Beyond the Prophecy (33 page)

Vatar paused out of sight under the cover of the scrubby
little copse of trees, outlier of the forest that surrounded Lake Narycea. This
horse had been ridden hard before he’d ever laid a hand on its reins. If he
hoped to ride it much farther, he needed to let it rest a bit. And, now that he
had the means, he needed to plan his next move. Hopefully, any pursuit would
expect him to have ridden farther and pass this little grove by.

He extended his Far Sight, not an aspect of his magic that
he’d used very often. First to his west, along the river, seeking his pursuers.
The second guardsman had gotten control of his horse and was riding back to the
site of their confrontation. Good. He’d have his fallen comrade to deal with,
there. The captain was already back within the bounds of the outpost. Probably
preparing a larger party to come after Vatar. But it was past nearing sunset,
now. Any pursuit would likely wait until the morning. Otherwise, they’d risk
missing Vatar’s trail in the dark.

The original plan had been to work his way to Orleus in
Tysoe. But the Kausalyan guard now knew which direction he’d taken. They’d come
back—and there’d be more of them next time. He needed to change direction. But
which way?

Tysoe was still the best part of a three-day ride away,
though presumably he’d come to the isolated farmsteads and woodcutters’ camps
before that. But that was also the direction the Kausalyans would expect him to
take. What other option was open to him, though? West would take him back into
the very shadow of Kausalya. North meant crossing the river. South . . . well,
south would be unexpected, but Vatar didn’t see that it would do him much good.
There was nothing that way but an extension of the Kragehul Mountains.

Vatar sighed. It didn’t seem like he had much of a choice
but to run for Tysoe and hope to stay ahead of any pursuit. How far would the
Kausalyans chase him? Surely not all the way to Tysoe. If he knew his direction
and the Kausalyan guard had to guess at it, could he travel by night with
reasonable safety? Once or twice, it had seemed to him that the Spirit of the
Lion gave him improved night vision. It was a risk, but so was everything at
this point.

Idly, he wondered where Arcas was. Too soon for him to have
returned to Caere, yet. Halfway, maybe. That was no help to Vatar. Still, he
let his Far Sight seek out his cousin, just for the reassurance that he and the
others had gotten away safely. To his surprise, he found Arcas sitting at the
edge of a camp. Early in the day for that. And the camp looked to be more . . .
established . . . than was usual for a mere overnight stop.

Arcas sat on the edge of this camp looking back south.
Looking for Vatar? That wasn’t very smart—unless Arcas was sure that the
Kausalyans weren’t coming after him. Since they’d seemed to be after Vatar
specifically, that might not be such a bad guess. Far Sight gave him a sense of
the direction of what he watched with it. By that, Arcas was perhaps near the
coast, but not so very far north. If only Vatar could reach
him,
that
would unquestionably be the quickest—and safest—way back home. If
only the river didn’t block that course.

Or did it? Vatar suddenly remembered that half-built bridge
at the near end of the lake. Much closer than Tysoe. He didn’t expect that the
bridge would be have been completed in just the few days since he’d passed it
with Arcas. But, the builders must have boats. And, after what he’d endured on
his forced side trip to Kausalya—and crossing the whole of Lake Narycea before
that—that little boat ride wouldn’t seem too terrible. And the bridge was on
the way to Tysoe anyway. Probably the nearest place he could hope to find help.

Vatar stood up, suddenly decided. He swung up into the
saddle and turned the horse toward the place where the lake turned into a
river.

~

By riding halfway through the night, Vatar arrived at the
bridge site before noon the next day. Little more than an hour later, he was
sitting in the middle of a boat, being rowed across to the north side of the
river, his tired horse swimming alongside. Well, they’d both have a chance to
rest in the greater safety of the bridge-builders’ camp on the north shore at
least until morning. North Cove wasn’t far from there. He could take a day
there to rest and beg a few supplies to see him on the next leg of his journey.

Two days later, Vatar left the river behind, striking north
across the plains, following something close to the route Arcas must have
surveyed coming south, before turning more westerly. Occasional snatches of Far
Sight were enough to give him a sense of direction to catch up to Arcas, who
appeared to be moving again—if very slowly. Still hoping Vatar would catch up
to him? Well, he was about to get his wish.

In three more days, he saw Arcas’s party ahead of him at
last. Vatar let out a sharp whistle, which could carry farther over the plains
than any shout. Arcas turned in his saddle and spotted Vatar.

Gesturing for the rest to wait there, Arcas spurred his
horse toward Vatar. “You made it! Merciful Sea Gods, I was afraid I’d have to carry
the news back to Thekila.”

