The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy

by Abigail Hilton

  But the guide he sent to bring his bride

  Lost his head where the bandits ride

  And a storm blew up the mountainside

  And darkened all the halls.

  “They were tiger cubs,” continued Corry patiently, “one orange, one white.”

  “How typical,” muttered Syrill, “for him to let his brats run wild in the palace.”

  “They belong to Lexis then?”

  —wandered far, she wandered wide,

  lonely steps on the mountainside,

  fleeing the place where the bandits ride

  until she slipped and fell

  Syrill was still grumbling. “And he’s brought both of them! That striped cur is determined to bathe the wood in blood. And they were prowling in my room! Shadock will hear of this.”

  Until his ears bleed, thought Corry. “I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘prowling,’ Syrill. How can two cubs running around at Lupricasia bathe the wood in blood?”

  Deep in the swamp where the trees crouch low

  hard in the dark of the moon,

  the unicorn maid crawled into a cave

  And found she was not alone.

  Oh! She found she was not aloooone!

  Syrill shook his head. “It’s an old Filinian custom. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  —saved her from their fearful jaws,

  He shattered snouts and crushed their paws

  And carried her away.

  ‘But worse than lizards prowl the swamp.’

  The stranger came to say,

  oh, the stranger came to saaay!

  “Traditionally, the tiger kings separate their alpha litter as soon as the cubs are weaned and rear them in different parts of Filinia or at least in different parts of the palace. They never see one another until their second birthday, when they fight to the death, one by one, tournament style. Whoever’s left standing is the heir. Often, the second and even third litters are kept separate in case the winner dies of wounds.”

  And some say the stranger had her to dine

  And some say he had her to wife.

  But all agree, nevermore she

  walked in the realms of the light.

  The minstrel finished, and Corry and Syrill stopped their conversation to give him polite applause. He stood and bowed. “Would sirs like another?”

  “No thanks, kid. Go find someone else to strum for.” Syrill tossed him a white cowry and turned back to Corry. “I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”

  “That’s barbarous, Syrill. I hope Lexis ends the practice.”

  “A barbarous practice for a barbarous race. The wisdom of the ancients is behind it. Lexis has so far refused to separate these cubs, and it will mean trouble. Filinians are notoriously hungry for dominance. This will mean civil war.”

  “I would have thought you would be happy about cats killing each other.”

  Syrill snorted. “If only it stopped at that! But civil war in Filinia always means trouble for us. Losers and refugees come to hide and hunt in our forests. Poor game-management in Filinia creates famine there, and raiding parties from both sides descend on our deer and our children. No, Lexis’s indulgence of his cubs is only kindness on the surface. Underneath lies a callous disregard for the lives of all the shelts and cats who will die because of his ‘kindness.’”

  And if he’d acted according to custom, you’d call him a monster for that, too, wouldn’t you, Syrill? “What are their names?” asked Corry.

  “Leesha and Tolomy. Creator be thanked, there were only two. The white female is the true dominant, or so I hear. The male, Tolomy, is afraid of his own shadow.” He laughed. “Their father’s personality split down the middle: the tyrant and the coward!”

  Corry winced. He glanced around to make sure no cats were passing nearby and noticed a welcome distraction. “That vendor looks unusual.”

  Syrill squinted. “Mmm... Looks like he’s coming from the market.”

  The swamp faun pushed a booth with a brightly painted canopy. A number of fur garments dangled from the corners. Corry walked over for a better look.

  The merchant stopped when he saw him. “Fine, warm furs,” he boomed. “Most are waterproof. I’ve raw pelts, as well as readymade hats, gloves, muffs, capes, and cloaks.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, I’m nearly sold out. If you come tomorrow at the market, I’ll have a better selection.”

  While he talked, Corry examined the merchandise. The fur was extremely soft and dense. “I’ve needed a good cap all winter,” he said, taking one. The swamp faun smiled. “Ahh! You have an eye for quality. That is Shay-shoo fur. Very fine.”

