by A. K. Wilder
“No trouble at all. We expect recorders to use their time on Aku to the best of their advantage.”
I smile with my mouth closed as well. “I’m confused about a language.”
“Which one?”
“Retreen. I might have it confused with the old Sierrak Retoren.”
He remains placid, save for a twitch above his right eye. “Though they sound similar, Retreen is a Tangeen tongue, used mostly for commerce. Retoren is a poetic and spiritual language of the Sierrak savants.” His brow knits. “Why do you ask?”
“Is this Retreen?” I show him the script in the planetary text.
“Where did you find this book?”
“On my desk. I thought you put it there for me.” My words tumble out. “It matches a bit of script Master Brogal identified for me as Retreen.”
“What script?”
I cough to stall. Brogal mustn’t be incriminated. He’s done so much for me, but I’m not sure how to back out of this now. “I came across a scroll, a snippet really. It turned out to be a list, a manifest of cattle—”
“According to whom?”
“High Savant Brogal.” What else can I say? “I thought he said it was Retreen but…” I am talking too much, unable to stop. “I guess I was confused and heard him wrong,” I finish lamely.
Huewin taps his thumb on his temple, an odd gesture. “This is neither, but a tongue from Gollnar, no longer in use.”
“Is it? My mistake.” Except it’s not.
“Don’t worry. You have much to learn. For a student your age, you’re doing well.”
The hairs on the nape of my neck bristle. Why are these masters sending me around in circles? “And what would Retoren look like, exactly? You make it sound so interesting. I would love to see.”
“What it looks like, exactly, you are not ranked high enough to know.” He presses his lips together, no smile. “Keep studying, Ash, and on your next journey here you may be advanced far enough along the path to read such scripts.” Huewin frowns at my turquoise robes. “Ah, but I forget. You’re non-savant, and here only by the grace of the Baiseen Magistrate. It’s doubtful you’ll return to these halls in this lifetime.”
“Charming man, this librarian.”
Unlike my inner voice, I lack the patience for sarcasm. And I’m liking the master librarian less and less. “But would I be able to see the language script, for inspiration? I wouldn’t read it—how could I—but just to know that I’ve viewed it would be such a motivation along the path.” I pour it on thick like honey, though I’m so angry I could choke. Only here by the grace of the Magistrate? Well, it’s true, but my skills are not what’s lacking.
Huewin makes a great show of deliberating. “Very well. I can authorize a glimpse, under supervision, but it will mean nothing to you, except symbolically. Retoren takes much time and dedication to learn. There are seventy-two letters in its alphabet, and the conjugations are extensive, each verb having multiple aspects of gender, phantom, mood, color. As I said, it’s for those much further along the path.” Huewin walks to the other side of the bookcase and I follow, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out behind his back.
He takes a key from a ring on his pocket chain and opens a glass case. “This is Retoren as written by the savants of the High Sierrak Plains.” He unrolls the parchment with great care. “I am not allowed to translate it for you, and please don’t mention to anyone you had this glimpse.” He holds his brittle smile in place. “It will be our secret.”
Caterpillars crawl under my skin, but I turn my focus to the old scroll. Immediately, the edges catch my eye. What I’m looking at can’t be Sierrak anything. “Beautiful,” I say aloud while scrutinizing the papyrus.
It’s from Gollnar, ancient Gollnar, hence it being under glass, I imagine. There is no way it can have fallen into Sierrak hands or originated there. I’m certain because, up until several hundred years ago, the Gollnarians took an extra step in the preparation of the pulp for their writings; they added a “secret” ingredient, chenopodia, a beet-like bulb growing only in the wild, now extinct from overharvesting. Chenopodia produced papyrus less prone to wrinkling.
It also left a faint mauve hue at the edges, like this one before me has.
My scroll-crafting instructor at Baiseen was from Gollnar, and she showed us just where to look to identify these antiquated texts. With the age of this scroll and the time periods involved in the use of chenopodia, it is not what Huewin claims. Sierrak and Gollnar didn’t communicate in that era. By the time they did, chenopodia was no more.
