Beyond the Prophecy (4 page)

Vatar squirmed. 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? “I . . . need to
think about it.”

 “There’s one more thing,” Father said. “Have you
considered that the failure of the Festival could be just what Gerusa
wants.
It’d be handing her a victory right at the start.”

Vatar closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He still
didn’t like it, but it looked like refusing would only make matters worse.
Besides, he might have prevented this by turning around after the ambush, which
made it at least partly his responsibility. He didn’t have much choice. “All
right. I’ll do it.” He held up a finger. “Just this once.”

Father smiled. “I knew you could be counted on to do the
right thing.” He tapped his lips with his finger. “You know, Vatar, we could
use ideas like yours on the Council.”

“I’m willing to pass on anything we 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 childless, her seat has been vacant
for almost six hundred years. 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 my right to
Calpe’s seat 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, Cestus, and
Boreala. 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 have no desire to sit
on the High Council. I still intend to go out to Zeda every year. Half my
family is there, as well as Arcas’s and my business. 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.”

~

The next day, Cestus appeared at the gate, carrying several
rolled up bundles.

Vatar hurried forward to meet his half-brother. “We haven’t
seen much of you since last spring.”

Cestus shrugged. “Haven’t had the time, mostly. Especially
since Lancera and the children moved back down to our house in the Temple
grounds.”

Vatar stole a quick glance at Cestus. Last winter had been
very bad for his half-brother after he discovered his wife’s infidelity. “So .
. . how are things between you and Lancera?”

“We’re working on it.” Cestus sighed. “It might have been
different . . . if Lancera had been willing to support me when I led the
unTalented to stand up against the High Council, if we’d been a team then, I
think things would be all right now. But all she could see was the danger, so I
had to shut her out of what I was doing. That . . . hasn’t helped. All we can
do is try.”

Vatar nodded. He didn’t want to pry further so he changed
the subject. “What brings you up here today?”

Cestus held out the bundles. “Maps. Father said you and
Arcas needed maps to plot the course of a possible road between here and Tysoe.
The idea intrigued me, so Father suggested I bring the maps up to you myself.”
He stretched his shoulders. “It’s good for me to get out of the Temple
occasionally. The walk and just a little time away from all the pressure has
helped. Gives me a chance to get a little better perspective on things.”

“Things aren’t going well with your reforms?” Vatar asked.

Cestus gave a frustrated huff. “Things aren’t going at all.
With the trouble over the Festival, the High Council has no attention to spare
for the reforms. Or, at least, that’s the excuse they give.”

Vatar grimaced. “Father asked me to help with the Festival
this year.”

“I wish you would,” Cestus interrupted. “The High Council
doesn’t seem to be able to concentrate on anything else right now. Not just my
reforms, either.” He waved the rolled-up maps. “Other things that might have
solutions, too. If they could just get beyond that . . .”

Vatar shrugged. “I told Father I’d do it. Just this time.”
He led Cestus into the house, where he and Arcas immediately spread out the
maps.

Arcas traced a line south and a little east to a cove on the
north side of Lake Narycea, near where the river spilled out at the western
end. “I can’t really tell anything about the terrain—or the availability of
water—from the map of course. But this would be the shortest route.”

“That’d leave you still on the wrong side of the lake,
wouldn’t it?” Vatar placed a finger on Tysoe, on the south coast of the lake.
Thinking about the large body of water didn’t bother him, apparently, when it
was only lines on paper.

“Hmm,” Arcas answered, not moving is finger from the place
on the northern shore. “But there are plenty of boats that ply the lake from
Tysoe. If I remember right, there’s already a sort of . . . well, not exactly a
settlement . . . somewhere about here, where they transship some of the goods
from the larger lake vessels to river craft before sending them on down toward
Kausalya. That’s the point a road will have to aim for, either way. Of course,
this route crosses Dardani territory. We’d need their approval for it.”

He drew another line from Caere to the coast about halfway
to Kausalya, then down the coast almost to the river, and then east to the same
point on the lake. “This way would be much longer. And we’d have to determine
just how close to Kausalya it’s practical to go without running into
difficulties. I can’t imagine they’d be happy to have us cut them out of the
Tysoean trade. But it doesn’t cross any Dardani territory. I suppose that would
be the backup, if the Dardani won’t give their permission for the shorter
route.”

