Crown of Bones

Table of Contents

Dedication

Hierarchy of the Robes

Prologue

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Glossary

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Discover more Entangled Teen titles…

Crave

Send Me Their Souls

Malice

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by A.K. Wilder. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

10940 S Parker Rd

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Parker, CO 80134

[email protected]

Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Liz Pelletier and Heather Howland

Cover design by Covers by Juan

Background art designed by L.J. Anderson/Cover Mayhem Creations and

Kevin Carden/AdobeStock,

camilkuo/shutterstock,

Susanitah/shutterstock,

Stanislav Spirin/Shutterstock,

ZaZa Studio/shutterstock,

Standret/Shutterstock

Map art by Kim Falconer

Chapter graphic art by Anna Campbell

ISBN 978-1-64063-413-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition January 2021

For all the fantasy readers, first-timers to die-hards, who are willing to step out of their reality and be lost in another world…

Hierarchy of the Robes

Black Robe

Red Robe

Orange Robe

Yellow Robe

Green Robe

Blue Robe

Brown Robe

Non-Savant

Si Er Rak Tablet - Fragment XI

Natsari, Natsari, where hides the crown?

The forests are burning, the children are drowned.

Natsari, Natsari, bring the dark sun,

Kiss us farewell, the Great Dying’s begun…

Prologue

Master Brogal

The Sanctuary bursts with children this time of year, untrained pups bounding through the halls, chasing their tails. They arrive full of hope, and why wouldn’t they? ’Tis no small feat to be marked by the Bone Throwers as having potential. The question is, how many among them will actually succeed?

I look over the training ground and sigh, knowing it will be far too few.

My group, for example, not a savant among them. Enough! I clap. Break for lunch.

They jump and cheer like a festival riot, and all I can do to remain calm is pinch the bridge of my nose. Quiet. Midday silence will be observed.

I’m about to wave them to the dining hall when shouting rings out from the other end of the field. A flash of light shoots as high as the watchtower. Dirt pummels down like rain. The ground cleaves apart, fracturing in tremors that echo up through my feet. A brilliant, cresting form, ever shifting, pushes free, its mouth open in an earsplitting screech. I stumble and cover my ears as the sheer power of it hits me.

Stay here!

I drop one knee to the ground and raise my phantom before taking off toward the chaos. From the earth bursts my phantom, C’sen, red sparks trailing from blue wings as it soars overhead. Go!

From phantom’s-eye view, I don’t believe what I see. Huge. Writhing. A swarm of tendrils, claws, and limbs. But the mountainous phantom melts back into the ground before I can identify more, returning to its savant as quickly as it rose.

Left behind is a crater, deep as a man is tall and twice as wide. Around it, tiny red flowers bloom, spreading like spilled blood.

Rune bands! I call out to the black-robe Bone Thrower racing to meet me.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Never in all my years have I had to ask for them, but whatever has risen, it must be contained.

The child responsible sits at the far side of the crater, hunched. Cowl up. Unidentifiable. Is it the Heir? I whisper to the Bone Thrower. Please, don’t let it be the Heir.

The black-robe shakes her head and hands me bone bracelets from her bag. A girl from the harbor district. Raised it on the first try.

I trod over the fresh flowers to reach her, the scent of sweet lilac filling the air. Show me your arms. She does and I cuff her thin wrists, my own hands trembling. Where’s her instructor?

The Bone Thrower points at the crater, and I peer over the edge. There’s a scrap of orange cloth at the bottom, all that’s left of their savant robes.

What is your name? I ask the girl.

She doesn’t answer. Just lifts tearstained eyes to mine. Did I do it, Master? Did I raise my phantom?

She’s not even sure? Stand up, child. Don’t move. I wave to the savants converging on us. Begin the guardian’s chant. They form a semicircle behind her, robes swaying over the ground, voices rising in harmony.

I know what must be done, but still, I hesitate. The thought of what this might do to the girl—to all those around her—and by my own hand, no less…

There’s no alternative, the Bone Thrower says. "Bind it and call their memories. It must happen now."

My chest constricts. What if the binding fails?

The Bone Thrower wavers. Then may the old gods have mercy on us all.

