I look away.
Brogal turns back to the field and sweeps his hand out at the audience of savants. “Neither size nor shape determines the power of a phantom.”
I nod. Everyone knows the strength of Master Brogal’s little bird.
“Observe.”
“He’s going to use it!” Rhiannon latches onto Larseen’s arm, pulling him toward her. I glance back at the sidelines. Still no sign of Ash. Brogal doesn’t demonstrate often, and when he does, everyone rushes to see. As it is, the spectators—younger students and courtiers—press closer, excitement rising.
The phantom opens its mouth, and a clear melody arises. Thunderheads gather, blotting out the sun. The wind whips through the trees lining the field. As thunder rumbles in the distance, the High Savant paces about. We fall back, away from the center of the field, all eyes fixed on the red-robe master and his brilliant phantom. Brogal throws an invisible spear into the air. At the same moment, his phantom calls down a bolt of lightning. It rips through the sky and hits the field with blinding light. I cover my ears, the sound deafening. People cower, but the precision is exact. Only a single blackened spot in the center of the field is scorched and smoking. Everyone cheers.
Brogal drops to his knees and calls his phantom to ground. The sky begins to clear, smoke dissipating on the breeze. The High Savant ignores the applause. “Now then, Marcus.” He steps back and commands, “Raise your phantom.”
My breath escapes in a rush. Think small. Think contained. Don’t resist. On the exhale, I drop to my knee and let the chant reverberate through my mind. Moments later, the ground rips open, dirt and grass spray my face—of course—and the phantom is up. I open one eye. “Dead bones and throwers…” It’s larger than ever and lashing about madly. People scatter in all directions. The more mental focus I use, trying to “see” it take a contained form, the larger it grows. My head is about to burst with the effort.
“You’re resisting!” Brogal’s lost his calm. “It’s going over the roof, Marcus. Too much! Bring it in!”
I bow my head, defeated. “I can’t fight you anymore.” My fists open, palms up and resting on my knees. In that moment, I understand that in all these years, that’s all I’ve done—fought my phantom. Out of fear. Out of obligation. Out of the desire to be some great warrior they’d prophesied I would be.
Maybe a black-robe is the path for me…
Bile burns the back of my throat, and I swallow it down. “If it must, then so be it.” With the thought, all tension flows away.
“Marcus.” Brogal taps my shoulder. “Open your eyes.”
What’s it doing now? Torching the Sanctuary tower? Darting out to sea? I pop my lids, ready for charred grass and felled trees, but instead, I stare. At a fully formed warrior phantom.
And the warrior, huge but unwavering, stares back at me. It has its hands—human hands—braced on huge thighs to bend low so it—he—can meet me eye to eye. His expression is intense, penetrating. A warrior holding to solid form. I lick my lips. He’s waiting. For me.
“Hello?”
I am De’ral. His deep voice reverberates in my head.
He finally speaks! “Thank you.” It’s the only thing I can think to say.
“Take phantom perspective,” Brogal commands.
This is it. No more theory now. Everyone is watching, and I can sense their hopes rising right along with mine. I push my thoughts forward as I’ve practiced a thousand times in meditation. I shove my arms in first, and for a moment, they slide down the length of the phantom’s limbs, like putting on a snug winter coat. I open and close my hands and feel De’ral doing the same. I make two fists and raise them over my head. When I look up, I see they are my phantom’s fists, raised to the sky.
Cheers explode around me. Every student, courtier, and savant in the field is on their feet, jumping and clapping. I think I’ve just made history—the first and only warrior phantom in the realm…and the longest anyone’s ever taken to contain it. Together, De’ral and I let loose a war cry.
Brogal, of course, has been waiting for this day for as long as I have. “Stand up,” he urges as he ventures a little nearer. “Steady. No sudden moves.” His voice stays soft, but the ferocity is unmistakable. I’ve no doubt he’ll strike me down if necessary. “Now. Show them you can walk.”
I climb to my feet. It takes all my strength and focus to move and keep a presence of mind in sync with De’ral. I knew it took energy to keep a phantom up, but I had no idea it would be this much. How do they make it look so easy?
I reach out to my phantom, but it’s like staring in the mirror. My vision fluctuates between our perspectives. One moment I’m studying a massive warrior with burly arms and legs and long, golden hair woven into a single braid that hangs over his shoulder like a copper snake. The next, I am the warrior, staring down at Marcus Adicio, a green-robe who stands with effort, watching my every move. De’ral lets loose another war cry before turning to stand beside me. We march forward, the ground shaking with each of his giant footfalls. Everyone gives us plenty of space. I don’t blame them. My control could slip at any moment.
“Call it in,” Brogal commands.
“To ground, De’ral.”
He returns like a wave rushing back to the sea.
I collapse face-first into the grass. I have held my phantom to form. There’ll be no black robes for me.
Larseen slaps my back with a cheer and takes off toward the palace, no doubt to spread the news. There is so much relief in the crowd’s hoots and hollers. I take a deep breath and sit back up, my strength returning.
Samsen and Piper haul me to my feet, hugging me and pumping my hand. They lift my arms over my head and shout with everyone else, “Hail Marcus Adicio, Heir to the Throne of Baiseen! Good speed to the Isle of Aku.”
And, praise the lost gods, it’s not a moment too soon.
Still, I feel a wisp of joy fade as I scan the crowd one last time.
My biggest moment to date, Ash, and you missed it.
4
Ash
Marcus stops midsentence and turns to me. “Ash, what’s wrong?”
I wish I knew.
My best friend has had one of the most important successes in his life. So why am I unhappy?
I twist on the marble bench to face Marcus and smile sheepishly. The sun has set, and the training field is quiet. We’ve met at this spot many, many times. Only this night is different. From now on…
“Things will never be the same?” my inner voice says, and my stomach sinks.