2

Marcus

I trot up the steps to the platform and walk toward my friend.

Ash stands at the far edge of the observation deck, facing out to sea. Her dark auburn hair glistens in the sun, strands catching in the wind. Her elbows are propped on the railing, hands clutching a piece of parchment paper. She sighs and smiles at the vast ocean.

It’s not hard to guess who that smile’s for.

Kaylin, our guide to Aku, formed an attachment with Ash. How far it went, she hasn’t confided, but I know she cares. I was jealous at first. Protective. But he turned out to be an uncanny guide on land and sea. And a brilliant swordsman. He saved our lives, more than once. I have to admit, I trust him.

But you don’t miss him? De’ral chides me.

“Not like she does,” I admit.

Ash turns at the sound of my footsteps. The lookout is above the palace courtyard and takes in the entire Bay of Baiseen from the palace turrets, down the semicircle of terraced streets, to the shipping harbor and small islets beyond. A spectacular view, but I only see Ash—sparkling turquoise eyes, brows lifted, her build so slender I can wrap my arms around her almost twice. Ash is the only family I need, especially since my blood relatives have stabbed me in the back.

Family? De’ral questions my every thought today.

“Fine.” I confess. “She was more than that, once.” A lot more.

I reach Ash in a few strides. “What are you up to?”

“On my way to the library.” She smiles at me and warmth spreads across my chest.

“Should you be back to work already?” It’s too soon. She’s pale, her hair, on closer inspection, is unbrushed and full of tangles. Her wrists are thin, her cheeks a bit hollow. She’s lost weight that wasn’t there to lose. I’m worried. It would be different if Kaylin was here. She listens to him more than me, anyway.

Kaylin will return by solstice eve, De’ral informs me.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

Really?

I’m not going to repeat my phantom’s proclamation. It’s based on nothing tangible, and the last thing she needs is false hope. Kaylin’s been away a month–since the day after Tann’s attack—and we haven’t heard a word. Something could have gone wrong.

“I’m feeling much better.” Ash folds her note and stuffs it deep into her coat pocket before giving me a hug.

“I’ve been worried about you. We all have.” I hug her back tight. She’s definitely too thin.

“Worrying about someone is like a curse.” She delivers one of her favorite adages.

That’s Ash. Even in convalescence, she’s thinking about our advancement along the path to An’awntia–the lofty state of mind reached over many lifetimes of progress. I don’t know how she does it. I’ve enough to think about with this current life in front of me, let alone the next one, or the next.

“Headaches?” I raise my brows and examine her face.

“Fewer and fewer.” She looks away.

“Exhaustion?”

“Nope.”

“Memory?”

“Um, not sure. What’s your name again?” She laughs and punches my arm.

“Ha ha.”

Her smile stays in place, but she shivers. I flip the fur-lined collar of her coat and do the top button. “Where did you get this monstrosity?” It’s several sizes too big, hanging straight to her ankles, brushing the tops of her bare feet. Of course they are bare. In the middle of winter. Nothing new for Ash. I shake my head. None of us returned from Aku with more than the stolen uniforms on our backs. I’ll have to see that she’s better outfitted. Clearly Brogal has neglected to.

“And what was in that note, if I might ask.” I gently bump her shoulder as I rest against the railing.

“You may ask, but it doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” She bumps me back and then laughs it off. “I’m still waiting to talk to Brogal. He promised me a meeting, and access to the archives, but so far he’s given me neither.”

“That’s odd.”

“I don’t think he’s taking me seriously.”

My arm goes over her shoulder and she leans into me, the feel of her comfortable, familiar, right. I mean to soothe her, but I can’t deny how much it soothes me to see her starting to get better. “He’ll come through.”

“I need that access now. Have you noticed? The signs of change foretold in the prophecy?” She points to the northern coastline.

I follow her line of sight. The high tide mark cuts into the headland, eating fresh chunks out of the cliffs. The color of the Suni River Mouth is a mud brown instead of its usual crystal blue. Half the topsoil in the realm must be at the bottom of the bay. “I’ve seen the changes in the coastline, and the weather, but is that really what’s making you sad?”

“If you think I’m worried about Kaylin, stop.”

Yes. Stop. De’ral agrees. She doesn’t need to talk about it.

“Piper said it would help her memory to talk about things.”

