34

Marcus

I exhale puffs of air as I run to the training field. Is there hope of getting there in time? I have to weave around spectators, jumping every so often to see over their heads and across the field. Students cluster in small groups, but I can’t tell which instructor is Zarah. She’s the orange-robe we’re meant to report to. I search for Belair and his bright red locks. And Destan. He said he was with Zarah, too. But I don’t spot either of them.

I stop to gape at two raptor phantoms in aerial combat. They dive and spiral, fighting hard, until one plummets to the ground. I shoulder my way to the edge of the field, dodging a free-for-all wrestling match, then jog past a group of sweet-voiced callers.

“Belair!” There he is. I sprint, feeling much stronger than last night.

The closer I get, the more I can tell Belair is struggling. The orange-robe instructor fires orders while the Tangeen tries to comply. Tries and… fails. He’s doing push-ups while his phantom leaps over him but he ends up flat on his face after only a few. His vivid red hair hangs lank with sweat. The leopard pants, tongue nearly on the ground.

“Back into line!” Zarah shouts. She’s one of the finest warrior savants on Aku and hard as Northern Aturnian granite, everyone says. Seems they’re right.

I shoot Belair a compassionate look and turn to Zarah, ready to introduce myself. She doesn’t give me the chance.

“And here is Marcus Adicio of Baiseen.” All heads turn to me.

“Yes, Mistress.” I know the tone she is taking. My father’s quite fond of it. Brogal, too. “I can explain my tardiness.”

While she studies me, her ropy, muscled warrior phantom with a keen blade and skin as deep brown as her own looks on. “Sleep in, did you?”

“No. I—”

“Don’t want to hear it.” Zarah rests her hands on her hips as spirals of black and gray hair sway across her shoulders. “You’ll be told this once only, so listen well. On the Isle of Aku, field training begins at third bell. You either be here on time, or I get a message from the infirmary saying you’re stone-cold dead. There are no other options.”

“Uh…yes, Mistress.”

“Seeing as you don’t appear dead, you’ve nothing to say.”

I stifle my next reply.

“Don’t stand there, green-robe. Show us what you’ve got!”

I hesitate, heat reaching my cheeks. Her reference to the color of my robe is not complimentary. I can hardly believe my ears.

“Did you hear me? Raise. Your. Phantom!”

Straight into it, then. All right. I take a deep breath before dropping gracefully to one knee and then the other. I sit on the heels of my sandaled feet, straighten my robe in neat, pleated folds around me, and lace my hands in my lap. After a few deep breaths, I let my eyelids float shut.

“Stop!” Zarah jolts me with a shriek. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Preparing to raise my phantom, Mistress.” Isn’t it obvious?

Some of the students laugh and she silences them with a look. “And where did you learn to do that?”

“In the Sanctuary of Baiseen, Mistress.” My chin lifts as I enunciate my home city. “The High Savant Brogal has us—” She cuts me off and I see my mistake too late.

“So, you do it that way in Baiseen, do you? Master Brogal knows best when it comes to warriors?”

I start to sweat. “Um…”

“Let me tell you something. He doesn’t.” She takes a breath. “And how do I know he doesn’t? I trained by his side at our initiation rites, so many years ago. Do you know what they called him then?”

I have a feeling I don’t want to hear this. “No, Mistress.”

“Baiseen.” Her mouth twists like she just licked the bottom of a stable hand’s boot. “And he was called that until he could finally…” Her expression softens for an instant. “Never mind, Baiseen.” The twisted face is back.

My nostrils flare. She dares to malign Palrio’s capital city, the seat of my throne? “Mistress, I assure you, I meant—”

“I know what you meant but answer me this.” She directs her question to the entire group. “In a real battle, how much time will you have to place yourself thus on the ground, making everything just so before you coax your phantom up?”

I bite my lower lip, my mind going back to the last time I raised my phantom—bound and battered at the bottom of a cliff. “In a real battle situation, none.”

“Congratulations, Baiseen. You’ve given your first correct response of the day. We can only hope there will be more to follow. Observe.” She holds out her hands and her phantom returns the sword with a bow.

The entire group scurries back. Even the recorders pick up their writing boards and retreat, leaving me alone at the front. I’m still sitting on my heels when Mistress Zarah takes a step forward and dips briefly so one knee touches the ground. Instantly, her phantom melts into the earth and she darts ten paces away in a blink.

