The Shaman's Curse (Dual Magics Book 1) (4 page)

Danar sat down on one of the long padded benches in Lanark’s
front room. Lucina ignored Castalia’s invitation to join her in the kitchen and
sat down next to him.

Lanark sat down across from them and leaned forward. “So
what is it that brought all of you here this year? I thought we’d discussed
bringing young Vatar here next year.”

“Yes. Well,” Danar said. “Things have changed. It seemed
prudent for him to come this year. It won’t do any harm. He can begin to get a
feel for the work and have a chance to decide for himself if that’s what he
wants. And it’s better for him to be away from the plains right now.”

Lanark’s eyes narrowed. “And what about his manhood test?
That’s what you said you were waiting for last time we talked.”

“Well, he couldn’t do that with a broken arm and two cracked
ribs anyway,” Lucina put in.

“Can’t very well swing a hammer, either,” Lanark replied.
“And I thought you were against the idea of offering him an apprenticeship.
What’s going on?”

“There was an accident—” Danar started.

Lanark waved his hand. “I can see that. What did he do, fall
of one off your tall horses?”

Danar shook his head. “No, he and three of his friends
turned what was supposed to be a day of hunting into a chance to cool off in
the river.”

Lanark smiled. “Boys do that all the time.”

Danar’s lips thinned. “They don’t usually get caught in a
flash flood, though.”

Lanark winced. “Ah.”

“One boy was killed. The shaman’s son. The shaman . . .
isn’t taking it well. He as much as accused Vatar at the funeral. It doesn’t
help that Vatar feels guilty for not being able to save his friend. Vatar’d
gotten to safety before the flood hit. The injuries were all from trying to
save the other boy. I’d as soon have him away from under Maktaz’s eye for a
while. Give Maktaz a chance to cool down.”

Lanark rubbed his chin. “I see. Well, then, assuming the boy
agrees I don’t see a problem. He’s old enough to be registered with the guild
as my apprentice. The boys his age are due to go through our manhood rites at
the end of summer. I expect he’ll be healed enough by then to take part. Have
you discussed this with him?”

Danar shook his head. “Not yet. Vatar has a stubborn streak,
but he also has enough curiosity for twenty cats. Better to get him intrigued
with the work first, before he sets his mind against the idea.”

Lanark smiled across at Lucina. “A stubborn streak? In this
family?” He guffawed. “Can’t imagine where he could have come by that. Or the
curiosity, either.”

Lucina grinned back. “I am justly punished. And Kiara is ten
times worse.”

Danar shrugged. “She just tries too hard to keep up with her
big brother.”

Lanark sat back and his grin widened. “Assuming your lad shows
a gift for the craft, I have a favor to ask in return.”

Danar sat forward, preparing to trade. “You know that the
Dardani’ll give a great deal for this training. Whatever the Guild asks, the
Clans will give it willingly.”

Lanark waved his hand. “No, no, nothing like that. This is
strictly between you and me. I’m ashamed to say that my own son has little
talent or liking for the smith craft. But he shows some promise as a merchant.
Castalia’s brother will sponsor him into the Merchants’ Guild, if I ask, but
he’ll need some kind of a stake to get him started after his apprenticeship,
which I can’t give him. Or some other advantage. A year or two among your
people, to gain a deeper understanding of your wants and needs, could give him
that.”

Danar smiled. “So, we solve each other’s problem, eh? The
best kind of trade.”

“Indeed.” Lanark answered. “Now, we just need to persuade
the boys.”

“Not quite so fast, Lanark,” Lucina put in. “Are you sure
that you can keep Vatar from the attention of the Fasallon?”

Lanark laughed. “Lucina, he’ll be working in a smithy. The
only people he’ll meet in my  workshop are other smiths. And, if he
accepts an apprenticeship with me, he’ll have the protection of the guild.” His
eyes sharpened as he continued to look at her. “Is there a reason to worry? Has
he shown any sign of . . . ?”

Lucina shook her head. “Nothing in years. When he was
little, he used to claim he could tell when something was dangerous. I’m not
even sure if that’s a kind of Fasallon magic, but I watched him carefully after
that. There was never anything else. I finally decided it was just a child’s
imagination.”

Lanark relaxed. “Then I don’t think you have anything to
worry about. Why would they even be interested in him? I’m sure the guild and I
can keep him safe.”

Lucina smiled. “I’ll trust you with that, then.”

