The Voice of Prophecy (Dual Magics Book 2) (35 page)

Chapter 4: Concessions

Vatar finished checking the loads on the pack horses and
nodded to Arcas. They were ready to leave as soon as their escort joined them.

Arcas looked over at the three young Dardani riding out to
meet them. “Good idea about bringing some extra protection along.”

Vatar shrugged. “Officially, they’re coming to help us move
the herds, since three of us have to be encumbered with children. Of course,
that doesn’t mean that they’d stand by if we were attacked again.”

“What are you paying them?” Arcas asked.

Vatar looked back toward their Dardani helpers. “I’ve
promised each of them a new knife, good Caerean steel, and etched with the clan
symbol.”

Arcas laughed. “Which also happens to be your master’s mark,
which you put on all your knives.”

Vatar grinned. “Well, yes. But they won’t treasure the
blades any the less for that.” He set about seeing that his family was mounted
and ready to go. He lifted Thekila and little Jadar up to her saddle. Hard for
her to mount and hold the baby, after all. Besides, he liked the feel of her as
he lifted her up. Then he turned to Theklan. The boy was still fussing with his
saddle. “Mount up, Theklan. We’re about ready to leave.”

Theklan turned to face him, chewing his lower lip. “It looks
like you’ve got enough help to tend the herd. You don’t really need me. I
thought . . . I thought maybe I could stay here. Not go back to Caere.”

“You’re coming back with us and continuing your education.
You’ve fallen behind while you’ve been here,” Thekila said.

“I’ve learned other things, though,” Theklan said.

Vatar didn’t need to turn around to see Thekila’s lips thin
to a flat line. He could feel her annoyance and disapproval through their bond.
“Theklan, I know you had a couple of bad experiences in Caere last winter and
the year before, but things won’t be the same this year. The High Council has
much more to worry about than us, for one thing. For another, Gerusa’s gone.

Theklan’s expression turned sullen. “I
like
it here.”

Vatar shook his head. “Trust me, you won’t like it out here
nearly so well when the snow is so deep you can barely walk, let alone ride.
There’s not so much for an active boy to do, then. You’d far better spend your
winter in Caere, learning the things your sister and the Temple School can
teach you. We’ll be back here next summer. Likely for a longer stay.” He blew
out his breath. “And we do need you. Zavar will be riding with you—so you’d
better have learned to ride well.”

“But—”

Vatar could feel Thekila’s irritation growing and spilling
over to him. “Mount up or I’ll put you in your saddle.”

Theklan reluctantly swung up into his saddle and Vatar
handed Zavar up to sit in front of the adolescent boy. “Take good care of him.
I’m counting on you.”

Theklan heaved a sigh and tightened his grip around the
little boy. “I won’t let anything happen to him. You know that.”

Vatar slapped Theklan’s leg. “I do.”

~

They’d been back in Caere for just long enough for their
Dardani escort to start back for Zeda when Vatar looked up from his forge at
the barking of the dogs. He smiled when he recognized his father on the other
side of the gate. He set the blade he’d started aside and banked the fire. By
the time he left his forge, Father was already sitting on the bench under the
apple tree with Savara on his lap and Zavar standing on the bench beside him,
both babbling happily about their trip out to Zeda.

“And Papa brought back ponies, just for us. Next year, we’ll
be able to ride out to Zeda all by ourselves,” Zavar proclaimed proudly.

Vatar ruffled his son’s hair. “We’ll see about that. But
I’ll certainly teach you to ride on your own this winter.” He looked up at the
older man. “Welcome, Father. I didn’t expect you to come out here so soon.”

Father smiled and put the twins back down. “Well, I can’t
let my own grandchildren forget me, now can I?” When the twins had run off to
play with the dogs, he added. “Besides, I need to talk to you, Vatar.”

Vatar stifled a sigh. He expected this would be a renewed
attempt to persuade him to participate in the Festival. Still, it was good to
see Father again. “Come inside. I’m sure we can find some cider to make talking
easier.”

“Good idea.”

