The Voice of Prophecy (Dual Magics Book 2) (17 page)

No, change would never come from the Caereans. Father was
right about that. They had no reason to want change. Things were good for them.
So who, then?

The question might be moot. Maybe, if Father was right,
there’d be no need for the Fasallon who was not a Fasallon at all. The change
could come quietly and gradually. That was fine as long as it came—and didn’t
take too long. What if Father was wrong, though? Or what if the Council made
the prophesied wrong choice. Someone should probably have a plan for that. But
the questions remained. If not the Lie, what were the secrets to be revealed?
And to whom must they be revealed?

The only ones who had a reason to want change were those like
himself, Fasallon of little or no Talent. But what secrets did he know that
they didn’t also know? What made him different?

He looked up toward the east, beyond the farms, in the
direction of the plains stretching away toward Zeda. Maybe only this. That he
had had a chance to see other ways of life, to see what freedom looked like.
There was so much to think about. The thoughts spun around in his head almost
making him dizzy, they came so fast.

~

That night, watched Thekila brushing out her long hair. She
seemed thoughtful. Vatar was also a little preoccupied. If it weren’t so
ridiculous, he would have said he was nervous. He had made a promise, but he
wasn’t entirely happy about it.

“Vatar?” Thekila said, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking. I know that you’re still frightened for
me . . .”

“I promised you, Thekila. I won’t break a promise.”

She smiled. “I know that. Let me finish. I don’t really want
to be in the last stages of a pregnancy when we ride out to Zeda and back next summer,
either. If we were to start now, I could be. And I won’t be left behind. Much
as I want a baby, I think we should wait a little while. If we stop preventing
a pregnancy a month or two before we leave for Zeda, then, if I get pregnant, I
will still be in the early stages, even when we ride back here. That would be
easier for me, too. And I would be here, in Caere, during the last part of the
pregnancy and for the birth.”

Vatar let his breath out. “Where Boreala could take care of
you,” he said, coming to stand behind her.

“Yes, if that makes you feel better. I think I’d rather be
here for that, too. I’d just be more comfortable, I think. This is more like
home, to me.”

Vatar smiled. “All right. That’s what we’ll do, then.” After
a moment, he asked, “Will you know . . . when a new life starts?”

Thekila considered the question. “Not when it starts, but
soon after, I think.”

“Will you tell me when you know?”

She turned to put her arms around him. “Of course I will.
You don’t think I could keep something like that to myself, do you?”

Cestus watched Jana and Arus romp with the half-grown
puppies. He was grateful to Boreala for bringing them up with her. Now that
tensions had eased, she and Father were frequent visitors for seventh-day
dinner.

But he couldn’t help a little sadness, too. They reminded
him of what he’d lost. Never again would he share these moments—or anything
else—with Lancera. He’d never loved any other woman. Not that he hadn’t had
opportunities. During his time with the Dardani, there’d been more than one
appealing young woman who gave him inviting looks. But he’d resisted the
temptation. If only Lancera’d had anything like the same self-control. The same
respect for him.

He sighed. Would it ever stop hurting to think of Lancera?
Would there come a time when he could watch their children play without
thinking of her?

Boreala stood up from where she’d been sitting next to him,
also watching the children at play. She looked towards the gate, her expression
grim. “What’s this?”

Cestus turned to follow her gaze. A very pregnant woman was
making her slow way up the road. Probably someone needing Boreala’s
professional services. The Healers’ Hall really shouldn’t be sending patients
directly to her up here at Vatar’s and Arcas’s farm. Boreala deserved some
rest, too.

His eyes narrowed and his breath stopped for an instant.
That figure was more than familiar. This woman hadn’t come from the Healers’
Hall. His heartbeat sped up with the beginnings of panic. What was Lancera
doing here?

Boreala’s posture had stiffened. Very uncharacteristically,
she swore under her breath, using words Cestus would have expected more from
Orleus than Boreala. Evidently, she recognized the visitor, too. She held out
one hand behind her, palm facing Cestus. “Stay here. I’ll deal with this.”

