44

Ash

The late morning sun hits the training field with pale golden rays but offers no warmth. If it weren’t for morning ritual followed by hot porridge, and the anticipation of our library break-in, my teeth would be chattering, quill hand shaking.

As it is, my blood’s running hot and I’m content on the sidelines, writing board in my lap, noting the highlights of Marcus’s and Belair’s class right along with half a dozen other recorders. The students have come in from running the perimeter, and steam rises from their robes.

I note how Belair is improving, his link to the red cat progressing quite naturally. But I also see him holding back in subtle ways, allowing Marcus to, if not shine, then at least appear to keep up.

I think our carefree Tangeen is more loyal to the Heir than he first appeared.

“Loyal, or prudent?” my inner voice asks.

It’s a fair question. Are Marcus and Belair becoming fast friends, or is the Tangeen thinking ahead, fortifying the relationship between our realms? A bit of both? I finish my entry and look up at the head of the class.

Bucheen is there, arms wide, keeping the students’ attention as she talks about the ins and outs of phantoms, literally.

“It’s always a push in. Don’t expect the resistance to diminish until you’ve had years of practice. Instead, expect your ability and sensitivity to improve gradually. You will become proficient over time, I promise.” Bucheen rolls up her sleeves. “Two things to know.” She holds up her first finger. “The longer you stay in your phantom’s perspective, the more of it remains with you. This can be beneficial, and it can also be dangerous. If you lose your sense of self, you will not be able to bring it to ground.” She pops up her second finger and narrows her eyes. “Secondly, getting in is easy compared to getting out. You can find yourself…”

She pauses, searching for the right word. In my mind, I think, hesitant, reluctant, resistant?

“Attached,” she finally says, “especially in battle. This is a great asset, as long as you stay in control. Lose it and you could lose your life.”

The students stay silent while they nod for more.

“Make no mistake. If your phantom is overcome, sent to ground when you are fully immersed in their perspective, then peace be your path.” She holds us all with her fierce gaze. “When your phantom is injured and starts to succumb, there is only one thing you can do.” She crosses her arms. “Anyone?”

Cyres raises her hand and Bucheen nods at her.

“You get out,” the girl says with just the right amount of conviction. “Before your phantom’s wounds disable you.”

“That’s right. You move out of phantom perspective as if your life depends on it, because it does. Questions?”

The class stirs, but no one raises their hand.

Bucheen bows to Zarah. “I hope to never see any of you in the infirmary.” She looks at Marcus and Belair. “Again.”

I rest my eyes on Marcus. You better be soaking this up. He doesn’t give me so much as a glance, but I know he appreciates my support. Marcus has sworn to train twice as hard as the others, get up before first bell, study late into the night, and that’s definitely going in the records. Belair’s, too. He’s working hard right beside Marcus, but I know it’s Marcus who leads. I tap my chin. The results may take the scant number of days they have left, but I have faith. His newfound resolve will make all the difference, and the instructors see promise or he wouldn’t still be here.

Mistress Zarah claps her hands and off they go to do two more laps. Marcus, as usual, struggles with De’ral. He’s going red in the face, yet again taking the brunt of Zarah’s reprimands. I don’t blame him for being furious. She is not kind. Belair and his beautiful leopard move off last, then slow to give Marcus a chance to catch up. But De’ral stays seated and crosses his arms. I’ve never seen a phantom sulk like this. “What is the matter with you, De’ral?”

My mind fills with an image of a raven in a small gold cage. It’s overwhelming, my body feeling caged, just as the black bird. I have to take a few breaths to calm down. Whatever’s happening, I need to accept it. And, use it. “You’re feeling imprisoned? By Marcus?” I ask De’ral.

The raven beats his wings against the bars.

“It would seem he is,” my inner voice observes.

I look over my shoulder to see if anyone else is seeing what I see, but they all have their heads down as they write and sketch. The only others here are Marcus, who jogs off, and his lump-of-a-grump phantom who stares straight at me.

“Go on, De’ral.” I send an image of a horse cantering proudly around a large field. “Do as Marcus asks. If you work together, you won’t feel so trapped.”

There’s a faint spark in the warrior’s eye, and I know defiance when I see it. Maybe he hears me, or maybe not, but vez venom be damned, I will hold my peace no longer. “Shame on you, De’ral. You are the warrior phantom of Marcus Adicio, Heir to the throne of Baiseen. Behave like it!”

In my mind, I see a flock of birds startle and take flight, shock reflected in De’ral’s eyes.

An answering shudder reverberates through me. I’m really communicating with Marcus’s phantom? I pull my shoulders back and arrow the thoughts straight at him. “You think this feels trapped? Let me educate you. Trapped will be if Marcus remains a green-robe, if he can’t take the throne, join the council, and have a voice at the Council Summit meetings. Do you know what will happen if his father calls war down upon us? If you and Marcus cannot help defend the realm?”

I receive the image of a horse slamming to a halt and turning to look back at me.

“De’ral, move it!”

The phantom jumps to his feet, sending a tremor through the ground that shakes from my sit bones all the way to the back of my skull. The other recorders glance up at once as the warrior takes off at a run toward Marcus.

Zarah smiles and cups her hands around her mouth to shout. “Finally, Baiseen.” She pumps her fist in the air. “Now keep up and stay in control.”

“Well done!” I send an image of a cheering crowd and he looks back, slamming his giant fist to his chest in salute before running on.

My hands shake and ink spatters off the end of the quill, leaving black speckles over the page. So…it was me?

“It was you,” my inner voice confirms.

I grip the sides of the writing board until my knuckles turn white. “It was me,” I whisper the words again.

“We’ve established that…”

True. But it’s a long time before I can settle back into my work.