“We still don’t know if either route is viable,” Vatar
pointed out. “There’d have to be reliable waterholes at reasonable distances.
How far can a wagon travel in a day, anyway? Not as far as riders or a pack
train, I think.”

 Arcas nodded. “Someone would have to survey the routes
to find out. It’ll require a lot of preparation, too.” He looked up at Cestus.
“May I keep these maps for a few days? I’d like to talk to some people in my
guild.”

Cestus shrugged. “Of course, if it’ll help. Just return
them—or have Vatar return them—to the library when you’re done.”

Vatar was silent during the hurried breakfast on the day of
the Festival. He still really didn’t want to do this.

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

Vatar looked into his mug. “It doesn’t feel right to be part
of the Lie.”

“I don’t see a better way. Especially if the failure of the
Festival would help Gerusa in any way. Do you?”

He blew out his breath. “No.”

She smiled at him. “This may not be a good choice, but I
think it’s the least bad. In this situation, that may be the best you can do. 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. It helped. As long as he
remained honorable in her eyes, things couldn’t be too bad. “I’d better go,
then.”
Might as well get it over with.

Thekila’s hand moved down to take his and squeeze it. “
We’ll
go.”

“You don’t care anything for the supposed Sea Gods.”

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

Vatar looked over at Theklan. The boy hadn’t wanted to come
back to Caere at all. Would have happily stayed with the Dardani if not for
Thekila’s insistence that he renew his education. He’d been sullen since coming
back to the city. “He might, at that.” A sleepy sound from their bedroom
indicated that Jadar was waking up. “But what about the baby? I could take
Theklan down to the Smiths’ Guild. It’s not far out of my way.”

Thekila shook her head. “I’ve already arranged it with
Elaria. She’s staying home anyway. Boreala advised against taking the babies
into the crowded streets today. Elaria’s happy to look after Jadar along with
Caslar for a little while.” She smiled. “It’s a good thing you and Arcas
thought to buy those goats. There’ll be plenty of milk, along with the
applesauce and bread soaked in milk. He needs to be eating more of those
anyway, since Boreala says he could get his first tooth anytime now. At any
rate, we won’t be gone that long. Or, at least, I won’t. If you and Theklan
want to stay for the games, I can come back here as soon as the procession is
over.”

Vatar shook his head. “Not alone. If Theklan wants to stay
longer, he can.”

~

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. He left them there, 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 inside the Temple
grounds and took up his assigned place between Abella’s jewel-studded platform
and the one following. He grimaced as he pulled the blue priest’s robe over his
own tunic and trousers. He knew it was really just the garb the Fasallon wore
whenever they dealt with Caereans, but it still didn’t feel right.

Transformations—what Thekila’s people called shape
changes—were considered the most difficult form of magic. Not every Fasallon
could do a Transformation at all. And most who could were limited to first- or
second-level Transformations—just projecting an image or using a projected
image to change the
appearance
of something else. Far fewer Fasallon
could perform the much harder third- and fourth-level Transformations necessary
to temporarily change the nature of something—or, most difficult of all, of
themselves. Which was why Gerusa’s departure had caused such a problem for the
Festival.

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, much easier second-level Transformations.
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 mere masking Transformation couldn’t be counted on
to move with them without very precise—and practiced—choreography.

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. It had always been held exactly when Vatar went out to be
with his family among the plains-dwelling Dardani. If they’d stayed longer at
Zeda, he wouldn’t be here for it this year, either.

To the Caereans, Abella was the Sea King’s wife. As such,
she came second in the procession behind only the Sea King himself, which meant
that Vatar would be one of the first back in the sanctuary of the Temple
Grounds where he could drop the Transformations he’d be holding until then.

To the Fasallon, though, Abella was their most respected
Fore Seer, having had the same gift of prophecy that sometimes afflicted Vatar.
He snorted. Probably where he’d gotten it, since Abella was the mother of the
twins, Tabeus and Taleus, who were both his ancestors.

Grandmother.
Taleus’s voice in Vatar’s mind was
accompanied by a whistling sound. It had been some time since Vatar’s ancestor
had . . . haunted him was not the right word . . . spoken in Vatar’s mind. The
whistle was their compromise so Vatar would know when Taleus offered such a comment.

