The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy

by Abigail Hilton

  “Syrill, have you ever traveled the other arms of the Triangle Road? I noticed that they’re not on any of the newer maps.”

  “They wouldn’t be. Fauns like to pretend that anything pointing to Selbis doesn’t exist, but I’ve traveled parts of them when I was in haste.”

  “Are they still paved?”

  “In places. When Gabalon fell, the wood fauns broke up the road and planted trees on it for half a day’s journey out of Laven-lay, but you can pick it up near Harn-Beng.”

  Corry had heard of that place—a stone bridge, wizard-built, that spanned the Tiber-wan River where it passed through a deep gorge.

  Syrill was still speaking. “You may have wondered why the western gate is called the Wizards’ Gate on old maps? Well, that’s where the road from Selbis came in.”

  “I thought the western gate was large for a minor gate.”

  Syrill nodded. “The doors are so big we hardly ever open them. It’s considered a weak point. Fenrah’s raiders chose it for obvious reasons when they rescued Sham.”

  That evening, Corry and Syrill stopped at an inn. They unloaded their gear and left the deer to forage in the lush grass, cultivated behind the inn for that purpose.

  In the noisy common room, they sat down to a meal of stew. “Syrill, I have a question,” said Corry as they ate. “Capricia’s mother—Natalia—I’ve been trying to learn how she died, but the clerks in the scriptorium have told me conflicting things. However, they all agree that she was killed by wolflings on her way home from a visit to her family in Ense.”

  To Corry’s surprise, Syrill’s expression grew animated. Usually, Corry had to work to get shelts to talk about the queen, but Syrill didn’t look like he needed much prompting. “My views probably won’t mesh with the others. Meuril, particularly, doesn’t share my opinion and would not appreciate me sharing it.”

  But when has that ever stopped you? Corry just waited.

  “First, you should understand that this happened about three years before I was born, during the summer of 1676. As you’ve probably been told, the queen went to visit her family in Ense and was waylaid during her return to Laven-lay. Two interesting things about the incident: no one survived and the bodies were not discovered until two days after the attack. This was high summer, so you can imagine the state of the carcasses when they were discovered. Two wolves and one wolfling were found dead nearby, presumably killed by the queen’s guard. All the bodies were accounted for except the queen herself.”

  Syrill lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Meuril has made an attempt to hush this, but his soldiers were not the first on the scene, and there are still common shelts who can tell you what they saw. They say there was the remains of a fire and...cooking.”

  Corry didn’t understand.

  Syrill scowled. “Gabalon’s teeth, Corellian, can’t you see? She had been eaten. Not by wolves, but by wolflings, by shelts! They found enough pieces to confirm her identity. Long ago, it is said that panauns ate fauns, just as wolves still eat deer. But shelts have considered the practice of eating other shelts an abomination for hundreds of years. For wolflings to eat the queen was the most flagrant and painful insult—not only to kill her, but to desecrate her body. They say that Meuril half lost his mind. Capricia was only two years old and thankfully with her nurse in the castle.

  “The queen’s signet ring was the only important item never recovered. Meuril still offers a huge reward for the ring and it’s become a kind of fabled treasure among bounty hunters. They search every wolfling they catch and every den they uncover, but so far, it hasn’t turned up.”

  “I don’t suppose Laylan thinks the Raiders...?” began Corry. “But they would have been too young.”

  Syrill nodded. “Fenrah would have been three years old, Sham seven, both of them living at court in Sardor-de-lor. This was before the city fell. Lyli and Xerous are the only Raiders who would have been old enough to participate, and as far as I know, Chance’s research puts them firmly in Canisaria at the time.

  “A number of other important things happened that summer. Canisaria needed help in the worst possible way against the Filinians, and Meuril had been on the verge of honoring their pleas. However, after the bandits devoured his wife, he never again considered helping the wolflings. He instituted trade resections immediately, and soon made it illegal for wolflings to live in the wood. When refugees started pouring over our borders to escape the cats, he instituted the bounty laws.

