by A. K. Wilder
His smile trembles for a moment, then spreads full on his face.
Yes, things will be different now, but they will be better, too, certainly for Marcus.
There have been so many rumors—even amid my travels in Tangeen, I’d heard them—and speculation on whether Marcus would, or even could, contain his phantom. Now, at least, his right to the throne cannot be contested.
The sound of crashing waves flows up from the sea, carried on the cool evening breeze. I scoot closer to Marcus for warmth.
“Is that the only reason?” my inner voice asks, all sweet and curious.
Don’t you ever sleep?
“Only when you do.”
Ha!
But I guess the question has some logic. Marcus has always been more than a friend. Years ago, when the other brown-robes teased and taunted, calling me non-savant, he stood up for me. And we’ve been supporting each other ever since.
The thing is, when Marcus and I are alone, we are just two people, no class or rank, simply best friends for life. Well, a little more than that for a short time a few years back. But the Magistrate wouldn’t stand for it. Of course he wouldn’t. What fire burned between us, the Magistrate and Master Brogal stomped out quickly.
“Tell me,” I murmur. “What’s it like in phantom perspective?”
“The best feeling.” His voice softens. “The link was light at first, but it was there, his form unshifting.”
I nod for him to continue.
“He said, I am De’ral. It boomed in my head and—” Marcus flushes red. “Forget I said that.”
“Forgotten.” I hold his gaze so he doesn’t panic.
“Seriously. You can’t ever—”
“I won’t speak it aloud.” A phantom’s name is known only to their savant, not shared even among close family members. I delight that Marcus feels so relaxed around me that he let it slip, but I understand his embarrassment and concern. “I promise, Marcus. No one will ever hear it from my lips.”
De’ral…
Marcus is silent for a while, no doubt debating in that big, logical mind of his if he should swear me to silence or if doing so would compel me to blurt about De’ral even more. I take pity on him. “You have my word, Marcus. Now stop worrying and tell me more about this gorgeous phantom of yours.”
He smirks. “One moment I’m studying a massive warrior and the next, I am the warrior, looking down on a green-robe savant. Together, we raised our arms and hollered a war cry into the crowd.”
“I know. I had to cover my ears in the library. I’m so happy for you.” I say the words and mean them. I am happy, of course I am. It’s just that—
“Things will never be the same?”
Can you stop saying that? My eyes burn at the thought.
“The initiation journey to Aku?” I keep my voice neutral, determined not to give in to the rising emotions. I refuse to blink, lest the tears escape. “Will you make it before winter?”
“The Bone Throwers think so.”
“With the cold season around the corner and the trade disputes in Northern Aturnia…” It’s no small matter, the unrest among the realms. “I know they’re in talks, but the tension still builds. And those spies you caught behind the palace, they were Aturnian, so the journey will have more risks. Unless you sail the whole way from Baiseen, which could slow you down if the wind’s not right…” I stop my running thoughts to study his face. The bright victory is gone, and he looks away. “Marcus?”
“We haven’t confirmed if the trespassers were actual Aturnian spies.”
I reach for his hand again and give it a squeeze. “It must have been awful.” The thought of the execution makes me nauseous, and I can tell it does him, too, though we barely had a chance to talk about it.
He nods and comes back to the present. “If we sail from Port Cabazon instead of Baiseen, we avoid the crosscurrents, saving two days there. Five days at sea and we touch Northern Aturnian soil only once at Capper Point to change from the ocean-going ship to a shallow draft sloop. Then it’s over the shallow reefs and we’re there, safe on the Isle before the gates close.”
I quote Master Brogal’s favorite saying. “Sometimes the Bone Throwers get it wrong.”
Marcus frowns.
“Sorry. Ignore me…” What’s wrong with me? I will not let my mood dampen this win just because I can’t see myself in his future. “When are you going?”
“I’d be ready to ride tomorrow, but we have to wait for the new crescent moon. At least, that’s what the Bone Thrower said. Mind the protocols.”
