by A. K. Wilder
The throw of the bones finds most children to be non-savant. They carry on, life as usual. If the cast says they might be savant and could raise a phantom, everyone applauds and, when they turn eight years old, it’s off to the Sanctuary for them. But if the bones say they are marred, damaged in some way, the infant is sacrificed to the sea.
Chills wrap around me at the thought.
I couldn’t even bring myself to shoot enemy spies—how could I possibly condemn an innocent baby to death?
Thankfully, Father’s outlawed the practice in our realm of Palrio; it’s the one mandate of his I support. But none of the other realms have followed his example. That’s where I would start my campaign for change and cooperation among the realms. Discussions, more diplomacy.
“Marcus!” Brogal shouts, pointing at the ground cracking in front of me. “Focus.”
“What are you doing? Stay put!” I command my phantom.
Of course, there is no answer, but the ground does smooth out.
Brogal works his way down the line, signaling each savant to “call” a chosen object—in this case, a baton. As I search again for Ash, objects fly through the air at a fair speed. The savants catch and throw again. Even the young blue-robes are close to mastering this game.
“Cybil!” Brogal shouts when the green-robe’s phantom calls a teapot from the distant kitchen.
She must be thinking of refreshments more than the baton. Her chanting stops short and the teapot drops, shattering on the ground.
Watching the liquid soak into the grass pulls my mind back again to the meadow last week and what my father must have visualized for his phantom to have called those men’s hearts. Death came so easily for him.
“Clean it up, Cybil, and go again,” Brogal says as he moves down the line.
Next come the alter phantoms. Alters are capable of changing shape once held to solid form. There are two alter savants on the field today, Branden, an advanced orange-robe with a pure alter, and his younger brother, Samsen, yellow-robe and another of my close friends. Samsen raises a mixed alter-caller, emphasis on the alter, but strong with both abilities. Very handy.
The brothers’ pale hair and even paler skin glint in the sun as they drop to their knees. Up from the ground their phantoms rise in the shape of hawks, morphing instantly into various other birds without losing a feather. When taking the perspective of their phantoms, they can see for miles and miles.
“Healers,” Master Brogal calls as he strides farther down the line. These phantoms are devoted to the care and well-being of all Amassians no matter the realm or rank. Their phantoms rise, including Piper’s double-headed black snake. She’s an orange-robe instructor here to help with the less experienced students. Once her phantom drapes in its customary place around her neck, blending in with her dark-brown skin, it peeks both heads out from her curtain of braids. Samsen can’t take his eyes off her. He never could.
Master Brogal doesn’t call for ousters because there are none in Baiseen. Ousters are found mostly in the Aturnias. On the battlefield, well-trained ousters are devastating—blasting through defenses, throwing weapons out of hands with an invisible wind. It’s said that the Sierrak realm’s red-robe, Tann, raises the greatest ouster of them all, able to peel flesh from bone from half a mile away. Sounds farfetched to me. Maybe I’ll find out when I get to Aku, though I hear Northern Aturnians aren’t welcome there for training anymore.
That’s saying a lot, because no one has ever been banned from Aku.
Brogal whistles sharply to grab my attention. “Warriors!”
I don’t know why he uses the plural when mine’s the only one. Warrior phantoms are virtually unheard of in Palrio, or Tangeen for that matter, making my phantom and me a boon—or would-be boon, if I could control the damn thing.
I’m the Heir to the throne of Baiseen and I raise the only warrior in a realm on the cusp of war. A warrior I can’t use. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I straighten my faded green robes, and the entire class moves back. They’ve learned from experience not to get too close.
To me. I call up my phantom. This is the easy part of the exercise, calling it up or back down. What happens in between, well, that’s another matter entirely…
Instantly, it drops from my inner depths into the ground, where it gathers substance; then it explodes upward from the earth. I slam my eyes shut as a wall of dirt and grass hits my face, no doubt intentionally. I spit soil and squint, my eyes opening to a familiar sight. My phantom, huge and unformed, undulates like a sea of lights, better than thrice the height of a man, constantly shifting from various warrior shapes. One moment it’s a bear with horrendous teeth and claws, the next a rhino that has everyone ducking for cover. Then it sprouts a giant’s fist, swinging and pounding, and finally, it morphs into a lion, claws raking.
