42

Marcus

Rain pours onto the field as we line up in front of Zarah. It’s the end of our first full week on Aku, and she’s about to announce the results of the elimination trials.

These days have been the most treacherous of my life.

On the first day—which was the third day of training for everyone else, bones be damned—I thought the training so hard it would boot me off the path, but that was only the start. Each day since has compounded the feeling, beginning with Morning Ritual, which is not nearly as sedate as it sounds.

I groan at the thought. We warm up by sprinting to the highest lookout and back, then meet on the field for a series of hand-to-hand and weapons exercises. Then, with phantoms still down, we fly through the obstacle course and race to the hall for breakfast. For an hour after, we’re in classrooms taking oral and written exams, firing off answers to questions we studied the night before. Belair is very good at those, and I excel at the additional sword work we practice after lunch, but everything else—the classes with Zarah, phantoms raised and running the perimeter, tackling the obstacle course side by side, then sparring until dark—nine times out of ten, De’ral and I are left looking like fools.

Eight times out of ten, De’ral growls.

Maybe there has been a small improvement, but we’d need a Sierrak reading glass to spot it. My heart sinks at the thought, and I have to force my shoulders back to stand tall. Of course, each day, who is on the sidelines, writing board in her lap, recording every slip and mishap? My recorder, of course. Ash’s face is hopeful, always encouraging, but today I see my own worry mirrored in her eyes.

Zarah claps her hands, bringing me back from my rambling thoughts.

The tension weighs like an anvil on all of us. Pass or fail, stay or go, this is it.

If we pass, we continue on with the training. We’ll be judged at the end as to whether we’re fit to advance to yellow-robe or not. Fail and we’re out. I think I understand now why my father called for the second throw of the bones. Better that I never tried, that I never reached this sacred Isle, than to raise a phantom and fail so spectacularly to master him.

Belair casts me a nervous glance. I don’t want to consider one of us passing and the other not. Belair and I are in this together now. We’ve been through so much.

Zarah glances at a list and tucks it back into her pocket before it gets soaked. Her face is a mask. Unreadable.

My guts tighten and I think I may be sick. Belair looks much the same. I imagine the results in my head. Fail. Fail. What else could it be?

She clears her throat to get our attention. As if she needs to. We’re all hanging on her next words. “Macor of Sierrak and Brigit of Goll. Dismissed. You both show promise, just not enough yet. Maybe next year. Come by my chambers for a full report for your High Savants before you leave.”

I look to them both feeling pity. But is Zarah done? Are there more names on her list? I thought Brigit was stronger than me and Belair, but no one will tell us the criteria for the eliminations, so we’re in the dark.

“And…” She pauses, torturing us to the core. “The rest of you pass.”

Cheers well up. Backs are slapped. Swords point to the sky while Belair and I stand like stumps. I never knew relief could nail me so completely to the spot.

Zarah whistles for attention. “Hit the books! There’s a written test tomorrow at second bell. I will be looking for improvement from all of you—among other things.”

I struggle out of my stupor and turn to Belair. “We made it.”

“And now the pressure starts all over again.” He’s just as weary as me, the stress of the training taking a toll.

But what else is there to say? Certainly not, “great session today” or “amazing work.” My eyes are on the mucky ground as we follow the others back to the main hall. We need to improve. Fast.

“Congratulations, both of you.” Samsen claps me on the back, the wetness making it sting. He’s as soaked as we are.

“Your sword work was excellent.” Piper trots up beside me. “Especially in such bad footing.”

“Swordsmanship was never my problem.” I feel like my whole body is wading through mud.

“Marcus, take this win. You did it.” Ash sounds genuinely cheered. “I knew you would, both of you.”

I think I’m still in shock. From the moment I left Baiseen, nothing has gone to plan, and now that one thing has, I can’t let it in. If only I were further along the path, I’d be able to appreciate this experience of accomplishment. But I skip over it, too focused on what comes next. And next beyond that. Time is not on my side. I have to show more than potential now. I have to succeed.

“Marcus?” Samsen purposely slows the pace until the other students are far ahead. “I hate to bring this up now when we should be celebrating, but I have an oddity to report.”

I don’t feel capable of celebrating anyway. “Tell me.”

He describes Destan sitting in the highest ocean lookout, in the pouring rain, phantom set to guard while he…just sat there.

“Doing nothing?”

Piper leans in. “He held a medallion.”

“What do you make of it?” I’m shuffling through my memory of all forms of meditation. Nothing stands out as similar.

“No idea.”

Ash frowns like she’s trying to recall something, too. “Medallion, did you say?”

Samsen nods. “But the Aturnian was on the lookout for some time before pulling it out from under his robe. He watched the road down to the pier, the track that leads off to the leeward beaches and far out to sea. He also paid close attention to you and Kaylin, Ash, when you came back from the beach.”

I turn to Ash. “Beach?”

“A cove Kaylin discovered,” she says.

“In the rain?”

“It wasn’t raining at the start. It was low tide and the rockpools—”

I stop listening, unwilling to be pulled off track. “Piper, did you send your serpent in to get a closer look at Destan?”

“I tried, but his phantom sensed it. I brought it straight to ground.”

“He has skills.” I have to admit the truth. “More than most green-robes.”

“It’s his second attempt,” Ash says. “I meant to mention, and I think I know why he would love the rain.”

I turn to her, brows raised.

“I heard Cyres’s recorder chatting with the others.” She rubs her brow. “You know, sometimes I think I’m invisible to them, being non-savant.”

I avert my eyes for a moment, not knowing what to say about the prejudice here. “But you heard talk?”

“They remember Destan from last year.”

“I guess that explains why he’s so good at everything.”

“But it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t have a recorder.”

“That’s odd.” My brows go up. “Hadn’t noticed.”

Ash shakes her head. “I honestly don’t think he can afford one, Marcus. His family… Northern or Southern, they didn’t confirm, but his family were farmers. The drought hit them hard, and harder still were Palrio’s trade sanctions. I know the sanctions are in place to forestall war, but Marcus, they lost everything.”

“Because of my father.” I bow my head.

Ash rests her hand on my shoulder. “Can you describe the medallion?” she asks Samsen.

“Aturnian design, silver, horses on it, I think.” Samsen shakes his head. “That I could have my phantom call, but it might have tipped him off, suddenly jumping out of his hands.”

When she doesn’t respond, we all turn her way.

“Ash?”

Her brow knits. “It’s just that some medallions are used by red-robes to communicate over long distances.”

I rub my neck and frown. “He’s good, but he’s no red-robe.” I look to the others to confirm it, and they all nod. “You haven’t seen him meeting anyone, talking in hushed tones?”

“Nothing like that.” Samsen’s eyes study the distance before returning to me. “But if he is Northern Aturnian, he might be spying. Gathering information about us.”

“Or about Aku,” Belair says.

“When he’s here at Yuki’s behest, or at least, consent?” Ash asks.

“Good point.” I feel a plan forming. “Ash, find out what you can about the medallion. Where is it from? What other realms wear such ornaments? How are they used?”

“I’ll see what I can uncover,” she says.

I turn to Samsen and Piper. “Continue keeping watch over him, just in case.” It’s an overreaction, I am sure, and I don’t want to be like my father but—

If you were like your father, Destan would already be dead.

De’ral’s words chill me to the core, because he’s right. By the path, I will not follow in that man’s wake.