Inside, Thekila and Arcas’s wife, Elaria, had already set
out a pitcher of cider and a platter of nut bread and fruit. Father gestured
for them all to sit at the big table in the front room. Only Elaria, still a
little overawed by the Fasallon in her midst, shook her head and retreated to
the kitchen. Theklan tentatively took a seat near the middle of the table, as
if uncertain whether he was welcome in the grown-ups’ discussion and looked
mildly surprised when no one told him to go outside and keep an eye on the
twins.

Vatar placed himself by the window, with Thekila at his
side, where he could watch the twins from inside. Though he didn’t think there
was a chance that Copper, the female herd dog now retired from other duties,
would let them get into any kind of trouble. Not without loudly sounding the
alarm, anyway.

Father cleared his throat. “I have to ask you to reconsider
assisting with this year’s Festival, Vatar.”

Vatar let out his breath. “Father, I just don’t feel right
about that—”

Father raised his hand. “Hear me out. There’s already some .
. . restlessness in the city. First the disruptions of Cestus’s revolution—even
though we’ve tried to keep most of that from affecting the city. Then the
Festival was delayed when Gerusa escaped. Rumors are starting that the Sea Gods
have abandoned Caere. The shortages in the markets haven’t helped.

“But that’s nothing to what’s coming. So far the shortages
have only been inconveniences. Kausalya has raised prices on their grains.
Within the last couple of seven days they’ve also set limits on their exports.
The timing . . . Well, I see Gerusa’s spiteful hand in it, striking back in any
way she can. We grow next to none of our own grain here. This winter, there may
be no grain to be had. And without grain, there’ll be no bread.”

Arcas rubbed his chin. “I thought they were growing a
surplus of grain in Tysoe this year.”

Father grimaced. “They are. But we can’t get it here.
Kausalya has placed either embargoes or ruinous tariffs on most of the goods
shipped from Tysoe.”

Arcas glanced out the window, past Vatar’s shoulder. “Sounds
like it’s time to start thinking about another way to transport goods to and
from Tysoe, then. I talked with Orleus a little about the possibility of a
road.”

“Is that even possible?” Father asked.

Arcas shrugged. “Orleus has ridden across country to or from
Tysoe at least three times that I know of. And not by the same route.”

“The first time I came to Caere, we came straight from the
Gna River, beyond Tysoe,” Vatar said. “Of course, that was with pack horses,
not wagons.”

Arcas frowned. “True. It would take some time to build a
road suitable for wagons. And there’s a limit to how much even a train of pack
horses can carry over that distance.”

“You’d need to get the Dardani to agree to allow it, too,”
Vatar said. “It would have to pass through Dardani lands.”

Arcas nodded. “So it would.” He grinned. “For
this
winter,
though . . . well, I’d be surprised if some of my colleagues in the Merchants’
Guild haven’t already started to find ways around Kausalya. There’s more than
one channel through that river delta.”

Father smiled. “A good thought.” He sighed. “You two have
presented some very good ideas. I dare to hope that you’ll come up with more,
given the chance. But it’s already late in the season. There will still be
shortages—and not just of food. The Smiths’ Guild gets most of the charcoal for
your forges and smelters from Tysoe, too.

“Unfortunately, that’s still only a small part of the whole
problem. While you’ve been on the plains, there have been many, mostly small tremors
here in Caere. With that, and the delay in the Festival and the shortages, the
people are on edge. Right now, they need faith that their Sea Gods will protect
them.”

“But you
aren’t
their Sea Gods,” Vatar objected. He’d
never been comfortable with the idea of the Lie—that his ancestors on his
father’s side had used their magic to pretend to be the Caereans’ Sea Gods and
so become rulers of that city and eventually all the others along the coast.

“No, we aren’t,” Father agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that
their Sea Gods aren’t real. You’ve given ample proof that your Spirits of the
Lion and Eagle are. Why not the Sea Gods, too?”

Vatar shifted uneasily. “For all I know, they are. But—”

Just then, the sturdy farmhouse shook, doors and windows
rattling as the earth shifted underneath it. Vatar braced his hands on the
table, eyes going wide in surprise. He turned to look out the window, and
breathed out to see Zavar and Savara continuing their game as though nothing
had happened.

