Thekila looked around at them. “What is it? Who are they?”
Vatar swallowed hard and reached across to squeeze her hand. With his other hand he surreptitiously wiped his face. His throat was too constricted for speech.
Pa, riding on her other side, answered. “They’ve come to honor Vatar. These are the young men of the tiger hunt. Did he tell you about that?”
Thekila looked to Vatar. His eyes were glowing and he sat a little taller.
“When you got that tattoo I like so much?” she asked softly.
Vatar nodded. “Yes.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.
Uncle Bion stopped the group at a small waterhole only a short distance beyond the jumble of Dardani huts that was Zeda. A small temporary tent had been set up and Trev was waiting for them. “You can’t go any farther, Vatar. Not until the tribal council calls for you.”
Vatar nodded his understanding. The Ordeal had placed him outside of his Clan and the tribe. He had to be accepted again before he could return as one of them.
“There must be a cleansing before you rejoin your Clan,” Trev said. “Tomorrow, you will be one with the Spirit of the Lion once again.”
That thought made Vatar smile. Until yesterday, he hadn’t realized how much he still missed that part of himself. Vatar handed Zavar across to Pa and dismounted. Thekila moved to join him.
Mother held out her hand to stop her. “No. You’ll come back with us, as our guests, for tonight. This is something Vatar must prepare for alone.”
Thekila looked pleadingly at Vatar. “But . . .”
He smiled a little. “It’ll be all right, Thekila. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, after I’ve been made whole again. That’ll be best.”
Thekila’s brow creased. “What do you mean, ‘made whole’?”
“The entire time you’ve known me, part of me has been missing—the part that belongs to my people. I had to leave that behind when I went on the Ordeal. Tomorrow, I’ll get it back. Tonight, Trev will make sure I’m ready. Mother can explain it to you more tonight.” He reached up to her and she bent down to kiss him.
He watched as the others rode off, Thekila looking back over her shoulder often.
Trev grasped his arm and motioned for Vatar to enter the tent. Vatar wasn’t surprised that it was a steam tent. Not after Trev had mentioned a cleansing. He removed his tunic so that the steam could enter his pores and purify him.
Trev stepped toward him, a small jar in his hand, but he paused, looking at Vatar’s chest. “Your tattoos have already been restored.”
Vatar looked down at his own chest and then back up at Trev. “I was injured. When the Valson Healers tended me, they had to clean my wounds. They removed the stain.”
Trev set the jar aside. “I see you’ll have quite a tale to tell of your Ordeal. Now, sit, and let the steam do its work. Then we’ll have time to talk.”
As he left, Trev threw a small bundle of herbs on the fire. A pleasant, fresh scent permeated the tent. Vatar sat alone in the steam tent for a long time. He reflected on the Ordeal and everything that had happened since he left the Dardani, organizing it in his mind. There were parts of it he knew the Dardani would find difficult to believe or accept, some parts that definitely should be left out.
Eventually, Trev came back to scatter the fire and bring Vatar outside again. The evening air felt cold against his skin after the steam tent. He put his tunic back on and sat on the ground where Trev indicated, expecting to answer Trev’s questions. He blinked a little as the smoke from the fire blew across his face. Why had Trev made him sit downwind? He sniffed. What kind of wood had Trev used for the fire? It burned with an unusual, but not unpleasant, smell.
Trev handed Vatar a plate of common Dardani food—roast meat and vegetables and a piece of flatbread. Vatar was hungry and more than happy to have such a comfortingly familiar meal again. Trev ate, too, and asked no questions until they’d both finished.
Vatar launched into his account, starting with his first camp. Trev smiled when he told of the “help” he’d received from the two Modgud, Bron and Clev. Vatar had resolved to leave out some of the story, especially about his lessons at the Academy, but he’d underestimated Trev. The young shaman’s persistent and pointed questions drew out everything, right down to Vatar’s ability to watch over his children from all the way across the Forest and the mountains beyond.
