by A. K. Wilder
“I did,” Tyche says, finding her voice, though it sounds hollow in my ears.
Petén frowns. “Who are you?”
Marcus puts his arm around the young girl’s shoulders. “This is Tyche, orange-robe savant of Aku.”
“Orange, is it?” Petén makes a face. “She’s just a child.”
“A child of Yuki’s,” Marcus says, barely holding back his rage.
“The High Savant of Aku was my grandmother, peace be her path,” Tyche says, her eyes focusing into the distance. “I watched her die by Tann’s sword. His cowled brothers captured me, though I escaped. Believe it or not.” She turns defiant. “Tann wants the Crown of Bones, Master Brogal. He stormed Aku for our first whistle bone, and Baiseen’s is next.”
Brogal stumbles, and Nun has to support him. “It’s not possible.”
Even Petén is silenced.
“Hence, our race here to warn you,” Marcus says. “From the pursuit, it’s clear, as Tyche says, Baiseen is next.”
Master Brogal presses his hand against his chest and tries to steady his breathing. I’ve never seen him so unnerved. He gives instructions to Nun, who nods quickly and slips away. Brogal turns back to us, his face gray, eyes unblinking.
Petén recovers quickly and brushes lint from his sleeve. “This is all very interesting. But where are the refreshments?”
Two attendants scurry away. Others bring a box of wood for the fire and set up tables and chairs in the center of the room.
Marcus refuses the seat offered him. “Are you not listening?” He looks from his brother to Master Brogal. “The Gollnar army and Aturnian fleet are nigh.”
“Gollnar, too?” Petén shakes his head. “Stop worrying, Marcus. We have gatekeepers if our neighbors come to call, and the watchtower guards will see ships off the cape before they near.”
“In the night? Running dark?”
“Dawn is breaking. They’ll see them.” He smiles, showing too many teeth. “Sit! All of you sit! We’ll discuss appropriate actions in due course.”
I persuade Marcus to take a seat, though I can barely do it myself. At that moment, U’karn walks in, followed by more members of the war council, three Bone Throwers, and Nun who must have gone to fetch them. Something Petén should have ordered from the start.
“I understand I’m needed, your grace?” U’karn bows to Petén while his eyes fall on Marcus. “I see. Marcus lives?” His expression warms.
“I don’t think any of you see!” Marcus shouts. “If the Isle of Aku is anything to go by, we must prepare for a full-scale attack.”
U’karn waves him off. “The watchtowers have no such reports off Port Cabazon or rounding the cape. We have ships patrolling the channel.”
“Are you so quick to dismiss the warning?” Kaylin asks, speaking for the first time.
Brogal’s assistant, Nun, startles as Kaylin pulls off his knit cap. His dark curls fall about his face and he brushes them back. Nun recognizes him? How?
“And you are…?” Petén asks.
“A sailor, for one, who knows the sea,” Kaylin says before I can introduce him.
“Kaylin, from Tutapa,” I rise to say.
“You should know,” Kaylin goes on, “the Great Eastern Current widens south of Toretta to five times its normal span.”
“Our sea captains have spoken of this,” U’karn confirms.
“Then consider how a fleet, one hundred strong, can sail for Baiseen, rounding the cape far beyond the watchtower’s or patrol’s vision, even with distance viewers.” He rests his eyes on Nun. “I promise you, that’s exactly what is happening as we speak.”
Petén dismisses it, but U’karn eyes Marcus as if asking if the sailor is trustworthy.
Marcus gives an approving nod.
“Can you show us where such a fleet would cut back to the coast?” U’karn asks Kaylin directly.
“Aye, that I can do.”
U’karn tasks two men under his command and they follow Kaylin out of the palace at a fast clip.
“I won’t be long, lass.”
In all the exasperation and fury of this moment, his words are joy, sparking hope, and something much warmer within me. “Good luck.” Maybe Kaylin can convince them.
“Ahh, finally,” Petén says as the food and drinks arrive, not seeming to be listening to us at all now.
