Beyond the Prophecy by Meredith Mansfield Page B

satisfied, Montibeus sat back in his chair and rubbed
his chin for a moment. “I wonder if you would be willing to help us a little
more.”
    Theklan opened his mouth and then shut it again. It had been
fun to brag about what the three of them had accomplished—and have someone
appreciate it. But he was suddenly not sure about why this important and busy
man had spent so much time asking about these things. Possibly, this was a time
to defer to a higher power—his sister. Besides, he really didn’t want to use
his Powers much for the next day or two anyway. “I . . . don’t know. It’d
depend on what it was. And I’d have to ask my sister. If she said it was all
right—”
    Montibeus leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk.
“Nothing compared to what you’ve already done. Just a little . . .
demonstration. You see, most of our Fasallon Talents aren’t very showy. Even a
Talented person has to work to perceive the use of Far Speech or Far Sight.
Fore Sight is rare and unpredictable. And difficult to distinguish from
ordinary, non-magical predictions—at least until proven true. Other than what
the Healers do, Transformations are the only Fasallon Talent readily visible to
ordinary people. And we have very good reasons not to allow the Caereans to
know about Transformations.”
    “Yes. So they won’t figure out that your whole Festival is
just an elaborate lie,” Theklan said.
    Montibeus frowned. “Now, see, we have evidence that you’ve
said something like that before—and in front of Caereans. You’ve been taking
classes here at the Temple long enough to know that that is a crime in this
city. Now, we’re willing to take your cooperation with this demonstration as
restitution and let the matter drop. Otherwise . . .”
    Theklan felt as if one of those rocks he’d been helping to
lift had suddenly landed in the pit of his stomach and lodged there. He’d spent
a little time in the lockups of the Temple Guard last winter, after having been
thoroughly beaten by the Guard. He still had nightmares about it sometimes. He
didn’t want ever to be under their control again. He licked his dry lips. “What
. . .” He paused to clear his throat—and hopefully the embarrassing squeak that
had crept into his voice. “What would you want me to
do?”
    Montibeus smiled. “Just a few simple demonstrations to give
the people reason to believe that their Sea Gods still care for them. There’ve
been some rumblings since we needed their help to evacuate Palace Island. We
need to show them that there’s no cause to doubt their Sea Gods.”
    And that would help the Fasallon to perpetuate the Lie
that they are the descendants of those Sea Gods. Theklan huddled
smaller in his chair. He could call on Vatar or Thekila for help. But, well,
he’d already caused Vatar enough trouble. Refusal would likely get Vatar pulled
into this mess, too. Again. And anyway, he was almost fourteen. Wasn’t it time
he started fixing his own mistakes? In two more years—not this coming summer, but
the one after—he’d be old enough for his manhood test among the Dardani. Then
no one would be able to make him come back here ever again.
      Helping with the Lie felt dishonorable. But . .
. even Vatar—who was surely honorable if anyone was—had conceded that
preventing unrest in the city was worth a small dishonesty. And Theklan didn’t
have to claim to be anything he wasn’t—though surely the Fasallon would be
doing that for him. The words stuck in his throat, so, with a sinking feeling,
Theklan nodded slowly.
    Montibeus smiled. “So, how big a rock do you think you could
lift with your magic?”
    ~
    An hour later, Theklan found himself in the center of the
Temple Square, dressed in Fasallon robes and moving rocks the size of his head
from one pile to another with his Power while one of Montibeus’s priests wove a
fable about Sea Gods and Mountain Gods working together for the benefit of
Caere. Montibeus had decided that