Thekila looked where Vatar pointed. “I can’t see anything. Can we go closer for a look?”
Vatar shook his head. She never seemed to tire of the unfamiliar—to her—creatures of the plains. “Not this time. They’re hunting.”
Thekila’s head swiveled back to him. “Hunting? What are they hunting? Not us?”
Vatar shook his head again. His sense of the lions only told him they were hunting, not what, but he couldn’t expect her to understand that. She knew about magic, not this. He stared off where he knew the lions were, trying to see any prey animals that might have drawn the lions’ attention. Nothing obvious. “Not without going closer than is really safe—”
Vatar broke off with a gulp. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood straight up. Overlaid on his own vision was another viewpoint—a scene in grays and blacks. Vatar gripped his reins tighter as the unfamiliar perspective eclipsed his own. That point of view was focused tightly on a herd of wild horses. As if he were among them, Vatar saw lions moving to flank the herd. Saw the view become disjointed as he—or what felt like himself—ran forward, scattering the herd. His vision centered on one horse, weaker than the rest. He felt the sensation and smelled the blood as his claws dug into the horse’s flank.
Vatar’s horse—his real horse, the one he was riding—tossed its head irritably. Vatar gasped and blinked, clearing his head of the alien viewpoint. He forced his hand to loosen on the reins he’d unconsciously tightened. “No. They’re not hunting us.” He just managed to keep a tremor out of his voice.
With the hand away from Thekila, so she wouldn’t see it, Vatar covertly made his clan’s sign of warding against Evil Spirits, forefinger and thumb mimicking the open mouth of a roaring lion. His heart still beat hard against his rib cage. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. Sensing lions was normal; this kind of . . . melding with the lion, as if the lion were part of him—or he was part of it—that wasn’t supposed to happen. It made him feel as if he wasn’t in complete control of himself. Vatar didn’t like that at all.
~
Thekila continued to look in the direction where Vatar said the lions were, hoping to catch sight of one. It helped to concentrate on something nearer to her own size. Otherwise, the plains were just too vast.
Thekila tried not to hunch smaller in her saddle as she turned back to the landscape. The sheer size of the plains really was overwhelming for someone not born to these wide horizons. Back in the village that clustered on one side of the big Zeda Waterhole, the huts at least gave her the feeling of a more human scale. Out here, there was nothing but grass and sky. It was just immensity, with no beginning or end, and it made her feel incredibly small. The threatening storm clouds only made it all the more oppressive.
As far as she could see, the world stretched away, covered in tall grass that came up to her horse’s knees. No snow-capped mountains bordered the horizon here. Not like her mountain-valley home. Away from the waterholes, the grasses were beginning to turn from lush green to a golden brown. She’d learned early to distinguish where a darker green and a few trees marked a waterhole. Other than that, the only landmarks were a few dark rock outcroppings scattered over the landscape. Some were only large enough for a lion or two to sun on, others were like solitary hills of rock. Her inexperienced eye couldn’t distinguish between the two or tell how far away they might be until she was almost on top of them. At home, the grasses would still be green and smooth as lawns, dotted with frequent copses of fruit trees. Late fruits would still be in season.
Then too, away from the waterhole, there was no relief from the heat. Summer on the plains was hotter than anything Thekila had ever experienced. It sapped all of her energy. Even the heavy, dark clouds didn’t help. They just made it steamy as well as hot, at least until the rain came.
The stacked clouds were impressive though, as were the far-away flashes of lightning. Even at a distance, the thunder rolled across the plains. Thunderstorms back home were nothing like this. Of course, she was usually inside when it rained there.
Thekila shouldn’t have let her mind wander. Lightning slashed across the sky much closer. Almost immediately, thunder boomed directly overhead. The echoes were still ringing in her ears when she realized she was on her back in the grass. Her horse danced sideways, kicked out and ran off a short distance.
Vatar was off his horse and on his knees beside her in one smooth movement. “Are you all right?”
Thekila levered herself up into a sitting position. “Yes. It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying enough attention to what I was doing. The thunder startled me. Startled the horse, too, I guess. I’m just not used to this, yet.”