“Enough.” Marcus stands, his hands splayed on the table. His face is red, muscles straining under his skin. Slowly, he lifts dark eyes to the throne. “Enough,” he growls again, all patience gone. “There can be no more debate!”
As his words hammer into my mind, an excruciating pressure builds at the back of my head. “Marcus—”
He pounds his fists on the table, making everyone jump. “I’m telling you, Petén, Tann is nigh, leading a fleet of warships while Gollnar gathers to storm our gates. You must sound the bells. Prepare Baiseen for attack!” He strikes the table again, and the wood cracks.
A wary servant approaches carrying a tray of steaming mugs.
“In due time, brother.” Petén draws a deep breath. “I’m finding your demands—”
“Demands.” Marcus swings his arm, smashing the offered drink out of the servant’s hand. It flies through the air and shatters against the wall behind the throne, missing Petén’s head by inches. “Heed my warning, Petén Adicio,” he snarls. “Or step aside so someone more capable can!”
Petén’s face turns crimson, his voice shrill, as he swipes at his wet robe. “Guards, escort them out!”
The palace guards move toward us, pikes raised.
My body goes rigid and I don’t breathe. It’s like I’ve forgotten how. The pressure in my head hits a wall and shoots back down my spine only to bolt up again. My limbs shake and my eyes bulge like they’re being pushed from the inside out. I want to scream, but I have no air to release, no way to draw more in.
“He belongs not on the Phantom Throne!”
My inner voice is an explosion inside my head that shakes the center of my being. I grasp Marcus’s arm for support, fingers tight, but as soon as I touch him, everything shifts.
A single moment stretches into a hundred, the collective stillness like a glimpse of eternity. I’m aware of every detail around me, my hold on Marcus, the guards rushing toward us, the sound of their boots over the white marble floor, Rhiannon shouting…
The marble cracks under my feet. Bolts of lightning split the floor in jagged lines toward the throne. Fractures go up the walls and across the ceiling, chips of rock tumbling down. The weighted pause gathers like a storm, funneling all the energy in the room as if I could catch it in the palm of my hand. I feel it, the spirit of this storm about to fly out of my fingertips. The pressure builds higher until everything snaps back to full speed.
The room itself rocks with a thunderous boom.
A fissure breaks open inside my skull while the floor reels and tilts. There’s a wild energy in me, rushing, pushing, seeking a way out. I scan the room until I find Master Brogal watching me. His face turns from disbelief to shock, and then finally twists in horror.
The energy inside me rolls under my skin, coursing down my arm, forcing my grip on Marcus to cinch tighter. As my nails dig in, the energy surges from me into him, calling De’ral.
And he answers.
The lightning bolts open wider, and white rock sprays to the ceiling. It pummels the guards’ shields and showers down like spears of ice. Everyone scatters, hands over their heads, as De’ral erupts to his full height in the middle of the royal hall. He bellows a war cry and Petén topples out of the throne.
I back away fast, along with Piper, Samsen, Belair, and Tyche as guards converge. Before De’ral can sweep them aside, a pealing cry calls for silence.
“Marcus Adicio!” The High Savant’s voice is phantom strong and piercing. “Stay your warrior!”
The entire throne room freezes, and in that moment of silence, I hear the coastal tower bells ring the alarm.
U’karn draws his sword and calls for the palace guards to hold. Brogal orders all savants to him. A messenger, faltering for an instant as he takes in De’ral and the wreckage in the throne room, runs straight to U’karn and Brogal. He delivers his message, between gasps of air. He talks quickly, although I’m too far away to hear until U’karn shouts, “Marcus speaks true!”
“Meet at the lookout and sound the Sanctuary bells,” Brogal commands. “Baiseen must prepare for attack!”
With one last glance in my direction, Marcus springs after De’ral already running to the door. “Follow me!” he orders. “We must raise the defenses!”
Shouts and cries well up as everyone sprints after them, troops, savants, and non-savants alike. I grip my sword hilt and try to keep up, dodging slabs of marble scattered like giant teeth over the floor. Ahead, De’ral punches out the door. The hinges twist and splinters fly in every direction. The archway fractures and the support beams groan.
