The Shaman's Curse (Dual Magics Book 1) (34 page)

They were half a day out from Zeda when a larger escort
joined them, the same nineteen young men who had been Vatar’s companions in the
tiger hunt formed themselves into a guard of honor on each flank as the group
rode proudly toward Zeda.

Thekila looked around at them. “What is it? Who are they?”

Vatar swallowed hard and reached across to squeeze her hand.
With his other hand he surreptitiously wiped his face. His throat was too
constricted for speech.

Pa, riding on her other side, answered. “They’ve come to
honor Vatar. These are the young men of the tiger hunt. Did he tell you about
that?”

Thekila looked to Vatar. His eyes were glowing and he sat a
little taller.

“When you got that tattoo I like so much?” she asked softly.

Vatar nodded. “Yes.” He didn’t trust himself to say more.

Uncle Bion stopped the group at a small waterhole only a
short distance beyond the jumble of Dardani huts that was Zeda. A small
temporary tent had been set up and Trev was waiting for them. “You can’t go any
farther, Vatar. Not until the tribal council calls for you.”

Vatar nodded his understanding. The Ordeal had placed him
outside of his Clan and the tribe. He had to be accepted again before he could
return as one of them.

“There must be a cleansing before you rejoin your Clan,”
Trev said. “Tomorrow, you will be one with the Spirit of the Lion once again.”

That thought made Vatar smile. Until yesterday, he hadn’t
realized how much he still missed that part of himself. Vatar handed Zavar
across to Pa and dismounted. Thekila moved to join him.

Mother held out her hand to stop her. “No. You’ll come back
with us, as our guests, for tonight. This is something Vatar must prepare for
alone.”

Thekila looked pleadingly at Vatar. “But . . .”

He smiled a little. “It’ll be all right, Thekila. I’ll see
you tomorrow morning, after I’ve been made whole again. That’ll be best.”

Thekila’s brow creased. “What do you mean, ‘made whole’?”

“The entire time you’ve known me, part of me has been
missing—the part that belongs to my people. I had to leave that behind when I
went on the Ordeal. Tomorrow, I’ll get it back. Tonight, Trev will make sure
I’m ready. Mother can explain it to you more tonight.” He reached up to her and
she bent down to kiss him.

He watched as the others rode off, Thekila looking back over
her shoulder often.

Trev grasped his arm and motioned for Vatar to enter the
tent. Vatar wasn’t surprised that it was a steam tent. Not after Trev had
mentioned a cleansing. He removed his tunic so that the steam could enter his
pores and purify him.

Trev stepped toward him, a small jar in his hand, but he
paused, looking at Vatar’s chest. “Your tattoos have already been restored.”

Vatar looked down at his own chest and then back up at Trev.
“I was injured. When the Valson Healers tended me, they had to clean my wounds.
They removed the stain.”

Trev set the jar aside. “I see you’ll have quite a tale to
tell of your Ordeal. Now, sit, and let the steam do its work. Then we’ll have
time to talk.”

As he left, Trev threw a small bundle of herbs on the fire.
A pleasant, fresh scent permeated the tent. Vatar sat alone in the steam tent
for a long time. He reflected on the Ordeal and everything that had happened
since he left the Dardani, organizing it in his mind. There were parts of it he
knew the Dardani would find difficult to believe or accept, some parts that
definitely should be left out.

Eventually, Trev came back to scatter the fire and bring
Vatar outside again. The evening air felt cold against his skin after the steam
tent. He put his tunic back on and sat on the ground where Trev indicated,
expecting to answer Trev’s questions. He blinked a little as the smoke from the
fire blew across his face. Why had Trev made him sit downwind? He sniffed. What
kind of wood had Trev used for the fire? It burned with an unusual, but not
unpleasant, smell.

Trev handed Vatar a plate of common Dardani food—roast meat
and vegetables and a piece of flatbread. Vatar was hungry and more than happy
to have such a comfortingly familiar meal again. Trev ate, too, and asked no
questions until they’d both finished.

Vatar launched into his account, starting with his first camp.
Trev smiled when he told of the “help” he’d received from the two Modgud, Bron
and Clev. Vatar had resolved to leave out some of the story, especially about
his lessons at the Academy, but he’d underestimated Trev. The young shaman’s
persistent and pointed questions drew out everything, right down to Vatar’s
ability to watch over his children from all the way across the Forest and the
mountains beyond.