1

Marcus

Nine years later…

Morning light blasts through the woods and I squint. There! To the south.

I urge Echo, my black palfrey, on to greater speed, and the hunting dogs falling behind. We gallop hard, neck and neck with True, my brother’s mount, careening around giant oaks and jumping over fallen logs. Autumn leaves scatter in our wake.

They’re headed for the meadow, Petén calls over the pounding hooves. His dark hair streams behind him, revealing his high forehead, an Adicio family trait. I’ve got it, too, but not quite as pronounced as his.

We’re alike in other ways—same tall, broad build, brown eyes, and olive skin, though my hair is the color of brass, not black. Also, Petén’s nineteen, two years older than me, and non-savant—he can’t raise a phantom. It’s a blow to him, for sure, because I am savant and therefore Heir to the Throne of Baiseen, a fact that turns everything between us sour.

Head them off. I signal toward the upcoming sidetrack.

So you can beat me there and win all the praise?

I laugh at that. Father’s not going to hand out praise for anything I do, even catching Aturnian spies, if that’s what the trespassers really are. Besides, palace guards are coming from the south and will likely reach them first, so I don’t know what Petén’s talking about. He’s right, though—I wouldn’t mind being the one to stop them, just in case Father is watching. Race you. Loser takes the sidetrack!

He nods, and our mounts tear up the path for a short, breakneck sprint. Echo wins by half a length, and I stand up in my stirrups, victorious, waving Petén off to the right. On I gallop. It’s a straight, downhill run toward the meadow. When I reach the open grass, there’s a clear shot at the three men who race on foot.

Halt in the name of the Magistrate! I fit an arrow to my bow and fire it over their heads, a warning shot. I wouldn’t actually shoot anyone in the back, but they don’t know that.

Halt in the name of Baiseen! Petén yells, bursting into the meadow from the north.

The hunted men veer to the left and keep running. Petén lets loose his arrow, and it lands just short of them, another warning.

I’m close enough to pick off all three. Halt! I shout, hoping they do this time.

They don’t.

My brother and I barrel down on them, and in moments, we’ve corralled the men, trotting our horses in a tight circle, arrows aimed at the captives in the center. The dogs catch up and bark savagely, ready to attack.

Stay, I command the two wolfhounds, and they obey, crouching in the grass, their tongues hanging out to the side as they lick their chops and growl.

Drop your weapons, Petén says just as Rowten and his contingent of palace guards, three men and two women, gallop into the field from the other end. Chills rush through me as Father appears behind them, riding his dark-red hunter. The captives unbuckle their sword belts and raise their hands as the guards join us, further hemming them in.

Why are you here? Father asks as he rocks back in the saddle. He turns to Petén. Search their gear, if you are sober enough for the job. To me, he says, If any move, kill them.

Sweat breaks out on my brow, and a tremor runs down my arms. My brother’s not all that sober. In fact, he usually isn’t. If he provokes them…

But Petén swings out of the saddle without falling on his face, and I keep my arrow aimed at each man in turn while he goes through their packs. They have a distance viewer and a map of Baiseen marking where our troops are quartered, the watchtowers, and the Sanctuary with numbers in the margin.

Scouting our defenses? Father asks. Who sent you?

Officially, we’re not at war with the neighboring realms of Aturnia and Sierrak to the north or Gollnar to the northwest. But that doesn’t mean one of their red-robe masters isn’t behind this. Tann or even Atikis. Relations are strained to near breaking if the long council meeting I sat through yesterday was any indication, and Father suspects breaches on the border. Like this one.

The captives remain silent, which doesn’t help their case.

Answer. I try to sound authoritative. Or do you not know who questions you? Bow to Jacas Adicio—I nod to my father—orange-robe savant to the wolf phantom, Magistrate of all Palrio, and lord of the Throne of Baiseen.

The middle one lifts his head. He’s not dressed in the robes of a savant or an Aturnian scout. He wears traveler’s garb: leggings, tunic, riding coat, and high boots without a hint of mud. Their horses can’t be far away. We’re lost, Your Magistrate, sir. Meaning no harm or trespass. If you just set us straight, we’ll be on our way.