Useless, nebulous forms. “Curse of the black-robes! Pick a shape.”
It does nothing of the sort. Each form bursts into the next until it’s a blur of transparent, fragmenting figures, completely out of control.
“Marcus!” Piper shouts as she darts out of the way, her snake tightening its hold around her neck to keep from flying off. “Watch what you’re doing!”
“I’m trying,” I mutter.
“Smaller, Marcus,” Brogal says in a quiet voice. He’s beside me now. “Feel for the true shape it wants to take and steady your eye there.”
It’s like trying to track a speck of dust in a tornado. My fists tighten. “I can’t do it!”
Brogal shakes his head. “Call it in.”
I focus my mind and draw the phantom down into the ground, where it tucks back into the depths of my being, no doubt sulking.
Brogal motions the entire class in close, where we sit in a semicircle around him. “What happened there?”
Oh great, a public inventory of my shortcomings. Now I want to sulk. “I lost control, Master Brogal.” No point hiding the fact.
“To lose control, one must have it in the first place, Marcus.”
I keep my expression attentive, but inside, my guts twist.
Master Brogal looks over my head to address the others. “In the potentials’ trials, Marcus showed great promise with his warrior, raising it on the first day. A blessing to the realm when fewer and fewer brown-robes succeed at all, let alone raise this class of phantom.” The High Savant’s cheek twitches when his dark gaze comes back to me. “But training cannot progress until the phantom is held to solid form.”
“I know.” I’m sure everyone else here does, too.
“Let’s review.” Brogal speaks to us all. “Who can tell me what the phantom is?”
Branden raises his hand. “The hidden power of the savant.”
Brogal nods. “Anyone else?”
“What we are yet to become along the path,” Larseen says.
“That which lies in the depths of being,” Samsen adds.
“All true, and all the more reason why each savant must come to terms with their fears if they are to control their phantom, serve the Sanctuary, and protect the realm.” He rests his gaze on my face, and I feel it heat.
The throb in my temples turns into a full-blown pounding headache. “I know all this, Master Brogal.”
“Do you? Then pay attention as I demonstrate.”
We rise and take a respectful step back. Master Brogal kneels in the close-cropped grass, adjusts his red robes, and closes his eyes. In moments, the ground in front of him rumbles, and up shoots his phantom, a vivid blue flurry of feathers with crimson-tipped wings.
“Notice there is no dirt spraying the High Savant’s face,” I say to my phantom. I know it hears me, not that it will answer.
Like a magnificent bird of paradise, Brogal’s caller flies to his shoulder, tail feathers flowing to the backs of his knees. The small bird puffs out its chest and trills.
; “See what I’ve done here, Marcus?” Brogal walks toward me. His phantom extends its long neck and trills again. He speaks quietly now, just to me. “I’ve not concerned myself with making a phantom taller than the bell tower. There is no forcing. No trying. I simply allow. I accept.”
The phantom bird cocks its head at me.
Brogal stares into the distance. “I thought I knew it all as well when I was a green-robe, but still I had difficulties.”
This I hadn’t heard before.
“I was the son of a Gollnar miner and a Tangeen wordsmith. They were hoping I would raise a healer. My father thought…” Brogal presses his lips together. “Suffice it to say that when my delicate and sweet-voiced caller rose, it was not what anyone expected, least of all me. I…resisted it for some time. But know this: we cannot fight who we are—who we are meant to be.”
I look away.
Brogal turns back to the field and sweeps his hand out at the audience of savants. “Neither size nor shape determines the power of a phantom.”
I nod. Everyone knows the strength of Master Brogal’s little bird.