~

Danar waited until they were alone in the room Castalia had
prepared for them before asking Lucina, “You’re still worried about Veleus
after all these years?”

“Not . . . really. It was never Veleus that I was afraid of
to begin with. It was the Temple priests. The Searchers.” Lucina let out a
frustrated sigh. “It’s been fifteen years. Vatar has never shown any real sign
of having Fasallon magic. If he had, I’d have had you whisk him back here in spite
of the Searchers.”

“Why? Don’t you think I could have kept him safe?” Danar
asked.

Lucina drew a deep breath and let it out. “Normally, yes.
But . . . some kinds of Fasallon magic would be much too dangerous among the
Dardani.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you remember those old stories you told me when I
first came onto the plains with you? The ones about how the six clans came
together as a single tribe to battle sorcerers that threatened to drive them
from the plains?”

Danar smiled at the memory. “Of course.”

“Some of what the most powerful Fasallon can do . . . what
men like Veleus can do . . . is similar to what the sorcerers in those stories
did. And a boy, discovering abilities like that . . . You couldn’t expect him
to resist using them, could you? I can just imagine how the Dardani would react
to seeing anything like that. Half the tribe would have been calling for an
exorcism.”

Danar forced his hand not to form the Lion Clan warding
sign. “Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t inherit any of his father’s magic,
then. But you’re still worried about the Searchers?”

Lucina shook her head. “I guess there’s no reason for them
to take an interest in him now. But . . . it’s hard not to worry. He can’t hide
the color of his eyes.”

Danar moved to take her in his arms. “What would they do,
now? He’s not a baby anymore. He’s a man grown—or nearly.”

Lucina shook her head. “I don’t know. They take the babies
away to the Temple and they’re never seen by their families again. But I don’t
know what they’d do with someone Vatar’s age. I guess I’m just being silly.”

“You’re never silly, Lucina. Your instincts are always good.
Maybe we should tell Vatar, now. Especially if he decides to stay,” Danar said.

“It wouldn’t bother you to tell him that you’re not his
father?”

“Lucina, I will always be Vatar’s father. I’m the one who
held him when he was still damp from his birth. I’m the one that sweated with
you through his fevers and accidents and adventures. I taught him to ride and
to hunt and to use a spear. I stood for him before the Clan when he got his
Clan Mark and I’ll stand for him when he gets his manhood tattoo. He’s my son
as much as Kiara is my daughter. And always will be. But it may be time to tell
him that I didn’t sire him, so he can be prepared.”

Lucina was silent for a moment. Finally, she shook her head.
“No. If he knows, he’ll be curious. He’ll try to find out more. Then the
Fasallon would find out about him.”

Danar had to laugh. “That would be Vatar all over. Always curious
about everything—especially things that could be dangerous for him. We’ll trust
Lanark’s judgment, then.”

“Yes.” Lucina put her arms around Danar and smiled up at
him. “Did you notice that Lanark has given us the same room where we spent our
wedding night?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Vatar’s legs were frozen. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t run
as the wall of water rushed down on him. The rolling waters swirled and
reformed into the raging face of Maktaz as he accused Vatar of somehow killing
Torkaz. As the wave fell forward, the mouth opened as if to swallow Vatar.

He jerked awake with a gasp, heart hammering in his chest.
Vatar sat up shakily and blinked the room into focus, trying to remember where
he was. Stone walls, not sod. A strange sleeping platform that Arcas had called
a bed instead of a bedroll on the mat-covered floor. Oh, right. His uncle’s
house in Caere. That was his cousin Arcas snoring in the next bed. He sank back
into the unaccustomed softness. Caere. On the sea coast. That must be why he’d
had that dream again. Didn’t account for that last part, though. That was new.

Vatar shuddered. Just knowing that all that water was out
there, lapping at the solid ground, made his skin crawl. It was enough to kill
any hope that he’d be able to go back to sleep.

He climbed out of the bed as carefully and quietly as he
could and crossed to the small window. Near dawn as close as he could tell with
so much of the sky obscured by the close-set buildings. He padded out through
the kitchen to the open air of the courtyard, glad that Arcas’s apprentice
quarters, which Vatar shared for the duration of their stay, was on the ground
floor. He couldn’t imagine actually
sleeping
upstairs, so far off the
ground.

