by A. K. Wilder
“It’s Gollnar down there.” Kaylin chuckles. “They fight first, ask questions later.”
He might be right. “Two birds…”
“One stone,” Piper agrees. “Gollnar’s love for Northern Aturnia is fickle. They may be aligned, but at least they’ll argue, giving us a head start.”
“And please,” Ash says. “Speak Aturnian if chased. It will add to the ruse.”
I motion Tyche forward. “You’re in first. We’ll be right behind you.”
She stares blankly, taking halting steps.
“Tyche? You can do this?”
She presses her lips together and nods.
I turn to Samsen and Piper. “Ready?”
They raise their fists and silently melt away.
I point back toward the tree line as Ash and Kaylin lead the horses away. We’re set.
Belair and I climb over the ridge then crawl on our bellies, concealed in the tall grass. When we reach Tyche, we raise our phantoms, insisting they be silent as we creep closer to the camp that shines like a small city beneath us.
I raise my fist and pump it once.
On my signal, Tyche calls air from all the fires and the light in the valley winks out. While the camp stirs, shouts going up, Samsen calls seven fresh mounts. They look like rocking horses, the way they move with their hobbled front legs, rearing up in short leaps until Piper and Tyche can unbuckle the restraints. Samsen’s phantom hoots, keeping them quiet and under control. In moments they are away, the steeds following Piper and Samsen into the woods. Tyche runs after them. Hard part done.
But the fires are quickly relit. Suddenly, two enemy phantoms, a razorback hog and a short, twisting alter that rolls end over end, spot the thievery and charge after Tyche, bringing up the alarm.
“Grab Tyche and run!” I shout to Belair in my best Aturnian.
He sweeps her up onto his back and sprints for the woods. The sun leopard, almost black under the stars, lags behind, ready to deal with the guards. The razorback gives chase, but it’s no match for the cat. Belair’s phantom turns on it, shows fangs, and lunges, saber claws extended. The razorback bucks and squeals but can’t throw the cat. The red leopard rips into the hog’s throat and it goes to ground, but by now, our location is no longer secret.
The other phantom, the rolling and twisting alter, heads straight for De’ral. When it reaches his feet, it turns into a thousand stinging tendrils, roots digging into the earth to trap him. Each vine climbs up the warrior’s thick legs. I’m half in, half out of phantom perspective and seeing everything from above as well as the sidelines. De’ral tries to kick free of the vines but they cling tight.
“Rip it out by the roots!” I boom, the pain bringing tears to my eyes.
De’ral reaches for the base and tears it out of the ground. Using my phantom’s hands, I crush it to powder that floats away on the breeze. By now the camp is armed and heading straight for us. The guards spread out, searching the valley. Calls go up, all Gollnarian. I stand beside my phantom, ready to fight. Samsen knows what to do if I don’t make it back. Warn Baiseen. That’s all that matters. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath.
But nothing happens.
The night breeze ripples through my hair, strands sticking to the stubble on my jaw. Where are they? The guards and their phantoms don’t come up the rise to give chase. They run the other way. I hear shouts and challenges, but the object of attention is not me. Are they blind? Can they not see the threat before them? I stop questioning it and, De’ral at my side, run flat out toward our rendezvous point.
Deeper in the woods, I spot Tyche, her phantom up and calling.
“You sent the entire camp in the wrong direction?”
“Seemed best.”
“So it is. Well done.” I help her up. “How would you like a ride on my warrior?”
She swallows, and her impala squeaks.
“He won’t drop you, I promise, and we must be very fast.”
Tyche kneels for a moment, and her phantom disappears. De’ral picks her up and holds her close to his chest with both hands.
“Run!” I lead the way, charging through the woods until the clearing is in sight. Ash and Kaylin have tacked the new mounts and released the old ones that linger around the fringe.
“Marcus!” Ash waves, holding a spare horse. She rides bareback, her saddle left behind when she fell. “This one’s for Tyche.”