Vatar gently pushed her back down. “No, it’s my fault. I should have been paying closer attention to you. I am supposed to be teaching you to ride like a Dardani. I was . . . distracted by something.”
Thekila doubted she’d ever ride like a Dardani. After all, for them it was a matter of survival on the plains. How else could they tend their huge herds of cattle? Vatar had told her he’d been riding since he was about four. Still, if she was going to live out here with him—and much as she occasionally missed civilization, there was no question about that—then she was going to have to learn to ride at least well enough.
In spite of Thekila’s protests, Vatar insisted on carefully checking her over for injuries. She raised an amused eyebrow at his solicitousness. In addition to his very real and endearing concern for her, Vatar was not above taking advantage of the situation.
He grinned back, unashamed. “You might have a few bruises in the morning. But you’ll be all right. It’s not much farther to the waterhole.”
He stood up, dusted off his knees, and helped her to her feet before going off to retrieve her horse. He bent down and ran his hands up and down the horse’s legs.
Thekila wondered why the frightened mare hadn’t gone farther until Vatar led her back. The horse limped badly. “She’s injured?”
Vatar tied the mare’s reins to his saddle. “Nothing’s broken, but she shouldn’t bear any extra weight for a few days.”
Thekila stared at the mare’s leg. Standing, she tipped that foot up to keep her weight off it. There was already a slight swelling just above the hoof. This was her fault. “Now what do we do?”
Vatar took her hand. “It’ll be fine. My horse can carry us both as far as the waterhole.”
“What then? We didn’t plan to stay out here overnight, let alone several days. Can your horse carry us all the way back to Zeda?”
“We’re fortunate that Quetza came with us from your home in the Valley. Someone who can hear Far Speech. She can bring another horse out later.” He smiled at her. “Preferably much later.”
Vatar lifted Thekila up onto his horse and then settled into the saddle behind her. The plains weren’t nearly so daunting when his muscular arms circled around her to take the reins.
Thekila nestled closer and prepared herself to contact her friend. In fact, she had a suspicion that Quetza would jump at the chance. Not just to explore more of the plains, but also to check on Vatar’s progress with his magic. In addition to giving them time alone, these excursions were also Thekila’s opportunity to continue Vatar’s lessons in magic. That was impossible back in the village.
Quetza’s eagerness to test him could interfere with other things, though. Thekila narrowed her eyes in thought. Maybe she should give Quetza an excuse to ride out tomorrow—or the next day. “Hmm. I think Quetza went out hunting this morning. Maybe instead she can take word back that we’ll be staying out here for a day or two with an injured horse. She can bring a fresh horse tomorrow just as easily. Your family will look after Theklan and the twins, won’t they?”
Vatar chuckled into her hair. “I like the way your mind works.”
~
Vatar had chosen a waterhole he remembered as very pretty—and intimate—for their stop. The sort of place he thought Thekila would like. An outcrop of dark rock loomed b
ehind, softened by a stand of willows. Water from a spring splashed down the rocks to feed the pool. The waterhole itself was crowded with reeds which were home to a multitude of birds, all whistling a high-pitched call. The surrounding trees blocked most of the view of the plains beyond, making this into a small world all its own.
He had their little tent pitched in a clear area before Thekila had finished building a temporary fire pit to warm their midday meal.
Vatar ate in silence, too preoccupied by the odd sensation of seeing as if through the eyes of the lion to even taste his food. His mouth went dry at the memory and he had trouble swallowing his bite of flat bread. He was still Dardani at heart, raised with the Dardani’s superstitious fear of anything uncanny. They believed magic came from Evil Spirits. That dread was far older than his recent acceptance of his own magic. Before he’d admitted he had any magic, he’d chosen the Ordeal and its hardships to prove that he wasn’t possessed by an Evil Spirit.
The irony of having gone on a year-long Ordeal to prove that he wasn’t a sorcerer, only to be forced to learn the very magic he’d rejected so he wouldn’t be accused of sorcery . . . made his head hurt.
