5

Marcus

Even as I pack my bags and hear the music echoing from the courtyard below, part of me can hardly believe it’s real.

For so long, I awaited this very moment.

I take one last look around my chambers—at the mess of clothes on the floor and the rumpled four-poster bed strewn with maps and scrolls I won’t be taking. Then there’s the carved chest with my quiver and arrows tucked safely away—I’m not taking them, either, just a short sword and hand knife. We have to travel light if we are going to make it to Aku before the gates close.

Out the arched windows, the orchard begins to lose its leaves. It will be dead bare when I return. But when I do, it’ll be in yellow robes. My chest swells at the thought.

I draw the door to my chambers closed, like sealing off the first chapter of my life, and stride toward the east wing.

“Excuse me, Heir?” A servant runs to intercept me. “The Magistrate requests your presence in the throne room.”

“What?”

“The Mag—”

“I heard you, but that can’t be right. My father is supposed to be out on the palace steps, overseeing my departure.”

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “The request is for you to meet him in the throne room.”

Odd. It’s unexpected, but maybe Father wants a private word with me first. This moment has been so long in the making, I can only imagine he’ll have advice. I’m following in our forefathers’ footsteps, and Father puts much stock in our lineage. Maybe he’ll have an heirloom to pass down as good luck for the journey? That would be worth a delay.

“Very well.” I hurry down the stairs and cut across the hall. I’m about to greet him but stop short as I take in the scene.

My father sits on the great throne—it’s a massive tree trunk carved with the likenesses of a multitude of phantoms, one for each of the savants who have sat there before him. The image of his wolf dominates, slinking down the back, jaws wide, nose creased in a snarl.

And the Magistrate is not alone. Beside him in arranged seats are Petén, a smug expression on his face; five orange-robes; Master Brogal; and a black-robe Bone Thrower, Oba, I think. Her cowl is up, so I can’t be sure. All the war council members are assembled as well. They sit in a semicircle before the Magistrate as if in a formal meeting.

“Marcus, you’re here.” My father’s voice is grim.

There is no place for me to sit as the council members twist around to get a better view. “You called for me?”

“Two things.” He nods to Master Brogal, who stands to speak.

“First, Belair Duquan, a green-robe initiate from Tangeen with a warrior phantom will take Larseen’s place in your company. He’s packed and ready, waiting in the courtyard.”

“Why?” I blurt out, unable to control my voice.

“It’s deemed prudent.” He looks at Father. “Seeing that he’s in a similar situation, raising a warrior in a sanctuary of callers and alters. He needs the guidance of Aku as much as you do, and it’s his time.”

It makes sense, but my throat constricts at the news.

“Belair is the son of a Tangeen delegate,” my father adds.

Oh, so this is a political decision. My irritation flares. “Larseen’s—”

“Don’t worry. He took it well,” Petén says, savoring my distress.

Why is my brother even here? He has no interest in politics and certainly none in my initiation journey.

“And the second thing.” Father uncrosses his arms and rubs the head of his carved wolf. “Petén has petitioned the council for your seat and full voting rights.”

It hits me like a slap. “What? He can’t! It’s mine, and he’s…” I’m about to blurt out non-savant, but I can see by the smile on my brother’s face, it’s already been done. “Why now, Father? I’ll be back in a few months, my warrior ready to defend Baiseen beside your wolf.” I’m nearly shouting as De’ral pushes to the surface, filling my head with a pressure I can barely stand.

“The truth?” my father asks. “It’s taken you nine years to hold your phantom to form. Why should I think Aku will be any different?” He shakes his head. “I honestly doubt you will gain the next level, which means the black-robes can have you.” He’s careful not to let his distaste show, not with a Bone Thrower in the room. “I need one of my sons to add his voice to the cause.”

I try to swallow but can only gasp. “I will succeed!” Why won’t he believe me? “You think Petén…?”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf, brother.” His pompous face sickens me. “And am learning a new respect for Father’s policies.”

Rage runs up my spine and slams the back of my skull as I turn on my heel and walk out.

“Stay!” Father shouts. “We will consult the bones again. Perhaps the journey isn’t even necessary for you.”

His words knife into my mind. Not necessary? I try to protest, but no air will escape my throat.