  “Shadock’s queen was also urging Shadock to help Canisaria. They quarreled, and she started spending a great deal of time with the captain of her guard, Jubal. Chance was likely conceived as a result the same summer. Sardor-de-lor fell a year later, unhelped and unmourned by Shadock and Meuril.” Syrill sat back. “That’s the story as it’s commonly told.”

  Corry considered. “I knew the part about Shadock, but not about Meuril. Interesting.”

  Syrill watched him. “Isn’t it?”

  “Seems an odd thing for the wolflings to do—insulting Meuril when they needed his help so badly.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “I mean, they must have meant the whole thing for an insult, else they wouldn’t have eaten the queen and then left the cooking where shelts could find it.”

  “No one ever claimed the attack was officially sanctioned by Malic, the wolfling king,” said Syrill. “In fact, Malic swore he knew nothing of it, and I think Meuril believed him. However, many of Meuril’s advisors urged that the savage attack on the queen showed the true nature of wolflings, the kind of thing we could always expect with them as neighbors.”

  Corry nodded. “Seems a stupid thing to do, though, even if they are savage.”

  “Perhaps wolflings are stupid,” said Syrill.

  Corry frowned. “You know that’s not true.”

  “I’m only telling you the ideas that went round at court.”

  Corry could almost feel the bent of Syrill’s thoughts. “The wolflings had nothing to gain and everything to lose. The cats, on the other hand, had everything to gain.”

  Syrill grinned. “I’m glad you see it too.”

  “You think they framed the wolflings?”

  “I’m sure of it. How convenient, when Demitri was tightening his death grip on the throat of the wolflings, for the wolflings to give affront to their most likely ally. The bodies of the queen’s party had swollen in the heat, so it was difficult to analyze the wounds. A slash from a claw and a slash from a sword may not look so different after days in the sun, and any maulings would have been attributed to wolves.”

  Corry shook his head. “The dead wolves and wolflings.”

  “Yes.” Syrill smiled. “What about them?”

  “Someone like Fenrah or Sham would never leave companions behind, dead or alive.”

  “Exactly. Those wolves and wolflings didn’t die fighting with fauns. Cats killed them and left them behind as a decoy.”

  “And the cooking?”

  “The cats came in at suppertime, did the deed, tore the queen to pieces, ate parts of her, dropped the rest in the cooking pot. Easy as that.”

  Corry shook his head. “Surely tracks—”

  “Two-day-old tracks on leaves and loam don’t tell much, Corellian, certainly not the difference between a cat paw and a wolf paw.”

  Syrill leaned forward. “I believe that Istra, Shadock’s queen, knows the truth as well. She and Natalia were girlhood friends. They were very close. I do not know her, have never been alone with her to ask the question, but I cannot imagine she would have supported the wolfling cause if she had believed they killed her friend.”

  “So Meuril’s queen and Shadock’s queen were close? That’s interesting.”

  Syrill wasn’t listening. “If Meuril had helped Sardor-de-lor, Demitri would never have had a chance to attack us. The cats tricked him, devoured his wife, and lived for three years on the bodies of his fallen soldiers. Then, instead of letting me kill Lexis, Meuril parlayed with him, made a
treaty, rewarded him for his deceptions, and let him off without a scratch!”

  Syrill realized how loudly he was speaking and lowered his voice. “You see why I have some sympathy for the wolflings?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But Meuril’s actions make sense if he really believes the wolflings killed his wife. He was on hand to examine the evidence, after all, and you weren’t.”

  Syrill flushed. “I can assure you that I did not come to this conclusion over an evening’s bottle of wine. I have spoken with many eye-witnesses.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing for the last few months? Building your case?”

  Syrill’s eyes flicked away. “To a degree. I had the outline, but I have improved it.”

  “Even if you’re right Syrill, it would be Demitri, not Lexis, who did all this. You can’t put Lexis on trial for something his father did.”

  “He must have been told about it,” growled Syrill, “at least by the time he came to the throne. He used the deception, just like his father used it.”

  Chapter 7. Port Ory

  Your idea about the stone from the Triangle Road has been tried, but shelts fear buildings made from wizard stone. At the last guild meeting, one member reported having harvested stone from around Selbis itself, and the house collapsed the day before the family was to move in. Customers were frightened.