“Observe.”
“He’s going to use it!” Rhiannon latches onto Larseen’s arm, pulling him toward her. I glance back at the sidelines. Still no sign of Ash. Brogal doesn’t demonstrate often, and when he does, everyone rushes to see. As it is, the spectators—younger students and courtiers—press closer, excitement rising.
The phantom opens its mouth, and a clear melody arises. Thunderheads gather, blotting out the sun. The wind whips through the trees lining the field. As thunder rumbles in the distance, the High Savant paces about. We fall back, away from the center of the field, all eyes fixed on the red-robe master and his brilliant phantom. Brogal throws an invisible spear into the air. At the same moment, his phantom calls down a bolt of lightning. It rips through the sky and hits the field with blinding light. I cover my ears, the sound deafening. People cower, but the precision is exact. Only a single blackened spot in the center of the field is scorched and smoking. Everyone cheers.
Brogal drops to his knees and calls his phantom to ground. The sky begins to clear, smoke dissipating on the breeze. The High Savant ignores the applause. “Now then, Marcus.” He steps back and commands, “Raise your phantom.”
My breath escapes in a rush. Think small. Think contained. Don’t resist. On the exhale, I drop to my knee and let the chant reverberate through my mind. Moments later, the ground rips open, dirt and grass spray my face—of course—and the phantom is up. I open one eye. “Dead bones and throwers…” It’s larger than ever and lashing about madly. People scatter in all directions. The more mental focus I use, trying to “see” it take a contained form, the larger it grows. My head is about to burst with the effort.
“You’re resisting!” Brogal’s lost his calm. “It’s going over the roof, Marcus. Too much! Bring it in!”
I bow my head, defeated. “I can’t fight you anymore.” My fists open, palms up and resting on my knees. In that moment, I understand that in all these years, that’s all I’ve done—fought my phantom. Out of fear. Out of obligation. Out of the desire to be some great warrior they’d prophesied I would be.
Maybe a black-robe is the path for me…
Bile burns the back of my throat, and I swallow it down. “If it must, then so be it.” With the thought, all tension flows away.
“Marcus.” Brogal taps my shoulder. “Open your eyes.”
What’s it doing now? Torching the Sanctuary tower? Darting out to sea? I pop my lids, ready for charred grass and felled trees, but instead, I stare. At a fully formed warrior phantom.
And the warrior, huge but unwavering, stares back at me. It has its hands—human hands—braced on huge thighs to bend low so it—he—can meet me eye to eye. His expression is intense, penetrating. A warrior holding to solid form. I lick my lips. He’s waiting. For me.
“Hello?”
I am De’ral. His deep voice reverberates in my head.
He finally speaks! “Thank you.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Take phantom perspective,” Brogal commands.
This is it. No more theory now. Everyone is watching, and I can sense their hopes rising right along with mine. I push my thoughts forward as I’ve practiced a thousand times in meditation. I shove my arms in first, and for a moment, they slide down the length of the phantom’s limbs, like putting on a snug winter coat. I open and close my hands and feel De’ral doing the same. I make two fists and raise them over my head. When I look up, I see they are my phantom’s fists, raised to the sky.
Cheers explode around me. Every student, courtier, and savant in the field is on their feet, jumping and clapping. I think I’ve just made history—the first and only warrior phantom in the realm…and the longest anyone’s ever taken to contain it. Together, De’ral and I let loose a war cry.
Brogal, of course, has been waiting for this day for as long as I have. “Stand up,” he urges as he ventures a little nearer. “Steady. No sudden moves.” His voice stays soft, but the ferocity is unmistakable. I’ve no doubt he’ll strike me down if necessary. “Now. Show them you can walk.”
I climb to my feet. It takes all my strength and focus to move and keep a presence of mind in sync with De’ral. I knew it took energy to keep a phantom up, but I had no idea it would be this much. How do they make it look so easy?
