As they were nearing the castle, they found a boy shivering beside a stream. He was apparently an iteration. Syrill knew him and decided they couldn’t leave him alone in the forest. The boy didn’t know how to ride a deer, and since Shyshax could at least give instructions, he had to carry the creature. All in all, not a good morning.
“Aren’t you the one who helped rescue our trap key?” Laylan asked the iteration. They were now in the very rear of the party and falling further behind.
The boy nodded. He was soaking wet in the chilly fall air and seemed dazed. “How far are we from Laven-lay?”
“At this rate?” Shyshax shrugged. “Maybe half a watch. What were you doing out here?”
Corry didn’t answer. He was fingering something on a chain round his neck.
“You left the palace without telling anyone,” said Laylan. “I heard the princess was...concerned.”
“Oh?” Corry seemed about to say something else, then decided against it. Shyshax felt a twinge of sympathy. Being an iteration among shelts must be a little like being a cat and a foxling among fauns.
* * * *
Corry’s mind seethed. How long have I been gone? Dare I ask? Capricia must be alright from what Laylan said, but she could be in danger. Does Syrill suspect me again? He seemed very angry. Corry tried again to get comfortable on Shyshax’s bony ribs. The cat seemed friendly enough. Every now and then, he tried to coax Corry into conversation, but Corry couldn’t concentrate. Why is Syrill in such a hurry? What’s happened?
They arrived at the gates of Laven-lay just at dawn. According to the guards, they were only a little behind Syrill’s party. As they approached the castle, Corry rehearsed in his mind what he was going to say to Capricia. His thoughts were interrupted as they approached the castle doors. “That’s not possible! I demand to speak to him!” It was Syrill’s voice. Corry caught sight of a small cadre of fauns in leather armor, clustered around the front steps.
“I’m sorry, but his majesty ordered that no one be admitted—”
“Do you really think he meant to bar me?” thundered Syrill. He managed to somehow loom, in spite of being a head shorter than the guard.
“Actually, he mentioned your name specifically.”
At that moment, the door opened a crack, and a sentry inside whispered something to the one outside. “His majesty says that he will see you now,” said the outer sentry, “but he asks that you go around to the west entrance and wait in the council chamber there.”
Syrill exploded. “Come in by the backdoor? Like an urchin looking for handouts? Deer dung!” He leapt forward and forced his shoulder into the crack in the door with such force that it flew open in the sentry’s face. Syrill’s officers, who had been watching uneasily from the bottom of the steps, looked at each other. Syrill, perhaps, had license for insolence, but they weren’t about to risk a flogging. Corry, Laylan, and Shyshax, standing on the edge of the group, waited a moment. Then, when the sentries didn’t seem to be shutting the doors, Corry slipped off Shyshax and went in.
Syrill was standing unnaturally still in the middle of the antechamber. The door to the throne room was opening, and already creatures were issuing from it. At the head of the party paced a cat who could only be Lexis—a white tiger, with eyes as blue as a summer sky. He glided over the marble floor like ice over hot stone. King Meuril strolled beside him. They were chatting amiably.
Lexis’s eyes met Syrill’s, and Corry saw the trace of a tiger smile. As he passed, Lexis’s tail flicked sideways to caress the faun’s leg. “Morning, Syrill.”
Syrill turned and drew his sword in the same movement, but a growl close to his ear brought him up short. Syrill had been so intent on Lexis that he had not noticed the snow leopard coming behind his king.
Meuril and Lexis turned at the sound of Ounce’s growl. Meuril sighed. “Syrill, I told you to come around to the—”
“Sire—” grated his general, his voice shaking with rage.
“Go to my chamber and wait.”
“How dare—!”
“I said go, Syrill!”
Meuril turned away. Lexis lingered for an instant, his eyes like a purr. Syrill mouthed something at him. Corry was certain it was not a customary response to “good morning.” Ounce glided around Syrill without a backward glance, but he stopped near the doorway. Corry saw that Laylan and Shyshax had ventured inside. Ounce hesitated to growl something at the cheetah. Corry heard the words, “Faun-loving little dog-cat,” to which Shyshax said something about “ice for brains.” Lexis growled, and Ounce moved away. Then they were gone.