“This is how you raise a warrior.” Without another word, she leaps into the air, lets loose a battle cry, and comes down hard on both knees, skidding along the grass. The moment she contacts the ground her phantom erupts in front of her—a fountain of dirt and rocks exploding. Zarah unsheathes her twin blades and flips them, hilts held high. The phantom shoots up, somersaults, grabs the weapons, and continues the war cry in a deep, guttural tone. Before Zarah skids to a halt, she is back on her feet and running straight for me.

It takes all my strength not to flinch.

Zarah stops just short of plowing me under. She has a knife to my throat, and her phantom’s swords are at my back. De’ral surges, making my head pound.

“Now, Baiseen,” she says. “Your turn.”

The phantom behind me steps back, and so does Zarah. They must have heard about the size of my warrior. I smile to myself. “We’ll show them.” I prepare mentally, without the props of position or meditation.

“Now!” Zarah shouts.

“Be ready,” I say to De’ral.

And jump because that spindly phantom’s savant says so?

My gut tightens. “No, jump because I say so. Please?”

I sprint several lengths away, turn and leap into the air. My war cry comes out a little high-pitched and strained to my ears, but I carry on, letting go my thoughts as I fall to my knees. I thud hard into the closely cropped grass and close my eyes. Nothing happens.

“Damn the bones, De’ral. Rise!”

“Does he have a phantom?” Someone from the group calls.

“Hand him a rope and he can haul it up,” says another.

“Too weak to break through the ground?” a girl mocks.

I grind my teeth.

“Let it out,” Zarah says evenly. “A timely fashion is preferable.” Her words cut deep but the tone is actually supportive.

As my emotions well, the ground shakes.

“Eyes open,” Zarah says. “You have to see the thing to control it.”

I open my eyes as the ground rips apart. The group presses closer, all but Belair and his leopard. As the cracks lengthen, the faces of the students change. The teasing expressions turn to awe as a giant fist punches through the earth. They recede like a wave, and De’ral pulls himself up. He shakes like a wet dog, dirt flying, and stands to his full height, taller by three times anything on the field. Suddenly, Belair has company along the far edge of the grass.

“Stand up,” Zarah shouts. As I gain my feet, she darts in and whispers, “You be ready to bring that monster to ground or my phantom will knock you unconscious, understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“What’s everyone waiting for?” she hollers to the others. “Second lap, at the run.”

I watch them take off, savants with phantoms beside or behind, running the perimeter of the field. I fall in after Belair, who gives me a sympathetic look.

At first, I think we’ll make it, because De’ral and I are in sync, me running, him jogging with thunderous steps. We pace with Belair and his sun leopard but fall behind the others. I actually pass Belair at one point when the Tangeen stops to call his leopard down from a fringing tree. A bevy of doves launch skyward from the branches along with a chorus of laughter from onlooking students. Belair’s face turns as red as his hair. We plow on, the gap between us and the next-to-last student in our group increasing. Near the end, we’re lapped. “Come on, De’ral. We’re going around again.”

Destan, the Aturnian green-robe, overtakes us. He and his sword-wielding phantom fly along at a fast clip. I wonder if it has other skills besides fighting, with its huge eyes and long limbs. I pant and blow as Destan sprints by.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be up to speed soon,” Destan calls over his shoulder. But his phantom makes unintelligible grunts and gurgles that sound a lot like laughter.

My shoulders hunch inward, hearing the laughter again in my head. Before I can control my emotion, De’ral takes two huge strides toward Destan’s phantom. Suddenly, I’m fully in my phantom’s perspective, staring down at the creature. It turns with its sword overhead.

My heart races. “No, De’ral. He’s not an enemy!” Not here on Aku anyway, and not during the elimination trials.

De’ral isn’t listening. He raises his fists, ready to bring them down and flatten the Aturnian’s phantom like a pancake. My only recourse is to call De’ral in, but before I can, he trips over his own feet and smashes to the ground. The jolt snaps the perspective back into my own head. I stop, doubled over, desperate for air.

Belair and his leopard catch up, both panting as hard as I am.

“Did you see?” I ask.

“Your phantom fell flat on his face, Marcus. Everyone on the field saw.”

“Not that,” I grumble. “Before.” I wipe sweat from my brow. “Did you see what he was about to do?”

Belair pulls at my sleeve. “No. Now come on, Marcus! Run.”