At the grand steps, Kaylin appears at my side. “Lass? What happened? I felt…I don’t know what I felt.”
“Marcus raised his phantom, in the middle of the palace hall.”
“I can’t believe I missed it!” A fresh smile edges onto his face and he leans in close to whisper, “Tell me, lass, did your Bone Throwers see that coming?”
I smile to myself, feeling strength and power bloom inside me. “No, but sometimes they get it wrong.”
82
Marcus
“Savants of Baiseen,” Brogal cries from the lookout above me. “Raise. Your. Phantoms!”
With his red robes pinned tight under crossed arms, white hair streaming free of its customary tie, the High Savant jumps off the ledge to land in our midst, one knee smacking into the cropped grass. Dirt sprays as his bird of paradise rises. It heads for the clouds, dirt rolling off the blue and vermillion feathers. “Callers ready! We must keep the ships to sea!”
He throws an imaginary spear into the sky. His phantom darts after it, a euphonious trill echoing back to us as the callers of Baiseen erupt from the ground. Samsen sends his eagle toward the forming clouds and adds his own rich voice. Larseen and his jackal step up beside him, the phantom’s head back, baying. Cybil directs her chanting cormorant up to meet the others as it counterpoints the High Savant with perfect tone.
I startle to see Rhiannon rushing down from the lookout, royal sleep garments replaced with yellow robes. The sight of her, and the meerkat, makes my guts twist, but this is not the time. She is trained. She is capable, and every caller in Baiseen must contribute. Every phantom and savant.
Rows of them have gathered, green, yellow, and orange robes fluttering in the rising breeze. They fill the lookouts and line the streets, uniting their voices with their phantoms that race to the sky.
My ears ring. My heart pounds at the splendor of it.
Deep within, I feel De’ral’s pride, too, but something still makes my forehead sweat. In the throne room, his rising… It was unnatural…
But this is no time to puzzle it out. Not with Tann’s ships on the horizon.
The clouds gather, the winds blowing overhead so fiercely they circle like a cyclone in the sky. And still the gale grows.
Over the bay, warm air rises from the sea, a mist sucked into the heavens as the wind builds. The sky above is thick with phantoms, dark shadows in the gray light until suddenly they ignite in color when the sun cracks over the hills behind us. Phantoms turn bright pink and orange and red as they circle the heavens over a rising purple swell.
In a crescendo of sound and wind, the storm courses off the cliffs and slams into the ocean.
Waves as high as the city gates riot into the air and push back the sea. A veritable wall of water moves with the force of a hurricane. The boats not tethered in the harbor bob like corks and are swept away.
On the highest crenels of the palace, black flags with the red shearwater insignia strain in the furious offshore winds that continue to blow. The watchtower bells started it, and, now—thankfully—the full measure of my city prepares for war. Even as the bells continue to toll in the distance, my thoughts turn to my father. Does he hear them? Is this his favored dream or worst nightmare come to life? All I know is that perhaps for the first time, I’m grateful for his preparedness, for every grueling hour he drilled me with the defenses, the steps, the protocols. “As Heir to the Phantom Throne, Marcus, you must know this by rote. The people of the realm are depending on it.” I’d dismissed his militaristic ways for most of my life. But, because of them, Baiseen readies for attack in perfect harmony.
Healers guide the non-savants along the streets. Blue-robes usher the livestock and horses from the stables. I’m saddened by the need for it even as I long for my father to be able to see this and see me do what must be done.
“Oba,” Brogal draws his perspective out of his phantom to address the highest Bone Thrower. “Send your strongest black-robes to the Sanctuary gates.”
Oba nods and her crimson phantom, blinding in the morning light, flares. Other savants step aside, making way for them, their black robes wafting…the eerie result of their phantoms, formless but somehow woven into their shadows.
“Master Brogal!” I call his attention to me. “I am ready.”