Syrill stood clenching and unclenching his free fist until the door closed. Then he sheathed his sword with unnecessary force and stormed into the throne room.
“Corellian!”
Corry looked up to see Capricia, last to emerge from the conference. “So the thief has returned!”
“Thief?” Corry glanced at Laylan and Shyshax, who were taking an interest in the conversation. The sentry at the inner door also looked interested.
Capricia reached Corry. “Where have you been?” she hissed. “Or, more appropriate, what have you been?”
“I didn’t steal it,” muttered Corry. “I’ll explain later. How long have I been gone?”
He was surprised and somewhat alarmed to see a delicate, but very sharp looking dagger in her hand. She shook her head at him, eyes narrowed to slits. “You’ve no idea what it’s like. Every deer that stops by my window, every burro in the streets, every bird, every rodent...! I had a perfectly good hawk shot because he was sitting in suspicious attitude on my garden wall!”
“Why?” He was looking at the dagger.
“Syrill told me,” she whispered between clenched teeth. “You can shift.”
Corry’s mouth fell open.
“I’d like to know just one thing before I throw you in the dungeon. Why did you burn my books?” She looked at him with an expression of pain. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t! Capricia, there was a centaur—”
She shook her head. “Sentry,” she raised her voice, “fetch me four or five guards, large ones.” She glanced at Laylan and Shyshax. “What are you two looking at? You weren’t invited to audience. You may wait outside for Syrill.”
“Capricia, no!” Corry thought quickly. He fumbled in his pocket.
She took a step back, raising the dagger. “Keep your hands in front of you, iteration.”
Corry raised the chain and extended it towards her. He noticed that the flute was invisible again. “Capricia, I didn’t steal it,” he whispered. “I caught a centaur trying to, and I got it back, and I ended up in...another place, the gray world. They called it the Otherwhere.”
Capricia snatched the flute. She looked at Corry suspiciously. She’s only trying to scare me, he thought. And another part of his mind answered miserably, It’s working.
“Who called it the Otherwhere?”
“The durian wolves.”
At that moment, the castle doors opened, and Meuril and his cabinet came clicking and murmuring back into the antechamber, this time without the cats. A few of the fauns glanced at Corry and Capricia, but they seemed preoccupied, and Capricia had lowered the dagger beneath a fold of her cape. Glancing towards the throne room, Corry saw that the door was half open. He was startled to see Syrill sprawled insolently on the throne, one leg tossed over an arm of the seat, drumming his fingers impatiently.
The courtiers saw it too and began muttering disapproval, but Meuril held up his hands. “Friends, councilors, please leave us.” Capricia, who evidently did not think such orders applied to her, remained. Meuril went into his throne room and shut the door. At that moment, the five requested guards entered and looked askance at Capricia. She hesitated, then shook her head. “There was a mistake. You are dismissed...for now.”
Corry breathed a sigh of relief. “Capricia—”
“Hush!” She looked towards the throne room. There was a sound of somethi
ng hitting the floor hard. Corry guessed that Syrill had jumped off the dais.
“You probably don’t want to miss this,” said Corry hurriedly. “You go join your father and Syrill, and I’ll just—”
“You will stay where I can see you.” She took him roughly by the arm and started for the stairs at a trot. “Where are we going?” panted Corry as they strode onto the balcony.
“Archers’ chamber,” snapped Capricia.
She stopped at a little door on the balcony, took out her key ring, and unlocked it. She pushed him into the blackness beyond and shut the door. Corry could hear Syrill’s voice, raised in anger, but he could not make out the words.
He felt the prick of the dagger at his back. “I remind you that I’m armed.”
Corry thought he detected something different in her voice. “Are you afraid of me, Capricia?”
She pushed him along the dark hallway. “Should I be?”
