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Crown of Bones
by A.K. Wilder

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.

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.