The Voice of Prophecy (Dual Magics Book 2)

by Meredith Mansfield

  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 G
afar. 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?”

  “Well, I have family here, too. But that’s not the main reason. I suppose the pull of working iron and steel is as strong as the pull of the plains. For me, anyway. And it’s a lot easier to do that here. Imagine trying to carry enough raw iron and steel—not to mention charcoal to fuel my forge—all the way out to Zeda every year. Your sister is happier here, too. That’s important to me. At least I get to go back to the plains every summer. I don’t think I could be as happy here if that weren’t true.”

  Theklan shifted a little on the bench. “I’ve made trouble again, haven’t I? With what I said?”

  Vatar shrugged. “It wasn’t a good thing to say. I’ll go down later and have a word with Fowin. Probably I can pass it off as something you just didn’t understand because things are different where you come from. Even though you’ve spent two winters in Caere, this was your first Festival. It’s even mostly true. I’ll try, anyway.”

  About the Author

  Professionally, I've been a financial analyst and a visual basic programmer. I also have a paralegal certificate, although I've never worked in that field. It's anybody's guess what I'll be when I grow up.

  Imagining stories and writing have always been an important part of my life. It's one I finally got to spend a significant amount of time on while I cared for my mother who had Alzheimer's disease.

  Discover other my other titles on Amazon:

  Short stories or novellas:

  Heart of Oak

  Becoming Lioness (A Dual Magics Story)--free!

  The Music Box

  Wyreth’s Flame

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  Blood Will Tell

  Blood Is Thicker

  Chimeria Omnibus (Blood Will Tell and Blood Is Thicker)

  Fire and Earth

  The Bard’s Gift

  The Shaman’s Curse (Dual Magics Book 1)

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