I look to the west, but the dark moon has set with the sun. “In three days?” The truth of it hardens in my heart like a brick. “That’s cutting it close.”
“We’ll make it.”
There he is with that we again, when he knows it’s never going to happen. He’ll go to Aku, and rightly so, to earn his yellow robes—doing whatever trials and tests are deemed necessary for warriors. It’s rigorous and not all initiates will pass, but that’s all I know. The trials, like so much of Aku, are shrouded in secrecy. Even the savants who have gone and returned are close-lipped about it. Something about honoring the traditions.
Anyway, after that, he’ll return to Baiseen to take up his duties as Heir. I, on the other hand…well, I can’t get any answer from Brogal about my future.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Tonight is not about me. “Who will accompany you?” My voice catches and those blasted tears slip free because my dream of Aku is over. “Ash…” He brushes my cheek, his smile crooked. He knows me well enough not to coddle, which would only make tears run in earnest. “I’ve asked Larseen, of course, as my guard.”
Right. Larseen and Marcus have been friends since brown-robes, training together almost every day since. Lars took his initiate journey last year and came back a yellow-robe. I thought Marcus would be jealous, but he has nothing but respect for Larseen.
“And Piper as my healer.”
“That’s perfect. Her third journey to Aku, so she knows the way. Who else?”
“Samsen will come as a second guard.”
“Good choice, and I’m happy for Piper.” Those two are inseparable.
Marcus grins at me. “I’ll need a recorder.”
Any spirits I have left drain away . The recorder is the wordsmith responsible for narrating the initiation journey and the events upon Aku, their scripts are later bound into a book and kept in the library for all to read. It is the job I’ve dreamed of doing for Marcus, when his time came. I have proficient skills as a scribe and have studied the laws of the realms, the languages, and histories. But with no acknowledged standing from Master Brogal, they would never approve of me.
So as much as this is a dream come true for Marcus, it is the end of mine. Passage to Aku is only for savant initiates and their company. Not for the likes of me.
“Still, he should have the best wordsmith recording.”
Indeed.
“I recommend Allenren,” I say, my feelings contained. Mostly. “He’s from Tangeen. Raises a caller, and you know your father’s on a campaign to reinforce ties there.”
“Uh-huh.” Marcus nods. His thumbs brush my cheeks again. “Allenren’s fine, but he’s not who I want.”
“Don’t choose Greker.” I sniffle. “The least little thing goes wrong and—”
“I agree. Not him.”
“That leaves Katren or one of her yellow-robe apprentices.”
“Excellent suggestions, but I don’t think so.”
His expression blurs before me, and I give in and swipe my eyes against my sleeve. “Who, then?”
Marcus leans close, his breath apple-sweet and warm on my cheek. “I want you, Ash.”
Warmth floods through me for all of two seconds. Then I turn and punch him hard.
“Ouch!”<
br />
“Don’t tease! You know it’s not possible.”
He rubs his arm and grimaces. “I thought you’d be happy.”
I’m off the bench and facing him. “Look at me, Marcus. What do you see?”
“You, barefoot as usual, to start,” he says, still rubbing his arm.
“That’s not what I meant!”
He makes a show of further appraisal. “I see my favorite teal-eyed girl… Well, your eyes are red tonight. As are your cheeks—only a few shades lighter than your hair.”
“Keep it up.” I raise my fist.
He talks right over me. “And while we’re on the hair, I liked it better long.”
“Nobody asked you,” I huff. “Besides, you’re completely missing the point.”
“Which is?” He leans back against the bench.
“Dog stuggs for brains, Marcus, have you forgotten I’m non-savant?”
“I haven’t forgotten you can curse like an Aturnian sailor. That won’t be going in the records, I trust.”
“It’s a Sierrak curse,” I correct him without thinking. “And I’m telling you, they won’t let me go.”