“Tremors just like that,” Father said.

Thekila watched the lamp above the table swing. “Are
earthquakes common here in Caere? I don’t remember any last year.”

Father sighed. “There haven’t been any in a long time—so
long hardly anyone actually remembers them. There are, of course, records in
the archives. From what we can tell from those records, there seem to be long
periods without any, punctuated by shorter periods of movement. Unfortunately,
the average length of those more active periods is still several months.” He
looked across at Vatar. “When times are hard, people need their faith most of
all, to give them hope. Is it honorable to deny them that?”

Vatar squirmed.

“With Gerusa gone, we’ll never pull off the Festival—unless
you help,” Father said. “You need not lie—directly, anyway. You won’t be one of
those portraying the Sea Gods. That’s always left to the members of the
Council, except for the Healer acting as Calpe.”

Vatar winced. Honor was everything to a Dardani—and he would
always be a Dardani first, at heart. But, put that way, it looked like neither
course was entirely honorable. So, which was right?

Thekila laid a hand on his arm. She couldn’t sense his
thoughts through their bond unless he chose to share them, but she could hardly
miss feeling his confusion, now. “Life isn’t always as simple as the Dardani
try to make it—clean, simple lines between good and bad, right and wrong.
Sometimes, you have to make the better of two bad choices, Vatar.”

He turned to her, placing his hand over hers. “So which is
right, now?”

Thekila looked down into her mug of cider, swirling it
around. “It’s always better to help other people. The Caereans aren’t hurt by
the Lie. Or no more hurt than they have been for the last six hundred years.
But they could be hurt by adding more turmoil than necessary to their lives.”

Vatar let out his breath and nodded. “You’re right.” He
looked up at his father. “All right. I’ll do it.”

Father grinned. “Good! How many second-level Transformations
do you think you can hold at a time for, say, four hours?”

Vatar’s brow furrowed. “Second-level? Not third?”

Father shook his head. “No one will expect third-level
Transformations from you on your first Festival. We all know how taxing it is.
How many do you think you can hold?”

Vatar shrugged. “No idea. I’ve never done multiple
Transformations except under stress—like the bear attack. And I’ve never held
any Transformation that long.”

Father nodded. “I expected as much. Well, we’ll just have to
practice a bit.” He smiled. “And that will give you two more chances to come up
with good ideas for me to take back to the Council.” He tapped his lips with
his finger again. “You know, Vatar, we could use ideas like yours on the
Council.”

“I’m willing to tell you anything Arcas and I—or
Thekila—come up with,” Vatar said.

Father paused to take a drink of cider before continuing. “I
appreciate that. But it might be even better if you could communicate those
ideas directly to the Council. Yourself.”

Vatar shuddered at the thought of going across the strait to
the Palace of the Fasallon. He still didn’t like the idea of all that water.
Especially the waves. “No, thank you. I’ll be perfectly happy never to visit
the Council again.”

“Not visit. Sit on it,” Father said.

Vatar shook his head violently. “That’s not even a bad joke.
I’m of Tabeus’s and Taleus’s lineages. Tabeus’s seat is already occupied—by
you. And Taleus never had a seat, since he died before the Council was formed.”

Father leaned forward. “Yes. But Taleus’s wife, Calpe, did.
And because she was believed to have died without children, her seat has been
vacant for almost six hundred years. But you have a claim to that seat.”

Vatar swept this aside with a gesture like swatting at
flies. “I don’t want it. Besides, it’d be impossible to prove that right after
all this time.”

 “No it wouldn’t,” Father said. “You and I both
heard—witnessed—Taleus declare the truth to you. So did Orleus, Miceus, and
Cestus. The sooth teller would know we spoke the truth and the Council would
have to accept it. Besides, now that I know where to look, I expect that I
could find some supporting evidence. Someone must have known that Calpe was
pregnant at the time of Taleus’s death.”

Vatar shook his head. “Don’t bother. I’ve agreed to help
with the Festival. But I have no desire to sit on the High Council. I still
intend to go out to Zeda every year. And Thekila will want to visit the Valley
again. That would be impossible if I was on the High Council. No. I don’t want
it. Let them go on thinking that Calpe died childless. We know the truth. No
one else needs to.”