It’s a fair attempt at diplomacy, but unfortunately for this poor clod, his accent betrays him.

"All the way from Aturnia? You are indeed lost. My father turns to me. Did you track them down, Marcus?"

My chest swells as I start to answer. It was—

I led the chase, Petén cuts in as if I wasn’t going to give him half the credit. Which I was…probably.

Fine, Father says, though he doesn’t seem particularly pleased. I can’t remember the last time he was anything but frustrated with either of us. But then, it’s no secret he’s not been the same since my eldest brother was deemed marred. Losing his first son changed Father irrevocably.

While I blink sweat out of my eyes, the nearest captive makes to drop to one knee.

Savant! I shout.

Shoot! my father roars in command.

He means me.

I have the shot, ready and aimed, and I should have taken it by now. But the man is ten feet away. If I hit him at this range, with an arrow made to drop an elk, it’ll stream his guts all over the meadow.

In the moment I hesitate, my father is out of his saddle and touching down to one knee. The second he does, the ground explodes, a rain of dirt and rock showering us. The horses’ heads fly up, ears pinning back, but they hold position as Father’s phantom lunges out of the earth. The size of a dire wolf, it opens its mouth, lips pulling back in a snarl. Still not clear of the ground, it begins to "call," a haunting, guttural sound that can draw weapons from a warrior, water from a sponge, flesh from bone. Before the phantom lands, the men’s chests crack open in a spray of blood. Three hearts, still beating, tear out of their torsos and shoot straight into the phantom’s mouth. It clamps its jaws and swallows them whole without bothering to chew.

Entranced by the brutality, my fingers spasm, and the arrow flies from the bow. Its distinct red fletches whistle as it arcs high and wide over one of the guard’s heads, a woman who gives me an unpleasant look. The arrow falls, skipping through the grass to land harmlessly a distance away.

No one speaks as the horses settle and Rowten signals for the dogs to be leashed. I breathe heavily, staring at the corpses. Blood wells the cavities that were, moments ago, the bodies of three living men. Aturnian spies, most likely, but living men just the same.

By the bones, I feel sick. What if I got it wrong? What if the man had simply gone weak in the knees and wasn’t dropping to raise his phantom at all? What if he really was non-savant, lost, virtually harmless to us? I cried out the warning that led to these deaths. What does that say about me?

Peace be their paths, Rowten says, and we all echo the traditional saying for when someone dies. The path to An’awntia is the spiritual road everyone treads, though us savants are supposedly much further along.

I’m not so sure in my case.

When I look to Petén, I find him staring at the bodies as well, until he turns away and throws up in the grass. Somehow that makes me feel better, though I don’t think it has the same effect on our father, judging by his expression.

Father examines the dead men’s weapons. Aturnian, he says and lowers gracefully to one knee. His phantom melts away as he brings it back in. It’s a relief. Phantoms don’t usually scare me, not those of our realm, but this one’s different, more powerful, and so much better controlled than most. It’s merciless. If Father had continued training at the Sanctuary, he’d be a red-robe by now, and not very many savants ever reach that high level. I shudder at the thought.

Before mounting up, he turns to Rowten. Take the dogs and find their horses. Then call for the knacker to deal with this mess. In an easy motion, he’s back on the hunter, shaking his head as he turns to me. "You raise a warrior phantom, Marcus. When will you start acting like it?"

Heat rushes to my face, and Petén, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, chuckles. Any warmth I felt for my brother moments ago vanishes.

Ride with me, both of you, Father commands.

The road home is short and agonizing as we flank Father, one on either side.

Petén, if I catch the reek of alcohol on your breath again, I’ll take away your hunting privileges for so long, you’ll forget how to ride.

Yes, Father, he says quietly. Sorry.

My lips curl until Father turns to me.

Marcus, he says, his voice like a newly sharpened knife. "You know war is inevitable—if not now then certainly by the time you are meant to take the throne. Baiseen needs your warrior!"

It’s a subtle reminder of my failings. Yes, Father.

If you can’t master your phantom soon, you’ll lose your vote on the Council as well as your right to succeed me. His eyes narrow. You know this?

I do.

"Then why are you acting so bones-be-cursed weak?"

