Beyond the Prophecy, page 35
part #3 of Dual Magics Series
Excerpt
from
Dual Magics Book 4
War of Magic
Coming in 2016
Chapter 1: Repercussions
Vatar ambled across the main market square of Caere, not really looking at any of the wares being offered for sale. In his mind, he was already bending the gold and silver wire he’d just purchased at his guildhall into a gift for Thekila. He’d spent days perfecting the complicated woven knot—meant to symbolize their bond—in cheaper copper.
Maybe he’d give that first version to his daughter, Savara, for her sixth birthday next summer. It could as easily represent the twin bond that was developing between her and her brother, Zavar. He knew what kind of gift Zavar would ask for, but six was too young for edged weapons. And Zavar wouldn’t take to jewelry of any kind. And yet the gifts had to balance. Hmm. He’d have to talk to Thekila about that. Perhaps something promissory, like a hilt for the—unsharpened—short knife Zavar could have in a few years, worked with the same pattern. Vatar could fit a wooden blade in the hilt for now.
The image of the half-planned work shattered at the sound of a panicked scream nearby. Vatar stopped and turned in the direction of the cry. All he saw was a wall of bodies, mostly young men. One of them drew back a foot to kick the object of their ire, producing a pained grunt. The attackers were journeymen, by the look of them. Thankfully, not from the Smiths’ Guild, or they’d have more muscle. But journeymen of any guild shouldn’t be harassing people on the streets like common thugs.
Whoever had screamed was between the journeymen and the wall—and that person was terrified. Vatar stalked toward them, keeping his footfalls as silent as if he were hunting through the grasses of the plains rather than pacing across cobblestones. He placed his hands on the shoulders of the two nearest journeymen and tossed them out of his way, revealing a huddled figure—in blue and green robes. The journeymen had attacked a Fasallon!
Vatar lunged forward and turned, putting the Fasallon at his back. “What is the meaning of this?”
“No business of yours.” The largest of the journeymen sneered, flexing blue-tinged hands. Not all of that blue was bruised knuckles, either.
Vatar stretched his shoulders, allowing the muscles built in years of working iron and steel to show. “I am Master Vatar of the Smiths’ Guild.” Vatar was gratified to see some of the other journeymen back up a step at that. He gestured behind him. “And this is the business of any guild. Journeymen cannot be allowed to attack citizens on the street.”
The leader tossed his head up defiantly. “He’s no citizen. He’s one of those lying, thieving Fasallon.”
Vatar sucked in a breath. When he’d revealed the Lie the Fasallon had perpetrated for six hundred years to his own guild master, he’d never expected it to remain a complete secret, but he hadn’t expected it to become common knowledge, either. Naïve. He might never have paid much attention to the way information flowed in Caere, but he knew well enough how it would work among the Dardani. Faced with a similar situation, Pa would tell the other chiefs—just as the Smiths’ Guild Master would tell the other guild masters—because he would consider it their right to know. One or more would tell their life mates (wives, here in Caere). At Zeda it would be the waterhole where women gathered to exchange gossip; here, it would be the marketplace. The story would lose—and gain—elements as it was retold, but it would spread from there.
Vatar’s eyes narrowed as he stared down the leader. “That is a matter for your guild master. Not you. I will make sure that he knows about this.”
The leader smirked. “You don’t even know what guild we belong to.”
Vatar’s smile was hostile. “I can see the blue dye on your hands. I’m going to make a wild guess and say the Weavers’ Guild.”
The others backed away and turned to flee. Only the leader was left and he made a very unwise lunge toward the Fasallon. Vatar shoved him back. The journeyman swung at Vatar, who dodged easily and then punched the other man, but not with all the force at his command. Right now, he only needed to drive the others off, not defeat them utterly.
The journeyman put one hand up to stop the blood streaming from his nose. “They’ve lied to us and taken our tribute. Stolen it.”