“Now you have seen Retoren. Keep it to yourself.”
“I will, but master, this is from a savant sect in Sierrak, correct?” I have to be sure I haven’t misunderstood.
“Exactly. It is used only to teach the deepest of spiritual knowledge.” He speaks as if the notion of “spiritual knowledge” is far beyond my comprehension.
And who knows? Maybe he’s right, but if I had more of that “spiritual knowledge,” I wouldn’t use it to shame those who had less. “Hmmm,” I say aloud, trying to sound reverent.
Huewin rolls up the scroll before I can take a second look, but I catch enough familiar words—flood, rain, famine—to make an educated guess. It reads like an account of the Time of the Floods, a story told by all the realms in slightly different ways. No secret spiritual mystery here. I’m guessing age is the only reason it’s under lock and key.
“Now, Ash, with your curiosity sated, I will leave you to your work.” He turns and retreats down the stairs.
I’m left standing alone on the second floor, completely mystified. After a long search through the library card filing system, I make my way to the very top level of the tower and into a room called “Ancient References.” There I find the dictionary I’m after. It has a single mention of Retoren:
Reto-rene
1. of or pertaining to the ancient Retorie stargazers of northern Sierrak.
2. any obscure and seldom written language. Abbreviation: Rt, RT.
3. the language used by the founders of the Sierrak Planetary Guild including the Brothers of Anon. Abbreviations: BOA.
I blink and read again. “Brothers of Anon?” From the fabled Sanctuary of Avon Eyre? The one surrounded by ice at the top of the world? Could it be real?
The more I uncover, the more information I seem to need.
My mood brightens. There’s a certain crafty someone who might join my cause, and I shall try to recruit him tonight. But the mirth fades when I gaze out the narrow tower window overlooking the field. Far below, the entire training grounds is in ruins. “Oh, Marcus. This isn’t good.”
36
Marcus
I face off again with Mistress Zarah. I’m worried for the woman. Orange-robe or no, De’ral is dangerous and, even though she and I understand perfectly well we are sparring for practice, I can’t say the same for my phantom. “Mistress, I have little control, as you have seen. There might—”
“You think we can’t outwit your brute?” Zarah brushes dried mud from her sleeves. “Relax, Marcus. This is training. If you keep that in mind, your phantom will, too.”
“But that’s just it. My—”
Zarah raises her brow. “You contradict me?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Good. Let’s continue.”
She shows me a new sequence of moves in rapid succession—punch, block, kick, retreat, and then repeat, which I learn quickly, but when applied to De’ral, it’s not so smooth. I raise my hand to say I’m not ready, but Zarah calls, “Attack.”
Before I can gather my wits, Zarah flips me on my back and drops with an elbow strike to my chest. Her phantom runs circles around De’ral, keeping him contained, though there are some mighty fist blows as he pounds the ground, a giant swatting at a fly. No matter what the big warrior does, Zarah’s phantom has no
problem evading him. When it becomes comical, Zarah calls a halt. My face is hot to the touch, my teeth ready to crack with how tightly I’m clenching my jaw.
“Let’s go over the basics again, shall we? Once they become routine for you, we’ll work on him.” She tilts her head toward De’ral.
And then her phantom runs up, executes a double somersault, and ends with a flying kick that stops just short of my face. “I’ve much to learn,” I admit.
Not me.
De’ral snatches up Zarah’s phantom by the nape of the neck, holding it out like a smelly sock.
“Stop! Put the instructor’s phantom down.” All eyes are on me, including Zarah’s.
“Tell it to let go,” she says, her voice vibrating through the air.
I push into De’ral’s perspective with every intention of following our instructor’s command, but the moment my eyes look down on the suspended thing that has taunted and teased, I realize De’ral isn’t the only one who wants to squash the little warrior like a bug. It takes every drop of my willpower to detach and say, “Put it down before you have us thrown out on the spot.”