He pulls me back beside him and digs a handkerchief out of his robe pocket. It’s an embroidered handkerchief—of course it is—and here I sit with dirt on my feet. “Ash, we promised we’d journey to Aku together. Remember?”
I blow my nose loudly in response.
“You swore an oath to set foot on every realm in Amassia. This is your chance for Aku.”
“You don’t have to convince me to come along. I want to go. I’ve always wanted to go, but my guardian—”
“Brogal?”
“Yes, Master Brogal, the High Savant of Baiseen.” I emphasize his titles. “He has to clear it. I can’t even get him to talk about my future as a wordsmith!”
Marcus grins stupidly, and I’m tempted to punch him again. “Ash, you’re coming to Aku as my recorder. That’s all there is to say.”
“Your father will forbid it, too.”
He taps my nose like I’m a puppy. “Don’t underestimate me. I’m Heir to the Throne of Baiseen, and I just contained the realm’s only warrior phantom.”
His heartbeat is strong against my ear. Steady and sure. “Meaning?”
“If I were you, I’d start packing.”
5
Marcus
Even as I pack my bags and hear the music echoing from the courtyard below, part of me can hardly believe it’s real.
For so long, I awaited this very moment.
I take one last look around my chambers—at the mess of clothes on the floor and the rumpled four-poster bed strewn with maps and scrolls I won’t be taking. Then there’s the carved chest with my quiver and arrows tucked safely away—I’m not taking them, either, just a short sword and hand knife. We have to travel light if we are going to make it to Aku before the gates close.
Out the arched windows, the orchard begins to lose its leaves. It will be dead bare when I return. But when I do, it’ll be in yellow robes. My chest swells at the thought.
I draw the door to my chambers closed, like sealing off the first chapter of my life, and stride toward the east wing.
“Excuse me, Heir?” A servant runs to intercept me. “The Magistrate requests your presence in the throne room.”
“What?”
“The Mag—”
“I heard you, but that can’t be right. My father is supposed to be out on the palace steps, overseeing my departure.”
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “The request is for you to meet him in the throne room.”
Odd. It’s unexpected, but maybe Father wants a private word with me first. This moment has been so long in the making, I can only imagine he’ll have advice. I’m following in our forefathers’ footsteps, and Father puts much stock in our lineage. Maybe he’ll have an heirloom to pass down as good luck for the journey? That would be worth a delay.
“Very well.” I hurry down the stairs and cut across the hall. I’m about to greet him but stop short as I take in the scene.
My father sits on the great throne—it’s a massive tree trunk carved with the likenesses of a multitude of phantoms, one for each of the savants who have sat there before him. The image of his wolf dominates, slinking down the back, jaws wide, nose creased in a snarl.
And the Magistrate is not alone. Beside him in arranged seats are Petén, a smug expression on his face; five orange-robes; Master Brogal; and a black-robe Bone Thrower, Oba, I think. Her cowl is up, so I can’t be sure. All the war council members are assembled as well. They sit in a semicircle before the Magistrate as if in a formal meeting.
“Marcus, you’re here.” My father’s voice is grim.
There is no place for me to sit as the council members twist around to get a better view. “You called for me?”
“Two things.” He nods to Master Brogal, who stands to speak.
“First, Belair Duquan, a green-robe initiate from Tangeen with a warrior phantom will take Larseen’s place in your company. He’s packed and ready, waiting in the courtyard.”
“Why?” I blurt out, unable to control my voice.
“It’s deemed prudent.” He looks at Father. “Seeing that he’s in a similar situation, raising a warrior in a sanctuary of callers and alters. He needs the guidance of Aku as much as you do, and it’s his time.”
It makes sense, but my throat constricts at the news.
“Belair is the son of a Tangeen delegate,” my father adds.
Oh, so this is a political decision. My irritation flares. “Larseen’s—”
“Don’t worry. He took it well,” Petén says, savoring my distress.
