by A. K. Wilder
“I do.”
“Then why are you acting so bones-be-cursed weak?”
I couldn’t choke out an answer if I had one. Even Petén looks away. My eyes drop to Echo’s mane as it ripples down her neck. When I look up, Father’s face turns to stone. He cracks his reins over the hunter’s rump and gallops away.
Petén and I trot the horses back toward the palace. We crest a gentle rise to come out on the hill overlooking the expanse of Baiseen. The view takes in the high stone walls and gardens of the palace, the watchtowers and bright-green training field in the center of the Sanctuary, all the way down the terraced, tree-lined streets to the harbor and the white-capped emerald sea beyond. It’s beautiful, but no matter where I look, those three dead men seep back into my mind.
“If they were spies, then war’s coming sooner than we thought.” I ease Echo to a halt. “But if they weren’t, we’ll have to—”
“We?” Petén cuts me off. “Keeping the peace when Father tempts war is your problem, little brother, not mine.” He chuckles. “If you make it to Aku in time, that is.” His face cracks wide with a smile. “This year’s your last chance, isn’t it?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he’s already pushing past me, loping the rest of the way down to the stables.
Yes, it’s my last chance, the last training season on Aku before I turn eighteen. That’s when our High Savant, head of the Sanctuary, will hand me over to the black-robes if I haven’t held my phantom to form. It would mean no initiate journey. No chance to gain the rank of yellow-robe or higher. No future voice at the council. No Heir to the Throne of Baiseen.
No trained warrior to help protect my realm.
The weight on my shoulders grows heavier. I know my father. He’ll not let this incident with the spies go, and his actions may finally bring the northern realms down upon us. My thoughts lift back to those three nameless men. When I close my eyes, I can still see their shocked faces, hear bones cracking as their chests split open, smell the blood spattering the ground.
War draws near. And if our enemies are infiltrating our lands, I may already be too late.
2
Ash
The hall outside Master Brogal’s chambers is dead quiet, except for my growling stomach. It wants breakfast, or maybe it’s still queasy after the voyage back from Tangeen, but the High Savant’s request came at first light, delivered by phantom, no less. Come here, Ash. Do that, Ash. Ahh, the glorious life of a lowly scribe. I’m not complaining, not really; I love my work. My days are spent poring over books, reading old tomes, studying the histories of the realms and logging the events of our Sanctuary. I’ve spent years becoming a recorder.
I look down at my feet, which are bare, and frown. Bad morning to forget my boots. Especially with who is walking toward me.
There’s no way to avoid her, so I finger-comb my hair, trying to remember if I washed my face since docking before sunrise. At least I changed into a fresh dress, though nothing so plush as the girl’s who stops in front of me.
“Ash?”
I want to groan, but instead I respond with what I hope passes for polite interest. “Good morning, Rhiannon.” I lift my chin so I match her height.
Rhiannon, the treasurer’s daughter, with her fine lace and pearl buttons peeking from the hem and cuffs of her robe, pushes a long, strawberry-blond curl back from her brow. If her attire didn’t announce a high rank and standing, the attitude would.
She gives me an indulgent smile. “You’re back.”
Well, if we’re going to state the obvious… “I am.”
And just like that, we run out of things to say.
Even though we’ve attended classes together since we were little, there’s a world between us, for a variety of reasons, one being because Rhiannon is savant and…
“You are not?” My inner voice finishes the sentence for me.
Thanks.
This voice is part of me, popping up at times like a sibling might—sometimes snarky, sometimes mean, but always supportive when I really need it. Almost always, anyway. I thought at first it meant I had a phantom, but Master Brogal straightened that out right away. Phantoms use no voice until well after they are raised, he said. Then he waved me off, claiming the voice in my head was my way of compensating for not having a phantom.
I couldn’t look him in the eye for some time after that. It hurt so much.
Because I could have been savant. The Bone Thrower marked me as a potential and sent me to the Sanctuary to trial.
“Sometimes the Bone Throwers get it wrong,” Master Brogal often says—too often, in my opinion. I think he means it to be comforting, but it’s not. Nor does it help when he says savants are further along the path than ordinary folk. Most of the population is born non-savant, and happy enough, but to be honest, that’s not me. I try to convince myself he just means I’m progressing at my own pace, but such lofty rationale doesn’t always stick. Like now, for instance.
Rhiannon’s phantom, a fluffy little meerkat with tawny fur and a black mask, comes out from behind her robe. It sits up on its haunches and chirrups at me.
I click my tongue and wave a little hello.
“Come here.” Rhiannon pats her thigh, calling it back to her side. She doesn’t seem fond of how her phantom behaves around me, and I have to admit, it is odd, considering no one would mistake us for friends. But the head chef has a theory. She says that in other realms, non-savants who attract phantoms are called pets. I’ve not gotten up the nerve to ask Master Brogal about it. He’s not exactly welcoming of my questions.
“All phantoms delight in you,” my inner voice says, confirming the idea.
I don’t know about all, or even delight, exactly, but phantoms everywhere do seem to find me interesting. Still, it’s not the same as raising one of my own.
“Why do you still long for what is beyond your path?”