“Lied, yes. Stolen, no. Part of that tribute pays for services like the Healers. Even now, after what you’ve done, you can go to the Healer’s Hall and someone will fix that broken nose for you. It doesn’t make the Lie right. But this is not the answer. Now go before I have to do worse than break your nose.”
The other man glared at Vatar for a moment before stumbling off after his friends.
Vatar turned to the Fasallon, who had struggled up to lean against the wall during the confrontation. More shaken up than really hurt, Vatar judged, though there was a nasty bruise starting on one cheek and he moved as if his ribs hurt. “You need to get to the Healers, too. But first . . .” Vatar led the other man into a quieter street. Then he pulled the torn blue and green Fasallon robes off the other man’s shoulders and tossed it into a corner. Underneath, the man wore unremarkable tunic and trousers. “You’ll be better off without this until you get back inside the Temple. Keep your eyes down—not like your cowering, more like you’re deep in thought.” The grey eyes would be a giveaway to anyone who knew much about the Fasallon. “Then no one will guess that you’re Fasallon. It’s not far. You should be safe enough.”
The man looked up at him. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
Vatar shook his head. “No. I need to go talk to my guild master. This kind of thing needs to be stopped.”
“I . . . I thought you were Fasallon. You’re eyes. . .”
Vatar nodded. “Half. But I’ve never been part of the Temple.”
The man’s eyes widened. “High Councilor Veleus’s son?”
So information flowed within the Fasallon community just as it did everywhere else. He really shouldn’t be surprised. Vatar shrugged. “Yes. If it matters. You’d better get going before they come back.” He turned on his heel and started back for the Smiths’ Guild Hall.
~
Two days later, Vatar strode down the road that would take him from his home to the Temple Gate and then on to the guildhall. Usually, he rode down the hill to the city, but today he wanted the time to think. He’d set the wolves in the midst of the herd when he told his Guild Master that the Fasallon had never been the Caereans’ Sea Gods—or descended from them. He’d believed it was necessary. And he still did. But it had certainly not simplified the issues that beset the city that had become his second home.
He really shouldn’t have been surprised at the shock and anger of the Guild Masters. Or that the knowledge had spread so far. There wasn’t anything he could do about that now, though. Now, the question was how to keep things from getting still worse. Despite all their power, the guilds simply weren’t prepared to take over all governance of Caere. Not yet, anyway. They needed to find a way to work with the Fasallon and simultaneously move forward in a better, more honest way.
Vatar would be a lot happier if he could see the way to accomplish that. Maybe he could have, if he just knew the other Guild Masters better.
He scowled at the tickle of Far Speech that interrupted his thoughts—not that his thoughts had been doing more than going in circles anyway. He almost didn’t respond. Wouldn’t have, likely, if it had been almost anyone else. “Father?”
“I’ve been asked to extend an . . . invitation for you to appear before the High Council.”
Vatar could hear the tension in his father’s voice. This was not an invitation that could safely be refused. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been expecting something like this, either. With a sigh, he answered, “When?”
“Now.”
Vatar shook his head, even though he knew Father couldn’t see it. “Not possible. I’m on my way to meet with the Guild Council.”
“This is important, Vatar.”
“I got that. But so is the Guild Council.” Vatar drew in a deep breath before deciding to plunge on. “And, of the two councils, the Guild Council is the only one really trying to manage any of the problems in Caere right now.” He bit down lightly on his tongue. That hadn’t been a very kind thing to say to his father, however frustrated Vatar might feel.
Father sighed. “I know. But the High Council will not be as . . . civilized with their next summons if you refuse this one.”
Vatar blew out a breath and then drew in another, slowly, trying for calm. “All right. I’ll let you know as soon as the Guild Council ends. That’s the best I can do.”
“Did you really reveal the Lie to the guilds?” Father sounded frightened.
The thought of facing the High Council on this issue made Vatar’s stomach churn, too. But he’d accepted that when he’d made the decision. “Yes. But only to the guild masters. It was time they knew. It’s going to make things difficult for a while, I know, but it was impossible to move forward otherwise. You and Cestus have been trying for almost two years with no results. In the end, honesty is the only way.”
