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.”

I duck under Nun’s arm and he leaves, pulling the door shut behind me.

Inside, Master Brogal nods me toward a chair and keeps writing, his quill scratching the parchment in an elegant, unhurried script. He’s bent behind his desk and seems to have shrunk since I left for Tangeen. There’s more of his forehead revealed, golden tan contrasting his straight white hair that falls to his shoulders. Is it thinning? Surely, he hasn’t aged so much, but it is a rare chance that I have to study him this closely.

I sit opposite him and wait until he puts down the quill and sets his parchment aside to dry. I’d planned to broach a difficult topic on return, one close to my heart. My apprenticeship is coming to an end, and I want to further my studies, so I might become a wordsmith and take my place as a valued member of the Sanctuary. I’ve rehearsed my request—many times. But doubt floods in at the last second. Maybe this conversation can wait.

“That’s what you said last time…”

Um.

“And the time before that.”

My inner voice is good at keeping track.

Fine. I’ll do it!

Master Brogal temples his fingers and turns his expectant gaze to me. “You found something in the Pandom City archives?”

“Yes, Master.” I pull my satchel into my lap, ready to retrieve the manuscript. “But first, can we discuss my advancement?” I have a whole speech memorized. “As an accomplished wordsmith—”

He cuts me off. “Yes, yes. We’ll deal with that later. What did you find?”

I take a quick breath to recover. I’m disappointed—very disappointed—but I know better than to argue. The High Savant is not a patient man. “I discovered a short children’s poem. Or maybe lyrics.”

He brightens. “Let’s hear it.”

I’ve no idea why Master Brogal has me collecting references to the Mar, the mythical race purported to dwell beneath the sea. He doesn’t believe in them himself—most educated people don’t—but still, he’s instructed me to search for stories in every foreign archive I come across. Not that I mind. It’s fascinating reading, though I’d rather be talking about my future right now, not a fictional past.

Master Brogal taps the desk, waiting.

I locate the manuscript in my satchel and smooth it out flat. “There are several references to the Mar and one to the sacrifices.”

“Child sacrifices?”

“Yes.” My hands go clammy at the thought. “And ships.”

“Black-sailed?”

“Just ships, seen from below. It’s all very oceanic. And something else. I’ve never heard of it before—a Crown of Bones. Shall I read?”

He leans back in his chair and waves for me to carry on, but his mouth dips into a frown.

I translate, getting lost in the rhythm of the words, my eyes dancing with visions of Mar rising from deep-sea grottos, mysterious ships with barnacle-covered hulls, sunlight streaming through kelp gardens, whales singing in the night… I shiver as I come to the last passage.

The persevering sea harbors all things,

Cast adrift beyond sunlight and stone,

While waves queue offshore in glittering strings,

Out on the ebb tide goes our Crown of Bones…

He sits up fast. “Don’t stop.”

“That’s all there is.”

“There must be more.”

“I found notes in the margin of the last page.” I lean in to show him, and he snatches the manuscript out of my hands. “I can’t translate those. Do you recognize the language?”

He stares at the page, moving it closer and then farther away from his face. His eyes widen, but he says nothing.

“Master?”

Finally, he nods. “It’s a Northern Tangeen dialect called Retreen.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a dead language.”

“Someone’s using it,” my inner voice says, which I promptly repeat.

His frown deepens. “The notation is very old, the language no longer active.”

“But what does it say?”

The High Savant runs his nail down the margin. “Nothing of importance.”

“Please can I hear?”

“Very well.” He huffs. “Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers, twenty, and one bull. Piebalds, ten heifers, two with calf…”

I blink. “A livestock list? In a storybook?”

“Not everyone treats records with respect.” He stands, his shimmering red robes sweeping the floor, sleeves falling to his gnarled fingertips. “Anything else?”

“That’s all I found, Master, but about my role in the Sanctuary—”

“I have a class to teach. Bring me the delegate report as soon as possible. That will be all.” He’s out the door in three strides, and I’m left staring at an empty desk.

My eyes start to well, and I exhale sharply, putting a stop to that. The chair scrapes the floor as I rise, shouldering my satchel. “I had a good trip to Tangeen, Master, save for the crossing,” I say to nobody. “There’s little chance of me becoming a seafaring scribe anytime soon. How have you been?” But it’s a conversation we’ll never have. Master Brogal may be my guardian, but he’s no father. Not a warmhearted one, anyway. I’ve known this about him since I was eight years old, but still I yearn for…something more. It’s foolish—I could kick myself—it’s so foolish. I know better than to wish for what I can’t have.

Taking a tie from my wrist, I secure my hair into a small puff of a ponytail. One side escapes and falls against my cheek as the High Savant’s words drift back through my mind.

Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers…

I stop cold. That can’t be right. Short-horn cattle are a newly recognized breed, crossed from Gollnar dairy stock and…something else? I don’t remember, but the point is, the script in the margin can’t be that old if he’s translating correctly.

“And if he’s not translating correctly?”

The chill deepens. Master Brogal wouldn’t make that mistake unless he had something to hide. But what?

I reach across his desk to inch the manuscript toward me just as Nun comes through the door.

“You’re still here, Ash?”

I jump at his voice and turn to face him. “Just leaving.” The words come out too fast and with too hot a face.

“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.”