Of course, if he hadn’t gone on that Ordeal, he’d never have met Thekila. He’d never be sorry for that or anything that made that possible. Thekila would know more about the magic, at least. Still, Vatar was reluctant to put his experience into words, as if that would somehow make the experience more real. On the other hand, putting it off wouldn’t make the questions any easier. Usually the reverse. “Thekila . . .”
“Hmm?” Thekila answered distractedly. She opened the laces of his tunic and began to trace the roaring lion tattoo on Vatar’s right shoulder with her finger. That drove the half-formed question—and all thought—from his mind, as it had from the first time. Only five months ago? They’d grown so close in that short time. Sometimes he felt that they had been together forever, comfortable as an old boot. At other times, like now, it felt like their first time, intoxicated merely by her touch.
When Thekila lightly touched the newly-healed tattoo on his left shoulder, the one that marked the completion of his Ordeal, Vatar forgot about everything else. He lowered his head to find her mouth instead and when she reached to join their minds with her magic, he allowed himself to fall into her love and let her blot out the world. He barely even registered the first fat rain drops falling around their tent.
Chapter 2: Transformations
Orleus’s halloo woke Vatar from a satisfied doze. What was his half-brother doing here? And now of all times? He sighed and began to untangle himself from Thekila, who muttered sleepy protest. Vatar stuck his head out of the tent flap, blinking in the sunlight. Apparently, the storm had passed over. He hadn’t noticed.
He saw Orleus hobbling a pair of horses to graze. Two horses? Wasn’t that sorrel the one Quetza usually rode? He turned his head to find Quetza filling a pot at the waterhole. Ah. Thekila had said she thought Quetza had gone out hunting. Clearly, she’d gone with Orleus. Those two had been spending a lot of time together lately. And now they’d both come here in response to Thekila’s Far Speech.
“All rested?” Orleus grinned at him. “Now I think we know why you’ve been so secretive about these riding lessons of yours.”
Quetza snorted a laugh. “Riding lessons? I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”
“Give us a moment.” Vatar ducked back into the tent. Brushing a strand of hair away from her face, he woke Thekila with a kiss. He took her hand when she reached up to pull him back down beside her. “Orleus and Quetza are here.”
Thekila gave a disgruntled sigh and sat up. “I told Quetza tomorrow would be soon enough.”
They dressed and came out to find their visitors sitting by the remains of their fire which had been drenched by the rain. Orleus added fresh wood from the pile Vatar had covered with a piece of cowhide earlier. Quetza placed the small pot of water on to brew tea. Orleus’s two hunting dogs, Seeker and Arrow, lay to one side, tongues lolling.
“We didn’t expect you so soon,” Vatar said.
Orleus smiled apologetically. “We were out hunting when Thekila used Far Speech to tell Quetza about her horse. It was easier to just swing around and meet you here. Thekila and Quetza can ride double on the way back.”
“You could have taken more time about it,” Vatar grumbled.
“I would have,” Orleus answered. “It was Quetza who was in a hurry.”
Quetza shrugged. “I know Thekila’s been trying to keep up your training, Vatar. Teaching you shape changes. That’s more usually my area of expertise. So I want to see for myself how you’re coming along. You’re too powerful to be left only half trained. And I know better than to ask about magic among the Dardani. You’ve made their feelings about magic quite clear. This was the best opportunity I was likely to get.” She winked in Thekila’s direction. “We won’t keep you long. Since we didn’t know to bring a spare horse, we’ll just have to come back tomorrow with one.”
Vatar set his jaw. On the whole, he’d rather his magic weren’t that powerful. He might have been forced to accept the reality that he did possess magic after all. That didn’t mean he was prepared to reveal that fact to the world—especially not to the Dardani. His people believed all magic came from Evil Spirits. They’d never understand that some kinds of magic could be inherited—whether wanted or not—just like hair color or height. They’d say he was possessed. He’d be ostracized, exiled—if he was lucky—forced to submit to an exorcism if he wasn’t. It was not a risk he was prepared to take, even for Thekila.