Chapter
5: Fish and Festivals

Vatar was silent during the hurried breakfast on the day of
the Festival. He still really didn’t want to do this, but he couldn’t see how allowing
the Festival to fail would help a single Caerean. And it was all too easy to
see how it could definitely hurt many of them. The tremors had continued,
strong enough to cause some damage. Mostly minor damage, but still parts of the
city were already on the edge of panic. They needed a reason to believe that
everything would be all right. He didn’t have any choice.

Thekila laid a hand on his arm. “You’re doing the right
thing.”

Vatar shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right to be part of
the Lie.”

“Would it feel better to refuse and deprive the people of
what comfort their traditions offered?”

He blew out his breath. “No.”

She smiled at him. “When neither choice is good, sometimes
the honorable thing is to choose the least bad. I think that’s what your father—Danar,
I mean—would tell you if he was here. And he’s the most honorable man I know,
after you.”

Vatar choked on an urge to laugh and shook his head. It
wasn’t true. No one was more honorable than Pa, for one thing. But he
appreciated that she thought about him that way anyway. It helped. As long as
he remained honorable in her eyes, things couldn’t be too bad. “Let’s do this,
then.”
Might as well get it over with.

~

Vatar took Thekila and Theklan to the Smiths’ Guild so that
they could get a good view of the proceedings from the top of the wall
surrounding the courtyard.
Are you sure you want to watch this?
he asked
Thekila mind-to-mind—the only way he could be certain that they wouldn’t be
overheard.
You don’t care anything for the supposed Sea Gods.

Thekila smiled up at him. We’re here to support you.
Besides, there will be games and contests afterward, won’t there? Theklan might
enjoy those.

Vatar looked over at Theklan, who’d remained sullen since
coming back to the city.
He might, at that.

Vatar left them, secure in their safety inside the
guildhall, and made his way to the Temple, dodging anyone who might recognize
him. He didn’t want to have to answer questions about why he wasn’t watching
the Festival along with all the other members of the guild. Discussions with
Father had already established that one of the Transformation he’d have to
maintain today would be on himself, so that no one would wonder what a member
of the Smiths’ Guild was doing among the supposed Sea Gods.

Vatar made his way to the staging area and took up his
assigned place as one of the bearers for Abella’s jewel-studded platform. He
grimaced as he pulled the blue priest’s robe over his own tunic and trousers.
He knew it was really just everyday Fasallon garb, but it still didn’t feel
right.

Though Vatar had demonstrated that he could hold multiple
third-level Transformations for the duration, those in charge of the
Festival—principally Montibeus—had decided that for his very first Festival
ever he would only do two additional second-level Transformations. Vatar
suppressed a smile at the memory of Montibeus’s shock on learning that Vatar
had never even
seen
the Festival before. Of course he hadn’t. Until this
year, it had always been held around midsummer—exactly the time when Vatar went
out to be with his family among the plains-dwelling Dardani. He was allowed to
make his own a fourth-level Transformation, so that he needn’t worry about
movement. His two subjects would be forced to sit completely still, because a
masking Transformation couldn’t be counted on to move with them without very
precise—and practiced—choreography.

Ordinarily, since she occupied Abella’s seat, Boreala should
have portrayed Abella in the Festival. But she was also a Healer and had chosen
instead to represent Calpe, so her younger sister Selena was Abella. Boreala
could manage at least her own Transformation. Vatar strongly suspected that
Selena could, too, but had claimed she needed help for reasons of her own. It
didn’t matter.

He’d been assigned to do the Transformations for Abella and
another of the Sea Gods, who’d be carried directly in front of Abella. He
didn’t need to know the name of the second Sea God and didn’t care. All he
needed to know was what she was supposed to look like. His post was at the
front of Abella’s platform so that he could be in easy Transformation range of
both women.

For some reason, he had to keep restraining himself from
looking back at the following platform, where Boreala sat. It took a moment for
him to realize that it was Taleus, not himself, that was fascinated with her.
The real Calpe had been Taleus’s wife, so Vatar couldn’t blame him too much for
his attraction. It was just that it was very . . . awkward for Vatar.