Through it all, Trev never betrayed surprise or disbelief. He just kept asking the questions that would lead Vatar to tell the rest. When Trev was satisfied that Vatar had recounted the whole story, he sat silent for a long while. Vatar shifted uneasily while he waited. He’d said too much. He was going to be denied his reunion with the Spirit of the Lion and his Clan. His stomach clenched around the meal.
Finally Trev looked up across the dying fire. “Well, you’ve learned more about yourself and the larger world than most men ever do, Vatar. The Spirits have tested you and judged you favorably. You’ve completed your Ordeal.” He smiled. “It’s too bad that you’re Lion Clan. You would have made a good shaman.” Then he tossed Vatar a blanket. “Better get some sleep before tomorrow. I think it’ll be another long day. But a happy one.”
Vatar scarcely felt he needed the blanket as warmth spread from his chest. He hadn’t failed after all. Trev, inexplicably, didn’t find his story strange or frightening. I wonder what the Modgud know that we don’t.
~
His return coincided with the day of the manhood test. Vatar suspected that Trev had planned it that way to combine the two celebrations and give more weight to Vatar’s return. All in all, Vatar wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.
As soon as this year’s boys had been sent off for their manhood test, the tribal council took up the business of the Ordeals.
Vatar was brought forward by the chiefs who had escorted him to and from his Ordeal. He saw Thekila standing with Mother and Quetza at the front of the crowd and smiled at her. When he had been brought in front of the chiefs, his escort left him standing alone and joined the other chiefs.
“The returned must now give an account of himself,” the eldest chief said.
Once again, Vatar told the story of his Ordeal, this time before his entire tribe. He left out all references to magical Powers of any kind. Only Thekila, Quetza, and Theklan knew what he had omitted—and Trev. When he had finished, the chiefs rose as one.
“Welcome back Vatar of the Lion Clan of the Dardani. The Spirits have judged in your favor. You have proven your honor,” the eldest chief announced.
Vatar let out the breath he’d been holding as the crowd roared its approval. Pa and Trev stepped forward to lead Vatar into the makeshift shelter behind the chiefs. As soon as his eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the tent, Vatar saw the Lion Clan totem sitting on the bench at the far side of the tent. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Go ahead, Vatar,” Pa said, smiling. “Rejoin the Spirit of the Lion.”
Vatar walked forward eagerly and lovingly touched the carved wood totem. He put his hand in the mouth and felt the sensation of acceptance rise up his arm from the polished wood. This time, he was surprised that he could identify exactly what he felt—a unity with all the generations of his Clan that had gone before who had invested a part of themselves in this totem. And, more powerfully, a . . . harmony . . . with the archetypal lion which the totem represented. Most of all, he felt whole again. Whole as even Thekila had not been able to make him feel—although she had come close. Trev and Pa smiled as they led him back out to the square.
Vatar stepped to the side of the square to rejoin his family, taking Thekila’s hand and smiling down at her. “I told you it would be all right.”
“You left some things out,” she said, silently, referring to his account of his Ordeal.
Vatar shook his head. “They wouldn’t understand. The Dardani have no such Powers and most have no contact with the Fasallon, who do. Trev knows all of it. He is the only one who needs to.”
Thekila looked up at him in surprise.
“What?” he asked.
“I can almost see a big cat, not a Forest tiger, when you bespeak me. That’s new. I’ve never felt that before. Is . . . that your Spirit of the Lion?”
Vatar’s eyes flew wide. “It must be. I didn’t expect that.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment Maktaz was brought forward.
The old shaman looked pale and weak. He seemed to have shrunk, almost as if he was collapsing in on himself. Maktaz wasn’t asked to recount his Ordeal. Instead Pakel stood up and told about finding Maktaz hiding near the Wolf Clan camp—far south of the line of his Ordeal. He didn’t spare his Clan members, calling forth all of those who had helped the shaman. He ended by telling about the attempt to kidnap Zavar and Savara and Maktaz’s role in that.