  “Shay-shoo?” commented Syrill, showing interest for the first time. “There’s been a bit of talk about that. Some creature from the northern jungles? I hear that you’re starting a breeding facility in Kazar.”

  “Ah, yes. We have lowered the price. This fur is twice as warm as pelts of the same thickness. It sheds water well and will not freeze.”

  “Like good quality cat pelts,” chirped Syrill, making Corry cringe again. “Since the embargo on cat fur, I hear Shay-shoo has really become popular. Too bad about the embargo.”

  “I’ll take the cap,” said Corry, mostly so that Syrill would shut up.

  The merchant gave him change in marked salt cakes. Like many cowries, they had a hole for stringing. Corry had seen them occasionally in Laven-lay, though salt had grown so rare in the last few years that most had been ground up for use. He walked away, fingering the downy cap. It was cream and sand colored with scattered leopard-like patterns.

  “You should have bargained more,” grumbled Syrill. “He cheated you.”

  Corry settled the cap on his head. “And have to walk away and walk back and shout and call him names? I’d rather just pay the extra cowries.”

  “Whatever you were before you lost your memory, it wasn’t a merchant.”

  Corry laughed.

  Syrill plucked the cap off his head and examined it. “There’s a pattern back here that looks like a bull’s eye. Bound to be poor luck in battle. You could have used that for leverage.”

  “When am I going to be in battle, Syrill? Let’s find something to eat.”

  Chapter 11. Salt and a Book

  There are fundamental differences between animals and shelts, and they ought never to forget this when dealing with each other. Shelts often conclude that, because beasts do not deal in currency, beasts are at a disadvantage. The truth is quite the opposite.

  —Archemais, A Wizard’s History of Panamindorah

  “It’s a pegasus!” Corry couldn’t stop staring.

  “Or a very large and ugly stork.” Syrill put down his glass of hyacinth wine.

  Corry stood up to get a better view. “I’ve never seen one before. I thought they only lived in the Pendalons.”

  “Oh, there are a handful living in exile here. I used a couple for surveillance during the cat wars.” Syrill sighed. “The ones I used were both killed. I should have left them on the cliffs.”

  Corry was still staring at the animal in the street across from their cluster of tables. “Do you know him?”

  “I know everyone.”

  “Will you call him over?”

  Syrill stood up and whistled. The pegasus turned his head, then started towards them. Syrill sat back down. “He’s not likely to be happy to see me. I got his brother killed.”

  But the animal seemed amiable enough. He was big as a centaur, but not so bulky. Closer, Corry saw that he was a dusky gray, with a blaze of striking scarlet on his forehead. The pegasus was completely feathered. A crest of long primary feathers formed his “mane,” which rose and fell in oddly expressive gestures as he talked. His tail had a bone like a horse’s tail, so that the feathers did not all start from his rump. The down of his body lay so smooth that it looked like fur from a distance, and his fetlocks were thick and shaggy. His wings were huge, even folded, and their joints jutted out in front. His ears
were like a shelt’s—long and tufted.

  The pegasus came through the press at a hop, and Corry saw that he was missing a front leg. “Hello, Syrill!” He had a pleasant accent. “Who’s your friend?” He took a sniff at Corry’s head and wrinkled his downy nose. “Better, what’s your friend?”

  Syrill smiled. “Corellian, this is Merlyn. He was doing reconnaissance for Shadock when I was still chasing rabbits on the cliff. Merlyn, this is Corellian, the iteration who saved Laylan’s trap key...and me.”

  The pegasus’s eyes widened. “Iteration, eh? That’s why he smells like nothing shelt-ish.”

  Corry reached out a hand, which sank deep in the down of Merlyn’s neck. He was surprised at how bony the animal felt, the skin warm beneath the cool feathers. “You must look half as big wet.”

  “Oh, yes,” chirped the pegasus, “and these bones are hollow.” The long joints of his wings buffed Corry gently on either side of the head. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t break a skull with one of these.”

