by A. K. Wilder
Father, Petén, and the council members catch up at the top of the steps. We wave to the people, smiles frozen on our faces. The onlookers don’t know. To them, this is one big festivity. Ash looks up from the courtyard, her expression concerned. Piper and Samsen flank her, their phantoms raised—Piper’s twin-headed snake draping across her shoulders, Samsen’s eagle circling overhead.
I take a last look at the terraced city and out to the sea, then force myself to turn back to Father and extend my hand. He shakes it, but I’m too crushed to feel anything.
“Take this.” Oba steps up and presses a folded parchment into my hand. “Heed the words.”
I start to open it.
“Not here.” The faint red aura of her phantom glows around her. “When you’re out of the city.” Dazed, I tuck the note into my robe pocket and squeeze through the crowd, accepting pats on the back and cheers. It takes a while to reach the others. When I do, Samsen hands me Echo’s reins. Her ears prick, head high and nostrils flaring. She’s as ready as I am to be off. I mount up, and she paws the cobbled stones, my stirrups clinking into Ash’s as our horses sidestep into each other. “Let’s go.”
She frowns and tries to see past me. “Where’s Larseen?”
“Replaced,” I snap. The newcomer rides toward us on a big bay gelding. “That must be him.” Tall in the saddle, lanky, and… Is that his hair? It’s a flame atop a matchstick. A pack donkey trails behind him. “Does he think we’re staying all winter?”
“Be nice,” Ash says out the side of her mouth before waving.
The Tangeen reaches us and salutes me, bowing his head. When he looks up, his eyes brighten. “Ash!”
“Belair! Good to see you.” She smiles and makes introductions to the rest of our party. “I’ll be recording for you as well, then. Splendid!”
I frown. She seems delighted with the thought of doubling her workload. “How do you know each other?” I ask, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice. I do realize friendship is not a crime.
“We met in Tangeen, at the library.”
“That we did.” He sidesteps his mount closer and tousles her hair. “Missed you, Little Scribe.”
Little Scribe? My frown deepens. How good of friends are they, and why haven’t I heard of it before now? It’s like everything I’ve known is dissolving in front of me.
Trumpets sound the hunting call, and the people follow after us as we trot through the streets toward the east gate. Once we are beyond the city walls, the crowd stays behind and, in the span of a few minutes, the show is over. The moment I’ve been waiting for these last nine years, the start of my initiation journey to Aku, has arrived and I can’t enjoy a minute of it, thanks to Father and his utter lack of faith in me.
“Marcus,” Ash whispers. “What’s wrong? Is it Belair? I know you chose Larseen, but he’s—”
I shake my head. “It’s not just him.” I wish it were as simple as that. “I’ll tell you later, Ash.”
…
“Empty?” I repeat the word because it makes no sense, even though I see it with my own eyes. Cabazon Harbor lies deserted, not a boat among all the roped-off green water. It’s a day for disappointments, it seems. The pounding in my head starts to increase.
“Fish are running,” the Harbor Master says. “You’ll not find passage to Aku from here.”
“No ships?” Seems Ash can’t believe her eyes either. She turns to me. “What should we do?”
“It’s obvious,” I say, facing my company. “We ride to Toretta and sail from there.” Toretta, a city two or three days away, on the northern border, is full of Aturnian spies—or so they say. Not the ideal destination, especially with how long it will take to get there, lack of supplies…
“We didn’t plan to camp.” Ash eyes Belair’s donkey. “Did we?”
“I have camping and cooking gear.” Belair shrugs. “And some food. But most importantly, I brought a full bag of Ochee.”
I stare at him blankly. “What’s that?”
“Tangeen spiced tea, of course.” He rubs his chin. “Don’t say you’ve never tasted it.”
“This isn’t a picnic,” I grumble. Who cares about tea?
The Tangeen does, De’ral says.
I’m so shocked by my phantom’s voice in my head, I nearly lose track of the conversation.
