“Well then, shall we both be about our day?” He tucks the manuscript into a drawer and shoos me from the room.
Back in the hallway, my thoughts spin. What could possibly be written in the margin of a children’s poem that would make the High Savant lie?
“What indeed.”
3
Marcus
I’d rather be anywhere than here. I sit on my heels in the center of the training field, waiting for Master Brogal to call for warrior phantoms to rise. I need to stay focused, though my eyes drift to the sidelines, searching for Ash. She’s my very best friend, home to me in ways impossible to explain. I crave her smiling approval and unwavering support, especially during these sessions on the field.
She’s been there through all my years of instruction, sitting cross-legged in the bleachers or cheering in front of the colorful flags that line the entrance to the training field. Each banner represents a savant’s robe color: brown like the earth, for the potentials who come in hopes of raising their phantoms. Then comes blue for young students who stay on and actually manage to raise their phantoms. Green, like me, for those graduating to the next level. Yellow for the successful initiates who’ve made the journey and returned from Aku. Orange for the upper echelons of mastery. And red for the High Savant who leads us all.
Actually, not all. The black-robed Bone Throwers are a clan unto themselves. They follow their own rules and traditions.
I keep scanning, but I can’t spot Ash among the many savants jostling for a better view of the class. Where is she? Maybe not yet back from Tangeen? Did I get the days wrong?
Meanwhile, she hasn’t missed much. Each training session comes and goes the same—with me failing. Soon the last one will arrive, and then it’ll be too late. I’ll have missed my chance to train at Aku and advance to yellow-robe. Everything hinges on that. Because if war is imminent…
I believe battles can be won with diplomacy. Father disagrees.
My head begins to ache.
“Callers, ready!” Master Brogal shouts. His red robes flare when he reaches the end of the line and turns to walk back. “Raise your phantoms!”
Up they come, the most numerous class of phantom in the realm, tearing out of the earth, dirt flying. My good friend Larseen, a yellow-robe with brown skin and a tangle of ropey hair, laughs as his jackal bursts from the ground alongside Rhiannon’s meerkat. Then comes Cybil’s cormorant, a caller-alter mix. Dual classes of phantoms are not uncommon, but one will always be dominant. In this case, Cybil’s is mostly caller.
Brogal moves on down the line, waving for the students to raise their phantoms. Most callers look like ordinary creatures found in any of Amassia’s realms, save for how some wisp away at the ears, tails, and wingtips, like sparks flying off a grinder or smoke from a chimney.
Farther along, more callers rise. A horse, mountain goat, even some human shapes, anything with a voice to call. Ash says they sound like a fine choir; I’m more interested in how well they perform, being our realm’s main defense—especially given Father’s proclivity to incite war. But none of these callers come close to the feats of the Magistrate and his heart-eating wolf. How did my father master it? I can’t even hold mine to form.
“Someday, it will choose a form, and then we’ll celebrate,” Ash says to me all the time.
Well, that “someday” needs to arrive before the next new moon.
Today would be preferable.
Cold sweat runs down my temple. “I can’t be a black-robe,” I plead to my phantom, mind to mind, but it’s like talking to a stump. “You think you’ll be happier with the Bone Throwers?”
Joining the ranks of the black-robed Bone Throwers is my only path if I can’t hold my phantom to form. It’s supposed to be a sign, but I know in my heart that’s not what I’m meant to be. But still, better a black-robe than a non-savant with no phantom at all. Ash says that, too, and she’s one to know. But then, she didn’t have a black-robe sentence her brother to death like I did. The thought makes my stomach knot. If my relationship with my father is strained now, I can only imagine where we’ll be if I become what he despises most.
My mind locks onto this worst possible outcome, trying to imagine what students go through in the Bone Throwers’ caves. Carving and playing whistle bones, obviously, but they never talk about it. Black-robes keep to themselves unless asked to throw the bones. They predict the times for planting, harvest, hunting, or war. They determine the fate of the children in all the realms of Amassia. And if that sounds ominous, it’s because it is.
The throw of the bones finds most children to be non-savant. They carry on, life as usual. If the cast says they might be savant and could raise a phantom, everyone applauds and, when they turn eight years old, it’s off to the Sanctuary for them. But if the bones say they are marred, damaged in some way, the infant is sacrificed to the sea.
Chills wrap around me at the thought.
I couldn’t even bring myself to shoot enemy spies—how could I possibly condemn an innocent baby to death?
Thankfully, Father’s outlawed the practice in our realm of Palrio; it’s the one mandate of his I support. But none of the other realms have followed his example. That’s where I would start my campaign for change and cooperation among the realms. Discussions, more diplomacy.
“Marcus!” Brogal shouts, pointing at the ground cracking in front of me. “Focus.”
“What are you doing? Stay put!” I command my phantom.
Of course, there is no answer, but the ground does smooth out.
Brogal works his way down the line, signaling each savant to “call” a chosen object—in this case, a baton. As I search again for Ash, objects fly through the air at a fair speed. The savants catch and throw again. Even the young blue-robes are close to mastering this game.
“Cybil!” Brogal shouts when the green-robe’s phantom calls a teapot from the distant kitchen.
She must be thinking of refreshments more than the baton. Her chanting stops short and the teapot drops, shattering on the ground.
Watching the liquid soak into the grass pulls my mind back again to the meadow last week and what my father must have visualized for his phantom to have called those men’s hearts. Death came so easily for him.
“Clean it up, Cybil, and go again,” Brogal says as he moves down the line.
Next come the alter phantoms. Alters are capable of changing shape once held to solid form. There are two alter savants on the field today, Branden, an advanced orange-robe with a pure alter, and his younger brother, Samsen, yellow-robe and another of my close friends. Samsen raises a mixed alter-caller, emphasis on the alter, but strong with both abilities. Very handy.