Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts)
Page 43
No one speaks as the horses settle and Rowten signals for the dogs to be leashed. I breathe heavily, staring at the corpses, blood welling in the cavities that were, moments ago, the bodies of three living men. Aturnian spies, most likely, but living men just the same.
But what if I got it wrong? What if the man had simply gone weak in the knees and wasn’t dropping to raise his phantom at all? What if he really was non-savant, lost, virtually harmless to us? I cried out the warning that led to these deaths. What does that say about me?
“Peace be their paths,” Rowten says, and we all echo the traditional saying used when someone dies. The path to An’awntia is the spiritual road everyone treads, though us savants are supposedly much further along.
I’m not so sure in my case.
When I look to Petén, I find him staring at the bodies as well, until he turns away and throws up in the grass. Somehow that makes me feel better, though I don’t think it has the same effect on our father, judging by his expression.
Father examines the dead men’s weapons. “Aturnian,” he says and lowers gracefully to one knee, his phantom melting away as he brings it back in. It’s a relief. Phantoms don’t usually scare me, not those of our realm, but this one’s different, more powerful, and so much better controlled than most. Merciless. If Father had continued training at the Sanctuary, he’d be a red-robe by now, and not very many savants ever reach that high level. I shudder at the thought.
Before mounting up, he turns to Rowten. “Take the dogs and find their horses. Then call for the knacker to deal with this mess.” In an easy motion, he’s back on the hunter, shaking his head as he turns to me. “You raise a warrior phantom, Marcus. When will you start acting like it?”
Heat rushes to my face, and Petén, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, chuckles. Any warmth I felt for my brother moments ago vanishes.
“Ride with me, both of you,” Father commands.
The road home is short and agonizing as we flank Father, one on either side.
“Petén, if I catch the reek of alcohol on your breath again, I’ll take away your hunting privileges for so long, you’ll forget how to ride.”
“Yes, Father,” he says quietly. “Sorry.”
My lips curl until Father turns to me.
“Marcus,” he says, his voice a newly sharpened knife. “You know war is inevitable—if not now then certainly by the time you are meant to take the throne. Baiseen needs your warrior!”
A subtle reminder of my failings. “Yes, Father.”
“If you can’t master your phantom soon, you’ll lose your vote at the Summit as well as your right to succeed me.” His eyes narrow. “You know this?”
“I do.”
“Then why are you acting so bones-be-cursed weak?”
I couldn’t choke out an answer even 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, cresting 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.
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