De’ral tries to put Tyche straight into the saddle, but the horse shies away. He sets her down on the ground and I call him in, the horse calming immediately. The girl climbs into the saddle, the stirrups already shortened all the way, and I mount the horse Samsen holds for me.
“Ride on!” I cry and set the pace, a dead run to Baiseen.
80
Marcus
“Open the gates!” Samsen shouts as we ride breakneck toward the west entrance to the city. “Open for the Heir of Baiseen!”
My horse is lathered, her flanks heaving like bellows. I’m gasping for breaths as hard as she is, but on we go, churning down the headland road to the gates. But we’ve made it! From this height, all appears peaceful below. No scent of fire, metal, or blood. No sound of battle. The palace torches are alight. The Sanctuary’s, too. The masts in the distant harbor rock back and forth. Flags, from what I can see at a squint, are all the ancient shearwater. Ours.
“No warships,” Ash says holding fistfuls of mane as she gallops bareback beside me.
True, but they must be nearly upon us.
We skid to a halt, the gates not budging.
“Open for the Heir!” I shout.
There’s a stir in the tower. “Who goes there?” a voice challenges us.
The horses shake and huff as Samsen stands up in his stirrups. “Are you listening? The Heir of Baiseen, Marcus Adicio. We bring news of imminent attack.”
The guards above us converse in hushed voices. “Come into the light, you who claim to be the Heir.”
“Claim?” I will give them five more seconds before I raise De’ral and point him at the gate, though with the Gollnar troops on our heels, I’d rather not. It would be good to be able to close this door behind us.
“It’s a reasonable request,” the guard says. “You ride Gollnar horses and wear Northern Aturnian uniforms, yet call yourself the Heir? Marcus Adicio never had a beard, even when he was in this world.”
“I most certainly am in this world, beard or no!”
“Not by the Magistrate’s account.” The Baiseen guards march out single file from the tower but do not open the gate. In moments, they have us surrounded.
“Fools!” Samsen steps directly under the torch light. “The Heir is right before you, very much alive, though the Bone Throwers know we have nearly been swept from the path.” He pushes back his hood and his pale-yellow hair dances around his face.
“Samsen?” the main guard says. “What trick are you playing?”
I rein my horse next to Samsen, recognizing the man. “Open the damn gates, Adrick, and let us through. It won’t go well if you don’t.”
His eyes meet mine and he audibly gulps. “Make way for Marcus Adicio!” He salutes with his sword and drops to one knee. “Forgive me, please. We were told of your passing—”
“You were told wrong,” I growl, more De’ral’s response than my own. “To the Sanctuary,” I command as the gates open. “Wake Master Brogal at once.”
But still, the gate is closed. “I’m sorry, sir.” Adrick catches my reins. “All petitions to the Sanctuary must report to the Magistrate first. No exceptions.”
“Since when?”
“A recent decree by the Magistrate.”
“My father will understand in this case. We must speak to Brogal immediately. Wake Father, too, of course, but it’s Brogal and the war council—”
Adrick wavers and
coughs. “We will accompany you.”
“Fine, if you must, but let us in, and lock the gate behind. Gollnar troops camp a few hours to the north, waiting for a signal to attack. I’d rather you didn’t let them in.”
Adrick signals the gates to open but doesn’t let go of the reins. At a quick march, we are escorted into Baiseen. Finally.
Ash keeps her horse at my side. “It’s all right, Marcus. They’ll wake Brogal.”
“By my word, I will if they don’t.” I stand up in my stirrups and command. “At the trot! We have no time to lose.”
81
Ash
I squeeze the hilt of my sword as the minutes tick by. If I had an ounce more strength, I’m sure it would snap. How can they treat the Heir of Baiseen this way? We’re still waiting in the empty throne room, huddled around a few embers in the giant stone fireplace. No savants arrive, not Master Brogal or his ever-present assistant, Nun. No Bone Throwers. Not even a palace servant to add wood to the fire. I’d do it myself, but the hearth box is empty. To run so far and so fast to this? I turn to Kaylin and unclench my jaw. “We’re usually more welcoming of our own in Baiseen.”