I couldn’t choke out an answer if I had one. Even Petén looks away. My eyes drop to Echo’s mane as it ripples down her neck. When I look up, Father’s face turns to stone. He cracks his reins over the hunter’s rump and gallops away.

Petén and I trot the horses back toward the palace. We crest a gentle rise to come out on the hill overlooking the expanse of Baiseen. The view takes in the high stone walls and gardens of the palace, the watchtowers and bright-green training field in the center of the Sanctuary, all the way down the terraced, tree-lined streets to the harbor and the white-capped emerald sea beyond. It’s beautiful, but no matter where I look, those three dead men seep back into my mind.

If they were spies, then war’s coming sooner than we thought. I ease Echo to a halt. But if they weren’t, we’ll have to—

We? Petén cuts me off. Keeping the peace when Father tempts war is your problem, little brother, not mine. He chuckles. If you make it to Aku in time, that is. His face cracks wide with a smile. This year’s your last chance, isn’t it?

I open my mouth to answer, but he’s already pushing past me, loping the rest of the way down to the stables.

Yes, it’s my last chance, the last training season on Aku before I turn eighteen. That’s when our High Savant, head of the Sanctuary, will hand me over to the black-robes if I haven’t held my phantom to form. It would mean no initiate journey. No chance to gain the rank of yellow-robe or higher. No future voice at the council. No Heir to the Throne of Baiseen.

No trained warrior to help protect my realm.

The weight on my shoulders grows heavier. I know my father. He’ll not let this incident with the spies go, and his actions may finally bring the northern realms down upon us. My thoughts lift back to those three nameless men. When I close my eyes, I can still see their shocked faces, hear bones cracking as their chests split open, smell the blood spattering the ground.

War draws near. And if our enemies are infiltrating our lands, I may already be too late.

2

Ash

The hall outside Master Brogal’s chambers is dead quiet, except for my growling stomach. It wants breakfast, or maybe it’s still queasy after the voyage back from Tangeen, but the High Savant’s request came at first light, delivered by phantom, no less. Come here, Ash. Do that, Ash. Ahh, the glorious life of a lowly scribe. I’m not complaining, not really; I love my work. My days are spent poring over books, reading old tomes, studying the histories of the realms and logging the events of our Sanctuary. I’ve spent years becoming a recorder.

I look down at my feet, which are bare, and frown. Bad morning to forget my boots. Especially with who is walking toward me.

There’s no way to avoid her, so I finger-comb my hair, trying to remember if I washed my face since docking before sunrise. At least I changed into a fresh dress, though nothing so plush as the girl’s who stops in front of me.

Ash?

I want to groan, but instead I respond with what I hope passes for polite interest. Good morning, Rhiannon. I lift my chin so I match her height.

Rhiannon, the treasurer’s daughter, with her fine lace and pearl buttons peeking from the hem and cuffs of her robe, pushes a long, strawberry-blond curl back from her brow. If her attire didn’t announce a high rank and standing, the attitude would.

She gives me an indulgent smile. You’re back.

Well, if we’re going to state the obvious… I am.

And just like that, we run out of things to say.

Even though we’ve attended classes together since we were little, there’s a world between us, for a variety of reasons, one being because Rhiannon is savant and…

You are not? My inner voice finishes the sentence for me.

Thanks.

This voice is part of me, popping up at times like a sibling might—sometimes snarky, sometimes mean, but always supportive when I really need it. Almost always, anyway. I thought at first it meant I had a phantom, but Master Brogal straightened that out right away. Phantoms use no voice until well after they are raised, he said. Then he waved me off, claiming the voice in my head was my way of compensating for not having a phantom.

I couldn’t look him in the eye for some time after that. It hurt so much.

Because I could have been savant. The Bone Thrower marked me as a potential and sent me to the Sanctuary to trial.

Sometimes the Bone Throwers get it wrong, Master Brogal often says—too often, in my opinion. I think he means it to be comforting, but it’s not. Nor does it help when he says savants are further along the path than ordinary folk. Most of the population is born non-savant, and happy enough, but to be honest, that’s not me. I try to convince myself he just means I’m progressing at my own pace, but such lofty rationale doesn’t always stick. Like now, for instance.

