“With the wealth of the Pantheon,” I reply.
“Our gold and jewels? I’ll tell you one thing House Julii learned from dominating the interstellar trade, the same thing the other houses who dare to challenge our mercantile supremacy will learn when they send ships through the Fracture: the worlds of the Nine Corridors care little for our meager offerings. They care about invention, ideas, and technology. We have none to offer worlds more advanced than our own. We have no skilled labor. We’ve even depleted our world of arable land, which is itself a commodity.”
“We still have the resources of the Nightside,” I argue. “Metals and minerals. Mine them, trade them, or use them to build more starships. Become merchants, traders. Our people are skilled fighters. We can be soldiers again.”
“Mercenaries?” He laughs. “Is that what you would have our people reduced to?”
I have no answer to his scorn.
“When Old Wusong dies, Edric will marry you, Edgaard, and your sisters to other noble houses to consolidate his power. He’ll seek to keep Old Wusong’s seat on the High Synod and rule the College of Electors himself. He will keep the houses divided and use the resources of the Wendigo for himself. He would have us be as you suggest—traders.” Phaestion spits the word like an epithet.
If my father’s greed and lust for power would save the planet and our people, maybe that’s a better alternative. What an abhorrent thought—that of all the people to rule this world, it should be the man who beat my own mother.
“Edric’s plans will cause the dissolution of our way of life,” Phaestion continues. “Trade will maintain us for a generation, maybe two, but soon there will be an exodus. Our economy will stagnate. Our culture will be lost as more and more leave, never to return. Our race will fade with a whimper.”
I remember the leviathan’s words in my dreams.
The universe will die. What will it matter?
“All of us live and die. Governments, civilizations rise and fall. Things change,” I say.
Red blossoms in Phaestion’s face. His features contort and twist. His fists clench. Anger radiates from his eyes. “I would not have it so,” he roars. “Ours is the greatest civilization that has ever been born. Our people were forged in the crucible of Combat. We must prove the superiority of our ways!”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He sits, and the cool mask of beauty falls back into place. He cocks his head to the side, but his eyes remain hard.
“It’s already in motion, Edmon.”
I feel afraid. “What is?”
“You. Me. Us. The Companions,” he replies. “If anyone’s to save this world, it will be us.”
A cadre of spoiled rich children living in an ivory tower? I laugh.
He looks at me perplexed, perhaps mildly annoyed.
“If you think we’re going to save this mud ball from anything, you’re living in a dream,” I say. “Sigurd’s a dumb brute, Perdiccus a sycophantic thrill seeker, Hanschen’s a depraved sex addict. And Edgaard . . .”
“And Edgaard?” he asks.
“Edgaard’s a little boy,” I say.
“What about you, Edmon? What are you?” Phaestion hits a button on the panel of his armchair. Music floods the chamber.
Ho-ho! Ho-ho! Ho-hey! Schmie-de mein ham-mer ein hartes Schwert!
It’s my voice, singing. My cheeks flush.
“The track was released across the nets last week. It’s very good.” He smiles. “The Maestro tried to keep our censors from intercepting it, but our filters are fairly sophisticated. Don’t worry,” he teases. “I don’t mind if people hear. It’s not me you have to fear on that account.”
He’s right. It’s my father I’m worried about. I remember the look in his eyes the day of the christening, when people laughed at my proclamation that I would become a musician.
“The song is about forging a sword, correct?” Phaestion asks. “It was a smart choice. It paints you as a warrior, searching for a destiny. Perhaps a destiny not only for yourself but for all of Tao. Be careful. The warrior in this song thought himself invulnerable until he was stabbed in the back by a trusted friend.”
Is he threatening me?
“I thought you’d given up your interest in music,” I say.
“I haven’t given up my interest in you. Or my interest in you being by my side. I can’t do what I plan without you, Edmon.”
What exactly does he plan?
“You’ve been to the arcologies now. You know the responsibility that we’ll inherit as the Patriarchs, as Electors, as members of the Synod. The responsibility to see our people survive. You understand now more than anyone the suffering our people are enduring.”
“We won’t see them survive by killing them!” Anger rises in my voice again.
“You wanted to step into the Arms of Agony?” he mocks. “This is the true agony—having to make a choice between killing a few or saving many more. How does it feel now?”
So this is his punishment. That I should know the pain he assumes he will endure.
“Those people you met today, there are millions more like them across Meridian,” he says. “They can be the fire against the collapse that’s coming, but only if they can be harnessed. Dissonance must be crushed in order to achieve harmony. Don’t you see? Yes, they are suffering. Yes, they are the cause of our planet dying, but that is necessary until the last moment when they become so destitute, so angry, that they are ready to lash out. They will trust in leaders who can direct their anger, who promise to make them great again. We will be those leaders. They will be our siren sword, our blade that will pierce the Nine Corridors and ensure our way of life not only survives, but thrives. That’s why I was born. That’s my purpose.”
He turns toward the bay windows that overlook the city as he becomes lost in a reverie.
He really believes that what happened in the streets was just. All for a higher cause.
“It’s our purpose.” He turns. “The broadcasts of the competition were reedited, excising all footage of the event today.”
“The massacre, you mean.” My blood boils.
“We need the people behind us in order to save them from extinction. Their anger, their hunger, their strength, those must be turned outward, not within, and not until I’m ready. Those people are Tao’s greatest resource, but the timing must be just right.”
“For what?” Dread fills my bones.
Phaestion smiles. “For the thrust.”
CHAPTER 12
DISSONANCE
The hum of the sondi pulses in my ears. I rest my head against my seat.
The Isle of Bone. My home. I’m coming.
It has been three long years since I’ve seen her white shores, since I’ve seen my mother or slept in my own bed. Since I’ve seen Nadia. I try to focus on my breathing as Alberich has taught for fighting, as The Maestro has taught for singing.
“Nervous, Ed?” Hanschen leers. “I’m sure your home is quite lovely, in a provincial way.”
“I hear the surf’s outstanding,” Perdiccus adds. “I’d like to take an ocean screamer out. Maybe see a siren?”