I stagger after him. “Keep up,” I tell De’ral as he gains his feet. “And no fighting.” I draw in deep breaths and try to catch up to Belair. “No taking the bait. That goes for both of us.”

Students’ faces blur as I run by. The footfalls of my phantom pound hard, and we are given plenty of room. At the home stretch, I start to smile to myself, until I glance over my shoulder. My phantom has fallen way behind.

“De’ral. What are you doing?”

He stops completely.

“Crack the bones, keep running!” I try to slip inside his perspective, but the way is closed. Could this go any worse?

Meanwhile, my phantom stares into the distance. He takes a few steps toward the main Sanctuary buildings, and the savants below scatter out of the way. The others in my group lap me again, running past us without taking much notice. “Come on, De’ral. We look like idiots.”

But my phantom doesn’t budge. I find a chink and push into his perspective, it’s like sticking my head into a room but not being able to cross the threshold. From De’ral’s sharp vision I see what is so damn fascinating. Across the field and over one street is the library with its high bell tower. A tiny figure stands in a second story window, watching the field. “Ash?”

De’ral points.

I swallow bile and catch my breath. This is just great. He’s paying more attention to my recorder than to me. “She’s not the one to listen to.”

I like what she says.

“Stop it!” I shout at him. “Run!”

De’ral turns to me. Ash is watching.

“Of course, she’s watching us. That’s her job. Now please, let’s give her something worth her time and quill.”

Slowly, he breaks into a jog, then a sprint, gaining on me fast. Now I have to dash to stay ahead, overtaking Belair and his sun leopard, who are flagging as well.

By the time I reach the starting point, I drop to the ground, keeping my meditative position out of sheer willpower. I would much rather be sprawled on my back, gasping for air, but pride prevents it. Plus, Zarah’s ridicule.

Maybe De’ral will step on me and put an end to the humiliation.

“Glad you could join us, Baiseen, Tangeen.” Zarah bends over to peer down her nose at us. “You’d best build up your stamina fast. Those who aren’t showing promise by the end of the week are out.”

Like I need the reminder.

She straightens and addresses the group. “Obstacle course. Look sharp.”

The students take off at a run, all but me and Belair. I stumble, face set forward, trusting that De’ral will follow. “Please follow…” Belair looks like he’s going to cry. I know how he feels.

We trail the others to the far side of the training field to the series of physical tests—twin obstacle courses, side by side with climbing, swinging, jumping, hand-over-hand, running, crawling, balancing, and a water component. Belair and I exchange a look. It’s not optimistic.

Zarah projects her voice over the field. “For the benefit of the southern realms”—she glances at me and Belair—“the obstacle course is used in my class to familiarize you with tactical movements, increase combat endurance, build physical strength, and most importantly, reinforce collaboration with your phantom. You must take the course together, side by side. Not all of you will be able to achieve each segment with your phantoms up, not at first.” She turns again to me. “But I promise you, no one leaves the Isle of Aku as a yellow-robe until they can complete this exercise to my satisfaction.”

Just knowing the number of savants at home who had journeyed to Aku and successfully earned their robes gives me courage. Then again, I’m the only one to raise a warrior among them, so they probably never had an instructor the likes of Zarah, but I prefer to think positively.

“Notice the mix of obstacles,” Zarah continues. “There is a climb-over/crawl-under challenge. Do not skip the second step. Balance is demonstrated here.” She points at the beam. “Don’t forget the water on either side is head high. If you fall, you will have to swim out and go back to the start. If you can’t swim…”

My ears prick.

“Learn how.” Zarah cocks her head and smiles as if enjoying a memory. “After the rope-net climb and grapple wall, there is a ‘no touch’ tunnel. I promise you those barbs are razor sharp.”

I study the situation and see a problem immediately, at least for Belair. I raise my hand. Zarah ignores it.

“Some of your phantoms may not be suited for every obstacle. In that case, you are to direct them to the side, off course, where they will perform a series of combat moves, rolls, and lunges, while you carry on. Those of you with mixed-class phantoms, I want to see both alternate. No favoring just because one comes easier. Have your phantom rejoin you at the next suitable obstacle. Don’t worry about speed today. That will come with time. Destan, take the lead. Show us how it’s done. Cyres is next. The rest of you can line up. Begin!”

It’s good she doesn’t make me go first, or second. It gives me a few moments to recover. De’ral sits down, looking over his shoulder toward the library.

“Can you at least pretend you’re interested?”

He turns toward me, sulky.