Rhiannon’s phantom, a fluffy little meerkat with tawny fur and a black mask, comes out from behind her robe. It sits up on its haunches and chirrups at me.

I click my tongue and wave a little hello.

Come here. Rhiannon pats her thigh, calling it back to her side. She doesn’t seem fond of how her phantom behaves around me, and I have to admit, it is odd, considering no one would mistake us for friends. But the head chef has a theory. She says that in other realms, non-savants who attract phantoms are called pets. I’ve not gotten up the nerve to ask Master Brogal about it. He’s not exactly welcoming of my questions.

All phantoms delight in you, my inner voice says, confirming the idea.

I don’t know about all, or even delight, exactly, but phantoms everywhere do seem to find me interesting. Still, it’s not the same as raising one of my own.

Why do you still long for what is beyond your path?

I don’t!

I think you do…

Rhiannon snaps her fingers in front of me, an irritated expression on her face. Did you not hear what I said?

Nope. Not a word. You? I wait a moment but all is silent. Leave it to my inner voice to choose this moment to go mute.

She huffs. Ash, I wanted to ask—

The heavy door to Master Brogal’s chambers creaks open, interrupting whatever Rhiannon might’ve said next. She glances up, pursing her lips. Goodbye, then.

With that, she spins and stalks away.

The tightness in my body relaxes as she disappears around the corner. I wonder what she wanted. Maybe she’s hoping to get close to Marcus again? Last time she tried to set me and him at odds, it didn’t work out so well for her. Later, she shamelessly pursued him, or was it the throne that attracted her so much? But when Marcus lost interest, Rhiannon blamed me. Of course, I wasn’t exactly supportive of the match…

Ash. Nun, Master Brogal’s assistant, looms over me, his sculpted face as unreadable as ever. He’s waiting.

I duck under Nun’s arm and he leaves, pulling the door shut behind me.

Inside, Master Brogal nods me toward a chair and keeps writing, his quill scratching the parchment in an elegant, unhurried script. He’s bent behind his desk and seems to have shrunk since I left for Tangeen. There’s more of his forehead revealed, golden tan contrasting his straight white hair that falls to his shoulders. Is it thinning? Surely, he hasn’t aged so much, but it is a rare chance that I have to study him this closely.

I sit opposite him and wait until he puts down the quill and sets his parchment aside to dry. I’d planned to broach a difficult topic on return, one close to my heart. My apprenticeship is coming to an end, and I want to further my studies, so I might become a wordsmith and take my place as a valued member of the Sanctuary. I’ve rehearsed my request—many times. But doubt floods in at the last second. Maybe this conversation can wait.

That’s what you said last time…

Um.

And the time before that.

My inner voice is good at keeping track.

Fine. I’ll do it!

Master Brogal temples his fingers and turns his expectant gaze to me. You found something in the Pandom City archives?

Yes, Master. I pull my satchel into my lap, ready to retrieve the manuscript. But first, can we discuss my advancement? I have a whole speech memorized. As an accomplished wordsmith—

He cuts me off. Yes, yes. We’ll deal with that later. What did you find?

I take a quick breath to recover. I’m disappointed—very disappointed—but I know better than to argue. The High Savant is not a patient man. I discovered a short children’s poem. Or maybe lyrics.

He brightens. Let’s hear it.

I’ve no idea why Master Brogal has me collecting references to the Mar, the mythical race purported to dwell beneath the sea. He doesn’t believe in them himself—most educated people don’t—but still, he’s instructed me to search for stories in every foreign archive I come across. Not that I mind. It’s fascinating reading, though I’d rather be talking about my future right now, not a fictional past.

Master Brogal taps the desk, waiting.

I locate the manuscript in my satchel and smooth it out flat. There are several references to the Mar and one to the sacrifices.

Child sacrifices?

Yes. My hands go clammy at the thought. And ships.

Black-sailed?

Just ships, seen from below. It’s all very oceanic. And something else. I’ve never heard of it before—a Crown of Bones. Shall I read?

He leans back in his chair and waves for me to carry on, but his mouth dips into a frown.