I don’t!
“I think you do…”
Rhiannon snaps her fingers in front of me, an irritated expression on her face. “Did you not hear what I said?”
Nope. Not a word. You? I wait a moment but all is silent. Leave it to my inner voice to choose this moment to go mute.
She huffs. “Ash, I wanted to ask—”
The heavy door to Master Brogal’s chambers creaks open, interrupting whatever Rhiannon might’ve said next. She glances up, pursing her lips. “Goodbye, then.”
With that, she spins and stalks away.
The tightness in my body relaxes as she disappears around the corner. I wonder what she wanted. Maybe she’s hoping to get close to Marcus again? Last time she tried to set me and him at odds, it didn’t work out so well for her. Later, she shamelessly pursued him, or was it the throne that attracted her so much? But when Marcus lost interest, Rhiannon blamed me. Of course, I wasn’t exactly supportive of the match…
“Ash.” Nun, Master Brogal’s assistant, looms over me, his sculpted face as unreadable as ever. “He’s waiting.”
I duck under Nun’s arm and he leaves, pulling the door shut behind me.
Inside, Master Brogal nods me toward a chair and keeps writing, his quill scratching the parchment in an elegant, unhurried script. He’s bent behind his desk and seems to have shrunk since I left for Tangeen. There’s more of his forehead revealed, golden tan contrasting his straight white hair that falls to his shoulders. Is it thinning? Surely, he hasn’t aged so much, but it is a rare chance that I have to study him this closely.
I sit opposite him and wait until he puts down the quill and sets his parchment aside to dry. I’d planned to broach a difficult topic on return, one close to my heart. My apprenticeship is coming to an end, and I want to further my studies, so I might become a wordsmith and take my place as a valued member of the Sanctuary. I’ve rehearsed my request—many times. But doubt floods in at the last second. Maybe this con
versation can wait.
“That’s what you said last time…”
Um.
“And the time before that.”
My inner voice is good at keeping track.
Fine. I’ll do it!
Master Brogal temples his fingers and turns his expectant gaze to me. “You found something in the Pandom City archives?”
“Yes, Master.” I pull my satchel into my lap, ready to retrieve the manuscript. “But first, can we discuss my advancement?” I have a whole speech memorized. “As an accomplished wordsmith—”
He cuts me off. “Yes, yes. We’ll deal with that later. What did you find?”
I take a quick breath to recover. I’m disappointed—very disappointed—but I know better than to argue. The High Savant is not a patient man. “I discovered a short children’s poem. Or maybe lyrics.”
He brightens. “Let’s hear it.”
I’ve no idea why Master Brogal has me collecting references to the Mar, the mythical race purported to dwell beneath the sea. He doesn’t believe in them himself—most educated people don’t—but still, he’s instructed me to search for stories in every foreign archive I come across. Not that I mind. It’s fascinating reading, though I’d rather be talking about my future right now, not a fictional past.
Master Brogal taps the desk, waiting.
I locate the manuscript in my satchel and smooth it out flat. “There are several references to the Mar and one to the sacrifices.”
“Child sacrifices?”
“Yes.” My hands go clammy at the thought. “And ships.”
“Black-sailed?”
“Just ships, seen from below. It’s all very oceanic. And something else. I’ve never heard of it before—a Crown of Bones. Shall I read?”
He leans back in his chair and waves for me to carry on, but his mouth dips into a frown.
I translate, getting lost in the rhythm of the words, my eyes dancing with visions of Mar rising from deep-sea grottos, mysterious ships with barnacle-covered hulls, sunlight streaming through kelp gardens, whales singing in the night… I shiver as I come to the last passage.
The persevering sea harbors all things,
Cast adrift beyond sunlight and stone,
While waves queue offshore in glittering strings,
Out on the ebb tide goes our Crown of Bones…
He sits up fast. “Don’t stop.”
“That’s all there is.”
“There must be more.”
“I found notes in the margin of the last page.” I lean in to show him, and he snatches the manuscript out of my hands. “I can’t translate those. Do you recognize the language?”
He stares at the page, moving it closer and then farther away from his face. His eyes widen, but he says nothing.
“Master?”
Finally, he nods. “It’s a Northern Tangeen dialect called Retreen.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a dead language.”
“Someone’s using it,” my inner voice says, which I promptly repeat.
His frown deepens. “The notation is very old, the language no longer active.”
“But what does it say?”
The High Savant runs his nail down the margin. “Nothing of importance.”
“Please can I hear?”
“Very well.” He huffs. “Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers, twenty, and one bull. Piebalds, ten heifers, two with calf…”
I blink. “A livestock list? In a storybook?”
“Not everyone treats records with respect.” He stands, his shimmering red robes sweeping the floor, sleeves falling to his gnarled fingertips. “Anything else?”
“That’s all I found, Master, but about my role in the Sanctuary—”
“I have a class to teach. Bring me the delegate report as soon as possible. That will be all.” He’s out the door in three strides, and I’m left staring at an empty desk.