I don’t know how it can get worse. Maybe Zarah will have some advice for me. While I muse on that possibility, I watch Destan go through his paces. He and his small, agile, disciplined phantom are a tight team as they run the course with no faults.

When he returns he pats my back as he walks by. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it.”

It gives me hope. It also gives me perspective. He may be Northern Aturnian, but he’s not so different from me. We’re both here to learn and train, to earn our robes. Ash has said many times that change comes from communication. Maybe it begins with me and Destan. With our generation.

“Cyres.” Zarah points at the girl. “Next.”

Cyres is a stocky young woman. I look at her and think strong. Like a tree. No coincidence, her phantom is an agahpa—gnarled tree-like joints, long fingers and toes. It’s the height of Cyres, with skin like bark and black knots for eyes. The legs don’t seem to separate much, and it moves about like a spider, darting and hesitating and darting again. “Hair” caps its head in tendrils similar to Larseen’s ropey locks. I suspect De’ral and I will have troubles, but this phantom? I have no idea how it will make it over the first challenge.

“Go,” Zarah tells the girl.

They take off, Cyres scrambling up the ladder to the platform, her phantom not far behind on its side. It turns out to be more flexible than I’d guessed. They make a promising team until Cyres loses her grip on the rope mid-swing and splashes into the pool, her head going under. The phantom immediately swings to her side of the course, wraps its long toes around the horizontal ladder, and drops a branchy arm down to the muddy pool to rescue the savant.

Cyres coughs and sputters while her phantom pats her on the back.

“Sit this round out, Cyres. You can try again when you recover.” Zarah turns to the start line. “Baiseen, you’re next.”

The students give me plenty of room and there is no jeering this time, not within earshot of Zarah, anyway. “Direct your phantom to jog, keeping up with you on the sideline. That’ll be enough of a challenge for today, I think.”

I think so, too.

“Go.”

I climb the ladder, grab the rope, and swing.

“Move him with you!” Zarah shouts.

I swing to the platform, but De’ral still sits on the grass like a sullen child. “Run with me,” I command. “Don’t make us look any worse than we already do.”

My phantom grudgingly rises, but the rope swings back toward him and he catches it in his hand. “Wait! Let go of the rope!”

He doesn’t. Instead, he takes off. It pulls tight, and he uproots the horizontal bars on his side of the course.

“De’ral! Stop!”

He listens! Finally. But when he comes to a sudden halt, the broken bars slap his back, sending him careening forward. He smashes down into the mud pool, splashing everyone within a twenty-foot radius, which is me, the entire class, and plenty of onlookers. In water up to his waist, he thrashes, knocking the balance beam off its supports as he tries to wipe mud out of his eyes. He manages to pull himself out of the pool, but then slips, and plows straight into the rappel wall.

The entire structure creaks, teeters, and falls over, crushing the no-touch thorn-crawl flat.

“Look out!”

De’ral’s hands come down on the springboard to regain balance, but he slips and grabs the large ring, which immediately breaks off. The weight of him falls full force onto the shimmy pole and snaps it in half like a toothpick. Finally, he gains his feet again and manages to stand upright. Before I can contain him, he takes off, dragging bits of the obstacle course behind him.

“Stop!” I shout aloud this time as he reaches the end. “Wait there. I’ll catch up.” Determined to finish, I go hand over hand to the beam. I don’t hear a word from Zarah, so with my phantom standing quietly, the balancing test isn’t too hard. I manage it, avoid near drowning in the deep water below—somehow, I don’t think De’ral would be so quick to rescue me as Cyres’s phantom had been—and rappel down the wall. What remains of the thorn obstacle isn’t much of a challenge. Petén and I used to spend plenty of time in the brambles, searching for lost arrows behind the practice range when we were younger. I climb the rope ladder to a springboard, launch, miss the ring, and fall flat.

No one laughs. They are all staring through mud-covered faces at the ruined obstacle course. I struggle to my feet and climb back up to the springboard.

“Enough.” Zarah strides over to me.

I can’t see a scrap of orange fabric on the front of her robe that isn’t spattered in mud.

“I think we have a fair bit of work cut out for us, wouldn’t you say?” She doesn’t let me answer. “Pair up for sparring,” she orders the others.

When I drop to my knees and bring De’ral in, I’m not sure I’ll ever stand again. But I manage and make to stagger back to the group. “Not you, Baiseen.”

“Mistress?”

“You’re with me.”