Cestus hesitated as he watched Boreala stride across the
courtyard, glad to let her handle Lancera. No. This was cowardice. It was one
thing to allow his half-sister to take his children back and forth when she
would be making the trip anyway. This was something else. Sooner or later, he
was going to have to talk to Lancera, if only for the sake of Jana and Arus. He
couldn’t start that by hiding behind Boreala. He stood up and followed Boreala
to the gate.

“Why are you here, Lancera?” Boreala asked in a
professionally neutral tone.

Lancera chewed her lower lip. A habit Cestus knew too well.
Her eyes darted toward him. “I’ve come to see Cestus.”

Cestus drew a deep breath before speaking. “What do you want,
Lancera?”

Boreala looked at Cestus, a question in her eyes. He nodded
slightly and she withdrew. Not, he noticed, very far. But far enough to give
them a modicum of privacy.

“I’ve come to beg your forgiveness, Cestus.” Lancera met his
eyes briefly then looked down at her hands. “I was a fool. I should never have
. . .”

He didn’t open the gate, but continued to talk to her over
that barrier. “Then why did you?”

Lancera wrung her hands. “I don’t know. I was lonely and
bored and frustrated. I was going slowly crazy alone in that little house all
day with just the children to talk to. I wanted something more than that.
Andreus . . . I knew it was wrong. But somehow that made it more exciting.”

Cestus’s lips thinned. “I see.”

Lancera glanced up at the coldness in his voice. “No, you
don’t. It was really only that feeling of being wrong that made it exciting.
Andreus was not . . . not nearly worth it. He wasn’t . . . even very good,
really.”

Cestus took a step back. “Just better than me.”

“No! Just . . . something different. I shouldn’t have wanted
that. But I was so bored and frustrated with my life. Any change, anything that
was different would have been welcome. It just happened to be him.”

Cestus shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?
I could have . . . done something. I could have at least tried, if I’d known.”

Lancera shook her head violently. “I couldn’t. I knew how
frustrated you were. Knowing that they’d never let you do more than you already
were. That you’d never be able to do all that you are capable of. How could I
add my frustration to what you already carried? I should have been content with
what I had.”

Cestus closed his eyes briefly. “No, you shouldn’t. No more
than I should. But you should have talked to me.”

Lancera looked up, searching his face. “Yes, I know that
now.”

Cestus was glad of the gate between them. Without it, he
probably would have melted at that look. “But now—”

Lancera choked back a sob. “Can’t you forgive me? Don’t you
love me anymore?”

Cestus’s shoulders sagged. “I . . . I still love you. It
would be easier if I didn’t. If I could hate you. I . . . don’t know yet if I
can forgive you. Maybe eventually.”

“Then—”

Cestus shook his head, cutting her off. “I can’t raise
his
child. I know I should be able to. The way Dinus raised me. But I just can’t. I
can’t help thinking that child would remind me, every day, of what you did. I
don’t think I can live with that.”

Lancera sobbed.

For a moment, Cestus stood rooted to the spot. He wanted to
hold her, to comfort her. But he couldn’t. That way led to . . . no. Allowing
himself to be drawn into that would destroy him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t stand
there and watch her cry, either. He turned on his heel and fled to the guest
house.

Vatar nocked another arrow to the bow. This was a waste of
time. He’d tried to tell Orleus that he’d never been any good as an archer,
that he’d do better to just continue training with his spear. But Orleus insisted
that any true defense required weapons that could be used at a distance—arrows
or javelins. And Vatar had already proven that he wasn’t any better with a
javelin than he was with a bow.

He couldn’t really argue with Orleus’s logic. He would certainly
prefer to have been able to, for example, deal with that bear from a distance,
while standing next to Thekila, to protect her. It was just that this was a
lost cause. He’d never been able to hit anything much smaller than a hillside
with an arrow.