My eyes start to well, and I exhale sharply, putting a stop to that. The chair scrapes the floor as I rise, shouldering my satchel. “I had a good trip to Tangeen, Master, save for the crossing,” I say to nobody. “There’s little chance of me becoming a seafaring scribe anytime soon. How have you been?” But it’s a conversation we’ll never have. Master Brogal may be my guardian, but he’s no father. Not a warmhearted one, anyway. I’ve known this about him since I was eight years old, but still I yearn for…something more. It’s foolish—I could kick myself—it’s so foolish. I know better than to wish for what I can’t have.
Taking a tie from my wrist, I secure my hair into a small puff of a ponytail. One side escapes and falls against my cheek as the High Savant’s words drift back through my mind.
Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers…
I stop cold. That can’t be right. Short-horn cattle are a newly recognized breed, crossed from Gollnar dairy stock and…something else? I don’t remember, but the point is, the script in the margin can’t be that old if he’s translating correctly.
“And if he’s not translating correctly?”
The chill deepens. Master Brogal wouldn’t make that mistake unless he had something to hide. But what?
I reach across his desk to inch the manuscript toward me just as Nun comes through the door.
“You’re still here, Ash?”
I jump at his voice and turn to face him. “Just leaving.” The words come out too fast and with too hot a face.
“Well then, shall we both be about our day?” He tucks the manuscript into a drawer and shoos me from the room.
Back in the hallway, my thoughts spin. What could possibly be written in the margin of a children’s poem that would make the High Savant lie?
“What indeed.”
3
Marcus
I’d rather be anywhere than here. I sit on my heels in the center of the training field, waiting for Master Brogal to call for warrior phantoms to rise. I need to stay focused, though my eyes drift to the sidelines, searching for Ash. She’s my very best friend, home to me in ways impossible to explain. I crave her smiling approval and unwavering support, especially during these sessions on the field.
She’s been there through all my years of instruction, sitting cross-legged in the bleachers or cheering in front of the colorful flags that line the entrance to the training field. Each banner represents a savant’s robe color: brown like the earth, for the potentials who come in hopes of raising their phantoms. Then comes blue for young students who stay on and actually manage to raise their phantoms. Green, like me, for those graduating to the next level. Yellow for the successful initiates who’ve made the journey and returned from Aku. Orange for the upper echelons of mastery. And red for the High Savant who leads us all.
Actually, not all. The black-robed Bone Throwers are a clan unto themselves. They follow their own rules and traditions.
I keep scanning, but I can’t spot Ash among the many savants jostling for a better view of the class. Where is she? Maybe not yet back from Tangeen? Did I get the days wrong?
Meanwhile, she hasn’t missed much. Each training session comes and goes the same—with me failing. Soon the last one will arrive, and then it’ll be too late. I’ll have missed my chance to train at Aku and advance to yellow-robe. Everything hinges on that. Because if war is imminent…
I believe battles can be won with diplomacy. Father disagrees.
My head begins to ache.
“Callers, ready!” Master Brogal shouts. His red robes flare when he reaches the end of the line and turns to walk back. “Raise your phantoms!”
Up they come, the most numerous class of phantom in the realm, tearing out of the earth, dirt flying. My good friend Larseen, a yellow-robe with brown skin and a tangle of ropey hair, laughs as his jackal bursts from the ground alongside Rh
iannon’s meerkat. Then comes Cybil’s cormorant, a caller-alter mix. Dual classes of phantoms are not uncommon, but one will always be dominant. In this case, Cybil’s is mostly caller.
Brogal moves on down the line, waving for the students to raise their phantoms. Most callers look like ordinary creatures found in any of Amassia’s realms, save for how some wisp away at the ears, tails, and wingtips, like sparks flying off a grinder or smoke from a chimney.
Farther along, more callers rise. A horse, mountain goat, even some human shapes, anything with a voice to call. Ash says they sound like a fine choir; I’m more interested in how well they perform, being our realm’s main defense—especially given Father’s proclivity to incite war. But none of these callers come close to the feats of the Magistrate and his heart-eating wolf. How did my father master it? I can’t even hold mine to form.
“Someday, it will choose a form, and then we’ll celebrate,” Ash says to me all the time.
Well, that “someday” needs to arrive before the next new moon.
Today would be preferable.
Cold sweat runs down my temple. “I can’t be a black-robe,” I plead to my phantom, mind to mind, but it’s like talking to a stump. “You think you’ll be happier with the Bone Throwers?”
Joining the ranks of the black-robed Bone Throwers is my only path if I can’t hold my phantom to form. It’s supposed to be a sign, but I know in my heart that’s not what I’m meant to be. But still, better a black-robe than a non-savant with no phantom at all. Ash says that, too, and she’s one to know. But then, she didn’t have a black-robe sentence her brother to death like I did. The thought makes my stomach knot. If my relationship with my father is strained now, I can only imagine where we’ll be if I become what he despises most.
My mind locks onto this worst possible outcome, trying to imagine what students go through in the Bone Throwers’ caves. Carving and playing whistle bones, obviously, but they never talk about it. Black-robes keep to themselves unless asked to throw the bones. They predict the times for planting, harvest, hunting, or war. They determine the fate of the children in all the realms of Amassia. And if that sounds ominous, it’s because it is.