Gorham smiles at me with brown gums. The old man has become withered but seems as happy as ever working by my side. Later he’ll be drumming at the feast as always.
I’m no different than anyone else on Bone, but I face the worry. There aren’t many resources available here. The weather is too warm, and the isle too bare to support large forests or game. Fish and kelp are our main sources of sustenance. I’m the one to ensure everyone has enough. I listen to my fish captains, and then we set policy together. We move to different spawning grounds on a cycle to avoid overfishing. Lately we’ve been venturing farther and farther out to sea seeking new sources. Still, our haul has dwindled. Even if we weren’t under the Pantheon embargo placed on us by my father as my punishment for disrespecting the fosterage, this planet is getting hotter and the fish are dying. I can feel it and see it daily.
The population of Meridian in the last century has boomed, and resources in the Twilight Band have dwindled, too. The opening of the new Fracture Point should have increased Tao’s access to foreign resources, but as Phaestion told me once, we have little to barter with.
Add to that a Nightsider culture that has always been xenophobic. Eighty years ago, we forced all aliens to fight in the Combat or be expelled from our atmo. I’ve heard of only one off-worlder who stayed and survived, though he disappeared soon after his Combat triumph.
Midday comes. We row the boats into the docks, carrying our meager haul ashore. We’ve done all we can this day. It’s time to hold court before the afternoon rest. I catch Nadia’s eye as she works with the women in the kelp farms just inside the harbor. Her smile is comforting as always, but I can tell the harvest today is also thin.
It’s your birthday, Little Lord, I can almost hear Nadia’s voice in my head. Don’t worry so much. I smile back at her. She’s right, of course. There is her and me, our home, and that’s not so bad at all.
I sit on the chair in the foyer listening to the grievance of a fisherman. He claims that his neighbor is responsible for the damage to a shared wall between their dwellings. My mother sits beside me in her chair as her handmaid attends her. She stares vacantly. I keep her beside me as a reminder of the sacrifice she has made for our freedom. I like to think I can feel her spirit by my side even in her current state. Her presence gives me comfort. Gorham stands on my other side, advising me. I am still young after all, and as a village elder, his are words of experience.
I listen as intently as I can, but the worries of the harvest, the excitement of meeting Nadia on the cliffs soon, the notion that I shouldn’t have to deal with such petty things . . . all distracts me.
“A shared wall?” I ask.
“Yes, my lord,” both men reply in unison.
“Has this happened before?”
“No, my lord,” they reply.
I look to Gorham. “If the wall affects both, then perhaps there must be compromises from both sides,” he suggests.
I nod in agreement. “Very well,” I say, trying to sound formal. “You’re both to mend the wall on the damaged side. Together. As recompense, Talman”—I point to the man who has damaged the property—“you shall host dinner. Break bread with each other. The only way we survive is by taking care of each other. And Jayhotep”―I refer to the fisherman who brought the grievance―“forgive.”
The men bow their heads. I don’t know if what I’ve asked them to do is fair. My word isn’t binding. I’ve no army to enforce my decisions. They come to me as an objective party for suggestions. In turn, I ask them for their expertise.
How are we to make harvest? Can we farm the kelp more efficiently? Can we risk a communiqué with another island to smuggle in goods? The village seems to work as well as it can. On Bone, village is another word for family.
I call the afternoon’s proceedings to a close for the traditional midday rest. The villagers bow and exit. Later, some will return for the music and feast. Right now, I’m anxious to meet Nadia, though. Anything else can wait. It’s my birthday, after all.
“My lord.” Maestro Bertinelli approaches me just as I’m about to slip out. His pale skin has become ruddy and freckled working on the boats with everyone. At first, he resisted the idea of joining the fishing, but eventually came to see that no one’s situation on the isle would be changing soon. He accepted his lot was cast with the rest of us on Bone the day he chose me over Phaestion. Now, he’s just as much a fisherman as any, but he’s still a maestro of Lyria first and foremost.
“I’ve been wanting to record a new track to pirate out to the stations on Meridian. I know that every broadcast is a risk, but your last single, ‘Tradimento del Popolo,’ has over two hundred million extractions off the aquagraphic nets. I’ve been in touch with contacts on Lyria. We may have a broadcaster off-world if we can convince some of the Meridian jockeys to smuggle the data in photon packets through the Fracture.”
I nod.
He sighs impatiently. “Do you know what this means, Edmon?”
“Maestro, I’m happy to record. It’s exciting for me to share my music, but my concerns are here, on the island now.”
“Edmon,” he says, clucking. “The opera and your responsibilities are one and the same. Every song spreads the word of your story, the plight of your people against the oppression of the Pantheon.”
I can tell he’s about to lecture me.
“If your father wanted to return to the isle and take control, what would stop him? Your popularity!” he says, answering his own question. “Your struggle against the regime keeps him at bay so long as you remain publicly relevant. Killing you would make you a martyr. Music is your safety. ‘Tradimento del Popolo’ . . .”
“Betrayal of the People,” I translate.
“Yes, the tune based on your mother’s lullaby. Your fans are calling it ‘The Song of Edmon’!” he exclaims. “Music is your message!”
“I never wanted to be a symbol,” I insist.
He nods sadly. “That’s precisely why you are.” He understands my wishes, and yet he’s happy to be my spinmeister, penning lyrical manifestos.
It is wrong for me to blame anyone but myself for my current situation. I knew very well what I was singing when I recorded The Maestro’s songs. I also know I can’t stop singing any more than I can stop breathing. If I’m as popular as he says, the songs will be a political statement regardless of their content.
I exhale, resigned. “No, you’re right. We’ll continue.”
The Maestro skips off with an aquatablet and a stylus in hand. No doubt he’s preparing a new aria of resistance. He may think my fame keeps us safe, but a tickle in the back of my brain tells me each defiance also infuriates Edric.
He won’t let it continue.