I translate, getting lost in the rhythm of the words, my eyes dancing with visions of Mar rising from deep-sea grottos, mysterious ships with barnacle-covered hulls, sunlight streaming through kelp gardens, whales singing in the night… I shiver as I come to the last passage.

The persevering sea harbors all things,

Cast adrift beyond sunlight and stone,

While waves queue offshore in glittering strings,

Out on the ebb tide goes our Crown of Bones…

He sits up fast. Don’t stop.

That’s all there is.

There must be more.

I found notes in the margin of the last page. I lean in to show him, and he snatches the manuscript out of my hands. I can’t translate those. Do you recognize the language?

He stares at the page, moving it closer and then farther away from his face. His eyes widen, but he says nothing.

Master?

Finally, he nods. It’s a Northern Tangeen dialect called Retreen.

Never heard of it.

It’s a dead language.

Someone’s using it, my inner voice says, which I promptly repeat.

His frown deepens. The notation is very old, the language no longer active.

But what does it say?

The High Savant runs his nail down the margin. Nothing of importance.

Please can I hear?

Very well. He huffs. Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers, twenty, and one bull. Piebalds, ten heifers, two with calf…

I blink. A livestock list? In a storybook?

Not everyone treats records with respect. He stands, his shimmering red robes sweeping the floor, sleeves falling to his gnarled fingertips. Anything else?

That’s all I found, Master, but about my role in the Sanctuary—

I have a class to teach. Bring me the delegate report as soon as possible. That will be all. He’s out the door in three strides, and I’m left staring at an empty desk.

My eyes start to well, and I exhale sharply, putting a stop to that. The chair scrapes the floor as I rise, shouldering my satchel. I had a good trip to Tangeen, Master, save for the crossing, I say to nobody. There’s little chance of me becoming a seafaring scribe anytime soon. How have you been? But it’s a conversation we’ll never have. Master Brogal may be my guardian, but he’s no father. Not a warmhearted one, anyway. I’ve known this about him since I was eight years old, but still I yearn for…something more. It’s foolish—I could kick myself—it’s so foolish. I know better than to wish for what I can’t have.

Taking a tie from my wrist, I secure my hair into a small puff of a ponytail. One side escapes and falls against my cheek as the High Savant’s words drift back through my mind.

Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers…

I stop cold. That can’t be right. Short-horn cattle are a newly recognized breed, crossed from Gollnar dairy stock and…something else? I don’t remember, but the point is, the script in the margin can’t be that old if he’s translating correctly.

And if he’s not translating correctly?

The chill deepens. Master Brogal wouldn’t make that mistake unless he had something to hide. But what?

I reach across his desk to inch the manuscript toward me just as Nun comes through the door.

You’re still here, Ash?

I jump at his voice and turn to face him. Just leaving. The words come out too fast and with too hot a face.

Well then, shall we both be about our day? He tucks the manuscript into a drawer and shoos me from the room.

Back in the hallway, my thoughts spin. What could possibly be written in the margin of a children’s poem that would make the High Savant lie?

What indeed.

3

Marcus

I’d rather be anywhere than here. I sit on my heels in the center of the training field, waiting for Master Brogal to call for warrior phantoms to rise. I need to stay focused, though my eyes drift to the sidelines, searching for Ash. She’s my very best friend, home to me in ways impossible to explain. I crave her smiling approval and unwavering support, especially during these sessions on the field.

She’s been there through all my years of instruction, sitting cross-legged in the bleachers or cheering in front of the colorful flags that line the entrance to the training field. Each banner represents a savant’s robe color: brown like the earth, for the potentials who come in hopes of raising their phantoms. Then comes blue for young students who stay on and actually manage to raise their phantoms. Green, like me, for those graduating to the next level. Yellow for the successful initiates who’ve made the journey and returned from Aku. Orange for the upper echelons of mastery. And red for the High Savant who leads us all.

Actually, not all. The black-robed Bone Throwers are a clan unto themselves. They follow their own rules and traditions.

I keep scanning, but I can’t spot Ash among the many savants jostling for a better view of the class. Where is she? Maybe not yet back from Tangeen? Did I get the days wrong?