She’s not really Calpe, you know.

She looks just like my Calpe. It’s been so long.
The
statement was accompanied by a wave of intense longing.

In fact, she’s not only not Calpe. She’s my half-sister!

Ah! Sorry.

Vatar shuddered. In fact, if I were ever fool enough to take
up my father’s offer of Calpe’s seat on the High Council that would be me,
trying to make myself look a bit more than half my actual size—and female. How
would you feel about that?

Very strange.

Vatar chuckled.
Me, too.

Father rode up on a fine grey stallion in jewel-bedecked
bridle and saddle. Vatar knew it was his father, even though the visage that
looked down at him was strange. At least it was strange to Vatar; Taleus
shivered slightly in recognition. As the representative of Tabeus, he was the
only one of the Sea Gods who would not be carried on a platform.

Father carried the spear with which Tabeus had slain the sea
dragon that had killed Tabeus’s twin—Taleus. Vatar had trouble dragging his
eyes from that spear. Tabeus had sung power into that blade in much the same
way Vatar had sung power into his own spear—the one he’d forged to kill the
forest tigers. For anyone with the sensitivity to iron and steel that Vatar had
and who knew what to look for, Vatar’s spear whispered of defense and
protection. Tabeus’s spear spoke of fury. It wasn’t a comfortable blade to be
near.
Tabeus always was an intemperate man,
Taleus commented.

“We’re about to start. Time for the Transformations,” Father
said.

Vatar nodded and half-closed his eyes in concentration. He began
with his own Transformation, drawing a picture in his mind of the man who had
raised him, except that he left his own dark hair and grey eyes and somewhat
shorter, stockier build. A tall, blue-eyed blond would stand out too much in
this procession. Putting himself into that image, he went on to picture Abella
and place that image over Selena’s features, then do the same for the other
nameless Councilor.

Father studied all three Transformations, lips turning up
slightly at Vatar’s chosen image. “Good. Now you just have to hold those
Transformations until we get back here.”

Vatar nodded. At the signal, he lifted the support of
Abella’s platform and placed it over his shoulder. His support had been cut
down so that it didn’t actually reach his shoulder. The others would do the
physical work. His job was maintaining the Transformations. Only. Montibeus had
drilled
that
into him at least three times a day for the last seven.

They set out, Vatar matching pace with the bearers to either
side and keeping his concentration on maintaining the three Transformations.
Everything went well at the Fishers’ Guild and the Weavers’. Vatar relaxed
slightly—not his concentration, but his body. He was barely feeling the strain.
This would soon be over and he could put the whole distasteful incident behind
him.

Vatar blinked and stopped where he stood as a wave of anger
and then fear washed over him. The emotions were Thekila’s. What had happened?
For a moment, his concentration wavered. The other bearers kept on and the front
of the platform smacked him in the back of the head. The transport tipped,
sliding Selena outside of the masking Transformation for an instant. Vatar
reached with a Talent borrowed from Thekila, to move objects without touching
them, to right the platform and prevent disaster.
Thekila! Are you hurt?
What’s wrong?

It’s all right. It’s not me. Theklan got into a fight with
Gafar. Fowin separated them. It’s all right. Go on with the procession.

You’re sure?

Positive. It’s over now.

“Are you ready to go on?” the bearer next to Vatar asked
with some asperity. “Or would you rather upset the platform completely?”

Vatar bit his tongue on the retort that it was he who’d
stopped the fall—or, well, maybe Thekila through him. After all, the near
accident was also a result of his bond with Thekila. “Sorry. Something stung
me.” It was near enough to the truth.

“Well, next time, just keep walking. We have a Festival to
get through, if we can.”

~

They didn’t stay for the games after all. Truthfully, the
kinds of wrestling and test-of-strength contests favored by the Smiths’ Guild
wouldn’t have suited Theklan’s wiry frame. Especially not when matched against
apprentices who were starting to build the kind of muscles needed to hammer
iron and steel. He’d have done better in the races held in the market, but both
Vatar and Thekila thought it would be better to go home quietly.

