82

Marcus

“Savants of Baiseen,” Brogal cries from the lookout above me. “Raise. Your. Phantoms!”

With his red robes pinned tight under crossed arms, white hair streaming free of its customary tie, the High Savant jumps off the ledge to land in our midst, one knee smacking into the cropped grass. Dirt sprays as his bird of paradise rises. It heads for the clouds, dirt rolling off the blue and vermillion feathers. “Callers ready! We must keep the ships to sea!”

He throws an imaginary spear into the sky. His phantom darts after it, a euphonious trill echoing back to us as the callers of Baiseen erupt from the ground. Samsen sends his eagle toward the forming clouds and adds his own rich voice. Larseen and his jackal step up beside him, the phantom’s head back, baying. Cybil directs her chanting cormorant up to meet the others as it counterpoints the High Savant with perfect tone.

I startle to see Rhiannon rushing down from the lookout, royal sleep garments replaced with yellow robes. The sight of her, and the meerkat, makes my guts twist, but this is not the time. She is trained. She is capable, and every caller in Baiseen must contribute. Every phantom and savant.

Rows of them have gathered, green, yellow, and orange robes fluttering in the rising breeze. They fill the lookouts and line the streets, uniting their voices with their phantoms that race to the sky.

My ears ring. My heart pounds at the splendor of it.

Deep within, I feel De’ral’s pride, too, but something still makes my forehead sweat. In the throne room, his rising… It was unnatural…

But this is no time to puzzle it out. Not with Tann’s ships on the horizon.

The clouds gather, the winds blowing overhead so fiercely they circle like a cyclone in the sky. And still the gale grows.

Over the bay, warm air rises from the sea, a mist sucked into the heavens as the wind builds. The sky above is thick with phantoms, dark shadows in the gray light until suddenly they ignite in color when the sun cracks over the hills behind us. Phantoms turn bright pink and orange and red as they circle the heavens over a rising purple swell.

In a crescendo of sound and wind, the storm courses off the cliffs and slams into the ocean.

Waves as high as the city gates riot into the air and push back the sea. A veritable wall of water moves with the force of a hurricane. The boats not tethered in the harbor bob like corks and are swept away.

On the highest crenels of the palace, black flags with the red shearwater insignia strain in the furious offshore winds that continue to blow. The watchtower bells started it, and, now—thankfully—the full measure of my city prepares for war. Even as the bells continue to toll in the distance, my thoughts turn to my father. Does he hear them? Is this his favored dream or worst nightmare come to life? All I know is that perhaps for the first time, I’m grateful for his preparedness, for every grueling hour he drilled me with the defenses, the steps, the protocols. “As Heir to the Phantom Throne, Marcus, you must know this by rote. The people of the realm are depending on it.” I’d dismissed his militaristic ways for most of my life. But, because of them, Baiseen readies for attack in perfect harmony.

Healers guide the non-savants along the streets. Blue-robes usher the livestock and horses from the stables. I’m saddened by the need for it even as I long for my father to be able to see this and see me do what must be done.

“Oba,” Brogal draws his perspective out of his phantom to address the highest Bone Thrower. “Send your strongest black-robes to the Sanctuary gates.”

Oba nods and her crimson phantom, blinding in the morning light, flares. Other savants step aside, making way for them, their black robes wafting…the eerie result of their phantoms, formless but somehow woven into their shadows.

“Master Brogal!” I call his attention to me. “I am ready.”

The High Savant turns his weathered face between me and De’ral, Belair and his sun leopard.

My mouth tightens. “We are, and throne or not, running the city defenses is my inheritance. I know what to do as well as my heart knows to beat.”

He hesitates still.

“And we did pass, Master Brogal. On Aku, Belair and I trained and fought beyond reproach.”

De’ral growls and I send a silent plea for him to hold steady.

“Mistress Zarah…” I begin, knowing he cannot possibly deny what I’m about to say. “Upon the last day, she named us both yellow-robes, and stopped calling us Baiseen and Tangeen.”

Master Brogal’s brow twitches as he looks back toward the palace. “Do it, Marcus. I leave you to oversee the defenses in your father’s stead.”

I motion for my company to follow but Brogal stops me mid-step. “Ash will come with me.”

Kaylin raises a brow and I tilt my head, about to ask why.

“We won’t be long.” The High Savant drops to one knee, bringing his phantom in.

Ash waves goodbye and hurries toward the Sanctuary with the High Savant, a smile on her face.

But Kaylin’s eyes still follow them.

“Don’t worry. He’s her guardian, and the most powerful savant in the realm. She couldn’t be in safer hands.”

I lead the way to the west gate, three dozen callers behind me. Our march is silent, save for Samsen’s quiet instruction to Tyche so she can visualize what to call. But still the streets are crowded and noisy. People spill out of their homes, many with children and elderly in tow, jostling all the belongings they can carry as they race to the Sanctuary.

When we reach the gate, I take a deep breath. “Caller savants, take your places!” I raise my voice above the raging winds.

The savants divide into three groups. When in position, I command them. “Raise the columns!”

The chant starts out thin and high, escalating until I am sure it will break glass. Then it falls to a bone-jarring register, then up again, like a serpentine of sound. In response, the earth quivers and groans, dirt launching skyward as the first of the tessellated columns erupts. Then up rises another, and another in fast succession.

Everyone shields their eyes as the dust and bones of the earth blow off the black surfaces, sweeping the monoliths clean as they surge to near five stories tall. Carved from obsidian found in the high ranges of Palrio, no one knows how they got here, let alone were buried so deep. Ancient legends say they were set by Mar, back when this part of the land was under the sea.

Whoever fashioned them, they rise now for Baiseen—impenetrable shields to block ouster winds, checkpoints to stop the enemy’s advance to the heart of the city.

I hood my eyes, watching the distant columns continue to shoot up, one after the other, all the way to the southeast tower.

“Well done!” I pump my fist and the savants crowd in, responding with boisterous cheers.

De’ral tips back his head and adds his victory cry.

“Gollnar won’t trouble us this way,” Kaylin says as my company draws their swords and rallies around me.

“We defend Baiseen!” I shout, rejuvenated by the glory of it all.

But then a small shadow crosses my mind.

Where is Ash?