Beyond the Prophecy (35 page)

from

Dual
Magics
Book 4

War of Magic

Coming in 2016

Chapter 1: Repercussions

Vatar ambled across the main market square of Caere, not
really looking at any of the wares being offered for sale. In his mind, he was
already bending the gold and silver wire he’d just purchased at his guildhall
into a gift for Thekila. He’d spent days perfecting the complicated woven
knot—meant to symbolize their bond—in cheaper copper.

Maybe he’d give that first version to his daughter, Savara,
for her sixth birthday next summer. It could as easily represent the twin bond
that was developing between her and her brother, Zavar. He knew what kind of
gift Zavar would ask for, but six was too young for edged weapons. And Zavar
wouldn’t take to jewelry of any kind. And yet the gifts had to balance. Hmm.
He’d have to talk to Thekila about that. Perhaps something promissory, like a
hilt for the—unsharpened—short knife Zavar could have in a few years, worked
with the same pattern. Vatar could fit a wooden blade in the hilt for now.

The image of the half-planned work shattered at the sound of
a panicked scream nearby. Vatar stopped and turned in the direction of the cry.
All he saw was a wall of bodies, mostly young men. One of them drew back a foot
to kick the object of their ire, producing a pained grunt. The attackers were
journeymen, by the look of them. Thankfully, not from the Smiths’ Guild, or
they’d have more muscle. But journeymen of any guild shouldn’t be harassing
people on the streets like common thugs.

Whoever had screamed was between the journeymen and the
wall—and that person was terrified. Vatar stalked toward them, keeping his
footfalls as silent as if he were hunting through the grasses of the plains
rather than pacing across cobblestones. He placed his hands on the shoulders of
the two nearest journeymen and tossed them out of his way, revealing a huddled
figure—in blue and green robes. The journeymen had attacked a Fasallon!

Vatar lunged forward and turned, putting the Fasallon at his
back. “What is the meaning of this?”

“No business of yours.” The largest of the journeymen
sneered, flexing blue-tinged hands. Not all of that blue was bruised knuckles,
either.

Vatar stretched his shoulders, allowing the muscles built in
years of working iron and steel to show. “I am Master Vatar of the Smiths’
Guild.” Vatar was gratified to see some of the other journeymen back up a step
at that. He gestured behind him. “And this is the business of any guild.
Journeymen cannot be allowed to attack citizens on the street.”

The leader tossed his head up defiantly. “He’s no citizen.
He’s one of those lying, thieving Fasallon.”

Vatar sucked in a breath. When he’d revealed the Lie the
Fasallon had perpetrated for six hundred years to his own guild master, he’d
never expected it to remain a complete secret, but he hadn’t expected it to
become common knowledge, either. Naïve. He might never have paid much attention
to the way information flowed in Caere, but he knew well enough how it would
work among the Dardani. Faced with a similar situation, Pa would tell the other
chiefs—just as the Smiths’ Guild Master would tell the other guild
masters—because he would consider it their right to know. One or more would
tell their life mates (wives, here in Caere). At Zeda it would be the waterhole
where women gathered to exchange gossip; here, it would be the marketplace. The
story would lose—and gain—elements as it was retold, but it would spread from
there.

Vatar’s eyes narrowed as he stared down the leader. “That is
a matter for your guild master. Not you. I will make sure that he knows about
this.”

The leader smirked. “You don’t even know what guild we
belong to.”

Vatar’s smile was hostile. “I can see the blue dye on your
hands. I’m going to make a wild guess and say the Weavers’ Guild.”

The others backed away and turned to flee. Only the leader
was left and he made a very unwise lunge toward the Fasallon. Vatar shoved him
back. The journeyman swung at Vatar, who dodged easily and then punched the
other man, but not with all the force at his command. Right now, he only needed
to drive the others off, not defeat them utterly.

The journeyman put one hand up to stop the blood streaming
from his nose. “They’ve lied to us and taken our tribute. Stolen it.”

“Lied, yes. Stolen, no. Part of that tribute pays for
services like the Healers. Even now, after what you’ve done, you can go to the
Healer’s Hall and someone will fix that broken nose for you. It doesn’t make
the Lie right. But this is not the answer. Now go before I have to do worse
than break your nose.”