“I have no doubt.” He gives my free hand a reassuring touch, and I try to smile.
Marcus grumbles something inaudible, his arms crossed, fingers tapping against his biceps.
I’m furious, but it won’t help our cause to lose control. It definitely won’t help if Marcus does. I swallow the sour taste in my mouth. “It’s terrible, this treatment, but Marcus, we made it. You got us home in time to deliver our warning.”
“And you saved us from certain death on Aku.” Piper puts a calming hand on his shoulder.
Marcus nods, and I see a gleam in his eye as he lets it in.
Moments later, the High Savant strides into the hall. My heart quickens at the sight of him, and I go back to gripping the hilt of my sword. Following behind is Nun and four savants, orange- and yellow-robes with council member medallions visible around their necks.
Brogal whisks up to us in his flowing red robes, his straight white hair tied at the nape of his neck, dark eyes searching, but not for me. They shoot to Marcus, and the High Savant’s face contorts. It’s shock, I think. Did they really not expect to see us again? Was the message from Clearwater not received?
I know how we must look, filthy in our stolen uniforms hanging loose over dirty, frayed robes. We’re hollow-eyed and gaunt, not to mention the cuts and bruises. None of us have fully recovered, in spite of Piper’s healings. All except Kaylin, but he hangs back.
I swallow the grime in my throat and straighten, knowing my role as recorder to speak first. “Master Brogal—”
“So it’s true!” The High Savant interrupts me and extends his hand to Marcus. “Bless the old gods, you survived.” His face is grave. “Sadly, it’s too late.”
The council members form a semicircle behind Brogal. They nod, miming the disappointment, or concern, or whatever distress I’m reading on their faces. That’s when it sinks in. Marcus’s claim to the throne. His place on the council. Proof of his ascension to yellow-robe. Is it all lost?
Kaylin stays behind me but touches the hem of my sleeve. “It’ll be all right, lass.”
I can’t see how.
“We bring news,” Marcus says, shaking Brogal’s hand. “A dire warning.”
“Dire is dramatic, especially at this hour.” Brogal attempts a smile as he greets the others, clasping his savants’ hands, nodding to Belair, Tyche, and Kaylin.
I wait for his eyes to find me, but when they do, there’s no warmth, only a slight lift of his brow, so brief it’s over before it begins.
Ice forms around my heart. Why do I ever expect more from him?
“Because you deserve more,” my inner voice says.
I fight back the tears.
Marcus puts his hand on the hilt of his sword, the leather scabbard creaking. “Dire is no exaggeration, High Savant.”
Brogal’s attention is back on Marcus. “By the look of you, I think it might be true. Tell me.”
“Tut-tut, Master Brogal.”
All heads turn to the dais, and my jaw drops.
“Is that my brother among you?” Petén makes a show of pressing a hand to his heart. “Bless the bones, I thought you were dead.” He’s dressed in a thick, fur-lined coat and leads a woman onto the dais with him. My knees nearly give out when I recognize Rhiannon. She’s wearing a quilted, knee-length robe and sheepskin boots, her strawberry hair in a single braid as for sleep. Petén and Rhiannon together? Receiving us? I can’t make sense of it.
And then, my breath catches as Petén walks to the throne. “He will sit there?” I whisper.
“It appears so.” My inner voice is enduringly calm.
But only the Magistrate of the Realm can take the throne.
“True.”
The reigning seat of Baiseen is as majestic as ever with the carved phantoms of Marcus’s ancestors springing from it at all angles. They seem to animate as I watch, but it’s just the exhaustion behind my eyes.
“Is it?”
My hand clamps over my mouth as Petén takes his place on the throne. I’ve never seen anyone look more out of place. While he smooths his coat, Rhiannon sits in the smaller throne beside him, previously empty since Marcus’s mother died.
For a moment, no one but Petén moves as he situates himself on the oversized seat.
“Your Magistrate.” Brogal goes down on one knee and dips his head.
“Your Magistrate?” Marcus says, but the rest of us follow Brogal’s example, as is customary. What else can we do?
