Since he was staying in Tysoe until Arcas arrived, Orleus had asked Vatar to help with the training of the young Valson when he wasn’t working with the Tysoean smiths. Balan was a natural, needing little instruction. Zoridan was . . . less so. Vatar held up a hand when he felt the tingle of Far Speech. “Take a break.” Then, silently, “Father?” “Yes.” “Is anything wrong?” Vatar asked, immediately thinking of Thekila. “Well, we had expected you back in time for the Festival this year. Montibeus delayed the Festival with that in mind.” Vatar huffed impatiently. “Father, how many times do I have to say it? I will never take part in the Festival again. It was a mistake to do it last time. If I hadn’t . . . maybe Montibeus wouldn’t have felt entitled to abuse Theklan that way.” Father’s shock came clearly through their link. “Montibeus didn’t—” Vatar cut him off. “Father, you’ve never pushed yourself near to burn out, have you? I have. I can promise you that Montibeus blackmailing Theklan into something the boy knew he shouldn’t do was exactly that.