Vatar grinned back. “Thekila knew all about it when it
happened. She’s the one who helped me escape.”

Arcas’s brow furrowed. “But . . . she’s in Caere. Isn’t
she?”

“She is. It’s a long story. I’ll explain it later.”

Arcas looked him over. “You do look a bit ragged. We’ll make
camp early. Then I want to hear your story.”

Vatar looked past Arcas to the rest of the party. “For your
ears only.”

“Ah.” Arcas looked back. “Well, you and I can scout around
the perimeter, after we eat.”

Vatar grimaced and gestured to his leg. “Better if I don’t
have to walk far, for now. Boreala advises resting the knee as much as possible
for a few more days yet.”

Arcas’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Boreala advises?”

Vatar shook his head slightly and glanced ahead to the rest
of the party.

“All right,” Arcas said. “We’ll ride a slightly wider
perimeter, then.”

“That’ll work.”

The others pitched camp around a spring that was little more
than a seep, not even enough water to call a waterhole. But it would do to
water the horses and provide enough for cooking. Vatar wouldn’t advise drinking
any of it without boiling, though. While they were busy, Vatar and Arcas rode
around the outside of the campsite, out of hearing of their companions.

Arcas spoke first. “So, I understand how Thekila could know
about your capture—through that bond you two have, right? But how could she
help you escape?”

Vatar drew a deep breath. Where to start. Arcas—and to a
lesser extent, his wife—had come to terms with the fact of Vatar’s magic. But
they’d never—or at least rarely—seen it in person. “You’ve never seen . . .
During my first confrontation with Gerusa, Thekila described it to you when I
took the form of a lion, right?”

Arcas’s brows drew down. “Well, yes. Did you turn into a
lion and scare them off?”

Vatar smiled wryly. “I wish it had been that simple. No.
While my . . . avatar is a lion for obvious reasons, in fact, I can use my
magic to Transform into anything I can visualize clearly enough. The lion is
much easier, though. It’s like . . . like the Spirit of the Lion
helps
me take that form.”

Arcas made a startled noise at this.

“I’d only ever taken two other forms. A bear, once. That was
a test. It was much harder than the lion. And it
hurt
. But this time . .
. Gerusa had put me in a dark little chamber at the top of the highest tower.
The lion wasn’t going to be much help with that. But Thekila . . . well,
Thekila is Eagle Clan for a reason. Her avatar is an eagle as mine is a lion.”
Vatar paused, trying to reorder his thoughts. “Here’s the thing. Just because I
can take the shape of a lion, that doesn’t mean I know how to actually
do
anything in that shape. The first time I tried to walk, I nearly fell on my
ear. Four feet to manage instead of two and nothing seemed to bend the way I
expected. It was even harder for Thekila to learn how to fly.”

“I . . . I can see that, I guess.”

“But flying was the only way I was going to get out of that
tower. So Thekila coached me, the day after I was captured, on how to soar. Not
fly, really. That would be even harder. It’s much more complicated than you’d
think. Then, when she gave the word, I
Transformed
into an eagle.” Vatar paused, remembering. “It seemed like the Spirit of the
Eagle helped some, not as much as the Spirit of the Lion does, but it wasn’t
nearly as bad as the bear. Then I soared across the river. Well, almost all the
way. I ended up crashing in the shallows. Close to shore, at least. Wrenched my
knee, though.”

Arcas chuckled at this image. Then his face scrunched up.
“Why did you wait for Thekila to give the word? Until she thought you were
ready?”

“No.” Vatar opened his mouth and closed it again. This
needed a little more explanation. Arcas knew about the Lie from being present
during Vatar’s aborted exorcism of Taleus, but there was still a lot about the
inner workings of the Lie he didn’t know. So, how should much of that did he
need to try to explain now? Backup. Try to tell it in order. “First, those
Kausalyan guards were specifically looking for me. They said so. Gerusa had
gotten word from someone that I was in the area, but I couldn’t figure out who.
I told Thekila that. Later, she heard something—from Miceus—that convinced her
that it had to be Selene, Miceus’s sister, who’d passed on that information. Selene
had always been Gerusa’s pet. And when Thekila figured that out, she also
suspected that Selene was going to do something to sabotage the Festival, which
was scheduled for the next day—two days after my capture. We both thought that,
if so, Gerusa would be watching with Far Sight—the same way Thekila followed
what was happening that first time Gerusa had me brought before the High
Council. So, she and Teran and Terania cooked up a plan to disrupt Selene’s
scheme, hoping that it would hold Gerusa’s attention while I escaped. And, it
looks like it did. I still had some trouble with a few of the Kausalyan guards,
but I was able to get away from them.”

