7

Petén

I pull on my high collar, starved for air. When did it start feeling like a noose around my neck? One minute I’m hot, the next shivering… I can barely follow Brogal, his face flickering behind the candlelight. Next Great Dying? First whistle bones? It’s incomprehensible nonsense at the best of times. And I am not at my best before breakfast, let alone before the roosters crow, especially with this head cold. I haven’t been sick in years. Who could I have caught it from?

I try to pick up the thread of conversation, but the entire war council is crammed into the map room, and I can hardly breathe. One thing is clear. Rhiannon thinks it’s rubbish—this Great Dying business. I see the annoyance in her eyes. I should recognize it. She’s been giving me the same look for days. Ever since we announced our engagement. Which doesn’t bode well.

I must take charge of this room before she loses faith in me altogether.

“Let’s drop the ancient lore for a moment and focus on our immediate danger, shall we?” Rhiannon takes the words right out of my head.

Brogal’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t protest. How can he? She’s my wife-to-be, savant, and taking an active role in overseeing the realm. Too active, I’m beginning to think.

“One more sweep will do it.” U’karn, leader of the war council repeats his earlier report. “We’ll have the last of those Aturnians lurking on the borders dead and buried.”

“We must ride through the city again and remind the people who their new Magistrate is.” I stifle a groan. Horseback is not going to be comfortable, the way I’m feeling. I cough into a napkin, and wipe sweat from my brow.

“That is perhaps best done tomorrow, when we’ve heard back from the scouts.” U’karn saves me.

“If you insist.” I speak before Rhiannon can argue for sooner. “Meanwhile, we should chase down Tann’s ships. Keep track of his whereabouts.”

“I agree with the sentiment, but what do you propose we chase him down with?” Rhiannon shoots piercing eyes to Master Brogal, the one who insisted a strong navy would never be necessary, what with his army of phantoms. “Shall we net them with our fishing trollers?”

“The criticism isn’t helping, butterfly,” I say to her under my breath. To the others, “Tann’s attack came without warning and that’s our hard lesson here.”

Brogal clears his throat. “Marcus warned us,” he says into the silence.

We’re all thinking it, of course. “About him…”

Rhiannon touches my sleeve. “Not yet,” she whispers. To the others she says, “Those watchtower guards who failed us should be hanged, not to mention the Bone Throwers who had no warning of their own.”

The room gasps.

“Dear, let’s take stock before we start killing our own, shall we?” I say back.

The woman is ruthless beyond my wildest dreams.

And stunning.

My bride-to-be dresses not in her usual court finery but in her savant robes—yellow quilted pants and robe with a dark fur-lined cape over it all. Her strawberry hair is still in ringlets, but they are bound in a ponytail at the back of her head. The savants’ attire suits her. Everything does, and even better, nothing at all but her ice-blue eyes.

Rhiannon raises a caller phantom, a furball with teeth. Unlike me, who raises nothing. She’s reminded me of that more than once lately. Every phantom and their savants have been put to work to restore Baiseen, hers no exception. And the snappy creature is up, I notice. It’s an unusual ability, keeping it raised throughout the day, at least for a savant of her intermediate level. Most of her rank are exhausted in a few hours, their phantoms sent to ground, but Rhiannon has energy to burn and keeps hers at the ready from dawn to dusk. To protect me, she says. More likely I need protection from it, the way it growls, following my every move with its eyes.

She calls it her lovely; I call it a pest—a large meerkat with tawny fur and black tipped ears, feet, and tail—always underfoot, though I have seen its value firsthand. Still, the thing makes me want to down a jug of wine, which I won’t do, not with my promise to Rhiannon. All phantoms have this effect on me, but hers is predatory. I guess that’s no surprise, given her own appetites.

“The primary directive henceforth must be a powerful, indomitable army and navy.” I take advantage of a lull in the discussion. “We have the people and resources to do it.”

U’karn runs his hands through his thick dark hair. The leather of his armor plates squeaks with the movement. “I agree we must design better defenses for our city, and all of Palrio. There are also some environmental issues to consider. The floods. The odd migration patterns.”

“Signs of the next Great Dying,” Brogal puts in.

I’m about to say more about that but am hit with a spasm of coughing. It’s the worst time to be sick. I should be firming my position as Magistrate, but instead Rhiannon must take over for me again.

“Sweetheart, let me get you more tonic.” She snatches up my empty cup before I can pull it away.

“A servant can do it.” I don’t need them to see her doting on me.

She pats my hand and stands, the entire table getting up with her. “Let me, Magistrate. It’ll only take a moment.” Rhiannon turns to the others. “Gentlemen and women of the council, I’ll return shortly. Meanwhile, have we considered the possibility of a large threat from the west? Marcus’s report about Gollnar seems exaggerated, but…”

“Scouts report no more signs of Gollnar troops.” U’karn shrugs.

“To be safe,” Rhiannon says while I continue to cough, “we should have them sweep the northwestern borders again.”

“See to it,” I manage, but U’karn is already sending a runner.

Rhiannon gives a quick lift of my empty medicinal cup and leaves the room. I feel a strange relief with her gone.

The council members return to their seats. They have no problems taking direction from her. To be honest, I’m relieved she’s on our side. She’d make a formidable enemy.

“The report of a thousand Gollnar troops is ludicrous,” U’karn’s aide says.

This is my moment. “You agree my brother is delusional?”

“Delusional?” He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I think your brother returned under a great strain, what with the attack on Aku and riding nonstop through Aturnia,” U’karn answers for his aide. He folds his calloused hands in front of him. “But he did warn us of attack and fought for Baiseen. He and his companions won back Flat Tail Beach against all odds. These are not acts of a delusional savant. He’s been overseeing the repairs of the city ever since.”