“The High Council will not be pleased.”
That was an understatement. “I never expected that they would.”
Vatar picked up his pace as he let the contact go. This looked like being a very long day. And no chance to hammer a little iron to work out the frustrations of just rehashing what everyone already knew anyway.
~
Vatar followed the Smiths’ Guild Master through the corridors of the Merchants’ Guildhall to the meeting room. He hadn’t been inside the Merchants’ Guildhall before, but he understood why the Guild Council rotated its meeting sites. It prevented any one guild from putting itself above the others.
The Merchants’ meeting hall was almost indistinguishable from the one in the Smiths’ Guildhall—a large, windowless room lit by oil lamps. The table was a little more ornate and so were the chairs—all but the extra one that had been brought in for him, which didn’t match the others. It wasn’t usual for the Guild Masters to bring guests to their meetings, but Vatar was a special case.
“So, there are no Sea Gods,” the Fishermen’s Guild Master said before Vatar had even settled into his seat.
Vatar huffed. Every meeting seemed to start the same way, as if the answer would change. “I never said that. I don’t actually know the answer.” He paused. He could understand why a man whose livelihood depended on the sea would be the most upset by the Lie. Perhaps there was a little more he could tell them than what he’d said at every other meeting. “My people—the Dardani—believe in Spirits. I know they’re real. Not just as a matter of faith. I’ve had proof of the Spirits of the Lion and the Eagle more than once. And their help. I’m perfectly ready to believe that there are Spirits of the sea, too—what you might call Sea Gods. I only know that the Fasallon are not such Spirits—and never were. Maybe . . . maybe now that you’re freed to look for them elsewhere, they’ll reveal themselves to you the way our totem Spirits do to the Dardani. Maybe.”
The Fishermen’s Guild Master sat back, looking thoughtful.
“Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?” The Weavers’ Guild Master asked.
“Before I knew about the Lie, I’d already given my honor pledge not to interfere with the High Council in return for their promise that my family would be safe from them. I couldn’t violate that oath. Not until after they’d failed to keep theirs. And then . . . well, at first I didn’t see what good it would do. Caere—and the other cities—were thriving under the Fasallon. At least, until recently. Now I see that the Fasallon are so wrapped up in the Lie—trapped by it—that they can’t see past it to deal with the city’s more immediate problems. The only way forward is to get beyond the Lie.”
“I’d have liked to know about this before we paid our tributes at the Festival. Why didn’t you tell us then?” The Merchants’ Guild Master asked.
Vatar shrugged. “I wasn’t here before the Festival. I had joined Arcas’s survey party, looking for the best course for a road between here and Tysoe.” That was true enough. He had joined Arcas several days before the Festival, though he wasn’t with him that day. There was no need to confuse matters by describing how he had been captured and held prisoner in Kausalya. Far less, how he’d used magic to escape his prison.
“Well, it seems to me that Cestus or Veleus could have told us,” the Fishermen’s Guild Master grumbled. “They met with us about the last Festival and never said a word about this.”
Vatar leaned forward. It was very important that these men understand this. “They couldn’t have. They—and their families—live within the Fasallon compound, bound by the Fasallon laws. Among the Fasallon, that is . . . was . . . considered one of their greatest offenses. Either of them would have faced severe punishments if they’d said anything. Their families would have suffered for it, too. I gather the High Council was . . . irritated with Veleus as it was.”
The Smiths’ Guild Master laid a hand on Vatar’s shoulder. “Will you be in any danger for telling us?”
Vatar drew in a breath and let it out. “Probably not. I don’t know yet. The fact is, I’ve been summoned before the High Council directly after this meeting.”
“Well, they’ve no authority to punish one of my guild members,” The Smiths’ Guild Master said. “Do you need any help?”