The other man glared at Vatar for a moment before stumbling
off after his friends.

Vatar turned to the Fasallon, who had struggled up to lean
against the wall during the confrontation. More shaken up than really hurt,
Vatar judged, though there was a nasty bruise starting on one cheek and he
moved as if his ribs hurt. “You need to get to the Healers, too. But first . .
.” Vatar led the other man into a quieter street. Then he pulled the torn blue
and green Fasallon robes off the other man’s shoulders and tossed it into a
corner. Underneath, the man wore unremarkable tunic and trousers. “You’ll be
better off without this until you get back inside the Temple. Keep your eyes
down—not like your cowering, more like you’re deep in thought.” The grey eyes
would be a giveaway to anyone who knew much about the Fasallon. “Then no one
will guess that you’re Fasallon. It’s not far. You should be safe enough.”

The man looked up at him. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

Vatar shook his head. “No. I need to go talk to my guild
master. This kind of thing needs to be stopped.”

“I . . . I thought you were Fasallon. You’re eyes. . .”

Vatar nodded. “Half. But I’ve never been part of the
Temple.”

The man’s eyes widened. “High Councilor Veleus’s son?”

So information flowed within the Fasallon community just as it
did everywhere else. He really shouldn’t be surprised. Vatar shrugged. “Yes. If
it matters. You’d better get going before they come back.” He turned on his
heel and started back for the Smiths’ Guild Hall.

~

Two days later, Vatar strode down the road that would take
him from his home to the Temple Gate and then on to the guildhall. Usually, he
rode down the hill to the city, but today he wanted the time to think. He’d set
the wolves in the midst of the herd when he told his Guild Master that the
Fasallon had never been the Caereans’ Sea Gods—or descended from them. He’d
believed it was necessary. And he still did. But it had certainly not
simplified the issues that beset the city that had become his second home.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised at the shock and
anger of the Guild Masters. Or that the knowledge had spread so far. There
wasn’t anything he could do about that now, though. Now, the question was how
to keep things from getting still worse. Despite all their power, the guilds
simply weren’t prepared to take over all governance of Caere. Not yet, anyway.
They needed to find a way to work with the Fasallon and simultaneously move
forward in a better, more honest way.

Vatar would be a lot happier if he could see the way to
accomplish that. Maybe he could have, if he just knew the other Guild Masters
better.

He scowled at the tickle of Far Speech that interrupted his
thoughts—not that his thoughts had been doing more than going in circles
anyway. He almost didn’t respond. Wouldn’t have, likely, if it had been almost
anyone else.
“Father?”

“I’ve been asked to extend
an
.
. . invitation for you to appear before the High Council.”

Vatar could hear the tension in his father’s voice. This was
not an invitation that could safely be refused. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t
been expecting something like this, either. With a sigh, he answered,
“When?”

“Now.”

Vatar shook his head, even though he knew Father couldn’t
see it.
“Not possible. I’m on my way to meet with the Guild Council.”

“This is important, Vatar.”

“I got that. But so is the Guild Council.”
Vatar drew
in a deep breath before deciding to plunge on.
“And, of the two councils,
the Guild Council is the only one really trying to manage any of the problems
in Caere right now.”
He bit down lightly on his tongue. That hadn’t been a
very kind thing to say to his father, however frustrated Vatar might feel.

Father sighed.
“I know. But the High Council will not be
as . . . civilized with their next summons if you refuse this one.”

Vatar blew out a breath and then drew in another, slowly,
trying for calm.
“All right. I’ll let you know as soon as the Guild Council
ends. That’s the best I can do.”

“Did you really reveal the Lie to the guilds?”
Father
sounded frightened.

The thought of facing the High Council on this issue made
Vatar’s stomach churn, too. But he’d accepted that when he’d made the decision.
“Yes. But only to the guild masters. It was time they knew. It’s going to
make things difficult for a while, I know, but it was impossible to move
forward otherwise. You and Cestus have been trying for almost two years with no
results. In the end, honesty is the only way.”