“Toretta is out,” Piper says. “Aturnian sympathizers would love nothing more than to capture the Heir of Baiseen and use him as a bargaining chip for trade talks.”
“A Tangeen delegate’s son wouldn’t go astray, either,” Samsen adds.
“The governor there has always supported Baiseen,” I point out. “We could go straight to him.”
“And announce to the city the Heir is in town?” Ash shakes her head. “And the time it would take to gain an audience to secure his help? The gates to Aku would be closed before we set sail.”
“I’d like to see the Aturnians try to take us.” I punch my fist into my hand and feel De’ral do the same. It’s new, this unity with my phantom. The only light in what has been one of my darkest days.
“How many days do we have to reach Aku, exactly?”
“Eleven, as of this morning,” Ash says.
No one speaks.
“Did the Bone Throwers have any advice?” Samsen asks. “All I heard was that our number should be five.”
“That was it, on the first cast, besides the usual, stick to the protocols.”
“First cast?” Belair says and everyone looks up. “There was a second?”
“Just this morning.” I force my face into a calm mask. “It surprised me, too.”
“What does it say?” Belair asks, his eyes narrowing. “Anything about this?”
I open the note from Oba and read it aloud.
Remember to keep the company’s number to five.
In spite of autumn chill, optimism wins out.
When in doubt, go north.
A sword brings truth and deception.
Do not raise your phantom until safe on Aku.
Surprise comes from the sea. Don’t resist it.
The Heir will not be stopped.
Out of Aku, the warriors triumph, and the southern realms are changed forever.
A surprise certainly has come from the sea, and not a good one.
None of the rest makes much sense, really, except for, When in doubt, go north. Also, The Heir will not be stopped. It’s enough assurance for me. After that debacle with my family in the throne room, it is this one tenet from the Bone Thrower that I cling to. “It’s settled,” I say. “We pick up supplies and ride north.”
Ash frowns. “But can we make it in time?”
“Maybe not,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “but we have to try.”
6
Ash
After two sleepless nights and long days in the saddle, my body feels like it was pounded with a bone bag—then trampled by a team of mules.
But we made it.
Here on the cliffs overlooking Toretta with an hour to spare before dark, the whitecaps sparkle and the breeze is fresh with moist, salty air. I can’t see the harbor, though, so I wouldn’t know if anyone is shouting empty, or full of boats. But I’m optimistic.
“You’re always optimistic.”
Well, hope is the currency of the scribe, is it not?
Marcus leads us down the winding path, the dry red soil clouding beneath our horses’ hooves. Where the dirt roadway yields to cliff and plain, the knee-high grasses ripple in waves. It’s beautiful, but oh, the dust. My once-white shirt is brown, my mouth and eyes full of grit. No price is too high for a bath tonight. And, dear gods of the deep, may we all sleep in beds.
“Clean ones.”
Agreed.
It’s not long before we are through the gates and slap in t
he middle of Toretta’s noisy city streets lined with vendors peddling aromatic foods, bowls of steaming white rice, red chili soups, salads of bright-yellow mangoes and green papaya. My mouth waters.
Chickens in coops cackle and peck at the ground. Spotted goats with long, drooping ears are milked on the spot. In one stall, a big woman in an apron fills baking pots with apricots, dried fruits, and raw meats, ready to pop them into the hot wood oven behind her. Farther down, a short man sells plates of noodles and fish; the delicious smell of curry wafts from his stall. After two days of thin soup and rock-hard bread, I’m drooling like an old dog. We all are, though I don’t rest my eyes on the butcher skinning eels. I’m no fan of those. Too slimy.
Savants of various colored robes, mostly green and yellow, stand out, including Northern Aturnians with their breastplates of armor and streaming capes. Our group is strung tight as a bowstring, no doubt thinking about what, exactly, a host of Northern Aturnians would do if they discovered the Heir of Baiseen in their midst.
For once, thank the bones, Marcus isn’t drawing attention to himself. We seem to go unnoticed and I guess, with his green robe covered with grime and hood up hiding his golden curls, he’s as far from an image of the Heir of Baiseen as anyone can be.