De’ral lets go, from quite a height.
“Not like that,” I say aloud.
Zarah’s phantom falls but does a perfect roll and lands on its feet. It cuts back, pulls two spears from the weapons rack and charges, ready to launch toward De’ral’s head.
Zarah ignores it. “If you can’t gain better control than this, Baiseen, you’ll be going home without your yellow robes.”
I groan inside while De’ral catches up the spears and snaps them in half. “It’s yours that’s out of control now.” I point to it, knowing I’m being childish. “Do something!”
She crosses her arms. “You may speak to your instructors in Baiseen like that, but you will not get away with it here.”
My head pounds and I shout to hear myself over the throbbing. “In Baiseen, I am the Heir to the throne and command a measure of respect.” Spittle flies from my mouth. “It’s just common courtesy for my rank.”
“Your rank?” Her face turns hard. “On the Isle of Aku, rank is earned, not handed down a line of succession. I assure you, it will not be earned by arguing with me.”
My head explodes, and all reason flies away. Our phantoms brawl nearby, tearing up the grass, kicking and punching, pounding and snarling. De’ral swings and stomps, trying to mash Zarah’s phantom like a potato and hers is dodging blows and jabbing with two new spears. The students flow around them like a tide, keeping a safe distance while cheering and whooping. I shout to Zarah, “I can’t stop him!”
“Then bring him back in!”
“We didn’t start this!” The words are out before I can bite my tongue, and in the heat of the moment, I don’t care.
Zarah blasts me in her native tongue with what I can only guess is a string of obscenities. Ash would know. Some I recognize as curses my recorder has used, and though she’s never translated them, I can imagine they’re obscene.
When I catch a glimpse of the High Savant storming our way, her bloodred robes flaring around her, I close my mouth mid-sentence and freeze. Zarah’s back is turned to Yuki’s, and she carries on, shouting in her native Aturnian, our phantoms still brawling behind us. The students realize who approaches and go silent, bowing their heads. Zarah finally turns to see Yuki and drops to one knee, her phantom going to ground before she stands back up again.
She clears her throat. “High Savant.”
Yuki looks over the group and out into the training field. She takes in the rents and tears in the grass, the ruined obstacle course, and the mud-covered students. She motions me forward. “Your phantom did all this?” She bends over to pick up a snapped spear and examines the tip.
“Not entirely all of it, High Savant. Some was…” My voice trails off. She is staring at me in the strangest way. “Yes, Mistress Yuki. We went a little out of control.”
The High Savant surprises me with a thin smile. “Thank the Deep the black-robes never got their hands on you. I can only imagine what a warrior you will have by the end of your stay with us.”
I blink.
“Can you imagine it, Marcus Adicio?” Yuki asks before I sputter a response.
“Yes, High Savant.”
“Good then. That is where to begin.” She leans in toward Zarah. “Walk with me?”
Zarah nods and addresses all of us. “You will help the gardeners rake this field back into order.”
The groan from the students isn’t audible, but the mood around me thickens.
Yuki speaks up. “Order the carpenters to rebuild the obstacle course. I want it twice as high on the phantoms’ side and doubly reinforced.” She eyes the whole group. “Aku will accommodate every student on Amassia, including the likes of Gaveren the Great.”
Everyone gasps at her comparison, and I stand taller as she points at me. Likening De’ral to a phantom literally out of legends? I savor the compliment. By the bones, I’ve never heard such praise from Father or Master Brogal. Although most don’t think the stories of Gaveren are actually true. “But he will not be thumping up and down the boulevards and about our meditation paths just yet, will he?”
“No, High Savant,” I say and bow my head.
“For now, raise him only on the field for your daily classes or on the beach when your group does special training.” Her eyes go to Belair. “It’s good to see Tangeen in our midst. What a magnificent sun leopard.”
Belair beams. His phantom stretches, digging its claws into the grass, its long tail curling skyward.