Meanwhile, she hasn’t missed much. Each training session comes and goes the same—with me failing. Soon the last one will arrive, and then it’ll be too late. I’ll have missed my chance to train at Aku and advance to yellow-robe. Everything hinges on that. Because if war is imminent…

I believe battles can be won with diplomacy. Father disagrees.

My head begins to ache.

"Callers, ready! Master Brogal shouts. His red robes flare when he reaches the end of the line and turns to walk back. Raise your phantoms!"

Up they come, the most numerous class of phantom in the realm, tearing out of the earth, dirt flying. My good friend Larseen, a yellow-robe with brown skin and a tangle of ropey hair, laughs as his jackal bursts from the ground alongside Rhiannon’s meerkat. Then comes Cybil’s cormorant, a caller-alter mix. Dual classes of phantoms are not uncommon, but one will always be dominant. In this case, Cybil’s is mostly caller.

Brogal moves on down the line, waving for the students to raise their phantoms. Most callers look like ordinary creatures found in any of Amassia’s realms, save for how some wisp away at the ears, tails, and wingtips, like sparks flying off a grinder or smoke from a chimney.

Farther along, more callers rise. A horse, mountain goat, even some human shapes, anything with a voice to call. Ash says they sound like a fine choir; I’m more interested in how well they perform, being our realm’s main defense—especially given Father’s proclivity to incite war. But none of these callers come close to the feats of the Magistrate and his heart-eating wolf. How did my father master it? I can’t even hold mine to form.

Someday, it will choose a form, and then we’ll celebrate, Ash says to me all the time.

Well, that someday needs to arrive before the next new moon.

Today would be preferable.

Cold sweat runs down my temple. I can’t be a black-robe, I plead to my phantom, mind to mind, but it’s like talking to a stump. "You think you’ll be happier with the Bone Throwers?"

Joining the ranks of the black-robed Bone Throwers is my only path if I can’t hold my phantom to form. It’s supposed to be a sign, but I know in my heart that’s not what I’m meant to be. But still, better a black-robe than a non-savant with no phantom at all. Ash says that, too, and she’s one to know. But then, she didn’t have a black-robe sentence her brother to death like I did. The thought makes my stomach knot. If my relationship with my father is strained now, I can only imagine where we’ll be if I become what he despises most.

My mind locks onto this worst possible outcome, trying to imagine what students go through in the Bone Throwers’ caves. Carving and playing whistle bones, obviously, but they never talk about it. Black-robes keep to themselves unless asked to throw the bones. They predict the times for planting, harvest, hunting, or war. They determine the fate of the children in all the realms of Amassia. And if that sounds ominous, it’s because it is.

The throw of the bones finds most children to be non-savant. They carry on, life as usual. If the cast says they might be savant and could raise a phantom, everyone applauds and, when they turn eight years old, it’s off to the Sanctuary for them. But if the bones say they are marred, damaged in some way, the infant is sacrificed to the sea.

Chills wrap around me at the thought.

I couldn’t even bring myself to shoot enemy spies—how could I possibly condemn an innocent baby to death?

Thankfully, Father’s outlawed the practice in our realm of Palrio; it’s the one mandate of his I support. But none of the other realms have followed his example. That’s where I would start my campaign for change and cooperation among the realms. Discussions, more diplomacy.

Marcus! Brogal shouts, pointing at the ground cracking in front of me. Focus.

What are you doing? Stay put! I command my phantom.

Of course, there is no answer, but the ground does smooth out.

Brogal works his way down the line, signaling each savant to call a chosen object—in this case, a baton. As I search again for Ash, objects fly through the air at a fair speed. The savants catch and throw again. Even the young blue-robes are close to mastering this game.

Cybil! Brogal shouts when the green-robe’s phantom calls a teapot from the distant kitchen.

She must be thinking of refreshments more than the baton. Her chanting stops short and the teapot drops, shattering on the ground.

Watching the liquid soak into the grass pulls my mind back again to the meadow last week and what my father must have visualized for his phantom to have called those men’s hearts. Death came so easily for him.

Clean it up, Cybil, and go again, Brogal says as he moves down the line.