“True, to a point. And this task of Bone Gatherer?” I direct the question to Brogal. “He is fit for it?” Any regret I might have felt when Father abdicated the throne to me vanished the moment Marcus returned. He was supposed to be dead! There had been no word of his arrival on Aku. Of course, there couldn’t have been since the messages were intercepted, ships sunk, the Isle attacked. But how were we to know? On our end, there was no news for many months, and the Bone Throwers couldn’t see him. Lost in a fog, were their exact words.

We presumed him dead.

My relationship with my brother had been tumultuous at best. But in those days when I’d finally accepted him gone, I’d mourned him.

And when he did return, instead of thanking me for taking over on his behalf, he lost his temper and raised his giant phantom right up through the palace floor, threatening us all. Crazed, he was, and is still, if you ask me. Point him at an enemy, maybe, but put him on the throne? I think not.

“The Bone Throwers approved Marcus as the Bone Gatherer of Baiseen,” Brogal says.

He doesn’t exactly answer my question though. And those Bone Throwers? They will be the first thing to go with my new reign. Brogal, the old bastard, will be next.

Rhiannon returns with my drink. I take a sip and it burns the taste buds right off my tongue.

“Hot,” she warns me too late.

It’s actually a blessing. Now I can’t taste the revolting brew.

Master Brogal nods out into the hallway where a messenger hovers, trying to catch his breath.

“What word,” U’karn asks as he waves them into the room.

“A red-robe is at the west gate, bearing a white flag. He says he will only speak to Rhiannon.”

“Pardon?” at least three of us say at once, Master Brogal included.

“Oh, that’s Atikis.” Rhiannon waves it off before the room erupts in protest.

“Atikis rides?” Brogal is on his feet.

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing dramatic, I am sure. We met on the way to Aku. You remember? It’s in my records.”

“What could he want?” I ask. With you? This wasn’t part of the plan, at least not the one she shared with me.

“He’s probably here with news of Tann’s movements and is uncertain of the leadership, what with rumors flying about.”

Rumors of Father’s illness, or Marcus’s return?

“He’s Gollnarian,” the Bone Thrower says in a dry voice. “Maybe he leads troops to our doorstep, despite the white flag.”

“Nonsense. He’s a mentor to me,” Rhiannon replies. “We’ve kept in touch. Besides, he owes allegiance to no Sanctuary. Certainly, he has no army.”

If this is the same red-robe Atikis discussed by the council last year, his phantom is an army, and he’s likely rogue. “But…”

She holds me in her gaze, and I don’t let my eyes flit away, though I want to.

“He may have vital information. I’ll go now—”

“Not alone,” I insist before she’s out the door.

“I’ll take the entire palace guard, husband-to-be, if that pleases you.” She heads for the door, not waiting for Brogal’s or U’karn’s approval. Or mine. The husband-to-be and the Magistrate… As she walks past me, she stops to feign a kiss and whispers, “I’ll deal with this; you take care of Marcus.”

My head throbs and I drain the warm, sticky liquid to the bottom of the cup. Take care of Marcus. That I can do.

“Don’t worry, Magistrate. Rowten’s men will escort her.”

“I am sure she’ll be protected, but the situation with my brother does worry me.”

No one speaks for a moment. “A contested throne is not what we want right now...” U’karn lets his voice trail off.

“Contested? I am the Magistrate, decreed by my father. There’s no contest.”

“As you say, Magistrate,” U’karn agrees with me. “But there could be talk of reinstating Marcus, especially if he returns with the twelve whistle bones. He’s savant, after all, and his warrior has won some respect. They may want him back.”

“It would destabilize the realm, and I won’t let that happen.”

Brogal doesn’t dare contradict me, but I see turmoil behind his eyes. Or maybe that’s his phantom peering out of them. I shrink back.

The High Savant steeples his hands. “Marcus has a greater task ahead than ruling Baiseen. Must I remind you all that the second sun has returned? We are on the brink of the next Great Dying.”

I want to argue that, but the black-robe is sitting right there, red and gold wisps of her phantom floating about her shoulders, so I hold back. Everything in good time…

“Where is Marcus now?” I ask.

“Collecting the Baiseen whistle bone, hopefully the first of many.”

“I want to be kept updated of his progress.” There’s hope yet that this will be easy.

Master Brogal bows to me and gives U’karn and the rest of the room a nod. “I will see for myself what Atikis wants.”

He’s up to something, that much is obvious.

I excuse myself and duck out after him. “Master Brogal, you aren’t thinking to support Marcus’s reinstatement when he returns, are you?”

He looks me up and down, no doubt reminding himself of my non-savant status. “Ultimately, the throw of the bones must decide.”

“Really?” I narrow my eyes.

Brogal goes still, and I feel his anger build. “Do not presume to command me, Magistrate, in matters of the Sanctuary. You have no idea of the magnitude of the situation.”

I stay calm. “Perhaps. But think that through.” I pull down my cuffs and straighten my waistcoat. “And while you’re at it, think how long you will remain red-robe without my support. Are you willing to risk so much to go against me, and my father?”

He doesn’t answer, though his tightened face says enough without words.

I lean in. “Side with me on this, because if you don’t, I will cut off the Sanctuary and any modicum of power you have left to control it.”

Master Brogal hesitates, then finally gives a curt bow and hurries away.

I mop my brow. This solves the problem of my brother, Marcus Adicio, and his claim to the throne of Baiseen.

Rhiannon will be so pleased.