The brothers’ pale hair and even paler skin glint in the sun as they drop to their knees. Up from the ground their phantoms rise in the shape of hawks, morphing instantly into various other birds without losing a feather. When taking the perspective of their phantoms, they can see for miles and miles.
“Healers,” Master Brogal calls as he strides farther down the line. These phantoms are devoted to the care and well-being of all Amassians no matter the realm or rank. Their phantoms rise, including Piper’s double-headed black snake. She’s an orange-robe instructor here to help with the less experienced students. Once her phantom drapes in its customary place around her neck, blending in with her dark-brown skin, it peeks both heads out from her curtain of braids. Samsen can’t take his eyes off her. He never could.
Master Brogal doesn’t call for ousters because there are none in Baiseen. Ousters are found mostly in the Aturnias. On the battlefield, well-trained ousters are devastating—blasting through defenses, throwing weapons out of hands with an invisible wind. It’s said that the Sierrak realm’s red-robe, Tann, raises the greatest ouster of them all, able to peel flesh from bone from half a mile away. Sounds farfetched to me. Maybe I’ll find out when I get to Aku, though I hear Northern Aturnians aren’t welcome there for training anymore.
That’s saying a lot, because no one has ever been banned from Aku.
Brogal whistles sharply to grab my attention. “Warriors!”
I don’t know why he uses the plural when mine’s the only one. Warrior phantoms are virtually unheard of in Palrio, or Tangeen for that matter, making my phantom and me a boon—or would-be boon, if I could control the damn thing.
I’m the Heir to the throne of Baiseen and I raise the only warrior in a realm on the cusp of war. A warrior I can’t use. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I straighten my faded green robes, and the entire class moves back. They’ve learned from experience not to get too close.
To me. I call up my phantom. This is the easy part of the exercise, calling it up or back down. What happens in between, well, that’s another matter entirely…
Instantly, it drops from my inner depths into the ground, where it gathers substance; then it explodes upward from the earth. I slam my eyes shut as a wall of dirt and grass hits my face, no doubt intentionally. I spit soil and squint, my eyes opening to a familiar sight. My phantom, huge and unformed, undulates like a sea of lights, better than thrice the height of a man, constantly shifting from various warrior shapes. One moment it’s a bear with horrendous teeth and claws, the next a rhino that has everyone ducking for cover. Then it sprouts a giant’s fist, swinging and pounding, and finally, it morphs into a lion, claws raking.
Useless, nebulous forms. “Curse of the black-robes! Pick a shape.”
It does nothing of the sort. Each form bursts into the next until it’s a blur of transparent, fragmenting figures, completely out of control.
“Marcus!” Piper shouts as she darts out of the way, her snake tightening its hold around her neck to keep from flying off. “Watch what you’re doing!”
“I’m trying,” I mutter.
“Smaller, Marcus,” Brogal says in a quiet voice. He’s beside me now. “Feel for the true shape it wants to take and steady your eye there.”
It’s like trying to track a speck of dust in a tornado. My fists tighten. “I can’t do it!”
Brogal shakes his head. “Call it in.”
I focus my mind and draw the phantom down into the ground, where it tucks back into the depths of my being, no doubt sulking.
Brogal motions the entire class in close, where we sit in a semicircle around him. “What happened there?”
Oh great, a public inventory of my shortcomings. Now I want to sulk. “I lost control, Master Brogal.” No point hiding the fact.
“To lose control, one must have it in the first place, Marcus.”
I keep my expression attentive, but inside, my guts twist.
Master Brogal looks over my head to address the others. “In the potentials’ trials, Marcus showed great promise with his warrior, raising it on the first day. A blessing to the realm when fewer and fewer brown-robes succeed at all, let alone raise this class of phantom.” The High Savant’s cheek twitches when his dark gaze comes back to me. “But training cannot progress until the phantom is held to solid form.”
“I know.” I’m sure everyone else here does, too.
“Let’s review.” Brogal speaks to us all. “Who can tell me what the phantom is?”
Branden raises his hand. “The hidden power of the savant.”
Brogal nods. “Anyone else?”
“What we are yet to become along the path,” Larseen says.
“That which lies in the depths of being,” Samsen adds.
“All true, and all the more reason why each savant must come to terms with their fears if they are to control their phantom, serve the Sanctuary, and protect the realm.” He rests his gaze on my face, and I feel it heat.
The throb in my temples turns into a full-blown pounding headache. “I know all this, Master Brogal.”
“Do you? Then pay attention as I demonstrate.”
We rise and take a respectful step back. Master Brogal kneels in the close-cropped grass, adjusts his red robes, and closes his eyes. In moments, the ground in front of him rumbles, and up shoots his phantom, a vivid blue flurry of feathers with crimson-tipped wings.
“Notice there is no dirt spraying the High Savant’s face,” I say to my phantom. I know it hears me, not that it will answer.
Like a magnificent bird of paradise, Brogal’s caller flies to his shoulder, tail feathers flowing to the backs of his knees. The small bird puffs out its chest and trills.
“See what I’ve done here, Marcus?” Brogal walks toward me. His phantom extends its long neck and trills again. He speaks quietly now, just to me. “I’ve not concerned myself with making a phantom taller than the bell tower. There is no forcing. No trying. I simply allow. I accept.”
The phantom bird cocks its head at me.
Brogal stares into the distance. “I thought I knew it all as well when I was a green-robe, but still I had difficulties.”
This I hadn’t heard before.
“I was the son of a Gollnar miner and a Tangeen wordsmith. They were hoping I would raise a healer. My father thought…” Brogal presses his lips together. “Suffice it to say that when my delicate and sweet-voiced caller rose, it was not what anyone expected, least of all me. I…resisted it for some time. But know this: we cannot fight who we are—who we are meant to be.”