Sweat breaks out on my brow, and a tremor runs down my arms. My brother’s not all that sober. In fact, he usually isn’t. If he provokes them…
But Petén swings out of the saddle without falling on his face, and I keep my arrow aimed at each man in turn while he goes through their packs. They have a distance viewer and a map of Baiseen marking where our troops are quartered, the watchtowers, and the Sanctuary with numbers in the margin.
“Scouting our defenses?” Father asks. “Who sent you?”
Officially, we’re not at war with the neighboring realms of Aturnia and Sierrak to the north or Gollnar to the northwest. But that doesn’t mean one of their red-robe masters isn’t behind this. Tann or even Atikis. Relations are strained to near breaking if the long council meeting I sat through yesterday was any indication, and Father suspects breaches on the border. Like this one.
The captives remain silent, which doesn’t help their case.
“Answer.” I try to sound authoritative. “Or do you not know who questions you? Bow to Jacas Adicio”—I nod to my father—“orange-robe savant to the wolf phantom, Magistrate of all Palrio, and lord of the Throne of Baiseen.”
The middle one lifts his head. He’s not dressed in the robes of a savant or an Aturnian scout. He wears traveler’s garb: leggings, tunic, riding coat, and high boots without a hint of mud. Their horses can’t be far away. “We’re lost, Your Magistrate, sir. Meaning no harm or trespass. If you just set us straight, we’ll be on our way.”
It’s a fair attempt at diplomacy, but unfortunately for this poor clod, his accent betrays him.
“All the way from Aturnia? You are indeed lost.” My father turns to me. “Did you track them down, Marcus?”
My chest swells as I start to answer. “It was—”
“I led the chase,” Petén cuts in as if I wasn’t going to give him half the credit. Which I was…probably.
“Fine,” Father says, though he doesn’t seem particularly pleased. I can’t remember the last time he was anything but frustrated with either of us. But then, it’s no secret he’s not been the same since my eldest brother was deemed marred. Losing his first son changed Father irrevocably.
While I blink sweat out of my eyes, the nearest captive makes to drop to one knee.
“Savant!” I shout.
“Shoot!” my father roars in command.
He means me.
I have the shot, ready and aimed, and I should have taken it by now. But the man is ten feet away. If I hit him at this range, with an arrow made to drop an elk, it’ll stream his guts all over the meadow.
In the moment I hesitate, my father is out of his saddle and touching down to one knee. The second he does, the ground explodes, a rain of dirt and rock showering us. The horses’ heads fly up, ears pinning back, but they hold position as Father’s phantom lunges out of the earth. The size of a dire wolf, it opens its mouth, lips pulling back in a snarl. Still not clear of the ground, it begins to “call,” a haunting, guttural sound that can draw weapons from a warrior, water from a sponge, flesh from bone. Before the phantom lands, the men’s chests crack open in a spray of blood. Three hearts, still beating, tear out of their torsos and shoot straight into the phantom’s mouth. It clamps its jaws and swallows them whole without bothering to chew.
Entranced by the brutality, my fingers spasm, and the arrow flies from the bow. Its distinct red fletches whistle as it arcs high and wide over one of the guard’s heads, a woman who gives me an unpleasant look. The arrow falls, skipping through the grass to land harmlessly a distance away.
No one speaks as the horses settle and Rowten signals for the dogs to be leashed. I breathe heavily, staring at the corpses. Blood wells the cavities that were, moments ago, the bodies of three living men. Aturnian spies, most likely, but living men just the same.
By the bones, I feel sick. 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 for 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 melts 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. It’s 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 like 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!”
It’s a subtle reminder of my failings. “Yes, Father.”
“If you can’t master your phantom soon, you’ll lose your vote on the Council 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 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.