Belair helps, too, riding close to Marcus on his tall bay, obscuring him even further. They seem to be getting along better now. I was worried Marcus would resent him all the way to Aku, but Belair’s too amiable for that, and the replacement really wasn’t his fault. I’m still shocked by the Magistrate’s decision to give Marcus’s seat on the council to Petén. Marcus kept his voice even when he told me, but I felt the bitterness underneath his words. A father should support his son, not betray him.
They’ll have a different opinion once De’ral, fully controlled by a yellow-robed Marcus, returns to them from Aku.
I smile at the thought.
We ride out of the main district and past quaint pastel buildings with bright flower boxes under the windows. Many of the older inhabitants are on the stoops, playing games of cards and dice.
Marcus twists around in the saddle when we come to a crossroad.
I draw out the map, balance it on my mare’s neck and the pommel of my saddle, but it’s not necessary. “Can’t you smell it, sir?” I point ahead, using the new title to remind him to be covert with his name. If I know Marcus, he’ll need it.
Young children kick balls and hoops back and forth in the street, darting out of our way as we approach. An elderly orange-robe savant with a lined face and skin dotted with spots from the sun snores from his low chair. Beside him, a phantom sits on its haunches. The brown bear is huge, easily eighteen hands high. It watches our approach, its gaze shifting between us and the children it appears to guard.
My mount tenses beneath me. “Easy, girl.”
We progress down the road, the bear’s black eyes locking with mine. In Baiseen, I’m used to the phantoms engaging me. Here, I don’t find the habit nearly as endearing.
My hands shorten the reins of their own accord. This isn’t Rhiannon’s little meerkat, twitching a whiskered nose about my bare feet, that’s for sure. I feel the bear’s eyes on my back as I follow the others, but we pass uncontested, finally reaching the entrance to the harbor. Still, the water is blocked from view.
“Half the size of Baiseen with twice the stink,” Belair says, a kerchief covering all but his eyes. I doubt anyone but me heard him over the cries of the gulls. The sky is full of them, and why not? There are at least ten cartloads of reeking garbage lined up, waiting to be loaded onto a barge and sent out to sea. The barrels of fish bones and shrimp tails are quite an attraction for the birds as well.
A few peddlers crowd the entrance, but this section is more for offloading goods and supplies than selling them. Winches and pulleys dominate the space, and giant cranes topped with bright flags stand out against the sky. One long building, a warehouse, I’m guessing, runs the length of the avenue, its peaked roof decorated with noisy gulls, cormorants, and the odd pelican.
“Come with me, Ash.” Marcus swings out of the saddle and motions me to follow while the others water the horses at a communal trough. He acts more like the Heir of Baiseen every step down to the wooden dock, as opposed to a humble initiate on his way to Aku.
“We need to cut right to reach the individual piers,” I say as I rush to match his long strides. Signs written in Aturnian, Tangeen, Gollnar, and Palrion point the way.
“I can read.” He continues on at a demanding pace.
I rub my aching shoulders, struggling to keep up. “Please slow down.”
For someone who wants to travel, I’m quite aware of how lousy I am at it. I train in hand-to-hand combat; I do. But I was not prepared for the long days spent in the saddle or sleeping on the ground.
When I catch up to Marcus as he rounds the corner, my physical complaints vanish and I let out a gasp. Thick tan ropes section off fifty berths, but everywhere I look, they are empty.
“That must be some fish run,” my inner voice notes, not the least perturbed.
Dak’n spit, it must. “Not here, too?”
“There’s one.” Marcus points to a large carrack near the end of the dock.
The sails are down, but the late-afternoon breeze ruffles the edges of the boom. I can’t be certain, but I think I catch a glimpse of black sailcloth. “That may not be the one for us.”
“Why not?”
I point, but all I can see now are white sails rolled up tight. Maybe it was a trick of the light.
