Yet even if I could escape Wusong Palatial Towers, where would I go? I’d not make it far on foot. I must wait for opportunity . . . What that opportunity is, I’ve no idea, so I stay aware and patient. My escape will not come from hidden air vents or a service pneumovator. It will not come from battle or glorious rebellion. In the world of Meridian twilight, it will come from political subterfuge.
I was never adept at employing machinations or deceit to achieve my aims, but I promised my mother and Nadia I would make their deaths have meaning. If that’s the skill I must gain to do it, so be it. I originally thought that taking revenge on my father was the way to honor their memories. Now all I can think is that somehow escaping my fate is the answer. Where to go? The golden city of Prospera on Lyria? The Maestro would speak of its glittering spires and libraries. Or maybe to the treasures of Miral, whatever they may be? Faria seemed to think finding that would give his life meaning. Will it bring meaning to mine or the memory of my family? Did Faria, my last friend, betray me to my father? That question still gnaws at my brain.
The plump form of my younger sister, Phoebe, and her fat husband, Beremon Ruska, suddenly appear at the end of the corridor to block my path. Here’s a surprising deviation from the monotony, I think.
“Mentor,” I whisper. “Mute vocalizations.”
The couple greet me with cherubic faces. I haven’t seen them since the funeral, and I don’t think I’ve ever spoken more than two words to them in my entire life.
“Brother Edmon!” Phoebe embraces me. I’m caught off guard. Phoebe has never been cunning like our sister Lavinia, but she is a Leontes, so anything is suspect.
“Phoebe?” I peel her off me. “What do you want?”
“Edmon, it’s good to see you.” Beremon steps forward. The bronze buttons on Ruska’s house uniform threaten to burst off his coat. He trips over himself to clasp my hand in his.
“Beremon, Edmon is tired from training,” Phoebe chides. “Forgive us, Edmon. We’re both just glad to see you. We’ve been trying to get Father’s permission, but he hasn’t allowed anyone other than Alberich in the barracks.”
“I’m not surprised,” I mutter.
“Don’t think ill of him, Edmon,” Phoebe chides.
She suggests I should be kind to our father? Now I suspect her intentions in meeting me even more.
“He has tried to do the best for all his children in the best way he knows how.”
Anger wells inside me. “What do you speak of? You’ve no idea what he’s taken from me.”
The little girl who hid behind her mother’s skirts doesn’t flinch at my fury. Beremon bumbles forward. “Now, Edmon, if you take that tone—”
“It’s fine, Beremon.” Phoebe holds up a hand to silence her husband. “Edmon is right. We don’t know what he’s been through. But”—she steps forward, voice dropping to a whisper—“you’re not the only one who has experienced abuses. Some of us are just wise enough not to say it in this house.” Her eyes flick to the walls and the ceiling, indicating listening devices.
I file away that knowledge.
“Perhaps.” I smile, impressed by her intelligence and courage, neither of which I knew she had. “But Father knows what I think of him, sister.”
“Maybe,” Beremon says. His jocular demeanor drops. “But that doesn’t mean you know your true allies or enemies.”
This just got far more interesting.
“Are you my allies?”
“No.” Phoebe shakes her head. “We don’t trust you yet. Whatever happened to you, it’s made you uncommitted to any cause other than yourself.”
“Your father fights what is happening,” Beremon whispers, “but does so out of desire for power. House Ruska follows because at the least he seeks survival of the planet through means other than war. But he’s dying. He tries to keep the secret, but people suspect. Edgaard’s public funeral didn’t help. His physical deterioration is obvious. It’s time for a new leader. Choices are few. House Ruska would follow someone with your father’s goals, but who would serve the people who give him power.”
“Me?” I ask, flabbergasted at the implication. They do not turn away, so I laugh in their faces. “Forget it.” I shove past them toward my room.
Phoebe stops me. “If you don’t claim your birthright, someone else will.”
“Edgaard was his perfect son. He would’ve been father’s puppet,” I sneer. “Not me.”
“Edgaard was a good boy who idolized you,” she says bitterly, seemingly no longer concerned by the listening devices. “He was twisted by a father he was trying to please. He wasn’t ready to fight The Companions on his own, but you weren’t here.”
“There are no options left,” Beremon says. “For you, House Leontes or Tao.”
Or perhaps they’ve been sent as part of Father’s plans to twist me as well? Either way, I’m too broken for what they wish. I want no part of this.
“Father plans to pit me against Phaestion. If I survive, Edric will not leave his house to a half-breed son who won’t follow his plans.”
“There’s no one else,” Beremon repeats. “House Ruska is your friend.”
Make friends with me and end up dead. It’s a kindness to say, “I have no friends.”
“You’re one of the few in a position to do something,” Phoebe pleads. “You have a duty—”
“I’m a prisoner. I owe you and this family nothing!”
Tears well in Phoebe’s eyes. “The boy you were, the one who sang about freedom, he’s gone, isn’t he? You know, I had all your recordings, all your songs. I knew all the words. We all did.”
I want to turn away, ashamed, but I steel myself. Doing what they ask will only result in my death and theirs. They say that I’m the only one who can do anything, but only by killing. When will it ever stop?
“You’re getting ahead of yourselves.” Lavinia’s porcelain face stares at us at from the end of the hall. “First, Edmon has to win the Combat.”
“You doubt I can, Lavinia?”
“We all doubt, brother,” Lavinia says, smirking. “You most of all.”
“Beware eels in the nest, Edmon,” Beremon whispers. “Honeyed tongues hide poisoned teeth.” He takes Phoebe’s arm and walks past Lavinia.
I turn into my quarters, and Lavinia trails behind. “I didn’t invite you in,” I remark.
“I don’t need permission,” she replies.
I sit as the bed automatically slides out from the wall. Anxious for sleep, I close my eyes as Lavinia waits impatiently. “I’m the majordomo of House Wusong-Leontes, second only to Father. Since his illness, I lead—”
“You weaken yourself by asserting your own significance,” I interrupt. “If you were so important, you wouldn’t need to mention it at all. You want something. So speak.”
“Mentor, recording devices on barracks level, off!” she commands. “What did our fat, little sister and her imp of a husband offer?”
“Friendship.” I keep my eyes closed.
“Did you accept?”
“Acceptance isn’t required if friendship’s true.”
“That’s no answer,” she says.
Annoying her is fun, but I really need to rest. What would my mother want me to do? What would Nadia want? Would they want me to become a Nightsider and fight for Tao’s better tomorrow as one of the elite? Would they want me to murder again and again, desecrate my soul to achieve a new world? How can a ruler bring peace who rises by blood? I’m a shadow of the boy I was.