Crown of Bones (Amassia, #1)

by A.K. Wilder

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…

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.

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…

What could possibly be written in the margin of a children’s poem that would make the High Savant lie? “What indeed.”

But if the bones say they are marred, damaged in some way, the infant is sacrificed to the sea.

“Who can tell me what the phantom is?” Branden raises his hand. “The hidden power of the savant.” Brogal nods. “Anyone else?” “What we are yet to become along the path,” Larseen says. “That which lies in the depths of being,” Samsen adds.

Remember to keep the company’s number to five. In spite of autumn chill, optimism wins out. When in doubt, go north. A sword brings truth and deception. Do not raise your phantom until safe on Aku. Surprise comes from the sea. Don’t resist it. The Heir will not be stopped. Out of Aku, the warriors triumph, and the southern realms are changed forever.

And philosophically debating a practice is not the same as standing idly by and condoning it—

Just look at me—under Teern’s constant eye, tasked with saving all the marred children tossed into the sea and rushing them to the nearest Ma’ata grove. Granted, bringing new little brothers and sisters to life in the sea is rewarding. But it’s been years now, and I could be doing endlessly more entertaining things with my time.

Stupid, idiot landers. Throwing away a perfectly good child. But then, if they abandon the practice completely, what happens to us? It would be much easier if they handed them straight over and—

I’ve already been following the new passengers on the Sea Eagle since they left Baiseen. The young Heir especially catches my eye. All Mar know the leaders of the realms by sight, but Marcus Adicio…he’s a sight for hungry eyes.

A lot of things fall under the definition of bliss—the sunset currents streaming around the isles of Tutapa, bioluminescence under the full moon, the taste of oysters fresh from the rocks, battle with a just cause…

“How in all of Amassia did we end up riding through Aturnia together?” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “As I recall, we were docked in Toretta, loading apples on a carrack, when a lovely lass bartered for passage to Aku…” “And then one thing led to another,” she says with a half smile. My body stills. She says this as if she heard my earlier thoughts. But that’s just coincidence…right?

We’ve come out on the north branch, which I hear Kaylin say is a good thing. But b’lark the bones, I don’t see his mouth move. Has he said it aloud or am I delirious? Imagining things? “Imagination is a resource,” my inner voice observes.

I think Kaylin is more surprised than me, if that’s possible. His usual cockiness is gone, replaced by a bewildered gaze. His hands still rest on my hips. How did they get there?

“Can’t it? Mouse pinned under the sun leopard’s paw back on the headland? Agahpa’s savant on an obstacle course? Bird’s-eye view of the Isle? And now the boy magistrate and his wolf? Not to mention De’ral…” It’s a lot of mounting evidence, but it’s also inexplicable, as far as I know. I wouldn’t ever presume to broach the topic with a savant except Marcus, and he will need all of his focus to make it through the trials.

I study the medallion to keep from staring after him. He always wears it, as far as I recall, in or out of the water. Odd that it’s in my hands now. I rub my thumb across the surface. The copper, tinged green, is shaped like a trident and etched very finely. I’ve seen the image somewhere before but can’t place it. I must remember to ask.

“What is he, a f’qadin fish?”

“You can tell Father I have it under control.” I keep my mental voice calm, but it’s not easy. She snorts. “Then you’re the worst assassin in the history of the profession.” “What makes you say that?” “Oh, I don’t know. The Heir and his party are still alive?”

I think I’m still in shock. From the moment I left Baiseen, nothing has gone to plan, and now that one thing has, I can’t let it in. If only I were further along the path, I’d be able to appreciate this experience of accomplishment. But I skip over it, too focused on what comes next. And next beyond that. Time is not on my side. I have to show more than potential now. I have to succeed.

So…it was me? “It was you,” my inner voice confirms. I grip the sides of the writing board until my knuckles turn white. “It was me,” I whisper the words again. “We’ve established that…” True. But it’s a long time before I can settle back into my work.

The first whistle bone’s disappearance is yet another thing to add to our growing list of oddities: the tapping, the warnings about the Dark Sun, the next Great Dying, Yuki purportedly sending out five messengers when we arrived, not the usual one, then pretending Destan is from Southern Aturnia when we all know he’s from the banned North, the seemingly unified Aturnian and Gollnarian troops…

“It’s a phantom, by the way, the shadowy, tap-tap thing you are after.” “Who does it belong to?” “I’m supposed to do all the work? Find out for yourself.”

It’s no disrespect to Ash, but a second sun bringing mass devastation? Next thing she’ll tell me Mar are real.

As we creep forward, I hum my favorite battle tune to myself. She gives a nervous laugh. “The world’s in ruin and you’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

Be ready to turn hard…I squint. “Left, isn’t it?” “Aye, lass.” There is no question that he heard that one. I file the information away for later, when we’re not in immediate danger of being killed by an enormous enemy fleet.

I fix my eyes on her as a single thought reverberates through my mind. Mar… Mar… Mar… There is nothing else that explains her, this living, breathing vision from legends and myths. She balances effortlessly on the narrow rail, her long toes gripping tight, water sluicing off her body. All that creamy white skin and wavy, coppery gold hair falling down to her thighs.

If I believed in the old gods, I’d be on my knees praying. Pity they are no longer among us.

“But you’re one to call him lad. He must be your age, or even your senior.” I pinch his waist. “How old are you?” He pats my thigh. “Old enough.”

“He belongs not on the Phantom Throne!” My inner voice is an explosion inside my head that shakes the center of my being.

Impossible! What I saw in the throne room… It can’t be. Not after all these years. Yet there is no denying it. Ash’s bound phantom could break free any moment. I must act fast. But how? For a brief instant I’m tempted, like a moth to flame, to let it rise, to watch it burn the enemy to dust. But I know the destruction this anathema is capable of. It is why I bound it in the first place. Some phantoms are too raw, too insatiable in their need for bloodshed. I cannot risk Ash destroying as many innocents as enemies.