“Those three have already been expelled from the Wolf Clan. Their tattoos have been obliterated and they have been exiled to the Northern Wilderness,” he concluded. Vatar’s heart sank. More exiles. More potential enemies, if they survived. More lives warped and destroyed by one man’s search for vengeance. There had to be a better way.
The chiefs remained seated. Only the eldest chief of the Horse Clan rose to speak.
“Maktaz, you have no honor. You broke faith with a freely accepted Ordeal. You involved others in your dishonor. Then you compounded the disgrace by instigating others to harm young children for your vengeance. There is no greater offense than to threaten harm to a child, save only murder. You are not Dardani. Your tattoos will be obliterated and you will be exiled to the Northern Wilderness.” He looked toward those who had helped Maktaz. “You broke faith as well. You will share his fate.”
Vatar stepped forward again. “No. There’s been enough division among us. They were misled and wrong. But they were not bound to the Ordeal as Maktaz and I were. These didn’t attack my children or anyone that I know of. Their fate shouldn’t be as harsh.”
“What would you suggest, Vatar? We cannot have faith breakers among us,” the old chief said.
Vatar chewed his lower lip. “It seems to me that they owe an honor-debt. One they may not be able to repay. But they deserve the chance to try.”
The old chief nodded. “It is a just suggestion.”
One of the disgraced men stepped forward, toward Vatar. “I ask you to name the price of my honor.”
Vatar held up his hands and shook his head. “You don’t owe the debt to me. You broke faith with the Dardani, not with me alone. Only the Council can set the price of your honor.”
The old chief smiled. “A very just and wise suggestion, Vatar. The Council will give this due consideration. In the meantime, take them away. And take Maktaz away, too. He does deserve his fate.”
~
This was more than Maktaz could stand. Vatar had won; he’d gotten away without paying for Torkaz’s death. And now he was magnanimous in victory. Next, they’d be naming him a chief! Everything he’d tried had backfired. Vatar was stronger now than he’d ever been. It was unbearable. He wouldn’t bear it.
Maktaz had no weapon. Bion had taken his long knife months ago. But Vatar’s gleamed from its sheath at his belt not much more than a stride away. Maktaz swayed where he stood, feigning shock at the chiefs’ pronouncement. He took a stumbling step and fell against Vatar.
The fool put out a hand to steady him! Maktaz grabbed the knife from Vatar’s belt before the idiot knew what was happening. Before Vatar could react, Maktaz raised the blade high, preparing to plunge it into his enemy’s heart.
But something prevented him from striking the killing blow he had planned. It was as if some force held his arm and wouldn’t let him go. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried with all the strength he had left to stab that blade into Vatar’s heart. But his arm wouldn’t move. What magic was this?
~
Thekila suppressed a gasp when she saw Maktaz bring the knife up, ready to stab Vatar. She reacted instinctively. Distant manipulation couldn’t be used against a living thing, but she could hold the knife with her magic. After years of using a variation of this Power to keep her eagle shape airborne—pushing against the ground—she was strong enough to hold that knife against all the force Maktaz could command. It took less than a heartbeat for her to freeze the knife in midair. Maktaz still gripped the blade, straining against her Power, but he didn’t control it.
~
Vatar reached up and grabbed Maktaz’s wrist with one hand, twisting it to force him to let go of the knife. The knife hovered for only an instant and then dropped to the ground.
The shaman’s pride had betrayed him. If he hadn’t been so ridiculously dramatic, raising the knife overhand, it would have been harder for Thekila to stop him. Grasping Maktaz’s other wrist with his free hand, Vatar shoved the shaman away from him.
~
Maktaz fell in a heap in the center of the square. He scrambled to his feet, gathering the shreds of his dignity about him, furious at his failure and at being handled so roughly by this . . . upstart. He pulled himself to his full height, glaring around him. His own death was inevitable now. Maktaz knew he would never survive in the Northern Wilderness. But he could still use his death to snatch back the victory Vatar thought he’d won.
“You think I’m helpless. I know how to touch the totems without giving back their power. I never relinquished my magic,” he said, his eyes on Vatar.