Vatar smiled. He’d defeated the High Council once before. He was almost certain he could do it again. Almost. “I don’t think so. But if I do, I’ll have Thekila contact you.”
“How will she know?” the Weavers’ Guild Master asked.
“Whatever happens, I’ll be able to communicate with Thekila.” Vatar looked around the table. Maybe this was the opportunity he’d been looking for to get them to move past rehashing the Lie. “The Fasallon succeeded in mimicking the Sea Gods for so long because they have magic. And not just the kind the Healers use. One of the things they . . . we . . . can do—one that might be of interest to you going forward—is to talk to each other over distances. Freed from their self-imposed restrictions, that might be one of the ways the Fasallon could be of real use in the future.”
“How great a distance?” the Merchants’ Guild Master asked.
“That varies. But there are those who can communicate all the way from here to Kausalya—or up the coast to Chrysaor or Tesserae.”
“Now that would be worth the tribute we paid,” the Merchants’ Guild Master said.
~
The sun was low in the west before Vatar finally left the Merchants’ Guildhall and started toward the Temple. The Guild Council meeting had run a long time, but at least they’d finally moved past complaining and started to think about ways the two groups of people who called Caere home could cooperate for their mutual benefit.
Vatar doubted the next meeting would be as productive. He reached out with Far Speech. “Father, I’m on my way.”
“Well, that took long enough.” Father sounded grumpy.
Vatar shrugged that off. “Yes. We finally started to accomplish something worthwhile.”
“I’ll let the other Councilors know you’re coming.”
Vatar continued on reluctantly. He wouldn’t have been enthusiastic about going before the High Council again at the best of times—and these circumstances weren’t going to be anywhere near that good. But he’d faced the High Council before and made them back down. And he’d proven—dramatically—that they really couldn’t hold him against his will. He grimaced. More than the meeting ahead, what he was really dreading was the short boat ride across the strait to Palace Island. All those waves. He shook his head. No help for it. There was no way he was going to persuade the High Council to come to him. Not even in the Temple, which would still be very much their turf. It just wasn’t the way they worked. And they didn’t care how much he disliked being on the water.
Vatar passed through the buildings and strolled through the Temple gardens in no hurry to reach the boat dock. He still arrived at the pier sooner than he wanted to. Any time was too soon as far as he was concerned. Even in the bay, the water was rough today. He shuddered at the sight of the high waves breaking against the rocks near the shore and almost turned around. That was far too much like the wave of the flash flood that had killed his best friend almost eight years ago. There was a reason why those who made their living from the sea mostly stayed on shore during what they called storm season.
Despite his misgivings, it wasn’t as hard to step down into the boat as he remembered from the previous three times he’d done it. Well, all right. The last time he’d been too angry and too afraid for his children to notice much else, but still . . . You don’t feel guilty for not saving Torkaz anymore. The comment was accompanied by the thin whistle that indicated it came from Taleus, the six-hundred-year-old ancestor that rode along with Vatar and sometimes offered advice. You probably won’t ever like rivers, lakes, or the ocean, but it’s not the same as it was. Since that night along the river when Vatar had finally understood that, even if he’d known how to use his magic, he still wouldn’t have been able to save his friend. Well, maybe Taleus was onto something.
On the other hand, the drop as the boat crossed over the breakers and the choppy water beyond made Vatar very glad that the strait between Palace Island and Caere was narrow. Apparently not being too terrified to care about anything else was a mixed blessing. He’d never noticed how queasy it made him before. He climbed out of the boat with as much relief as he ever had, turning back just long enough to give a coin to the rowers. Then turned to face the broad stone stairs that led up to the entrance to the Palace of the Fasallon. He squared his shoulders and started up.
The big double doors led to a long, windowless hallway. From experience, Vatar knew that the doors on the left opened on pleasant rooms with comfortable chairs and large windows looking back toward Caere. He inferred that the doors on the right led to less pleasant rooms. But his focus was on the desk at the far end and the man who sat there. “Hello, Dinus.”