Vatar drew in a deep breath. He sighted down the arrow and
drew the string back to the corner of his mouth, as Orleus had shown him. He
let his breath out and loosed the arrow. It went wide, missing the target by an
arms’-length. Well, at least he hadn’t missed the
whole
barn.

“No, no,” Orleus said. “You pushed with the bow that time.
You need to hold the bow still. The draw arm, too. In fact
all
of you
should be as still as possible. Only your fingers need to move at all. Just
release the string and let the bow do the work. Try again.”

Vatar huffed out in frustration. Suddenly, he felt as if
something inside him had just totally lost patience. He heard that voice inside
his head say,
All right, that’s enough of this.
The queer calm settled
over him again and he sent the remaining five arrows into the target. The last
even struck at the edge of the bull’s eye.

Orleus whooped. “Terrific! You’ve finally gotten it!”

Vatar lowered the bow slowly. His hand was shaking. His
stomach felt as if he’d eaten molten lead for breakfast. Whatever that voice
was, it had just taken over and made him shoot straight. He’d taken comfort in
his father’s guess that the voice was somehow linked to Fore Sight, but this
wasn’t any form of prophecy. Vatar threw the bow away from him and went to sit
under the apple tree before his shaking legs made him crumple to the ground.

Orleus picked up the bow and retrieved the arrows. Then he
joined Vatar on the bench. “What’s wrong?”

Vatar couldn’t answer through the constriction in his throat.

“Vatar?”

Finally, Vatar looked up and met Orleus’ eyes. “That was the
strangest thing.” Vatar paused to clear his throat, trying to overcome the
tremor in his voice. “I heard that voice again. Then I got very calm and . . .
it almost felt like someone else was shooting the arrows.”

 “Your voice is a good shot,” Orleus joked.

Vatar propped his elbows on his knees and lowered his head
to his hands. Nothing about this was funny.

Orleus sighed. “Look, Vatar, I don’t know what that voice is
that you hear. The only thing I do know is that it doesn’t seem to mean you any
harm.”

Vatar shook his head. “The calm I felt just now was almost
exactly the way I felt when I confronted the High Council. How much of that was
me? And how much was the voice? And how long has this been going on?”

Orleus chuckled. “Judging by what Thekila told us, it was
all you Vatar. It was so like you that I don’t for a minute believe it was
anything else.

“Look, that calm you say you felt. That’s what the very best
archers can do, and it’s also what they teach us to help us use our Talents. I
know you were taught calming and focusing exercises at the Academy and that
Thekila still has you practice them.”

Vatar nodded.

“All right. I’ve seen it happen this way before with new
recruits I was training. Suddenly the pieces just all fall into place. Things
that were learned separately come together. I don’t think it’s anything unusual
or related to your voice. It’s just a natural part of learning these skills for
some people. Come on, try again.” Orleus held the bow out to him.

“No!” Vatar shoved the bow back toward Orleus.

Orleus frowned. “Vatar, when you were learning to ride and
you fell off—and we
all
fall when we’re learning, even Dardani—would
Danar have allowed you to go off and nurse your injuries or would he have put
you right back up on the horse and made you try again?”

Vatar swallowed. “You have to get back up. Otherwise it’ll
just be harder the next time. And, if you fell because the horse refused to do
something, you can’t let it think it can win that way.”

Orleus nodded. “Right. Well, I don’t think we have to worry
about the bow thinking it’s won. But the rest is still true. If you don’t try
again, right now, it’ll be harder the next time. Just one more round.”

Vatar held out his right hand. “Shaking like this?”

Orleus snorted. “Well, I grant that would make it hard to
hit the barn, let alone the target. But you can steady yourself. I’ve seen you
do it. Maybe that’s not a bad thing to practice, either.”

Vatar sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying
to calm himself. Again. At least in matters having to do with weapons and
fighting, Orleus could be just as exasperating as Thekila on matters of
magic—too clearly right to argue with. Focusing on that irritation helped a little,
though. He swallowed hard and reluctantly held his hand out for the bow.