  —Chief of Laven-lay’s Guild of Masons to Danda-lay’s Guild Chief

  Corry had an idea that wine had made Syrill more talkative than he intended, because the next morning he was uncharacteristically quiet. They rode along, listening to the twitter of birds and the clip of deer’s feet on old stone. Corry watched the other travelers—mostly wood fauns, with an occasional cat—and he noted with interest the busy little towns they passed. Toward evening they came to the bank of a broad river. “The Tiber-wan?” asked Corry.

  Syrill nodded. “Not far now to Port Ory.”

  The road paralleled the river. Soon Corry caught sight of a barge moving with the current, piled high with crates. Fauns moved to and fro on the deck.

  Corry squinted. “Syrill... What’s that in the water?”

  He looked where Corry pointed. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Beside the barge, there’s something swimming.”

  “Oh.” Syrill looked away. “Just a cowry catcher.”

  Corry shook his head. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “There aren’t many in middle Panamindorah. They’re manatee shelts, native to the sea and the jungle streams of the Pendalon mountains. I’m told that fauns use them at sea to find cowries. Here they’re used for catching fish, towing small loads, boat maintenance, that sort of thing.”

  “Used?” echoed Corry.

  Syrill had the grace to look embarrassed. “They’re slaves...all those in Middle Kingdoms, at least. I suppose there are free ones in the Pendalons.”

  “I thought slavery was illegal in Middle Panamindorah.”

  Syrill shrugged. “Yes, well, we don’t extend that courtesy to deer and burros. We buy and sell animals that can’t talk.”

  “Cowry catchers can’t talk?”

  “No. I’ve been told they can’t make the sounds of our language. They seem to understand it well enough. I’ve never owned one, Corellian, and I’ve never lived on the riverfront.”

  Corry shook his head. “But not even wolflings are sold as slaves!”

  “No?” Syrill raised his eyebrows. “And what do you think happens in the deep forest when a faun farmer comes upon a den with a couple of strapping youngsters? He could collect a few dozen white cowries in bounty for their tails. Ah, but perhaps they could work for him? Then he keeps their secret and they keep their lives.”

  Corry said nothing, but his disgust must have shown on his face.

  “Some would call it merciful,” said Syrill, “on the part of the faun, I mean. He does run a risk. He could be heavily fined. The wolflings, of course, stand to lose a good deal more.”

  “But that’s not the same,” persisted Corry. “I know it happens, but it’s not legal, like what you’re describing with the cowry catchers. They’re shelts, aren’t they? What’s the difference between making slaves of them and making slaves of wolflings?”

  Syrill sighed. “Nauns—they don’t look as much like us, do they?” He allowed his buck to a canter. “Blix has been trying to tell me for the last quarter league that he wants to run.”

  The smell of spring was in the air, and the deer were anxious to move. They only stopped running when Syrill judged the crowd too thick, which was a good deal later than Corry would have judged it. The deer were far more agile than horses and liable to shoot straight into the air when they encountered barriers in the form of other riders and wagons. Syrill only chose to slow when Corry’s doe landed inside a cart, nearly on top of a number of ragged children. Corry shakily offered the cart’s owner his apologies and several cowries, but the owner only shook his head, watching Syrill wide-eyed over Corry’s shoulder.

  “I’m the dashing cavalry commander,” said Syrill out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m supposed to be reckless.”

  “Well, I’m the stuffy royal clerk,” panted Corry, “and I don’t want to kill any children on my way to Lupricasia.”

  Towards evening, Corry caught sight of a stone wall which continued on the other side of the Tiber-wan. “What good is a city wall?” asked Corry, “if anyone can come through the river.”

  “Inspections,” said Syrill, “tariffs, that sort of thing. Port Ory is a merchant city.” He laughed. “Who would want to attack it? Everyone does business here.”