Theklan remained sulky and silent all the way back up to the
farm. Vatar suppressed a smile, remembering his own attitude during the year or
so after he’d gotten his Clan mark and thought himself too grown up for
discipline—but expected to get it anyway.

Watching him, Thekila sighed heavily. “Theklan—”

No. Vatar interrupted in her thoughts. It’ll be better if
you let me talk to him, alone. After we get back up to the farm.

Thekila cast a quick glance at her brother and then at
Vatar.
All right. But I expect you to tell me what’s going on.

Vatar coughed to cover a laugh. You can follow along, if you
like, from a distance. So long as Theklan thinks he’s only talking to me. He
looked over at the boy. It’s a hard age for a boy. Too old and not old enough
at the same time.

For a girl, too.

When they reached the farm, Vatar nodded to Thekila and put
a hand on Theklan’s shoulder. As the boy turned, he rolled his shoulders.
“After a morning like that, I could use something to loosen up my muscles. Care
to make a couple of passes with quarter staves with me? I promise not to hit
hard enough to bruise.”

Theklan grinned. “You can try. I may not be as strong as a
smith, but I’m a lot faster.”

Vatar smiled. “Go get the staves, then.”

Thekila pressed Vatar’s hand and disappeared into the house.

Theklan returned quickly with the staves. He swung his in a
whistling arc, ending in a defensive posture that could quickly be turned into
an offensive one. Vatar moved into a similar position and swung his staff at
Theklan’s side. The boy danced out of the way, letting the staff swing past,
then darted in to strike at Vatar’s leg. Vatar moved his own staff just in time
to block the blow. They went on like that until both were a little winded.
Theklan got in one solid hit, but Vatar never quite managed to strike the boy,
not that he was trying that hard.

Lowering his staff, Vatar nodded to Theklan. “Orleus would
be proud.”

“I told you I was too fast for you to hit.”

Vatar stepped forward and touched a discolored spot next to
Theklan’s left eye. “Looks like Gafar got in at least one punch, though.”

Theklan threw his head up. “Only because I wasn’t ready. He
attacked me.”

Vatar sat down on the bench under the apple tree. “Why would
he do that?”

Theklan chewed his lower lip before sitting down a little
distance from Vatar. “Thekila told me to join the other boys on the platform above
the gate. Like I really cared about getting the best view.”

“That can’t be why Gafar attacked you.”

“No. Well . . . Gafar said . . . he said I shouldn’t be
inside the Smiths’ Guild. He said . . . he said I should be out there with the
Fasallon. That I was like them and didn’t belong in the guildhall.”

“I see.” Vatar picked up a fallen apple and turned it in his
hand. He heard what Theklan hadn’t said, too. Gafar’s opinion was based on the
incident on the beach, which was still a sore subject for Theklan. That episode
had triggered Theklan’s first terrifying encounter with the Fasallon High
Council. “What did you say to that?”

Theklan swallowed. “I got mad. I told him it wasn’t true.
I’m not Fasallon. And I’m not a liar, like they are. That you were only out
there because it was better for the people to believe in something than to know
they’d been lied to for the last six hundred years.” He paused to swallow
again. “Then he got mad and hit me.” He touched the tender spot by his eye.
“Smiths’ apprentices hit hard.”

“It’s the muscles we build up working with iron and steel.”
Vatar looked aside at the boy. He shouldn’t have spoken about the Lie that way,
but that had clearly been a product of Theklan’s unhappiness. “I could sponsor
you as my apprentice in the Smiths’ Guild.” He smiled wryly. “You’d get muscles
of your own fast enough. But I don’t think that’s where your heart lies.”

Theklan sighed and looked out toward the east—and the
plains. “No.”

Vatar let out a breath. Maybe they’d been wrong to bring Theklan
back to the city after all. The plains had gotten into this boy’s blood as
thoroughly as if he’d been born there. He’d likely never be completely happy
anywhere else. “I feel the pull of the plains, too, you know. Maybe stronger
than you. I was born and raised there, after all. You can always talk to me
about it.”

Theklan half turned toward him. “Then why do you leave? Why
do you always come back here?”