Why is my brother even here? He has no interest in politics and certainly none in my initiation journey.
“And the second thing.” Father uncrosses his arms and rubs the head of his carved wolf. “Petén has petitioned the council for your seat and full voting rights.”
It hits me like a slap. “What? He can’t! It’s mine, and he’s…” I’m about to blurt out non-savant, but I can see by the smile on my brother’s face, it’s already been done. “Why now, Father? I’ll be back in a few months, my warrior ready to defend Baiseen beside your wolf.” I’m nearly shouting as De’ral pushes to the surface, filling my head with a pressure I can barely stand.
“The truth?” my father asks. “It’s taken you nine years to hold your phantom to form. Why should I think Aku will be any different?” He shakes his head. “I honestly doubt you will gain the next level, which means the black-robes can have you.” He’s careful not to let his distaste show, not with a Bone Thrower in the room. “I need one of my sons to add his voice to the cause.”
I try to swallow but can only gasp. “I will succeed!” Why won’t he believe me? “You think Petén…?”
“I’ve turned over a new leaf, brother.” His pompous face sickens me. “And am learning a new respect for Father’s policies.”
Rage runs up my spine and slams the back of my skull as I turn on my heel and walk out.
“Stay!” Father shouts. “We will consult the bones again. Perhaps the journey isn’t even necessary for you.”
His words knife into my mind. Not necessary? I try to protest, but no air will escape my throat.
But others speak out, all of them at once. I can’t tell if they agree or disagree.
“Silence!” the Bone Thrower commands the room.
The old woman lets down her cowl, and it is indeed Oba. White hair falls to her waist in a mass of wraps, feathers, braids, and bone beads. Her black eyes pin me while she taps her thumb ring on the edge of the council table.
I swallow hard, watching her phantom waft away from her. It takes no solid form but ripples in curtains of red and purple light. It’s enthralling, and even though I want to, it’s
hard to look away.
She claps her hands, breaking the spell. “The bones will speak to this, Marcus Adicio.” Without a further glance at me, she rolls her sleeves up to the elbows. Bangles clink and shift. One by one, she takes them off and stacks them to the side, but some will never budge. They are woven through her dark skin. “Back away,” she says to those leaning in.
They scoot their chairs back and wait.
The Bone Thrower lays out a dark hide and rattles her bag. Everyone knows what’s in it—the array of etched whistle bones, one for each round on the path to An’awntia.
A breeze comes in through the open door, and I can smell the sea as the Bone Thrower’s phantom drifts farther away from her body, whispering like a shadow with a life of its own. I don’t want it to touch me, but it draws close to my face, like a dog wanting to smell my breath. She chants as she digs into the bag and pulls out twelve carved bones, gives them a shake, and scatters them across the hide.
I hold my breath.
In three heartbeats, she turns to my father and nods. “The Heir must attempt the journey.”
Attempt?
“Ink and parchment,” she commands. Her eyes find mine. “Go. I’ll bring this to the courtyard.” She begins writing and I numbly turn to the door. My confidence is shattered, but I keep walking, my feet moving on their own accord.
When I reach the door, Father calls back to me, and I turn. His eyes soften for an instant, or did I imagine that?
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold coin. “Marcus, I wish you to prove me wrong.” He flips it in an arc toward me and I catch it, knowing exactly what it’s for. I give him a curt nod and leave.
…
As I head out the palace doors into the fresh air, I’m numb, completely numb to the core. As soon as I appear to the crowd, music strikes up in a brassy sound of horns mixed with kettle drums and flutes. Phantom voices join in and everyone cheers.
I stand tall, head high, in spite of the blow. This is the start of my initiation journey, and I’ll not let them see my anger—or my shame. And by the bones, there is no shame. Seeing the council, my father, so many people assembled to discuss my shortcomings as if all I’ve ever been—or can be—is a failure… It hurts in a way that I can’t acknowledge lest I embarrass myself further and in front of all of Baiseen.