But others speak out, all of them at once. I can’t tell if they agree or disagree.

“Silence!” the Bone Thrower commands the room.

The old woman lets down her cowl, and it is indeed Oba. White hair falls to her waist in a mass of wraps, feathers, braids, and bone beads. Her black eyes pin me while she taps her thumb ring on the edge of the council table.

I swallow hard, watching her phantom waft away from her. It takes no solid form but ripples in curtains of red and purple light. It’s enthralling, and even though I want to, it’s hard to look away.

She claps her hands, breaking the spell. “The bones will speak to this, Marcus Adicio.” Without a further glance at me, she rolls her sleeves up to the elbows. Bangles clink and shift. One by one, she takes them off and stacks them to the side, but some will never budge. They are woven through her dark skin. “Back away,” she says to those leaning in.

They scoot their chairs back and wait.

The Bone Thrower lays out a dark hide and rattles her bag. Everyone knows what’s in it—the array of etched whistle bones, one for each round on the path to An’awntia.

A breeze comes in through the open door, and I can smell the sea as the Bone Thrower’s phantom drifts farther away from her body, whispering like a shadow with a life of its own. I don’t want it to touch me, but it draws close to my face, like a dog wanting to smell my breath. She chants as she digs into the bag and pulls out twelve carved bones, gives them a shake, and scatters them across the hide.

I hold my breath.

In three heartbeats, she turns to my father and nods. “The Heir must attempt the journey.”

Attempt?

“Ink and parchment,” she commands. Her eyes find mine. “Go. I’ll bring this to the courtyard.” She begins writing and I numbly turn to the door. My confidence is shattered, but I keep walking, my feet moving on their own accord.

When I reach the door, Father calls back to me, and I turn. His eyes soften for an instant, or did I imagine that?

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold coin. “Marcus, I wish you to prove me wrong.” He flips it in an arc toward me and I catch it, knowing exactly what it’s for. I give him a curt nod and leave.

…

As I head out the palace doors into the fresh air, I’m numb, completely numb to the core. As soon as I appear to the crowd, music strikes up in a brassy sound of horns mixed with kettle drums and flutes. Phantom voices join in and everyone cheers.

I stand tall, head high, in spite of the blow. This is the start of my initiation journey, and I’ll not let them see my anger—or my shame. And by the bones, there is no shame. Seeing the council, my father, so many people assembled to discuss my shortcomings as if all I’ve ever been—or can be—is a failure… It hurts in a way that I can’t acknowledge lest I embarrass myself further and in front of all of Baiseen.

Father, Petén, and the council members catch up at the top of the steps. We wave to the people, smiles frozen on our faces. The onlookers don’t know. To them, this is one big festivity. Ash looks up from the courtyard, her expression concerned. Piper and Samsen flank her, their phantoms raised—Piper’s twin-headed snake draping across her shoulders, Samsen’s eagle circling overhead.

I take a last look at the terraced city and out to the sea, then force myself to turn back to Father and extend my hand. He shakes it, but I’m too crushed to feel anything.

“Take this.” Oba steps up and presses a folded parchment into my hand. “Heed the words.”

I start to open it.

“Not here.” The faint red aura of her phantom glows around her. “When you’re out of the city.” Dazed, I tuck the note into my robe pocket and squeeze through the crowd, accepting pats on the back and cheers. It takes a while to reach the others. When I do, Samsen hands me Echo’s reins. Her ears prick, head high and nostrils flaring. She’s as ready as I am to be off. I mount up, and she paws the cobbled stones, my stirrups clinking into Ash’s as our horses sidestep into each other. “Let’s go.”

She frowns and tries to see past me. “Where’s Larseen?”

“Replaced,” I snap. The newcomer rides toward us on a big bay gelding. “That must be him.” Tall in the saddle, lanky, and… Is that his hair? It’s a flame atop a matchstick. A pack donkey trails behind him. “Does he think we’re staying all winter?”

“Be nice,” Ash says out the side of her mouth before waving.

The Tangeen reaches us and salutes me, bowing his head. When he looks up, his eyes brighten. “Ash!”

“Belair! Good to see you.” She smiles and makes introductions to the rest of our party. “I’ll be recording for you as well, then. Splendid!”

