!”
“Einst farb-te Blut dein fal-bes Blau!”
“Enough! Enough!” The Maestro taps the edge of the music stand with his baton.
Damn it. My ancient German was off.
The tongues of the ancestors aren’t exactly intuitive. (Except maybe ancient Italian. Italian rolls off the tongue as if it were the only language ever meant to be spoken.) The Maestro didn’t like my vowel tones. He didn’t like the way I held the dotted quarter on the last phrase. I threw the timing off.
By the twisted star!
I’ve never had a tougher teacher, but every moment is worth it. I could do this forever. So I’m ready for the complaints leveled against me.
“Why did I stop you?” Maestro Bertinelli peers over his spectacles.
At fifteen, I’m already several inches taller than him. My gangly body is awkward, out of proportion. Just when I was getting coordinated enough to be able to stand against the others in Combat training, it feels like I have to relearn everything. My voice breaks, and I’m forced from my comfortable alto vocal range into tenor and baritone. My joints still ache, but the pain is starting to lessen. I don’t know if it will ever go away completely.
The Maestro doesn’t comment on these changes. He only proceeds to give me new music with relentless instruction. I learn to hit notes in both tenor and bass range. The Maestro makes me work harder. He’s frustrated I spend time in classes other than music. If he had his way, I’d study only opera, but Commandant Vetruk makes no exceptions.
“You’re lucky to be here at all,” he says.
I’m ruining his perfectly homogenous student body.
“Phaestion’s an exception,” I point out.
Vetruk’s face pinches. “Do not question me, cadet.”
That’s the end of that.
So I practice, practice, practice, singing whenever I can.
“You can only be truly great at something if you dedicate your life solely to that thing!” exclaims The Maestro over my singing.
I’d do music and nothing else if it were my choice, though sometimes I wonder if a life dedicated to only one thing is really that wonderful of a life.
“Why did I stop you?” he asks again.
I take a deep breath. “My pronunciation was off.” He says nothing. “The tone of my vowels was not pure,” I continue. “I could’ve attacked the first note of the second verse with more vigor.”
“Edmon”—he removes his spectacles—“your performance was technical perfection.”
Technical perfection? My breath catches.
“What you lack, I cannot teach.”
My brow furrows.
“Edmon, do you want to do this? For your life?”
“More than anything!” I exclaim desperately.
“That!” He holds out his hands. “That’s the feeling I need to hear with every note, the utter commitment to the music. I need to know with every lilt, every vibrato, that this is what you live for.”
I remember once Alberich told me the same thing about fighting—desire is the undefinable element.
“Edmon,” he says, and taps his conductor’s baton, interrupting my train of thought. “This piece is about a hero named Siegfried, forging his sword. I chose this music because it’s a youth creating a destiny. Do you believe music is your destiny?”
“I do.”
“Then feel it when you sing.” He stands and grips my shoulders. “You’re one of the finest students I’ve ever taught. Including Andreas Catalano.”
Maestro Bertinelli often mentions Andreas, the prodigy at the Sophia School of Music. His voice is so perfect, it’s rumored that he’s a designer organic, an artificially created human with special abilities. His music is so popular across the Centra Fracture he has earned the title “Voice of a Generation.”
“You’re going to have to make a choice, Edmon.”
I nod. “I’m just afraid they won’t let me.”
“They may not,” he says. “However, I believe that responsibility to yourself supersedes any that others place upon you.”
“You don’t understand.” I don’t know how to explain it to him.