I reach out to my phantom, but it’s like staring in the mirror. My vision fluctuates between our perspectives. One moment I’m studying a massive warrior with burly arms and legs and long, golden hair woven into a single braid that hangs over his shoulder like a copper snake. The next, I am the warrior, staring down at Marcus Adicio, a green-robe who stands with effort, watching my every move. De’ral lets loose another war cry before turning to stand beside me. We march forward, the ground shaking with each of his giant footfalls. Everyone gives us plenty of space. I don’t blame them. My control could slip at any moment.
“Call it in,” Brogal commands.
“To ground, De’ral.”
He returns like a wave rushing back to the sea.
I collapse face-first into the grass. I have held my phantom to form. There’ll be no black robes for me.
Larseen slaps my back with a cheer and takes off toward the palace, no doubt to spread the news. There is so much relief in the crowd’s hoots and hollers. I take a deep breath and sit back up, my strength returning.
Samsen and Piper haul me to my feet, hugging me and pumping my hand. They lift my arms over my head and shout with everyone else, “Hail Marcus Adicio, Heir to the Throne of Baiseen! Good speed to the Isle of Aku.”
And, praise the lost gods, it’s not a moment too soon.
Still, I feel a wisp of joy fade as I scan the crowd one last time.
My biggest moment to date, Ash, and you missed it.
4
Ash
Marcus stops midsentence and turns to me. “Ash, what’s wrong?”
I wish I knew.
My best friend has had one of the most important successes in his life. So why am I unhappy?
I twist on the marble bench to face Marcus and smile sheepishly. The sun has set, and the training field is quiet. We’ve met at this spot many, many times. Only this night is different. From now on…
“Things will never be the same?” my inner voice says, and my stomach sinks.
Stop it. I’m here to celebrate with him.
“Is that why you look like you’re about to cry?”
Right. I try for a better smile and nudge Marcus with my knee. “Your phantom holds to form, a giant warrior, ready for battle. He has…” I hesitate.
“Gold hair!” Marcus says in a rush.
“Like yours.” I was not on the field today, but thankfully, word spread quickly through the Sanctuary. “Brown eyes, also like yours, and huge li
mbs.” Not quite like his, but even in the short time I’d been in Tangeen, I can see that Marcus is bigger, his arms and shoulders more muscled.
“It was incredible, Ash.”
We stare at the training grounds where gardeners, under the lantern light, rake the turf called fresh to the field. Though phantoms can’t call new grass to life, they can bring sod to the gardeners in a fraction of the time it would take a non-savant to roll it in. I wave to Rustin, the chief groundskeeper, and he waves back.
“I’m so sorry I missed it.” I’d been deep in the Sanctuary archives translating texts at Master Brogal’s behest when Marcus brought his phantom to form.
“There will be plenty more times.”
I change the subject because I can’t see how that’s true. When will I get a chance to see it, let alone spend time with Marcus like this again? He’s off to the Isle of Aku for his initiation journey now. There won’t be any non-savant recorders going, even if I am skilled enough to do the job. By the time he returns, new duties will take him, and I’ll be who knows where.
I smooth down the sleeves of my dress, focusing on the faded lace cuffs until I’m certain my voice is under control. “Was your father present?”
Marcus’s cheery tone flattens. “He was informed of the event.”
The training field’s an arm’s reach from the palace. Would it have killed the Magistrate to make an appearance? To offer his only savant son a bit of encouragement or advice?
Even when Marcus and I were brown-robed potentials and touching knees to earth for the first time, the Magistrate had scarcely shown any interest. It made no sense to me then; it makes no sense now. With the Magistrate’s eldest child lost, wouldn’t he care for his remaining children more, not less? Especially with as hard as Marcus tries to please him?
I clasp Marcus’s hand and pour all the enthusiasm he deserves into my praise. “I’m so proud of you. And I know your father is, too. You’ve done it, Marcus!” I can imagine the crowd roaring, arms in the air, as he stood side by side with his warrior. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for.