I frown. She seems delighted with the thought of doubling her workload. “How do you know each other?” I ask, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice. I do realize friendship is not a crime.

“We met in Tangeen, at the library.”

“That we did.” He sidesteps his mount closer and tousles her hair. “Missed you, Little Scribe.”

Little Scribe? My frown deepens. How good of friends are they, and why haven’t I heard of it before now? It’s like everything I’ve known is dissolving in front of me.

Trumpets sound the hunting call, and the people follow after us as we trot through the streets toward the east gate. Once we are beyond the city walls, the crowd stays behind and, in the span of a few minutes, the show is over. The moment I’ve been waiting for these last nine years, the start of my initiation journey to Aku, has arrived and I can’t enjoy a minute of it, thanks to Father and his utter lack of faith in me.

“Marcus,” Ash whispers. “What’s wrong? Is it Belair? I know you chose Larseen, but he’s—”

I shake my head. “It’s not just him.” I wish it were as simple as that. “I’ll tell you later, Ash.”

…

“Empty?” I repeat the word because it makes no sense, even though I see it with my own eyes. Cabazon Harbor lies deserted, not a boat among all the roped-off green water. It’s a day for disappointments, it seems. The pounding in my head starts to increase.

“Fish are running,” the Harbor Master says. “You’ll not find passage to Aku from here.”

“No ships?” Seems Ash can’t believe her eyes either. She turns to me. “What should we do?”

“It’s obvious,” I say, facing my company. “We ride to Toretta and sail from there.” Toretta, a city two or three days away, on the northern border, is full of Aturnian spies—or so they say. Not the ideal destination, especially with how long it will take to get there, lack of supplies…

“We didn’t plan to camp.” Ash eyes Belair’s donkey. “Did we?”

“I have camping and cooking gear.” Belair shrugs. “And some food. But most importantly, I brought a full bag of Ochee.”

I stare at him blankly. “What’s that?”

“Tangeen spiced tea, of course.” He rubs his chin. “Don’t say you’ve never tasted it.”

“This isn’t a picnic,” I grumble. Who cares about tea?

The Tangeen does, De’ral says.

I’m so shocked by my phantom’s voice in my head, I nearly lose track of the conversation.

“Toretta is out,” Piper says. “Aturnian sympathizers would love nothing more than to capture the Heir of Baiseen and use him as a bargaining chip for trade talks.”

“A Tangeen delegate’s son wouldn’t go astray, either,” Samsen adds.

“The governor there has always supported Baiseen,” I point out. “We could go straight to him.”

“And announce to the city the Heir is in town?” Ash shakes her head. “And the time it would take to gain an audience to secure his help? The gates to Aku would be closed before we set sail.”

“I’d like to see the Aturnians try to take us.” I punch my fist into my hand and feel De’ral do the same. It’s new, this unity with my phantom. The only light in what has been one of my darkest days.

“How many days do we have to reach Aku, exactly?”

“Eleven, as of this morning,” Ash says.

No one speaks.

“Did the Bone Throwers have any advice?” Samsen asks. “All I heard was that our number should be five.”

“That was it, on the first cast, besides the usual, stick to the protocols.”

“First cast?” Belair says and everyone looks up. “There was a second?”

“Just this morning.” I force my face into a calm mask. “It surprised me, too.”

“What does it say?” Belair asks, his eyes narrowing. “Anything about this?”

I open the note from Oba and read it aloud.

Remember to keep the company’s number to five.

In spite of autumn chill, optimism wins out.

When in doubt, go north.

A sword brings truth and deception.

Do not raise your phantom until safe on Aku.

Surprise comes from the sea. Don’t resist it.

The Heir will not be stopped.

Out of Aku, the warriors triumph, and the southern realms are changed forever.

A surprise certainly has come from the sea, and not a good one.

None of the rest makes much sense, really, except for, When in doubt, go north. Also, The Heir will not be stopped. It’s enough assurance for me. After that debacle with my family in the throne room, it is this one tenet from the Bone Thrower that I cling to. “It’s settled,” I say. “We pick up supplies and ride north.”

Ash frowns. “But can we make it in time?”

“Maybe not,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand, “but we have to try.”