  “Or those.” Syrill gestured to the pegasus’s hooves. He swirled his wine. “A pegasus is a formidable enemy for a shelt, but not, unfortunately, for a big cat.”

  The pegasus’s eyes glistened. “I’ve killed a cat or three.”

  “I’m sorry about Eryl, Merlyn.”

  “The leopards did that, Syrill.”

  “They wouldn’t have if he’d stayed on the cliff.”

  “Mercenary’s luck; you didn’t make him come. We’ve all got to die sometime.”

  The pegasus glanced at the table and saw the change from their meal lying there, including two more salt cakes. “Now there’s a story in a picture,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Syrill bitterly. “A story Meuril needs to read.”

  Corry looked at the salt cakes. One was old and gray, pocked where moisture had chiseled at the stony salt. The other was new-minted, almost clear with a trace of red magnesium. The new cake bore the buck’s head stamp of Laven-lay. Corry tried to make out the stamp on the old salt cake, but it was weathered. He thought he saw a half moon and some kind of bird.

  “Should I know this story?” he asked warily, wondering if Syrill was about to say something that would insult the lion two tables away.

  Merlyn and Syrill glanced at each other. “This,” Syrill tapped the new salt cake, “paid for his meal.” He jerked a finger at the lion.

  Corry shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean,” continued Syrill, “part of our treaty with the cats included access to the salt works in Canisaria. Salt was growing dear as silver before the war ended. It had almost left circulation as coin, but now it’s coming back, and not bearing the wolfling stamp. Now it bears our stamp.”

  “Which doesn’t bode well,” put in Merlyn, “considering what happened to the wolflings.”

  “So how does that pay for the lion’s meal?” asked Corry.

  Syrill spread his hands. “Simple. The vendors keep track of all Filinian sales and give the bill to Meuril.”

  “Or Shadock,” put in Merlyn. “He’s wanting a slice of the orange now, too, from what I hear. Talking to Lexis about re-opening the gold mines in the Snow Mountains. There’s tin up there, too, that the centaurs would give their eyeteeth to get their hands on.”

  “‘A cat will stand in an open door,’” Syrill quoted a proverb.

  “And you won’t see till the last minute which way he means to jump,” muttered Merlyn.

  Corry was beginning to understand. He knew that gold and silver coins constituted only the highest denomination of currency in Panamindorah. The fauns used cowries by common agreement, salt because it had uses in practically every industry, and gems, as well as bartered goods. The only large gold mines were in the Snow Mountains—cat country to which no shelt had had access for years, and the cats themselves certainly weren’t going to put the gold into circulation. The largest salt works were in cat-conquered Canisaria and in old Filinia. “So, Meuril pays the vendors the Filinian bills and is allowed to mine a certain volume of salt from Filinian territory?”

  Syrill nodded.

  “Makes sense—” began Corry.

  Merlyn snorted. “The wolflings thought so, too. Canisaria was a rich nation before it fell. They had salt treaties and gold treaties with Filinia, paid the cat-debts at Lupricasia right up until the last one they attended. For Meuril, the treaty with the cats may have been about revenge for Natalia. He thought the wolflings ate his wife, so he turned the cats loose to eat wolflings all over the wood. But for the wood faun nobility, the treaty was all about greed.”

  “Right now,” growled Syrill, “the treaty gives us access to salt works and guarantees feline aid in the extermination of wolflings from the wood. The cats may hunt any beast other than deer in the wilds, but they are not to hunt anything but wolves and wolflings less than one king’s league from a faun town or city and half a king’s league from a faun village.”

  “That’s the treaty now,” said Merlyn, “but it won’t last. Merchants are greedy. The wolflings were. The fauns are no different. Soon they’ll say, ‘We’d like a piece of those silver mines too, Lexis.’ And Lexis will say, ‘Certainly, but we’d like to hunt a bit closer to your towns.’ And the fauns will think, ‘Where’s the harm in that? The cats protect us from bandits and wild beasts.’”