Suddenly it’s quite clear what has happened, and it numbs me to the core.
Marcus remains standing, his hands on his hips. “What are you playing at, Petén? Where’s Father?”
“Rise.” Petén sweeps his hand over our heads before answering. “Father’s gravely ill, not long on this path. When you were presumed dead, he named me Heir. Practicalities, you understand. Couldn’t have the throne contested by an outsider.” He smiles. “Just days ago, the Magistrate ceded rulership to me, all legal and correct, documents witnessed and signed.” Before Marcus can respond, Petén claps his hands. “More firewood and bring food and hot drinks.” He studies Marcus. “What a mess you are, brother. Did you travel the length of Amassia on foot after running into a wall?”
Rhiannon stifles a laugh, and a furious pressure begins to build at the back of my head. To speak publicly of the Heir in such a manner…
“Lass, I don’t know that he is still the Heir,” Kaylin says softly in my mind.
Marcus’s face is stony as he looks to Master Brogal and the council members for support.
They avert their eyes.
“The ‘mess’ will be much greater if you don’t pay attention, brother.” He exaggerates the endearment. “We’ve ridden day and night from Northern Aturnia to warn of an attack.”
“Well then, best give us the details.” Petén reaches across to take Rhiannon’s hand. He kisses it as if they were the only two in the hall. “But first, I’m dying to hear. Did you actually reach Aku?”
“I did, in time for training and trials.” Marcus’s voice is steady and measured. “But that’s not important now—”
Rhiannon whispers in Petén’s ear.
“Not important? Don’t be so modest, brother,” Petén cuts in. “Let’s see the records of your feats and successes. Admire your new yellow robes.” Petén raises his brows. “You won them, didn’t you? And the Tangeen?” He claps his hands again. “Let’s hear it from your little recorder. The non-savant you insisted on taking. I see she’s still with you.”
I step up, hands clenched behind my back to keep from shaking them at our Magistrate. “The records were lost when our ship went aground on the reefs, and Aku was attacked before the award ceremony. We h
ave ridden this far to warn—”
“Went aground! Aku attacked?” Petén cuts me off. “Dead bones and fat, you have had adventures!”
“The warning, your Magistrate—” I try again.
“You’re saying the yellow robes were not won?”
I shake my head. “Marcus and Belair did earn them, indeed, but there was no chance once—”
“No chance? What a pity.” Petén sounds elated. “And no proof of advancement, either?” He lifts his gaze to the council members. “Looks like I’ll be the only Adicio in your ranks, come the next Council meeting.”
Marcus hisses, exhaling through his teeth. “The color of our robes is inconsequential, brother. Ability stands on its own. One of the many things I’ve learned on Aku.”
Goose bumps rise on my skin as Marcus’s words boom to the ceiling, De’ral’s voice bleeding into them. With several curt sentences, he tells of Tann’s attack on Aku, Yuki’s death, our escape, and pursuit of the Aturnian fleet. I’ve never seen him more powerful in my life, and if I could stop the waves of anger coursing through me, I’d beam with pride.
“Yuki’s dead?” Brogal can’t hold back. “I will not believe it.”
“There is more, Master.” I step up, ignoring an indignation so deep I think it will split me apart. “The High Savant Tann led a group of cowled brown-robes and forced Yuki’s granddaughter to call Aku’s first whistle bone.” I hate being cold with the facts in front of Tyche, but something has to be done to convince him. I tell him of the bone being placed in a chest with Yuki’s blood, the bits and pieces Tyche revealed. “Tann took caller savants prisoner, murdering every other class. It was a slaughter yard, sir. Worse—”
“Did you witness this yourself?” Brogal asks, his face paling.
“Not Yuki’s death, sir, but the taking of callers, yes.” I turn to Kaylin. “We both did.”
Rhiannon is in Petén’s ear again. My body goes cold as I start to see who is in charge of Baiseen.
“I find this all very hard to believe,” Petén says. “Did any of you actually see Yuki die? Meet this red-robe face-to-face?”