“The High Council will not be pleased.”

That was an understatement.
“I never expected that they
would.”

Vatar picked up his pace as he let the contact go. This
looked like being a very long day. And no chance to hammer a little iron to
work out the frustrations of just rehashing what everyone already knew anyway.

~

Vatar followed the Smiths’ Guild Master through the
corridors of the Merchants’ Guildhall to the meeting room. He hadn’t been
inside the Merchants’ Guildhall before, but he understood why the Guild Council
rotated its meeting sites. It prevented any one guild from putting itself above
the others.

The Merchants’ meeting hall was almost indistinguishable
from the one in the Smiths’ Guildhall—a large, windowless room lit by oil
lamps. The table was a little more ornate and so were the chairs—all but the
extra one that had been brought in for him, which didn’t match the others. It
wasn’t usual for the Guild Masters to bring guests to their meetings, but Vatar
was a special case.

“So, there are no Sea Gods,” the Fishermen’s Guild Master
said before Vatar had even settled into his seat.

Vatar huffed. Every meeting seemed to start the same way, as
if the answer would change. “I never said that. I don’t actually know the
answer.” He paused. He could understand why a man whose livelihood depended on
the sea would be the most upset by the Lie. Perhaps there was a little more he
could tell them than what he’d said at every other meeting. “My people—the
Dardani—believe in Spirits. I
know
they’re real. Not just as a matter of
faith. I’ve had proof of the Spirits of the Lion and the Eagle more than once.
And their help. I’m perfectly ready to believe that there are Spirits of the
sea, too—what you might call Sea Gods. I only know that the Fasallon are not
such Spirits—and never were. Maybe . . . maybe now that you’re freed to look
for them elsewhere, they’ll reveal themselves to you the way our totem Spirits
do to the Dardani. Maybe.”

The Fishermen’s Guild Master sat back, looking thoughtful.

“Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?” The Weavers’
Guild Master asked.

“Before I knew about the Lie, I’d already given my honor
pledge not to interfere with the High Council in return for their promise that
my family would be safe from them. I couldn’t violate that oath. Not until
after they’d failed to keep theirs. And then . . . well, at first I didn’t see
what good it would do. Caere—and the other cities—were thriving under the
Fasallon. At least, until recently. Now I see that the Fasallon are so wrapped
up in the Lie—trapped by it—that they can’t see past it to deal with the city’s
more immediate problems. The only way forward is to get beyond the Lie.”

“I’d have liked to know about this before we paid our
tributes at the Festival. Why didn’t you tell us then?” The Merchants’ Guild
Master asked.

Vatar shrugged. “I wasn’t here before the Festival. I had joined
Arcas’s survey party, looking for the best course for a road between here and
Tysoe.” That was true enough. He had joined Arcas several days before the
Festival, though he wasn’t with him that day. There was no need to confuse
matters by describing how he had been captured and held prisoner in Kausalya.
Far less, how he’d used magic to escape his prison.

“Well, it seems to me that Cestus or Veleus could have told
us,” the Fishermen’s Guild Master grumbled. “They met with us about the last
Festival and never said a word about this.”

Vatar leaned forward. It was very important that these men
understand this. “They couldn’t have. They—and their families—live within the
Fasallon compound, bound by the Fasallon laws. Among the Fasallon, that is . .
. was . . . considered one of their greatest offenses. Either of them would
have faced severe punishments if they’d said anything. Their families would
have suffered for it, too. I gather the High Council was . . . irritated with
Veleus as it was.”

The Smiths’ Guild Master laid a hand on Vatar’s shoulder.
“Will you be in any danger for telling us?”

Vatar drew in a breath and let it out. “Probably not. I
don’t know yet. The fact is, I’ve been summoned before the High Council
directly after this meeting.”

“Well, they’ve no authority to punish one of my guild
members,” The Smiths’ Guild Master said. “Do you need any help?”

Vatar smiled. He’d defeated the High Council once before. He
was almost certain he could do it again. Almost. “I don’t think so. But if I
do, I’ll have Thekila contact you.”

“How will she know?” the Weavers’ Guild Master asked.