Vatar sat outside in the chill morning air, trying to force
his mind to focus on the new and exciting things he’d seen yesterday rather
than on the terror of his nightmare. Unsuccessfully, until he thought of the
Smiths’ Guild and the men hammering iron and steel into so many useful and
beautiful shapes. He’d spent some time watching the metal workers at home,
enough to know that bronze and copper weren’t worked anything like that. He’d
never heard the molten bronze sing a fierce melody like that of the red-hot iron
under the hammer. There was a mystery there that pulled at something deep in
his core. He hoped he’d have a chance to find out more while he was here.

“There you are!”

Vatar started at his aunt’s voice coming from the kitchen
doorway. He must have dozed off, dreaming of red-hot iron and steel. That was a
strange thing to dream about, but much better than a wall of water wearing
Maktaz’s face crashing down on him.

Vatar turned toward her. “Sorry. I woke up and couldn’t get
back to sleep.”

Aunt Castalia smiled. “Nothing to be sorry about. But come
in, come in. Breakfast is ready and I bet you’re hungry.”

Vatar’s stomach growled loudly at the mention of breakfast.

Aunt Castalia laughed. “Thought so. Boys your age always
are.”

Vatar was glad to see something more familiar on the table.
The bread here was different than the flat loaves the Dardani made, but it was
still bread. And there were bowls of a grain porridge. It wasn’t that he hadn’t
liked the big, strange-looking fish Aunt Castalia served for supper last night,
but . . . no natural creature should have both eyes on the same side of its
head. Arcas hadn’t been exaggerating about Aunt Castalia’s pies, though. Those
had been very good.

“I thought Vatar and I might go back to the market today,”
Arcas said around a mouthful of bread. “We didn’t have much of a chance
yesterday, after we spent so much time at the Smiths’ Hall.”

Vatar looked up from close attention to filling the
emptiness in his stomach with Aunt Castalia’s good porridge. More of those
sweet pies wouldn’t bother him at all.

Uncle Lanark met Vatar’s eyes. “Oh, did you enjoy the
Smiths’ Hall, Vatar?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

Uncle Lanark shared one of those cryptic looks with Pa. He
smiled at Vatar. “Well, then. Why don’t you come out to the forge with me after
breakfast? Maybe I can show you some more of the craft.”

Vatar smiled. “I’d like that.”

Arcas tried again. “Then, maybe we could go to the market
this afternoon?”

Uncle Lanark shook his head. “Perhaps. We’ll see. If you stop
pestering me and actually get your work done, that is.”

Arcas subsided.

After breakfast, Uncle Lanark led Vatar out to his forge in
the center of the courtyard. The fire had been banked for the night. Vatar
helped to feed it and used the bellows to bring it up to full heat. Uncle
Lanark chose a small piece of scrap iron and used tongs to place it in the
heart of the fire. Then he tied a leather apron around Vatar. When the iron was
red hot, Uncle Lanark used the tongs to remove it from the fire and place it on
the anvil. He took a long, critical look at Vatar and the splint on his left
arm.

“Can’t do much with that arm, can you? We’ll make it easy,
then.” He handed Vatar the smallest hammer from the array on the wall.

“Go ahead. Strike the iron.” He continued to hold onto the
tongs holding the iron on the anvil. Vatar had seen the other smiths holding
the tongs with one hand and wielding the hammer with the other. He couldn’t do
that with his broken arm, though.

“What . . .” Vatar licked his lips. He’d watched smiths make
all kinds of things yesterday. “What am I trying to do with it?”

Uncle Lanark smiled. “Just try to flatten it out a bit, for
now.”

Vatar held the hammer as he’d seen the smiths do and tapped
down on the iron. The smiths he’d watched hadn’t seemed to be using much force.
The hammer bounced back up and almost flew out of his grasp.

“You’ll have to strike harder than that. And take a better
grip, too.”

Vatar closed his fist tighter and brought the hammer down a
second time, this time with more force. The iron rang, the beginning of that
discordant song he’d heard the previous afternoon. He could lose himself in
that music.

Uncle Lanark used another longer piece of iron to point to a
spot just past the middle. “Strike there.”

Vatar swung the hammer again. And again. He didn’t wait for
Uncle Lanark to show him where. It was like the iron itself was telling him
where to strike with its melody.

He didn’t stop until Uncle Lanark took the hammer out of his
hand. The piece of scrap iron was evenly flattened. And Vatar felt much, much
better. It was like he’d let all his grief and guilt and terror out through the
hammer.