All the stories I was ever told said she was your mother.
And why was Vatar arguing? Surely Taleus knew who his own mother was.

When they chose the Lie and called themselves the Sea Gods,
our father only told the Caereans the truths that were convenient. The fact
that our mother died in childbirth was not convenient.

Oh. Sorry.
Vatar answered, glancing forward to the
Sea King’s platform.

It was six hundred years ago.

Vatar had been assigned to do the Transformations for
Abella, second in the procession, and another of the Sea Gods, who’d be carried
directly behind Abella. Portions of the procession that Gerusa would have been
responsible for, if she were here. He had forgotten 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 that third 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 fourth platform, where his half-sister Boreala sat as
Calpe, Goddess of Healing. By tradition, Boreala should have portrayed Abella,
whose seat she occupied on the High Council. But as a Master Healer, Boreala
had chosen to represent Calpe instead, as she’d done in previous Festivals. She
was already
Transformed
into Calpe’s image and busy
adjusting the heavy ceremonial robes around her.

Gradually, Vatar realized that it was Taleus, not himself,
who 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 and a thin whistle.

That’s just a Transformation. 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.

Turning from Boreala, Vatar watched his other half-sister,
Selene, saunter toward him. Unlike Boreala, he hadn’t met Selene until he’d
started training for this procession. And he didn’t much like or trust her. She
reminded him too much of Gerusa. Since Boreala had chosen to represent Calpe,
her younger sister, Selene, would portray Abella. Boreala could manage at least
her own Transformation and Vatar strongly suspected that Selene could, too. She
probably had reasons of her own for claiming to need help. Not that it
mattered. If not her, Vatar would just have been assigned to hold some other
Transformation.

Selene paused to talk to Father. Her demeanor was all
sweetness. Too much so. Vatar couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but it made
him trust her even less. But watching Father’s features soften, Vatar really
hoped he was wrong.

Parting from Father, Selene climbed up onto the waiting
platform with barely a nod in Vatar’s direction. She started settling the
ornate formal robes into suitable folds. Vatar closed his eyes, calling to mind
the images of the Transformations he’d be called upon to perform for this
procession, making sure they were clear in his memory.

Father rode up on a fine grey stallion with a jewel-bedecked
bridle and saddle. At least, Vatar knew it was his father because he was the
only one who’d be mounted, rather than carried, in this parade. Vatar could
also sense the wrongness of the strange visage that looked down at him. At
least it was strange to Vatar; Taleus shivered slightly in recognition.

As the representative of Tabeus, Father carried the spear with
which Tabeus had slain the sea dragon. The monster 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 Selene’s features, then do the same for the
other Councilor whose name he’d also forgotten.

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 the
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.
The procession wound through the narrow streets where houses crowded in on both
sides. In one or two places, maneuvering the platforms was tricky enough that
Vatar was glad he didn’t have to divide his attention between that and
maintaining the Transformations. People hung out of windows and even roofs to
see the Sea Gods pass by. Sometimes, they threw flowers or other small
offerings onto the platforms. Good thing Father had warned him about that or
Vatar would have ducked instinctively—and probably upset the rhythm of the
bearers.

The procession stopped first at the Fishers’ Guild, where
one of the platforms was jostled forward so that whichever Sea God that was
supposed to be—Vatar didn’t even try to keep track—could graciously accept the
offered tribute. The tribute was loaded onto highly decorated wagons that
followed the procession. Then the parade turned down another narrow street to
the Weavers’ Guild, where another of the supposed Sea Gods accepted the offered
tribute in exchange for her blessing.

The route from there crossed one of the larger market
squares, now thronged with people. The Temple Guard had to open a cleared
avenue for the parade to pass through. The smell of fried fish—provided free on
sticks on the day of the Festival—nearly choked Vatar. But as they moved on, he
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 the Fasallon woman outside of the masking Transformation for an
instant. Vatar reached with a Power borrowed from Thekila, to move objects
without touching them, to right the platform and prevent disaster.

He looked ahead to the looming walls of the Smiths’ Guildhall,
the procession’s next stop. It was easy to pick out Thekila from the others on
the top of the wall by her bright red hair. Theklan slumped beside her, one of
her hands clutching his arm.
Thekila! Are you hurt? What’s wrong?