“She’s not passed,” I say harshly. “She’s a mindless vegetable.”
The old woman slaps me across the face. She points a gnarled finger at me. “Your mother’s a symbol of freedom. They may take everything from us, our bodies, our minds, our lives, but they do not take our spirits,” she says emphatically. “Cleopatra’s spirit is with the great Mother Ocean. She was true to her people. She was fulfilled at the end knowing she fought for us and for you. Don’t shame her by thinking otherwise.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur and hold my cheek.
“You’re young. Lapses are forgivable.” She waves me off. “Bone will endure. The universe will go on. Symbols give us hope, something to strive for, and that is something worth fighting for.”
The faint sound of drums echoes from on high. The Eventide feast is beginning. When I turn back, the old woman is gone, her water jugs disappeared from the streets.
Was she ever there at all?
The sun blazes ceaseless, but I stride up the hill toward the manse to enter the night.
I turn the corner that leads to the front courtyard, and a shadow catches me. I start at the sudden appearance of the hairless, robed Talousla Karr, barring my way like some demonic phantasm. The pupils of his cat eyes dilate.
“Boy,” his voice says, slithering. “Did you fight with Lord Phaestion?”
This strange foreigner has watched everything that’s transpired in the years I have been at House Julii, but this is the first time we’ve spoken words since my arrival at House Julii in Meridian.
“Tell me,” he commands.
“Yes.” I control my fear. I stand in place and face him.
“Who was stronger?” he asks. His forehead folds where his eyebrows should be.
“He was,” I admit. “This time,” I add.
“Interesting.” The spypsy’s voice lingers on the last syllable. He makes some sort of calculation in his head. Of what, I’m not sure. “You think you could have won?”
I shrug carelessly as if the question doesn’t matter.
“Are you afraid of my appearance, boy?” His slitted eyes bore into me. I force myself to gaze back.
“No,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me. I’ve saved your life.” His bluish lips curve upward.
Sometimes I wish he hadn’t saved me with his strange surgery.
“Did you kiss him?” he asks. There’s a lasciviousness to his tone that makes my skin crawl.
I force myself to walk past him.
“Did you kiss him?” he asks again.
“He kissed me,” I spit back.
The man considers this pensively.
“Is that what you wanted?” I say acidly. “Does it make your blood hot to think of two young boys pressing lips in the sand, spypsy?”
“You resisted him. That is also interesting,” he comments.
“I’m leaving now,” I say flatly. I walk away.
He bows and calls after me, “You continue to surprise and impress, Lord Leontes. I look forward to more.”
I enter to the rhythm of the music. The shades have been drawn, and the villagers have gathered to celebrate in faux darkness. No one notes my entrance. Phaestion sits on a makeshift throne that rests atop a dining table, the king of the proceedings as always, a glass of wine in his hand. Hanschen sits on the table at his side, doting on him.
Sigurd is in the corner, brooding. His arm is encased in a glass cast filled with fluid. He holds it close to his chest in a sling. His face is bruised but healing. I’m not sorry.
A woman dances in the center of the circle, the crowd around her shouting and unruly. The men catcall. She tries to leave the circle, but they push her back into the center.
Disrespectful. This isn’t how nighttime festivals used to be. They are behaving as if this were the orgy after the Pavaka.
I look for any familiar face in the crowd. Toothless Gorham is not at his drum. He’s trying to fight his way past several Julii Academy members into the circle. They shove him back. Maestro Bertinelli is shouting something to Teacher Croack and Alberich in the corner. Croack laughs in his face and pushes The Maestro to the ground. Alberich grabs Croack and holds him back from a further beating.
My mother, attended by her nurse, sits in her chair on the outskirts of the crowd. The waxy scar on her head shines in the fireglobe light. Her eyes stare, glassy and vacant, but I feel like she wants to stand and shout, only she’s locked inside a paralyzed body, unable to act. Perhaps I’m just imagining her intention.
The drums bang louder. The dancer screams above the clamor. I swiftly circle the table to Phaestion. I hop onto it to get a better view.
The dancer is Nadia. Her graceful curves whirl and spin.
“I’ll not dance for you!” she screams.
She’s beautiful, even in her anger. The Julii soldiers are clawing at her, grabbing her. They grope her as she comes near and clutch at her breasts and buttocks. Perdiccus jumps into the circle and takes her in his arms. She shoves him, punches him, and kicks him to the rhythm of the music. He dances out of the way like a shark matador. He tears strips of her skirt away exposing her thighs. He rips a strip from her gown. She clutches at it to prevent her breasts from being exposed.
“Come on, beautiful,” he calls. “I know you want it!”
I’ve been here before. I look at my mother. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t act that day in the hall of Old Wusong. I can act now.
“Stop!” I scream. I feel my vocal cords rip as I bellow. Pain doesn’t matter. All eyes turn to me.
“You’re in my chair,” I say to Phaestion coldly.
“Edmon—”
“Get out of my seat!” I cut him off.
I see shock in his eyes, hurt. It just as quickly turns to anger. “Who’s going to make me?” His smile is smug and fierce. He knows that I can’t beat him physically. What he doesn’t know is that I don’t care.
“I am.” I kick the chair out from under him. He jumps out of the way as it clatters off the table to the floor. Strength is all they understand. Strength and their rules of tradition. That’s what I must use.
“I am Edmon Leontes, son of the leviathan. I rule here in his stead. My word is law. You’re here only by the grace and courtesy I give you. I now renounce your invitation!”
“Edmon!” Alberich steps forward.
I shout over him, “I renounce the bonds of fosterage. I renounce your presence within my hall. Leave. Now!”
“Edmon.” Phaestion steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “We’re sorry, but we’re your brothers. You cannot—”
“You are not, nor have you ever been my brothers,” I interrupt. “None of you!” I spot Edgaard’s face in the crowd. The words hit him like a physical blow. I’m sorry for it, but there’s nothing I can do. “You believe you’ve a right to do as you wish because of your birth as sons of Patriarchs, but you have no right. Not here. You will all leave. Now.”
“Edmon, I’m your friend.” Phaestion tries to reason again, but I know that I’m more than just a friend to him. If he considers any of The Companions a true brother, it’s me. “If you revoke fosterage, it’s for good.”