Orleus placed the bow into his left hand and thrust the
arrows into the quiver slung over Vatar’s shoulder. Vatar breathed in and out a
few more times, using the meditation techniques he’d learned in the Valley. All
right, if he was going to do this, then he might as well get it over with.

Vatar stood up, took a few paces closer to the target, and
took up his stance. Orleus made a couple of adjustments. Vatar pulled an arrow
out of his quiver and nocked it to the bow. He drew back the string. One more
deep breath and he released the arrow. It struck in the outer ring of the
target—better than his earlier shooting, but not like that last time.
Don’t
think about that. Do it again. Just five more times.
That was his own
thought. It hadn’t come from anywhere else.

The other five arrows all ended up in the outer two rings of
the target.

Orleus stepped forward to retrieve the arrows. “Not bad. You
see,” Orleus said. “You’re over-sensitive about that voice. It’s perfectly
natural.”

Vatar handed the bow back. “Maybe. But I think that’s enough
archery for a while.”

“Vatar—”

Vatar shook his head. He’d really like to believe Orleus’s
explanation, or Father’s. But neither of them really
felt
right. They
couldn’t really understand. They’d never heard that voice, or felt as if their
own body, their own thoughts, were not under their control. “I’ll try the
javelins tomorrow, if you insist. No more archery for a while.”

Vatar retreated to his forge, hoping to displace his worries
over that voice. He set Orleus’s sword aside. Not today. That needed his
complete attention. He started a simple knife, instead. Something he’d made a
hundred times before. Something that, hopefully, would let him fall into the
harsh song of the steel and lose himself for a little while.

It didn’t work. No matter what he tried to focus on, his
thoughts kept circling back to that voice. Definitely not Fore Sight. Not when
it affected his archery like that. Not a normal reaction, either, whatever
Orleus thought. So what was it?

He could only think of two answers. Well, three, but he
discounted his father’s idea that he was somehow Tabeus reborn. Aside from
that, either he was going mad or he was possessed. Trev hadn’t ruled out
possession, just possession by an Evil Spirit. This had felt a little like
that. He thought back over other times he’d felt that strange calm. The clash
with the High Council. Fighting the Bear. Challenging Maktaz to the Ordeal and
the fight with Maktaz at the end of their Ordeals. His eyes narrowed and he
stopped hammering on the knife blank for a moment. Was there a fourth
possibility?

The old shaman had tried to curse him during that
confrontation. They all thought that Vatar had stopped him in time, before the
curse could be completed. What if they were wrong? What if at least part of
that curse had taken effect? It had been a dying curse. There was no way to
remove it. What then?

Vatar swallowed bile. The weather here in Caere was mild,
but it was already winter. There was no way to safely cross the plains at this
season. He wished Trev had Fasallon magic that would enable Far Speech, but he
didn’t. There was no way he could talk to Trev until spring at the earliest.
Maybe they should plan an early trip out to Zeda this year. Now, he just had to
find some way not to dwell on that horrible thought until then. Vatar blew out
his breath and tried to concentrate on his work.

~

Vatar watched Thekila brushing out her long, red hair. He’d
managed to hold back until they were alone, but he couldn’t keep his worries
about that voice to himself much longer. Of the four possible explanations,
only the least likely seemed like anything he could actually hope for.

He cleared his throat. “Thekila, what do the Valson believe?”

Thekila turned to him, cocking her head to one side. “What
do you mean?”

Vatar blew out a breath. “The Dardani believe in
Spirits—Good and Evil. I know that the totem Spirits are real. I’ve felt the
Spirit of the Lion. We believe that when we die, our totem Spirits carry our
souls to the Overworld, to be reborn there. What do the Valson believe?”