What he planned to do would cost his life, but he was dead anyway. A dying curse—the most powerful and most rarely used part of a shaman’s magic. Once pronounced, it couldn’t be reversed. Maktaz would curse them all for rejecting him, for daring to judge him. But he would focus the curse on Vatar. He raised his arms and drew in his breath, closing his eyes to concentrate his remaining power. He took a moment to recall the exact form of the curse. Once started, the curse must be spoken through correctly or his death would be meaningless.
~
From the corner of his eye, Vatar saw Trev prepare to cast some kind of ward. So, the young shaman expected Maktaz to try a curse. Vatar shook his head. This would go no further. He didn’t want to do this in front of the whole tribe, but he could see no other way to end this, now.
Vatar felt the Spirit of the Lion more strongly than he ever had. He slitted his eyes to concentrate without losing sight of his enemy. He formed the image of that lion in his mind and then projected it. Not over his own shape, as he had in the Academy, but right in front of Maktaz. It was easier than he remembered—almost as if the Spirit of the Lion was helping him. Vatar made the lion roar and rear up on his hind legs.
While everyone else, including Maktaz, had their eyes glued to the lion, Vatar bent down and picked up his long knife. The lion was a diversion. It had no substance and could do no real harm. All it could do was to keep Maktaz from completing his curse and give Vatar time to act.
He ducked on hearing the whoosh of wings over his head as he straightened. An eagle soared and dove above his lion and screamed defiance at Maktaz. Vatar turned back to look at Thekila. She was still in her place beside Mother, but the look of concentration on her face told him that she was following his lead. He smiled with new confidence. There was nothing here that could stand before the two of them together. Vatar turned back to Maktaz, raising his knife into fighting position—not the awkward overhand hold Maktaz had used. He took a step forward.
~
Maktaz stared in horror at the Lion and Eagle Spirits in front of him. The Spirit of the Lion had abandoned him after the tiger hunt. The Eagle had been harder for him to reach since about that time, too. Now those two Spirits appeared before him like the personifications of justice, raging at him for his misuse of the power granted to him as shaman—power that was to be used to protect the people. The curse he had begun died on his lips. He tried to put a hand up to shield his eyes.
His arm wouldn’t move. Maktaz’s whole body had gone stiff. He couldn’t move anything. Only his eyes betrayed his panic. He had started the d
ying curse, but he hadn’t finished it because the two Spirits had startled him. It didn’t matter. The price would be exacted anyway. Maktaz toppled to the ground.
~
Vatar froze. He let the image of the lion wink out. An instant later, the eagle disappeared, too. There was a shocked hush around the square. Vatar looked up into Trev’s eyes. Trev stared back at him in surprise, but he said nothing. Two of the chiefs hesitantly stepped forward to check on Maktaz.
“He’s dead,” the Raven Clan chief said.
“So be it,” the eldest chief said without emotion. “The Spirits have made their final judgment of him.”
Trev nodded agreement.
~
The next part of the traditional Midsummer celebration was the recognition of the couples who had chosen to become life mates that year. Vatar took Thekila’s hand and led her out into the square.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
He leaned forward to whisper in her ear and breathe in the scent of her hair. “To declare ourselves life mates before the tribe.”
Pa and Mother came forward to bind their hands together with a linen cord.
“This is very early,” Pa said, before he joined their hands. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure, Father. And it’s not early. It’s four years late. It always should have been Thekila.”
Thekila smiled up at him, recognizing that it had been nearly four years since that first tenuous contact on the night of his Caerean manhood test.
When they were unbound, Lucina gave the cord to Thekila. “Wear this as a belt.” She pointed at the frayed and worn cord around her own waist.
Thekila glowed as she put the cord around her waist.
~
When the time came for the jarai tournament, Vatar explained the game to his guests, not paying attention to the boys preparing to play. As the teams were being formed, he suddenly heard his name called.
He turned around, blinking. “What?”
The Shaman's Curse (Dual Magics Book 1) Page 33