Through it all, Trev never betrayed surprise or disbelief.
He just kept asking the questions that would lead Vatar to tell the rest. When
Trev was satisfied that Vatar had recounted the whole story, he sat silent for
a long while. Vatar shifted uneasily while he waited. He’d said too much. He
was going to be denied his reunion with the Spirit of the Lion and his Clan.
His stomach clenched around the meal.

Finally Trev looked up across the dying fire. “Well, you’ve
learned more about yourself and the larger world than most men ever do, Vatar.
The Spirits have tested you and judged you favorably. You’ve completed your
Ordeal.” He smiled. “It’s too bad that you’re Lion Clan. You would have made a
good shaman.” Then he tossed Vatar a blanket. “Better get some sleep before
tomorrow. I think it’ll be another long day. But a happy one.”

Vatar scarcely felt he needed the blanket as warmth spread
from his chest. He hadn’t failed after all. Trev, inexplicably, didn’t find his
story strange or frightening.
I wonder what the Modgud know that we don’t.

~

His return coincided with the day of the manhood test. Vatar
suspected that Trev had planned it that way to combine the two celebrations and
give more weight to Vatar’s return. All in all, Vatar wasn’t sure whether that
was a good thing or not.

As soon as this year’s boys had been sent off for their
manhood test, the tribal council took up the business of the Ordeals.

Vatar was brought forward by the chiefs who had escorted him
to and from his Ordeal. He saw Thekila standing with Mother and Quetza at the
front of the crowd and smiled at her. When he had been brought in front of the
chiefs, his escort left him standing alone and joined the other chiefs.

“The returned must now give an account of himself,” the
eldest chief said.

Once again, Vatar told the story of his Ordeal, this time
before his entire tribe. He left out all references to magical Powers of any
kind. Only Thekila, Quetza, and Theklan knew what he had omitted—and Trev. When
he had finished, the chiefs rose as one.

“Welcome back Vatar of the Lion Clan of the Dardani. The
Spirits have judged in your favor. You have proven your honor,” the eldest
chief announced.

Vatar let out the breath he’d been holding as the crowd
roared its approval. Pa and Trev stepped forward to lead Vatar into the
makeshift shelter behind the chiefs. As soon as his eyes had adjusted to the
darkness of the tent, Vatar saw the Lion Clan totem sitting on the bench at the
far side of the tent. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Go ahead, Vatar,” Pa said, smiling. “Rejoin the Spirit of
the Lion.”

Vatar walked forward eagerly and lovingly touched the carved
wood totem. He put his hand in the mouth and felt the sensation of acceptance
rise up his arm from the polished wood. This time, he was surprised that he
could identify exactly what he felt—a unity with all the generations of his
Clan that had gone before who had invested a part of themselves in this totem.
And, more powerfully, a . . . harmony . . . with the archetypal lion which the
totem represented. Most of all, he felt whole again. Whole as even Thekila had
not been able to make him feel—although she had come close. Trev and Pa smiled
as they led him back out to the square.

Vatar stepped to the side of the square to rejoin his
family, taking Thekila’s hand and smiling down at her. “I told you it would be
all right.”

“You left some things out,”
she said, silently,
referring to his account of his Ordeal.

Vatar shook his head.
“They wouldn’t understand. The
Dardani have no such Powers and most have no contact with the Fasallon, who do.
Trev knows all of it. He is the only one who needs to.”

Thekila looked up at him in surprise.

“What?” he asked.

“I can almost see a big cat, not a Forest tiger, when you
bespeak me. That’s new. I’ve never felt that before. Is . . . that your Spirit
of the Lion?”

Vatar’s eyes flew wide.
“It must be. I didn’t expect
that
.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment Maktaz was
brought forward.

The old shaman looked pale and weak. He seemed to have
shrunk, almost as if he was collapsing in on himself. Maktaz wasn’t asked to
recount his Ordeal. Instead Pakel stood up and told about finding Maktaz hiding
near the Wolf Clan camp—far south of the line of his Ordeal. He didn’t spare
his Clan members, calling forth all of those who had helped the shaman. He
ended by telling about the attempt to kidnap Zavar and Savara and Maktaz’s role
in that.