High Savant Yuki claps her hands. “Hop to it, all of you. I want the field pristine by the noonday bell, before any of you eat.” She touches Zarah’s sleeve.
“You heard the High Savant!” Zarah shouts. “Rakes are in the toolroom by the stables, wheelbarrows and water carts in the wagon shed. Take your direction from the gardeners. And make sure you cleaned up before you go near the fountain or enter the dining hall.” Her eyes drift to me and Belair. “Your phantoms have seen enough of the sun for one day. Call them in.”
I don’t need to hear it twice. Well, I guess I do, since Zarah had asked before, but this time I lower to the ground and energy rushes in. With my phantom down, a wave of weariness replaces the heat and exhilaration, but I force myself to stay alert. I stand and we all bow to Zarah and Yuki before fanning out over the field. Some of the looks I get are not friendly, but a few are, including Destan’s. That’s something.
“Quite a start to our training.” Belair is at my side, patting me on the back.
“Not what I was expecting.”
“Do you think we’ll make it through the eliminations?”
Yuki hinted at it, didn’t she? “By the toss of the bones, the black-robes foresaw it.”
“What were their words, exactly?” He sounds worried.
I know the phrase by heart. I cling to it. “Out of Aku, the warriors triumph, and the southern realms are changed forever.”
“Promising.” Belair chews on it for a moment. “Unless, when they said warriors, they didn’t mean us.”
I laugh. “Who else would they mean?”
But my smile fades and suddenly, I’m not so sure.
37
Ash
I’m at my desk, absorbed in work, when someone clears their throat.
“Kaylin!” I look up. “How long have you been there?”
His smile warms me like the sun.
“Have lunch with me?” He turns side-on to show his brimming pack. “I found a beautiful cove. You have to see it.”
“That does sound nice,” my inner voice says.
Focus. We have a lot to do. “You’re just the one I wanted to see.”
“Is that a yes?”
“I can’t go now.” I wave my hand over the books stacked high around me. “I
was thinking more along the lines of—”
“Ash.” He stops me mid-sentence. “From what I saw of Marcus and Belair’s performances this morning…”
My stomach sinks. “You saw?”
“That I did.”
They will pass the elimination trials. They have to. That is, Marcus has to at least. “It was their first try.”
“So it was.” Kaylin tilts his head. “Lunch with me?”
“I don’t know…” Somehow going off to a lovely cove with Kaylin while Marcus and Belair struggle seems wrong. Like I’m abandoning them. And their records. I’m responsible for them both, which is twice the work.
“You have to eat,” Kaylin argues.
“True, but there’s another problem. Maybe you can help?”
“Tell me.” He takes a seat by my side. “Is there a conspiracy?” He lowers his voice and leans in, making me more flustered. “I would love a conspiracy, unless this is about the sounds you’ve been hearing at night.”
“It’s not that.” I brush my hair back with both hands, trying to sound calm. Meanwhile, the heat in my face spreads across my chest. I want to fan myself but don’t. “I need help, um…finding some reference material.”
“Isn’t that what the index scrolls are for?” He raises his eyes to the ceiling-high shelves of books.
“Strangely, not in this case.”
He looks intrigued. “What then?”
“Remember the notice at the Capper Point harbor?”
“Aye, lass.”
I clear my throat. His proximity is very distracting.
“I found the same script in a Sierrak book,” I manage, “but when I asked Huewin, he led me astray, rather elaborately. Brogal did, too, in hindsight, though, in a different direction.”
He folds his hands together, brows narrowing. “I don’t understand.”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Before the journey, I came across a script I think might be Retoren. When I asked Brogal, he called it Retreen.”
“They do sound similar.”
“But in fact, they’re very different. I asked Huewin to clarify, and he misled me further. Might as well have fanned smoke in my eyes. Both masters seem to be concealing something. I want to figure out what, and I want to translate this passage.” I show him the Sierrak planetary text.