  As they drew closer, the traffic thickened, and Corry saw a gate swung wide and shelts with merchandise lined up for inspection. He and Syrill were waved through with barely a glance. Beyond the wall, narrow streets wound between tall buildings, all hung with garlands of early flowers and colored paper. Colored lanterns winked in the dusky twilight. Booths on wheels came and went, trailing smells of food. Corry could hear flutes and tambourines and the thump of dancing feet. Children yelled back and forth across the rooftops.

  Syrill kept stopping to talk and laugh with shelts Corry had never seen before. Quite a few of them were female. At last they reached a gaudy-looking hotel on the waterfront, called the Unsoos. The lobby was paved with dressed stone, and the rugs were large and elaborate. The roof turned out to be a park-like deer garden, complete with trees and small waterfalls.

  Syrill requested a double room at roof level. As soon as they were inside, he dropped his pack and said, “I’m going out. Are you hungry?”

  Corry had an idea Syrill didn’t want him along. “No, I’m tired, actually.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, there’s a common room downstairs. The food here is excellent.” Syrill slipped out the door without another word.

  Corry found his way to a lavishly appointed bedroom with windows opening on the deer park. He took off his boots, lay down, and dozed off almost at once. When he woke, the night was full dark, but he could hear distant sounds of merrymaking through the window. He didn’t think he’d been asleep very long, but he was ravenously hungry. Corry got up, put his boots back on, and went out into the hall. Voices, music, and the odor of food drifted up the staircase and he followed them. On the ground floor, he paused beside the common room entrance. He could see a fire and something roasting over it. Shelts were eating at tables, talking and laughing. Corry hesitated. He reached into his pocket. I have enough cowries to buy food outside. He didn’t feel like trying to make conversation with strangers right now.

  In the street, Corry bought a warm, thick drink and an unidentifiable hunk of meat on a stick. Chewing and slurping happily, he started up the incline of the street. All three moons were up and nearly full—Dragon high overhead, Runner a little below, and blue Wanderer just visible between the buildings. Dancers and acrobats were performing here and there. He saw minstrels and fire-eaters and magicians and
even a cat who could balance knives on his nose. Gradually he noticed the streets he walked were rising higher. Finally the road came out on a massive stone bridge. Near him, a larger-than-life statue of a cliff faun in battle dress atop a magnificent ram reared against the velvet sky. On the far side of the bridge, stood a similar stone image of a wood faun on a stag, illuminated by flaming torches. Flags of Laven-lay and Danda-lay flew from the tops of their spears.

  Far below the artificial layers of the city, the Tiber-wan delivered its never-ending death-roar as it plunged over the abyss. Corry stopped to admire the view. He could see the gushing, hissing turmoil of whitewater churning around a lattice of vertical iron bars, anchored in the belly of the bridge and the riverbed. All of Port Ory spread out below him—the river full of boats at anchor and the walls and buildings winking with red, green, orange, and purple lights.

  Corry dragged his eyes away and moved to the outer side of the bridge. Beneath him the river appeared to plunge into a sea of cloud. It was like the end of the world.

  “Pretty, eh?”

  Corry turned to the speaker. “Shyshax. What are you doing here?”

  The cheetah laughed. He had his front paws on the side of the bridge, but now he dropped to all fours. “Same thing everyone else is doing, I suppose: eating and dancing and filling up on new wine. How do you like Port Ory?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Shyshax smiled. “You haven’t seen Danda-lay yet, have you?”

  “No. Listen, I never got to thank you properly for carrying me back to the city last summer. I was distracted, and I’m afraid I behaved ungraciously. You were very kind.”

  The cheetah’s wide amber eyes twinkled. “It was no trouble. How did you end up wet and lost in the wood anyway?”

  I was chased by a centaur assassin into some kind of dungeon dimension full of extinct shelts and animals. Lucky for me, I somehow popped up in a river a month later than I left. Corry almost wished he hadn’t brought it up, but he liked Shyshax and had been wanting to thank him. “I’m not sure. I have these spells sometimes where things happen, and I can’t remember.” That sounds almost worse than the truth, coming from an iteration. Corry could have kicked himself. Laylan knows I can shift. He probably told Shyshax. Now he probably thinks I turn into something horrible and kill people.