For so long, I awaited this very moment.
I take one last look around my chambers—at the mess of clothes on the floor and the rumpled four-poster bed strewn with maps and scrolls I won’t be taking. Then there’s the carved chest with my quiver and arrows tucked safely away—I’m not taking them, either, just a short sword and hand knife. We have to travel light if we are going to make it to Aku before the gates close.
Out the arched windows, the orchard begins to lose its leaves. It will be dead bare when I return. But when I do, it’ll be in yellow robes. My chest swells at the thought.
I draw the door to my chambers closed, like sealing off the first chapter of my life, and stride toward the east wing.
“Excuse me, Heir?” A servant runs to intercept me. “The Magistrate requests your presence in the throne room.”
“What?”
“The Mag—”
“I heard you, but that can’t be right. My father is supposed to be out on the palace steps, overseeing my departure.”
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “The request is for you to meet him in the throne room.”
Odd. It’s unexpected, but maybe Father wants a private word with me first. This moment has been so long in the making, I can only imagine he’ll have advice. I’m following in our forefathers’ footsteps, and Father puts much stock in our lineage. Maybe he’ll have an heirloom to pass down as good luck for the journey? That would be worth a delay.
“Very well.” I hurry down the stairs and cut across the hall. I’m about to greet him but stop short as I take in the scene.
My father sits on the great throne—it’s a massive tree trunk carved with the likenesses of a multitude of phantoms, one for each of the savants who have sat there before him. The image of his wolf dominates, slinking down the back, jaws wide, nose creased in a snarl.
And the Magistrate is not alone. Beside him in arranged seats are Petén, a smug expression on his face; five orange-robes; Master Brogal; and a black-robe Bone Thrower, Oba, I think. Her cowl is up, so I can’t be sure. All the war council members are assembled as well. They sit in a semicircle before the Magistrate as if in a formal meeting.
“Marcus, you’re here.” My father’s voice is grim.
There is no place for me to sit as the council members twist around to get a better view. “You called for me?”
“Two things.” He nods to Master Brogal, who stands to speak.
“First, Belair Duquan, a green-robe initiate from Tangeen with a warrior phantom will take Larseen’s place in your company. He’s packed and ready, waiting in the courtyard.”
“Why?” I blurt out, unable to control my voice.
“It’s deemed prudent.” He looks at Father. “Seeing that he’s in a similar situation, raising a warrior in a sanctuary of callers and alters. He needs the guidance of Aku as much as you do, and it’s his time.”
It makes sense, but my throat constricts at the news.
“Belair is the son of a Tangeen delegate,” my father adds.
Oh, so this is a political decision. My irritation flares. “Larseen’s—”
“Don’t worry. He took it well,” Petén says, savoring my distress.
Why is my brother even here? He has no interest in politics and certainly none in my initiation journey.
“And the second thing.” Father uncrosses his arms and rubs the head of his carved wolf. “Petén has petitioned the council for your seat and full voting rights.”
It hits me like a slap. “What? He can’t! It’s mine, and he’s…” I’m about to blurt out non-savant, but I can see by the smile on my brother’s face, it’s already been done. “Why now, Father? I’ll be back in a few months, my warrior ready to defend Baiseen beside your wolf.” I’m nearly shouting as De’ral pushes to the surface, filling my head with a pressure I can barely stand.
“The truth?” my father asks. “It’s taken you nine years to hold your phantom to form. Why should I think Aku will be any different?” He shakes his head. “I honestly doubt you will gain the next level, which means the black-robes can have you.” He’s careful not to let his distaste show, not with a Bone Thrower in the room. “I need one of my sons to add his voice to the cause.”
I try to swallow but can only gasp. “I will succeed!” Why won’t he believe me? “You think Petén…?”
“I’ve turned over a new leaf, brother.” His pompous face sickens me. “And am learning a new respect for Father’s policies.”
Rage runs up my spine and slams the back of my skull as I turn on my heel and walk out.
“Stay!” Father shouts. “We will consult the bones again. Perhaps the journey isn’t even necessary for you.”
His words knife into my mind. Not necessary? I try to protest, but no air will escape my throat.
But others speak out, all of them at once. I can’t tell if they agree or disagree.
“Silence!” the Bone Thrower commands the room.
The old woman lets down her cowl, and it is indeed Oba. White hair falls to her waist in a mass of wraps, feathers, braids, and bone beads. Her black eyes pin me while she taps her thumb ring on the edge of the council table.
I swallow hard, watching her phantom waft away from her. It takes no solid form but ripples in curtains of red and purple light. It’s enthralling, and even though I want to, it’s hard to look away.
She claps her hands, breaking the spell. “The bones will speak to this, Marcus Adicio.” Without a further glance at me, she rolls her sleeves up to the elbows. Bangles clink and shift. One by one, she takes them off and stacks them to the side, but some will never budge. They are woven through her dark skin. “Back away,” she says to those leaning in.
They scoot their chairs back and wait.
The Bone Thrower lays out a dark hide and rattles her bag. Everyone knows what’s in it—the array of etched whistle bones, one for each round on the path to An’awntia.
A breeze comes in through the open door, and I can smell the sea as the Bone Thrower’s phantom drifts farther away from her body, whispering like a shadow with a life of its own. I don’t want it to touch me, but it draws close to my face, like a dog wanting to smell my breath. She chants as she digs into the bag and pulls out twelve carved bones, gives them a shake, and scatters them across the hide.
I hold my breath.
In three heartbeats, she turns to my father and nods. “The Heir must attempt the journey.”