Marcus heads straight for it, his boots clipping with each stride. “It’s the only one left.”
I follow and tug on his sleeve. “Don’t let your royal blood show or hint that we’re desperate for passage,” I remind him. We’d practiced bartering over the last few days. Marcus wants to do this himself, as he should, but… I guess seventeen years of commanding a palace full of servants doesn’t wear off overnight. “And check the sails,” I add. Just to be sure.
“It looks good to me,” he says.
I want to agree with him. The ship has a wide ramp for boarding horses and livestock. It sits high in the water, too, and the boards are wet. “Fresh in and unloaded,” I say to Marcus. “But the sailcloth.”
He studies it. “White.”
It does appear so. “I thought I saw—”
“Let me do this, Ash.” He marches up the gangplank. Tension vibrates from him.
I get it, I do. We can’t turn back. So much is riding on this, now more than ever.
“Ahoy!” Marcus shouts. “Is the captain about?”
“He ain’t.” An unshaven man in drawstring pants and a wrinkled shirt leans against a stack of wooden barrels off to the side, drinking from a large jug.
Marcus turns to face him. “We seek passage to Capper Point.”
The sailor grins. “That’ll have to wait.”
“We must book it tonight.”
“Not urgent, remember?” I whisper behind a cupped hand.
“Tomorrow is fine as well,” Marcus quickly amends.
“Sorry, mate. You’ll have to speak to the cap’n and, like I said, he ain’t here.”
Marcus draws himself up straight. “Listen to me, ‘mate.’ I’m the—”
I jab him in the ribs with my elbow. He grunts and clears his throat. “I’m a green-robed savant from Baiseen, on my initiation journey to Aku.”
“And I am the recorder for the journey,” I butt in. “May I ask where the captain is?”
The sailor looks me up and down. “Try the nearest pub, miss.”
I’m disgusted, but more worrisome is the snarl on Marcus’s face.
“Mind your eyes,” he snaps. “We’ll find another boat. C’mon, Ash.” He walks back down the gangplank with his long, I’m-the-Heir-of-Baiseen stride. I’m about to follow but my inner voice stops me.
“Listen.”
The sailor toasts Marcus’s back and then turns to me. “There’s no other vessel sailing to Capper Point this week. Fish are running. Biggest catches on record.” He caps the jug and closes the distance between us, blocking my way off the ship. “Came up out of nowhere, just like you.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Is this what you wanted me to wait for?
I take one step back, but he presses in. His eyes are glassy and his legs unsteady. But I won’t underestimate him.
“He’s no threat.”
Thank you. I feel so much safer now.
I pull out my belt knife, eye on his next move. He gets one warning. “That’s far enough.”
“Can I help you, lass?” a voice calls from above.
The sailor backs off immediately. “She wants passage to Aku. I was discussing the options.”
I don’t comment on his version of the story. All my attention is drawn toward the young man descending from the crow’s nest.
He jumps to the deck, landing light on his bare feet, and I promptly forget how to breathe. He’s tall, with black, curly hair falling past his shoulders. His chest is broad and hairless, his abdomen ridged like a pan flute. He wears cutoff pants. That’s all. Not another stitch. I’ve never seen so much skin, such a deep, smooth brown, in my life.
I’m still holding my breath and it’s starting to make me dizzy.
“Then breathe.”
I exhale, and it comes out as a whistle. He blinks, but then a crooked smile tugs at his mouth. Oh, by the Deep, let the deck swallow me whole. As he steps closer, the hairs on the back of my neck rise again, albeit for an entirely different reason.
“Worth the wait?”
I ignore my inner voice and meet his dark, gray-green eyes.
“Did you plan to do more than stare?”
I reach for the ends of my long curls, remembering too late they’ve been recently cut. “I…um. We…” Oh yes, I’m truly a wordsmith just now. I point at Marcus, who is walking back toward us. “My…brother and I are traveling to Aku with three other savants.” My arm swings vaguely toward the north, but the belt knife is still in hand and he has to lean back, out of range.