Magic had been one thing, safer, when he was with Thekila’s people during his Ordeal, where such things were commonplace. He’d gone ahead with the occasional private lesson in magic mostly to please Thekila and he’d meant that to be just between the two of them. He was willing to admit there were a few tricks worth knowing. Far Speech and Far Sight were hard to detect even by others with similar magic. The Dardani need never know what he was really doing so long as they didn’t talk about it where anyone could hear. But what Thekila was teaching him now was different. Obvious. And that made it dangerous. His every instinct was to hide that aspect of his magic from the world. If any Dardani should actually see a transformation life among them would be impossible.
On the other hand, neither of these two were Dardani. Quetza was Valson, like Thekila. Magic was routine to her. And it was hardly likely to surprise Vatar’s half-brother, either. Since he and Orleus had both inherited the Fasallon magic from their father, Orleus would certainly have received some training in it, too. These two weren’t afflicted with the Dardani’s distrust of any whiff of magic. It was only the Dardani who believed the magic itself was evil, regardless of what was done with it.
“Vatar’s been working on partial shape changes to objects and getting pretty good at it. Show her, Vatar.” Thekila looked around. “Make the tent look like a Dardani hut.”
Vatar ran his hands through his hair. He wasn’t going to get out of this, with both Quetza and Thekila pressing him. Best just to get it over with, then. He concentrated on the well-known shape and color of a Dardani sod hut. He drew the picture quite clearly in his mind. Then he put that picture over their tent. He opened his eyes. The Dardani hut was there, just as he’d pictured it. Vatar let the illusion go, noting with a tinge of satisfaction that this had gotten much easier since the first time he’d attempted it.
Thekila laughed appreciatively. “That was very good, Vatar. I could almost smell the sod.”
Quetza nodded approval. “Very realistic. That’s harder than it looks. Good work.”
“Pity you couldn’t really turn it into a Dardani hut,” Orleus said. “That would have been cozier in the rain.”
“The rain didn’t bother us,” Vatar answered. He left unspoken, Until you two showed up.
Thekila smirked. “A hut might be asking a lot, but watch this.” She picked up a branch from the wood set ready for the fire. “Here, Vatar. Make me
a piece of rope.”
Vatar took the branch and turned it over in his hands, trying to come up with an excuse not to do this. The branch was as big around as three of his fingers and gnarled. “This would make pretty heavy rope. And kind of lumpy.”
Thekila glowered. “You know you can fix those things if you want to. It’s only the mass that has to stay the same. But make it as thick or as lumpy as you like, so long as it’s rope.”
Vatar sighed. He pictured a fairly heavy, but not lumpy, piece of rope and then in his mind put the branch into this mental picture. He handed the length of rope to Thekila with a little bow. Thekila passed it to Quetza, who gave it a yank before she passed it to Orleus.
Orleus stiffened as he turned the rope over in his hands. “Vatar, does Father know you can do a third-level Transformation?”
Vatar took the piece of rope back and tossed it onto the fire, where it immediately became a branch again. “No.” Hard to imagine that he hadn’t even recognized that he had magic then. “The subject never came up. He knows I’ve mastered Far Speech and Far Sight, though. Why?”
“It’s important, Vatar. Father needs to know before you return to Caere. The Fasallon councils—especially the High Council in Caere—get a little obsessive on the subject of Transformations.”
Vatar frowned at this new train of thought. Magic was complicated enough. The differing attitudes toward it only exacerbated that fact. Thekila’s and Quetza’s people took magic for granted. The Dardani shunned even the thought of it. In Caere, the Fasallon bent their efforts to controlling every person with a scrap of magical Talent. They’d only missed Vatar because he’d been born out here among the Dardani. Even so, the High Council had set a watch on him to assure themselves that he had no magic. From what Father had said, he didn’t think he wanted them to find out they’d been wrong. “What the High Council doesn’t know won’t hurt . . . me.”
Orleus grunted.
The Voice of Prophecy (Dual Magics Book 2) Page 2