Thekila continued brushing out her hair. “We believe in the
Maker, a creator who made the world and everything in it—even your Spirits. We
show reverence to the Maker by respecting all of Her works. That’s what the
Tenets are about, really.”

Vatar blinked. “Her?”

Thekila smiled and put her brush down. “The Maker creates
life, Vatar. She must be female to do that.”

Vatar shook his head, letting that pass. He knew the Tenets
well. They were the five principles that governed Valson life. The first Tenet
was ‘Show respect for all life. It is all the work of the Maker.’ The third was
‘Never use Powers to harm another. Powers were not given to us to destroy the Maker’s
work.’ The other three seemed to him to have more to do with living together in
a society in which nearly everyone had magical Talent. But he could see what
Thekila meant. “And what do you believe happens when you die?”

“The Maker takes us back and remolds us into whatever She
needs us to be. Perhaps a flower, perhaps a star. Nothing is wasted.”

Vatar mulled that over for a moment. It seemed . . .
possible. “Then the Maker could have taken Tabeus back, six hundred years ago,
and remolded him into . . . me?”

Thekila crossed the room to put her hands on his arms and
look into his eyes. “That’s not what we believe. Are you still worrying about
that voice?”

Vatar gave something between a shrug and a nod. “But it’s
possible?”

Thekila’s hands squeezed his arms. “Nothing is impossible
for the Maker. What made you think of this now? I thought you and Veleus had
decided that it was part of your Talent. What you call Fore Sight.”

Vatar blew out his breath and shook his head. “I heard the
voice again today, when I was practicing with Orleus. It was almost as if it
took control for a moment. It . . . frightened me.”

Thekila put her arms around him. “That would frighten
anyone. What did it make you do?”

Vatar smiled weakly. “It made me shoot straight. I put five
arrows in the target.”

Thekila relaxed. “Well, that’s not so horrible.”

“But it’s not prophecy, either. Father’s explanation can’t
be right. The only thing that’s left is that I am Tabeus reborn. That, or I’m
either possessed or going mad.” He wasn’t ready to put a cause to that
madness—that he had been cursed. Not out loud.

“You
are not
losing your mind, Vatar. And I don’t
believe that we are reborn in that way. There’s an explanation and we will find
it.” She tugged on the laces of his tunic.

Vatar smiled at the patent diversion. For now, there wasn’t
much else he could do but allow himself to be diverted. Probably, he couldn’t
learn anything more until he could talk to Trev again. The sooner the better.
He began slowly untying her lacings, too.

~

Vatar woke in the morning still troubled by the voice. He
had an uncomfortable feeling that the voice had spoken to him in his sleep.
Maybe that had only been a dream. A nightmare.

He quashed his frustration. None of them understood. All of
them were willing to dismiss the voice as harmless and forget about it. Vatar
couldn’t. If he couldn’t be sure of himself . . .

In desperation, he searched at the bottom of the storage
chest to find the bundle of herbs Trev had given him and tucked them into the
front of his tunic. He wasn’t sure how they would help, or even if they would.
But it was about all he had left to try.

Without waiting for breakfast, Vatar went out to his forge
and fanned up the embers with the bellows. He took a handful of the herbs and
threw them onto the fire, standing over the fire pit and breathing in the
smoke. He closed his eyes and focused his mind on his questions. What is that
voice? What does it want with me? What’s going to happen to me?

Nothing seemed to happen. The smoke had an acrid tang that
made Vatar cough. He opened his eyes, sighing deeply with disappointment. The
darkened end of the forge where the fire pit sat spun before his vision. Vatar
staggered back a step, dizzy.

The only thing that’s going to happen to you is you’re going
to hit your head on your own anvil if you don’t sit down and stop breathing
that stuff.
The voice had answered him.

“Who . . . what are you?”

How would a name that has been forgotten for more than
five hundred years help you?

Vatar stumbled over to the bench on the far side of his
workshop and sat down, with his head in his hands. That was only partly because
of his dizziness. A headache had started right behind his eyes. “What do you
want?”