“When I went up to your study, a centaur was coming out. I snatched the flute from him and ran, but I fell on the stairs and woke in this other place, full of wolves and these weird little shelt children with hairless tails and bony feet.”
Capricia glanced at him in the gloom. He saw the whites of her eyes flash. “A rat shelt? You saw a rat shelt?”
Corry considered. “Yes, I hadn’t thought of it, but that would make sense.”
“They’re extinct.”
“I know. So are the durian wolves. How long have I been gone? It didn’t seem very long to me.”
“A red month.” Capricia stopped before a little door on their left. Corry’s eyes had adjusted enough to trace the outlines of a number of doors at regular intervals along the left side of the hallway. “We’ll talk about this later, Corellian. Be quiet now.”
She opened the door, and the voices beyond became clearer. Corry saw that they were in a little archer’s box that looked down on the throne room, a safeguard during royal audiences. From the dusty look of the box, Meuril rarely entertained dangerous envoys. Corry and Capricia peered through the arrow slits.
“—but he’s the worst enemy that this kingdom has ever known, more dangerous by far than the Canids!” Syrill was standing at the bottom of the dais in front of the antlered throne.
Meuril was still in the aisle. “Wolflings have always taken more deer than any other predator, Syrill,” he said calmly, “but that’s beside the point. Sardor-de-lor is a ruin. Canisaria lies empty, but not for long. If it is left open, the hills will be full of wolflings within a year. Demitri did us a favor by destroying them. Wait, now let me finish! Lexis came here with a proposal and quite an honest one it seemed to me. The cats will withdraw from the wood—”
“Of course they’ll withdraw! They’re losing! I have him right where—”
“They will withdraw under oath never again to attack us as long as Lexis rules. They will set up colonies and inhabit Canisaria, keeping the wolflings out and helping to exterminate them in the wood. He has made a formal truce, Syrill—more than that, a treaty! Together we can annihilate the remaining wolflings.”
Syrill glared at him. “This isn’t about the cats at all. This is about Natalia.”
Meuril straightened and seemed almost to lose his temper. “Leave my wife out of this. Creator deliver us, Syrill, you of all shelts should be able to admit that wolflings are a problem. You were kidnapped only last season!”
Syrill retreated a step and changed tack. “There is no such thing as safety as long as Lexis sits on the Filinian throne. I had him, Meuril! Of course he wants to be friendly—as friendly as a bandit with your knife at his throat. If it hadn’t been for you today, I would have annihilated the Filinian army. We could have been rid of them!”
“Yes, with wolflings right back on our northern border. It’s not worth that, Syrill!”
“But you can’t possibly believe that Lexis will honor such an agreement. He saw that he couldn’t take this place by force and now he’s trying to take it by guile.”
“And why do you think that? Whatever else he may be, Lexis has never proven himself untruthful.”
Syrill crossed his arms. “I’ve been dealing with him for three years, and I’m telling you that he doesn’t give up.”
“But, Syrill, it’s to his advantage! He won’t do something that would hurt his nation. He came here last night on peaceful terms, humbly, willing to bargain.”
Syrill snorted. “Lexis has never been humble a day in his life.”
“Well, reasonable, then. Syrill, you’re not being fair.”
“No, I’m being realistic! He hates shelts, Meuril, shelts of any kind. It’s no accident that the cat shelts are extinct.”
“That’s only a legend, Syrill. If it did happen, it occurred long before Lexis was born.”
“Yes, but the wolflings didn’t. They thought the cats were their friends, too, but every year the cats wanted a little more and a little more. ‘May we hunt some of your best game? May we kill wolves who aren’t with wolflings? May we kill prisoners? And why not just give us your poor, your beggars? We think we should be able to kill shelts who don’t have a good excuse for whatever they’re doing.’”
“Enough!” exclaimed Meuril.
Syrill’s voice became almost pleading. “But that’s what they did to the wolflings! Don’t you remember? King Malic tried to stop it, but much too late. His predecessors had already been too greedy, sold too many rights to the cats, just so they could mine salt and gold and copper in Filinia.” He drew in a quick breath. “That’s it, isn’t it? Lexis offered you the mines.”