“You know, I envy this ability of yours to talk to each
other across great distances. That’d really be a big help for the merchants.
Other guilds, too, probably.”

Vatar blinked. That was a possible use of Fasallon Talents
he didn’t think anyone had considered. Why not? Cestus wanted to break out of
the Temple and teach Caereans. Why couldn’t some of the others who’d joined his
revolt join the guilds as message senders? It’d be more exciting than passing
messages within the Temple, at least. He filed the thought away to discuss with
Cestus.

“So, what happened with the Festival?” Arcas asked. “I’m
glad whatever they did allowed you to escape, but what effect did it have on
Caere?”

Vatar cocked his head to the side. “Not much, I think. At
least, not yet.” He explained what Thekila and her friends had done. “The
display could be taken two ways—either as a sign of the Sea Gods displeasure
with Selene as Farlene, or as a sign of their power. Thekila planned it that
way.”

“Hmm,” Arcas said. “But, surely, the Fasallon will encourage
the second interpretation.”

“I’m sure they will. If no one stops them.”

“Well, who would stop them?” Arcas asked.

“Me, possibly,” Vatar said. “At first, my honor pledge to
the High Council, not to interfere with them so long as they left us alone,
kept me silent. Though I didn’t know the full truth when I gave that pledge.
But they’ve broken that more than once, now. Then I thought that it couldn’t do
any good to reveal the Lie. Now . . . now I think I was wrong about that. I
think it’s not a good secret to keep.” Vatar looked into the distance. “I don’t
actually think it will make much difference to most Caereans. Most of them only
think about the Sea Gods one day a year anyway. All the Lie does is help the
Fasallon maintain power.”
And, as a side benefit, if there was no Fasallon
power to maintain, there wouldn’t be anything for Gerusa to try to regain.

“What are you thinking of doing?”

Vatar shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe . . . maybe this is
a decision the Guild Masters should make.”

“You mean to tell them? About the Lie?”

Vatar shrugged. “Perhaps. I need to think about it some
more.”

Zoria ducked into her tent. She still didn’t understand why
she was nearly the only woman in this camp. She hadn’t mentioned that to
Zoridan again. Not after the first time. He was already worried enough about her.
When she’d had the bright idea to come here, she’d really expected Lorania and
all of the other women she knew who had chosen exile to be here. She’d have had
much better luck extracting gossip from them than trying to pry information
from Platan. Or, worse yet, Loran. Loran kept trying to revive their old
relationship. They’d been lovers, once. Now, the idea made her skin crawl. And
he didn’t seem to be able to take a hint.

But being the only woman in camp—other than a few of the
ragged Themyri who handled the cooking and laundry—made her very
self-conscious. All the men followed her with their eyes wherever she went. At
least, none of them tried to say or do anything about it. No one but Loran,
that is.

Zoria whirled as the tent flap opened again behind her.

Loran strode in like he belonged there. “Good. You’re
alone.”

“Of course I’m alone. Who else would come into my tent
without an invitation?”

Loran just grinned. “It’ll be
our
tent, soon. We’re
to be married as soon as I return to the winter camp. Father’s just agreed, but
he says we have to wait until the winter camp or Mother will never forgive
him.”

“You asked your
father
? Did it ever occur to you to,
I don’t know, maybe ask
me
?”

Loran shook his head. “That’s not the way it’s done anymore.
Since we went into exile, there are three men for every woman. And even more
for every unmarried woman. In fact, you’re just about the only unmarried girl
over the age of sixteen among us. The leaders, like Father, assign matches now,
to keep the disruption of several men vying for the same woman to a minimum.
He’s been undecided about us because it might look like favoritism, despite our
earlier relationship. But I just volunteered for an important mission. You’re
to be my reward when I get back.”

Zoria gulped. There was so much she didn’t understand.
Everything, basically, except the refrain repeating in her mind,
No, no, no!

Mistaking her silence, Loran stepped forward to take her in
his arms. “Send me off with something to remember?” he wheedled.

Zoria put a hand on his chest. “This is all so sudden. I
wasn’t expecting . . . And there’s so much I don’t understand.” She drew a deep
breath and tried to order her thoughts. “What is this winter camp? And why
haven’t I heard of it before now?”

