Petén and I trot the horses back toward the palace. We crest a gentle rise to come out on the hill overlooking the expanse of Baiseen. The view takes in the high stone walls and gardens of the palace, the watchtowers and bright-green training field in the center of the Sanctuary, all the way down the terraced, tree-lined streets to the harbor and the white-capped emerald sea beyond. It’s beautiful, but no matter where I look, those three dead men seep back into my mind.
“If they were spies, then war’s coming sooner than we thought.” I ease Echo to a halt. “But if they weren’t, we’ll have to—”
“We?” Petén cuts me off. “Keeping the peace when Father tempts war is your problem, little brother, not mine.” He chuckles. “If you make it to Aku in time, that is.” His face cracks wide with a smile. “This year’s your last chance, isn’t it?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he’s already pushing past me, loping the rest of the way down to the stables.
Yes, it’s my last chance, the last training season on Aku before I turn eighteen. That’s when our High Savant, head of the Sanctuary, will hand me over to the black-robes if I haven’t held my phantom to form. It would mean no initiate journey. No chance to gain the rank of yellow-robe or higher. No future voice at the council. No Heir to the Throne of Baiseen.
No trained warrior to help protect my realm.
The weight on my shoulders grows heavier. I know my father. He’ll not let this incident with the spies go, and his actions may finally bring the northern realms down upon us. My thoughts lift back to those three nameless men. When I close my eyes, I can still see their shocked faces, hear bones cracking as their chests split open, smell the blood spattering the ground.
War draws near. And if our enemies are infiltrating our lands, I may already be too late.
2
Ash
The hall outside Master Brogal’s chambers is dead quiet, except for my growling stomach. It wants breakfast, or maybe it’s still queasy after the voyage back from Tangeen, but the High Savant’s request came at first light, delivered by phantom, no less. Come here, Ash. Do that, Ash. Ahh, the glorious life of a lowly scribe. I’m not complaining, not really; I love my work. My days are spent poring over books, reading old tomes, studying the histories of the realms and logging the events of our Sanctuary. I’ve spent years becoming a recorder.
I look down at my feet, which are bare, and frown. Bad morning to forget my boots. Especially with who is walking toward me.
There’s no way to avoid her, so I finger-comb my hair, trying to remember if I washed my face since docking before sunrise. At least I changed into a fresh dress, though nothing so plush as the girl’s who stops in front of me.
“Ash?”
I want to groan, but instead I respond with what I hope passes for polite interest. “Good morning, Rhiannon.” I lift my chin so I match her height.
Rhiannon, the treasurer’s daughter, with her fine lace and pearl buttons peeking from the hem and cuffs of her robe, pushes a long, strawberry-blond curl back from her brow. If her attire didn’t announce a high rank and standing, the attitude would.
She gives me an indulgent smile. “You’re back.”
Well, if we’re going to state the obvious… “I am.”
And just like that, we run out of things to say.
Even though we’ve attended classes together since we were little, there’s a world between us, for a variety of reasons, one being because Rhiannon is savant and…
“You are not?” My inner voice finishes the sentence for me.
Thanks.
This voice is part of me, popping up at times like a sibling might—sometimes snarky, sometimes mean, but always supportive when I really need it. Almost always, anyway. I thought at first it meant I had a phantom, but Master Brogal straightened that out right away. Phantoms use no voice until well after they are raised, he said. Then he waved me off, claiming the voice in my head was my way of compensating for not having a phantom.
I couldn’t look him in the eye for some time after that. It hurt so much.
Because I could have been savant. The Bone Thrower marked me as a potential and sent me to the Sanctuary to trial.
“Sometimes the Bone Throwers get it wrong,” Master Brogal often says—too often, in my opinion. I think he means it to be comforting, but it’s not. Nor does it help when he says savants are further along the path than ordinary folk. Most of the population is born non-savant, and happy enough, but to be honest, that’s not me. I try to convince myself he just means I’m progressing at my own pace, but such lofty rationale doesn’t always stick. Like now, for instance.
Rhiannon’s phantom, a fluffy little meerkat with tawny fur and a black mask, comes out from behind her robe. It sits up on its haunches and chirrups at me.
I click my tongue and wave a little hello.
“Come here.” Rhiannon pats her thigh, calling it back to her side. She doesn’t seem fond of how her phantom behaves around me, and I have to admit, it is odd, considering no one would mistake us for friends. But the head chef has a theory. She says that in other realms, non-savants who attract phantoms are called pets. I’ve not gotten up the nerve to ask Master Brogal about it. He’s not exactly welcoming of my questions.
“All phantoms delight in you,” my inner voice says, confirming the idea.
I don’t know about all, or even delight, exactly, but phantoms everywhere do seem to find me interesting. Still, it’s not the same as raising one of my own.
“Why do you still long for what is beyond your path?”
I don’t!
“I think you do…”
Rhiannon snaps her fingers in front of me, an irritated expression on her face. “Did you not hear what I said?”
Nope. Not a word. You? I wait a moment but all is silent. Leave it to my inner voice to choose this moment to go mute.
She huffs. “Ash, I wanted to ask—”
The heavy door to Master Brogal’s chambers creaks open, interrupting whatever Rhiannon might’ve said next. She glances up, pursing her lips. “Goodbye, then.”
With that, she spins and stalks away.
The tightness in my body relaxes as she disappears around the corner. I wonder what she wanted. Maybe she’s hoping to get close to Marcus again? Last time she tried to set me and him at odds, it didn’t work out so well for her. Later, she shamelessly pursued him, or was it the throne that attracted her so much? But when Marcus lost interest, Rhiannon blamed me. Of course, I wasn’t exactly supportive of the match…
“Ash.” Nun, Master Brogal’s assistant, looms over me, his sculpted face as unreadable as ever. “He’s waiting.”