Uncle Lanark took the piece and dipped it into a barrel of
water, which hissed and steamed. When he took it out, he looked it over
carefully, turning it this way and that. “I couldn’t have done better myself.
You have a gift for the craft, Vatar.”

Vatar lifted his chin and smiled at the praise.

~

As they all pushed back from a hearty lunch, Uncle Lanark
looked to Pa and Mother and then at Vatar. “You have a real talent for the
smith craft, Vatar. The kind that would be a true tragedy to waste. How would
you like to stay in Caere as my apprentice?”

Vatar choked on a bite of Aunt Castalia’s fresh-baked bread.
“Huh?” He looked across at his parents.

Pa nodded.

“It’s an opportunity you should really consider,” Mother
said. “Of course, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Vatar blinked. Was this what they’d been talking about
behind his back? Almost, he wanted to shout “No!” But he didn’t. He remembered
the feel of working with the iron, a feeling of freedom as great as galloping
across the plains, in its own way. He thought of the things he’d seen smiths
make at the guildhall.
He
could learn to do that? But . . . “I thought
the Smiths’ Guild refused to allow a Dardani to train as a smith.” It was more
an attempt to delay than real curiosity.

Uncle Lanark placed a hand on his shoulder. “Normally, that
would be true. The guild is very short-sighted. They want to keep the Dardani
coming back to us for every minor repair, rather than seeing the benefits of an
expanded trade. But that’s not the point. I don’t need the guild’s permission
to train my own sister’s son. That’s my right. In fact, it’s expected.”

“The Dardani have been waiting for this opportunity for a
long time,” Pa said. “If you like the work, it would almost guarantee you a
position of honor in the tribe.”

“Um . . . How long does this training usually take?” Vatar
asked.

Uncle Lanark shrugged. “That depends a great deal on the aptitude
of the apprentice. The usual apprenticeship is two years. But it really depends
on how long it takes for you to learn to make a piece that proves your mastery
of the basics of the craft. Longer, of course, if you want to go on from there
to learn, say, to be a blade smith.”

“Two years!” Vatar couldn’t imagine being away from his home
and family for that long. Or staying in this claustrophobic and confusing city
for that long, either.

“It’ll go by much faster than you think,” Pa said. “And . .
. well, there’s this to consider, too. In that time, Maktaz’s anger at you is
bound to cool. Frankly, you’ll be much safer here for a while. And, if you come
back as the Dardani’s first and only smith, you’ll be in a much better position
to withstand anything Maktaz may try against you in the future.”

For a moment, Vatar flashed on his nightmare vision of
Maktaz’s face on the front of the flash flood. Staying away from Maktaz for a
while might not be a bad idea, but . . . two whole years! A new thought struck
Vatar. “I wouldn’t be home for my manhood test this year or next. I’d have to
wait. I’d be the oldest one in the test.”

“No, actually,” Uncle Lanark said. “The Smiths’ Guild boys
your age will go through our manhood rites at the end of summer. You could go right
along with them, the same way your father did.”

Pa fingered the torc he still wore around his neck. “That’s
right.”

“You’ll be healed enough by then,” Mother said.

Vatar swallowed hard. “Can I . . . can I have a little time
to think about it?”

“Of course,” Uncle Lanark said. “You can keep working with
me in the forge, if you like. To get a feel for what you’d be learning.”

“We’ll be here for a while yet,” Mother said. “Take as much
time as you need.”

“Hey,” Arcas said, pounding him on the back. “We’ll be
apprentices together. That’ll be good.”

Uncle Lanark cleared his throat. “Actually, if Vatar accepts
and if it’s what you want, I’d thought of transferring your apprenticeship to
your Uncle
Castan
. I think you’d do very well as a
merchant. If that’s what you want, of course.”

Arcas sat back as a grin slowly grew on his face. “Really?
Me, a merchant? You mean it?”

Uncle Lanark nodded.

“Wow!”

Vatar turned to the other boy, a new suspicion growing in
his mind. “You don’t want to be a smith? Why?”

Arcas shrugged and cast an apologetic look at his father.
“To tell the truth, I’m not very good at it, no matter how hard I try. I
haven’t even started making my own tools yet. Everyone else my age has already
made at least some of their own tools. But I
can
drive a sharp bargain.
I could be a much better merchant than I’ll ever be a smith. Now you, if Father
says so, you could be a great smith.”