“Yes, he did, and we badly need the salt and tin, Syrill. Lexis did not do any of those things. Demitri did most of them and his father before him. Lexis wasn’t even born.”
“‘As the sire, so is the whelp.’”
“I believe otherwise. Cats make terrible enemies, but excellent allies. I think that you’ll learn to like them.”
Syrill glared at him. “I will never learn to like him...or any of the rest of them!”
“You seem to get along with Laylan’s mount.”
“Shyshax? The cheetahs tried to assassinate Lexis. I suppose I could learn to like them.”
“Syrill! I have made my decision. I realize that you are unhappy because you were not present, but you were far away, and there was not time to summon you.”
“You mean it’s acceptable that he went over my rank.”
“Syrill—”
“Well, that’s what he did. Listen, if Lexis is so honest and reasonable, why didn’t he come to me? One approaches the opposing commander with terms of surrender before one approaches the king. Why sneak out in the middle of the night?”
Meuril passed a hand over his brow. “Because you would never have listened to him. You would have shot him on sight.” Meuril turned and started for the door. “A notice has already been dispatched to call in the troops. The war is over, Syrill. Whether you like it or not, we are at peace with Filinia. More than that, we are on good terms.”
Syrill’s hands clenched at his sides.
Meuril’s words echoed through the throne room as he closed the door. “Get used to it.”
Part II
Chapter 1. Char
All creatures have their uses.
—Daren of Anroth, in a letter to his cousin, Rquar
On the muddy floor of a dark tunnel, a shelt strained against a cart. A greasy, malodorous torch flickered from a bracket in the wall, making his shadow writhe. The shelt was naked, his muscles as defined as an anatomist’s drawing, but his fur was dull and thin. His curly hair lay damp against his temples.
Finally the cart came loose. The shelt’s mouth relaxed into a straight line as he began to move again up the incline of the shaft. His long, furry tail hung behind him, curving just before it touched the ground. His claws clutched at the slimy earth. His friends called him Char for his dark gray coat, but he had no name on record, only a dog-shaped tattoo on his forearm.
Light winked in the tunn
el ahead, and Char redoubled his efforts. He reached the exit and blinked hard. Above his head, a wall of rock rose sheer to some impossible height. Before him lay a swamp of twisted trees, whining insects, and tall razor grass. Several other tunnels opened at intervals along the cliff at the edge of the swamp, disgorging a steady stream of shelts onto the footpaths. Char moved into the general flow.
At the first major intersection stood a black-furred faun with a whip. Char saw several others and gritted his teeth. More of them than usual today. Why?
Other shelts joined him as paths converged on the broader road. The faun at the intersection spoke to each briefly before sending them off with an appropriate pass. “Diamond goes to block nine today. Yes, the usual with those stones. Quarry six will receive those supplies. Move along.”
At last Char worked his way to the head of the line. “Possible gem stones,” he said. “Request permission to visit gem inspection.”
The overseer glanced at the pile of debris in the cart. “Block twelve.” He slapped a green pass in Char’s hand. “Next?”
Char breathed a sigh of relief as he got the wagon moving again. As he neared a prominent inspection point the slaves became thicker, impeding his progress. Then he saw a group of soldiers. Banners flew above their heads, and a crier strode before them. “Make way! Make way for the officials of Kazar. Make way for her majesty’s royal consort!”
Char felt his stomach rise. An inspection! Why did it have to be today?
The workers on either side of him began to retreat, stepping aside into the mud. Char got as far off the path as he dared, but the heavy cart threatened to sink, and he was forced to keep the wheels on the boards. He stood still, the fur on his legs bristling with nervousness.
Soon the crier passed, and the officials began to walk by. Char saw their colorful clothes out of the corners of his eyes. He dared not look up, mustn’t draw attention. The number of fauns dwindled, and Char’s racing pulse began to slow.
The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 9