But maybe not those things.

“If you must know”—Ash straightens—“I’m a little miffed. Kaylin could have told me in person he was leaving to track Tann. Instead, I got a note.”

“Um, he couldn’t tell you in person, Ash. You were unconscious for days.”

“Was I?” Her eyes lose focus.

Has she forgotten this again? I try not to let my frustration show. Or my worry. “You were out cold for almost a week, Ash. I delivered his message the moment you woke up.”

“The message?” Her hand goes to her coat pocket. “That’s right, but it didn’t really say much.”

“I know—” My mouth snaps shut too late.

“You read it?” She turns, hands on hips. It’s like I spilled ink on her new parchment paper. I freeze as she stares at me, her eyebrows pinched tight. Then I see it, that playful glint. She’s trying not to laugh.

“I read it for security reasons.”

“Security?” Her brow furrows deeper.

“I thought it might have vital information. Important to the realm.”

She punches my arm again. “Liar.”

I stop trying to defend myself and we return to staring out to sea. I want to put my arm around her again. I don’t.

“Did you hear?” Her voice brightens. “Petén’s going through with solstice eve celebrations.”

I click my tongue. “A complete waste of time and resources.”

“I don’t know, Marcus. It might be a good idea.”

“You sound like Brogal.”

She winces briefly before changing the subject. “How’s your father? The healers wouldn’t give me an update.”

“They aren’t telling me anything either!”

“You still haven’t seen him?”

“Not allowed in.” My jaw clamps, making my words monotone.

She gives me a measured look. “We’ll see about that.” Ash loops her arm through the crook of my elbow and pulls me toward the palace.

I try to resist but she’s surprisingly strong for her size, and supposedly weakened state. Maybe she’s more recovered than I first thought. “They’ll stop us.”

“I don’t think so.” She tugs me along, much more her old self again.

I give up and head for the main entrance to the palace.

“Not that way, silly.” She pulls me off course. “We’ll have to sneak around the back.”

“To my own palace?”

“Exactly.”

We leave our coats and my robe in the mudroom and don servant aprons and caps. It’s not the exact uniform of the Magistrate’s staff, but close enough to slip by unnoticed, according to Ash. It makes me think she’s done this before. Ash leads me to the pantry and hands me a tray. The ease with which she finds the bread and the cheese and the water jugs confirms it. She’s definitely done this before.

“Keep your eyes down. You can’t look like you f’qad’n own the place,” she whispers as we walk up the backstairs. “Think servant, not—” She cuts herself off.

“Ex-heir?”

De’ral chuckles under my skin.

“I was going to say, savant. Just don’t be so royal, I mean.”

“Got it.” I slow my stride and lower my gaze. “This will never work.”

“It won’t if you keep saying that.”

We reach my father’s wing on the third floor without being questioned. One thing is certain, when I recover my throne, I’ll be looking into palace security.

The back of my neck itches as we walk under the portraits of my forebears. They stare down at me, each man and woman’s expression increasingly disapproving until we reach my father’s, the most critical of all. I never liked this hallway but have learned to keep silent in front of Ash. She thinks it’s a treasure to know one’s family line. Makes sense, her being an orphan with no memory of where she comes from.

“I’ll do the talking if we’re stopped,” she drops her chin and whispers.

“As you please.” The growing weight in the pit of my stomach isn’t making me feel conversational.

When we reach Father’s chambers, the door is unguarded. I knock once and push in.

Immediately, I’m slammed with a nauseating stench. Bile rushes up the back of my throat. I’m aware of Ash taking the tray before I drop it, and setting it down. She says something, but I can’t listen. There’s no doubt anymore. Whatever illness my father battles, it’s winning.

The Magistrate’s room is unrecognizable. The usually bright windows that lead to the gardens are cloaked with heavy drapes. A bat couldn’t find its way out of here. The floor is littered with dressing gowns and towels are thrown over the backs of chairs. A stack of dirty dishes sit on the bedside table. Are servants not allowed to attend him? His large, four poster bed is a mound of blankets, and my father–the Magistrate–is like a stick figure smothered beneath them.

The lines in his face have deepened to crags. The once robust flesh hangs like an empty sack. “Have they not fed him?” I didn’t mean to speak aloud, not yet, and not those words.