“Because we were putting all our forces towards the war, of
course. But we’ve made so little progress here that Father has decided to
retreat to the winter camp, leaving a few scouts—like me—to find a better way
than trying to fight our way through these Tysoean outposts. They’re not what
we’re interested in anyway. Just a nuisance.” Loran grimaced at this. “Until
recently, we weren’t sure whether we’d be returning to the winter camp or
bringing the women here before the snows. We’ll be breaking this camp tomorrow
and the rest of you will be starting for the mountains.”

“So, where is this winter camp?”

“On the other side of the mountains. Where we first found
the Themyri. It’s a big, wide country. Pretty. Good hunting. The women,
children, and old men have stayed there with most of the Themyri women and
children and some of their men. We have more permanent shelters there. Warmer.”
His voice dropped to a purr. “More private.”

“So that’s why there are so few women here?”

“Yes. You’ll likely be more comfortable there. Lorania’s
there, so you’ll have a friend to help you prepare for our marriage. I promise
not to take too long about my mission. Don’t worry. I’ll be there before the
snows close the passes. You can count on that.”

I wasn’t worried. At least not about that. About the
marriage part . . .
Zoria blinked, afraid she’d start to cry.

“Hey now. I told you not to worry. I’ll be back before you
know it.” Loran folded her in closer and kissed her soundly.

Zoria forced herself not to stiffen. Or try to fight her way
free. If Loran was going on some kind of mission, then at least she’d have time
to gather some information—and figure out how to delay this marriage
indefinitely. “
Wh
-what’s your mission?”

Loran grinned down at her. “It’s a secret. But I’ll tell you
all about it when I reach the winter camp.” He sighed. “I wish we had time for
a better goodbye, but we’re supposed to leave tonight, just after nightfall. I
have to get my gear ready.” He kissed her again. “Not long now, though.”

He hugged her close and then, to her concealed relief,
turned to go.

~

Zoria waited a few hours, until late evening when she could
be more sure of being left alone—and until she felt calmer—to contact Zoridan
with this latest piece of news.

“What? No, you can’t let them take you over the
mountains,”
Zoridan protested.

Zoria tried to reassure him, ruthlessly suppressing any
thought of marriage to Loran.
“It’ll be better. There’ll be more women
there. Lorania, among others. I bet I’ll be able to get better information from
them.”

“It’s not worth it. What if something goes wrong? How
will you get away and get back to us?”

“How would I now?”
Zoria paused. She’d like the
answer to that question, too. Right now, all the men watched her whenever she
was outside her tent. But it wasn’t vigilance or distrust as much as novelty.
Once it was known that she was promised, off limits—and she had no doubt Loran
would take care of that—would she gain a greater freedom of movement? Wherever
this winter camp was, there had to be more than one way out of it. To the sea,
perhaps?
“Since it won’t be a camp basically at war, things will probably be
more relaxed there. Making it easier, despite the added distance. Maybe I’ll
even be able to find a way for Orleus to attack the Exiles before they return
next year.”

“Maybe. I still don’t like it.”

“Well, it’s not what I expected, either. But I think it
might work out well enough. Don’t worry about me so much.”

“Fat chance.”

~

Two days later, Zoria found herself riding up a steep—well,
trail would be giving it too much dignity. It was more like something made by a
wild animal that had passed this way once or twice.

At least she wasn’t one of those struggling up these slopes
on foot. The Exiles didn’t have many horses. Fortunately, even fewer of them
knew how to ride much at all. So instead of climbing on foot among the rest of
the sweaty pack, she rode near the front with the leaders of the Exiles.
Unfortunately, this put her in close proximity to Loran’s father, Nertan.

During the rare spaces when the track widened enough for two
horses to go abreast, Zoria pretended a fascination with the mountain landscape
in order to—hopefully, anyway—forestall an awkward conversation about her
upcoming marriage to Loran. She wasn’t sure she could fool Nertan about her
feelings for his son for very long. He always had been sharper than his son.

Following the sparkling course of a thin waterfall upward,
she spotted two shapes circling above the column of Exiles—one black, one
white. Zoridan and Quetza. Zoria swallowed and looked away, afraid to draw
attention to her shadows.

Platan, riding behind her swore. A bowstring twanged.

Zoria couldn’t suppress a gasp as an arrow arced overhead.
The white shape slid gracefully aside and Zoria drew breath again. The black
was slower. For a moment, Zoria held her breath, afraid that the shaft would
find its mark after all. But the projectile slowed and then dropped back to
earth, somewhere over the next ridge, without striking anything.

“Save your arrows,” Nertan said from up ahead. He glared
upward at the two circling wyverns. “We already know we can’t hit them with
ordinary bows. By the time we come back next spring, I promise you we will have
built a bow that can shoot those meddling fools out of the sky.”