“Those three have already been expelled from the Wolf Clan.
Their tattoos have been obliterated and they have been exiled to the Northern
Wilderness,” he concluded. Vatar’s heart sank. More exiles. More potential
enemies, if they survived. More lives warped and destroyed by one man’s search
for vengeance. There had to be a better way.

The chiefs remained seated. Only the eldest chief of the
Horse Clan rose to speak.

“Maktaz, you have no honor. You broke faith with a freely
accepted Ordeal. You involved others in your dishonor. Then you compounded the
disgrace by instigating others to harm young children for your vengeance. There
is no greater offense than to threaten harm to a child, save only murder. You
are not Dardani. Your tattoos will be obliterated and you will be exiled to the
Northern Wilderness.” He looked toward those who had helped Maktaz. “You broke
faith as well. You will share his fate.”

Vatar stepped forward again. “No. There’s been enough
division among us. They were misled and wrong. But they were not bound to the
Ordeal as Maktaz and I were. These didn’t attack my children or anyone that I
know of. Their fate shouldn’t be as harsh.”

“What would you suggest, Vatar? We cannot have faith
breakers among us,” the old chief said.

Vatar chewed his lower lip. “It seems to me that they owe an
honor-debt. One they may not be able to repay. But they deserve the chance to
try.”

The old chief nodded. “It is a just suggestion.”

One of the disgraced men stepped forward, toward Vatar. “I
ask you to name the price of my honor.”

Vatar held up his hands and shook his head. “You don’t owe
the debt to me. You broke faith with the Dardani, not with me alone. Only the
Council can set the price of your honor.”

The old chief smiled. “A very just and wise suggestion,
Vatar. The Council will give this due consideration. In the meantime, take them
away. And take Maktaz away, too. He does deserve his fate.”

~

This was more than Maktaz could stand. Vatar had won; he’d
gotten away without paying for Torkaz’s death. And now he was magnanimous in
victory. Next, they’d be naming him a chief! Everything he’d tried had
backfired. Vatar was stronger now than he’d ever been. It was unbearable. He
wouldn’t bear it.

Maktaz had no weapon. Bion had taken his long knife months
ago. But Vatar’s gleamed from its sheath at his belt not much more than a
stride away. Maktaz swayed where he stood, feigning shock at the chiefs’
pronouncement. He took a stumbling step and fell against Vatar.

The fool put out a hand to steady him! Maktaz grabbed the
knife from Vatar’s belt before the idiot knew what was happening. Before Vatar
could react, Maktaz raised the blade high, preparing to plunge it into his
enemy’s heart.

But something prevented him from striking the killing blow
he had planned. It was as if some force held his arm and wouldn’t let him go.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried with all the strength he had left to
stab that blade into Vatar’s heart. But his arm wouldn’t move. What magic was
this?

~

Thekila suppressed a gasp when she saw Maktaz bring the
knife up, ready to stab Vatar. She reacted instinctively. Distant manipulation
couldn’t be used against a living thing, but she could hold the
knife
with her magic. After years of using a variation of this Power to keep her
eagle shape airborne—pushing against the ground—she was strong enough to hold
that knife against all the force Maktaz could command. It took less than a
heartbeat for her to freeze the knife in midair. Maktaz still gripped the
blade, straining against her Power, but he didn’t control it.

~

Vatar reached up and grabbed Maktaz’s wrist with one hand,
twisting it to force him to let go of the knife. The knife hovered for only an
instant and then dropped to the ground.

The shaman’s pride had betrayed him. If he hadn’t been so
ridiculously dramatic, raising the knife overhand, it would have been harder
for Thekila to stop him. Grasping Maktaz’s other wrist with his free hand,
Vatar shoved the shaman away from him.

~

Maktaz fell in a heap in the center of the square. He
scrambled to his feet, gathering the shreds of his dignity about him, furious
at his failure and at being handled so roughly by this . . . upstart. He pulled
himself to his full height, glaring around him. His own death was inevitable
now. Maktaz knew he would never survive in the Northern Wilderness. But he
could still use his death to snatch back the victory Vatar thought he’d won.