Next come the alter phantoms. Alters are capable of changing shape once held to solid form. There are two alter savants on the field today, Branden, an advanced orange-robe with a pure alter, and his younger brother, Samsen, yellow-robe and another of my close friends. Samsen raises a mixed alter-caller, emphasis on the alter, but strong with both abilities. Very handy.

The brothers’ pale hair and even paler skin glint in the sun as they drop to their knees. Up from the ground their phantoms rise in the shape of hawks, morphing instantly into various other birds without losing a feather. When taking the perspective of their phantoms, they can see for miles and miles.

"Healers," Master Brogal calls as he strides farther down the line. These phantoms are devoted to the care and well-being of all Amassians no matter the realm or rank. Their phantoms rise, including Piper’s double-headed black snake. She’s an orange-robe instructor here to help with the less experienced students. Once her phantom drapes in its customary place around her neck, blending in with her dark-brown skin, it peeks both heads out from her curtain of braids. Samsen can’t take his eyes off her. He never could.

Master Brogal doesn’t call for ousters because there are none in Baiseen. Ousters are found mostly in the Aturnias. On the battlefield, well-trained ousters are devastating—blasting through defenses, throwing weapons out of hands with an invisible wind. It’s said that the Sierrak realm’s red-robe, Tann, raises the greatest ouster of them all, able to peel flesh from bone from half a mile away. Sounds farfetched to me. Maybe I’ll find out when I get to Aku, though I hear Northern Aturnians aren’t welcome there for training anymore.

That’s saying a lot, because no one has ever been banned from Aku.

Brogal whistles sharply to grab my attention. "Warriors!"

I don’t know why he uses the plural when mine’s the only one. Warrior phantoms are virtually unheard of in Palrio, or Tangeen for that matter, making my phantom and me a boon—or would-be boon, if I could control the damn thing.

I’m the Heir to the throne of Baiseen and I raise the only warrior in a realm on the cusp of war. A warrior I can’t use. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I straighten my faded green robes, and the entire class moves back. They’ve learned from experience not to get too close.

To me. I call up my phantom. This is the easy part of the exercise, calling it up or back down. What happens in between, well, that’s another matter entirely…

Instantly, it drops from my inner depths into the ground, where it gathers substance; then it explodes upward from the earth. I slam my eyes shut as a wall of dirt and grass hits my face, no doubt intentionally. I spit soil and squint, my eyes opening to a familiar sight. My phantom, huge and unformed, undulates like a sea of lights, better than thrice the height of a man, constantly shifting from various warrior shapes. One moment it’s a bear with horrendous teeth and claws, the next a rhino that has everyone ducking for cover. Then it sprouts a giant’s fist, swinging and pounding, and finally, it morphs into a lion, claws raking.

Useless, nebulous forms. Curse of the black-robes! Pick a shape.

It does nothing of the sort. Each form bursts into the next until it’s a blur of transparent, fragmenting figures, completely out of control.

Marcus! Piper shouts as she darts out of the way, her snake tightening its hold around her neck to keep from flying off. Watch what you’re doing!

"I’m trying," I mutter.

Smaller, Marcus, Brogal says in a quiet voice. He’s beside me now. Feel for the true shape it wants to take and steady your eye there.

It’s like trying to track a speck of dust in a tornado. My fists tighten. I can’t do it!

Brogal shakes his head. Call it in.

I focus my mind and draw the phantom down into the ground, where it tucks back into the depths of my being, no doubt sulking.

Brogal motions the entire class in close, where we sit in a semicircle around him. What happened there?

Oh great, a public inventory of my shortcomings. Now I want to sulk. I lost control, Master Brogal. No point hiding the fact.

To lose control, one must have it in the first place, Marcus.

I keep my expression attentive, but inside, my guts twist.

Master Brogal looks over my head to address the others. "In the potentials’ trials, Marcus showed great promise with his warrior, raising it on the first day. A blessing to the realm when fewer and fewer brown-robes succeed at all, let alone raise this class of phantom. The High Savant’s cheek twitches when his dark gaze comes back to me. But training cannot progress until the phantom is held to solid form."

I know. I’m sure everyone else here does, too.

Let’s review. Brogal speaks to us all. "Who can tell me