But Jacas Adicio, once great ruler of Palrio, Magistrate of the phantom throne, raiser of the mighty wolf caller, stirs. His white stubbly jaw works as his dry lips press together.

“Go on.” Ash puts her hand on my arm, urging me forward. “Talk to him.”

And say what?

“Petén? Is that you?” he asks.

I clear my throat. “No, Father. It’s me. Marcus.”

Jacas opens his eyes and blinks. He tries to sit up, but the effort sends him into a fit of coughing.

I reach out to help. He’s all bone, like a rack of lamb in a nightshirt.

“My cup?” Jacas turns filmy eyes to the bed stand and attempts to reach for it. “Is that you, Rhiannon?” His voice takes on a softer tone. “Can you pass me my tonic? Bless you, dear.”

Ash hands me the half-filled cup and I hold it to my father’s lips. The smell of the medicine is worse than the reek in the chambers.

“We’ll walk in the garden again today, won’t we, my dear? Discuss the future of our realm.” The old man pats the bed beside him as if it were a woman’s thigh. “You have been so kind to me.”

At least someone has. De’ral comments without a trace of his usual sarcasm.

I pause at that. Father is so frail, for a moment my heart pinches.

Jacas blinks again, his face contorting. “Marcus, you say?” The softness in his voice vanishes.

“Yes, Father. It’s me.” My chest tightens, my hands feel thick and clumsy. “Are you… do the healers think…” How to ask after his health when it’s so obviously deteriorated? I try again. “I wanted to see you, Father, to learn–”

“Learn what, Marcus?” He coughs and dark spots spatter his sleeve. “How long I have left on the path?”

His abruptness bites, and I blurt out, “To learn why you denied me the throne.” Flames rush to my cheeks. It’s not what I wanted to say, at least not yet. But I can’t deny it is what I burn to know.

“Simple.” Jacas smacks his lips, becoming more lucid. “You couldn’t control your phantom.”

He’s right, De’ral says.

“Quiet!”

“I can control him now! I returned from Aku a yellow-robe, fully accomplished.” But I know it’s not entirely true.

“No matter. It’s done.”

“You can undo it. Petén’s not fit to take the phantom throne.”

Jacas grabs my sleeve. “But she is, Marcus. She is high born. Raises a fine caller and is loyal to me.”

“Rhiannon?” I can’t believe what he’s saying. “She’s using you.” I raise my voice. “Can’t you see?”

“Rhiannon will be the pillar if Petén falters. And she is good and kind, Marcus. You cannot reproach her.” He winces and wipes his mouth.

Kind? How is she kind? Seems more like manipulative. What are my brother and that snake doing?

“It wouldn’t have come to this, if my first son had lived,” Jacas says.

My guts tighten as I hand the empty cup to Ash.

She squeezes my arm, her comfort running through me. She knows this story, how all my life, I’ve had to compete with a ghost.

“That was twenty years ago, Father.” Back when the Bone Throwers deemed my eldest brother marred and condemned him to the sea. “I am here now.”

Jacas draws in a deep breath and his bony rib cage expands. “Leave me, Marcus. Send for Rhiannon—” The coughing returns.

“Magistrate?” A healer comes in. “Oh good. You brought fresh water,” he says to Ash, not recognizing me as I bend to pick up dirty clothes off the floor.

Ash retrieves the tray. “We are finished, master.” She curtsies and then gives me a pointed look, directing me to the door.

Father is still coughing and hacking, his body about to shake apart. The healer goes to his side.

A coldness creeps over me. I may never see him again, but I head for the door, clothes still clutched in my hands. My ears are ringing. There’s not a coherent thought in my head, but my feet automatically take me to the hallway, back down the row of frowning portraits and to the stairs.

Ash walks at my side, tray held high. Silent except for her soft bare feet on the carpet and the rattle of the empty cup.

I stare unseeing at the steps as we descend to the first level. Back in the mudroom, I dump the clothes. “He’s really dying,” I hear myself say. “Those might be his last words to me.”

“He’s the father your path has given you.” Ash’s voice is barely a whisper. She comes closer and laces her hand in mine. “What are your last words for him?”

The coldness still sits deep in my bones.

Finally I swallow, and then, through a tight mouth, I exhale quietly to myself. “Peace be your path, Father…but rest certain. Petén will not hold the phantom throne much longer.”