The High Savant turns his weathered face between me and De’ral, Belair and his sun leopard.
My mouth tightens. “We are, and throne or not, running the city defenses is my inheritance. I know what to do as well as my heart knows to beat.”
He hesitates still.
“And we did pass, Master Brogal. On Aku, Belair and I trained and fought beyond reproach.”
De’ral growls and I send a silent plea for him to hold steady.
“Mistress Zarah…” I begin, knowing he cannot possibly deny what I’m about to say. “Upon the last day, she named us both yellow-robes, and stopped calling us Baiseen and Tangeen.”
Master Brogal’s brow twitches as he looks back toward the palace. “Do it, Marcus. I leave you to oversee the defenses in your father’s stead.”
I motion for my company to follow but Brogal stops me mid-step. “Ash will come with me.”
Kaylin raises a brow and I tilt my head, about to ask why.
“We won’t be long.” The High Savant drops to one knee, bringing his phantom in.
Ash waves goodbye and hurries toward the Sanctuary with the High Savant, a smile on her face.
But Kaylin’s eyes still follow them.
“Don’t worry. He’s her guardian, and the most powerful savant in the realm. She couldn’t be in safer hands.”
I lead the way to the west gate, three dozen callers behind me. Our march is silent, save for Samsen’s quiet instruction to Tyche so she can visualize what to call. But still the streets are crowded and noisy. People spill out of their homes, many with children and elderly in tow, jostling all the belongings they can carry as they race to the Sanctuary.
When we reach the gate, I take a deep breath. “Caller savants, take your places!” I raise my voice above the raging winds.
The savants divide into three groups. When in position, I command them. “Raise the columns!”
The chant starts out thin and high, escalating until I am sure it will break glass. Then it falls to a bone-jarring register, then up again, like a serpentine of sound. In response, the earth quivers and groans, dirt launching skyward as the first of the tessellated columns erupts. Then up rises another, and another in fast succession.
Everyone shields their eyes as the dust and bones of the earth blow off the black surfaces, sweeping the monoliths clean as they surge to near five stories tall. Carved from obsidian found in the high ranges of Palrio, no one knows how they got here, let alone were buried so deep. Ancient legends
say they were set by Mar, back when this part of the land was under the sea.
Whoever fashioned them, they rise now for Baiseen—impenetrable shields to block ouster winds, checkpoints to stop the enemy’s advance to the heart of the city.
I hood my eyes, watching the distant columns continue to shoot up, one after the other, all the way to the southeast tower.
“Well done!” I pump my fist and the savants crowd in, responding with boisterous cheers.
De’ral tips back his head and adds his victory cry.
“Gollnar won’t trouble us this way,” Kaylin says as my company draws their swords and rallies around me.
“We defend Baiseen!” I shout, rejuvenated by the glory of it all.
But then a small shadow crosses my mind.
Where is Ash?
83
Master Brogal
Impossible! What I saw in the throne room… It can’t be. Not after all these years. Yet there is no denying it. Ash’s bound phantom could break free any moment.
I must act fast. But how?
For a brief instant I’m tempted, like a moth to flame, to let it rise, to watch it burn the enemy to dust. But I know the destruction this anathema is capable of. It is why I bound it in the first place. Some phantoms are too raw, too insatiable in their need for bloodshed. I cannot risk Ash destroying as many innocents as enemies.
“Fetch rune bands from Oba,” I whisper to Nun, who runs up as we approach the Sanctuary. I don’t know how much time there is, but thanks to Marcus, we are not taken unawares. For that, I am grateful. But regardless, I must bind this phantom back down. Before it’s too late. I look across at Ash as she runs with me. Poor girl. She has no idea what is happening. At least I did that part right. But I saw. Marcus’s phantom rose at her behest, not his. He has no idea, either…
My chest tightens. I wonder what other impulsive actions she provoked while they were on Aku.
How did this happen? Her phantom should have grown weaker over the years, not stronger. It should be charred powder by now, but to the contrary, power moved through her like a red-robe’s might.