  “And then,” continued Syrill, “one day, the fauns will want more salt or gold, and Lexis will say, ‘Certainly, but we’d like to be able to kill deer not kept by fauns in your wood. After all, we kill them in Canisaria.’ And the fauns will say to themselves, ‘Well, they’re not our deer. The cats have to eat...and then there’s that gold.’”

  “And,” Merlyn continued, “a few years later, when the fauns have gotten used to seeing cats in their streets and having their dens in their backyards, shelts will start disappearing. Slaves at first, criminals working in Filinian mines. Then strangers—swamp faun visitors, outsiders, orphans, urchins, wandering minstrels. That will go on for a few years and no one will much mind, and the fauns will get richer and form more lucrative trade agreements, and their neighbors will become jealous and quarrelsome, but they’ll snub their noses at those neighbors because they have Filinian treaties. And pretty soon the Filinians will be their only friends.”

  “And then one day,” said Syrill, “the cat king—maybe a new king now—will suggest that faun criminals should be given to them. They’re to be put to death anyhow.”

  Corry looked skeptical. “I can see where you’re going, but—?”

  “And then,” continued Merlyn, “the cats will suggest that any shelt beyond a league from a city without a legitimate reason is fair game. The king will argue for a bit, but then the cats will threaten to withdraw access to their mines, perhaps point out that neighboring kingdoms would pounce at the chance to do business with the cats and so be revenged on their wood faun rivals. And the wood faun king will give in. He’s made too many enemies now, has too many jealous neighbors, maybe has some wars to pay for.”

  “That’s what happened to the wolflings?” asked Corry.

  “Over several generations, yes,” said Merlyn. “But by the way the cliff and wood faun merchants are running to offer themselves to Lexis, it won’t take that long here.”

  Syrill nodded. “There’s a reason all the cat shelts are extinct. Cats are treacherous, and they kill shelts, always. The wolflings were little better than kept-burros before the end. They were wealthy burros, but Demitri regulated their every move. King Malic tried to stop it.”

  “He put his paw down,” said Merlyn. “He dared to tell Demitri not to kill shelts anymore in Canisaria, but by then it was too late. The cats were everywhere. They knew the country too well. Sardor-de-lor held out for several years, but without help, it was bound to fall.”

  “The cliff fauns were jealous of wolfling wealth and the wood fauns were smarting over the incident with the queen,” finished Syrill. “The wolflings had grown too arrogant in their wealth, and no one c
ame to help them. When Sador-de-lore fell, it was red slaughter.” Someone else shouted to Merlyn. He turned, saw someone he recognized, and hopped off.

  Syrill watched him go. “Don’t let that grin fool you. Any pegasus living on the cliff has seen black times. It’s the mountains they dream of until their dying day, and this cliff isn’t the same. He can’t ever go home.”

  Corry stared into the black sky. Like me. Only his home is far distant, and mine is far past. Then he remembered something. “Syrill, what was the song about? The song the little minstrel sang on the Sky Walk. Something that happened in Kazar?”

  Syrill laughed. “In Kazar, yes, but I don’t know that it ever happened. The Unibus disappeared four hundred years ago, probably got finished off by Ounce’s kin. The swamp monster, now, he’s alive and well, if you believe all the old faunesses cliffside.”

  “Unibus,” repeated Corry. “Ah, yes, the Unicorn Maid.” He had read about Unibus—unicorn shelts. They were creatures of legend, said to know something of magic. The last survivors had fled into the Snow Mountains, deep in Filinia in the time of Gabalon. Corry had heard tales of sightings by snow leopards, but never by fauns. The Unibus would have been alive in my time, thought Corry.

  Syrill was still speaking. “Every time a shelt or animal goes missing in Kazar, they blame it on their monster—a monster made of quickslime and alligators most likely. No one can agree on what he looks like. Some say he’s a shelt—a wolfling or a lizard rider or even a cat shelt. Some say he’s a wizard or an iteration. If he exists, he must be either very old or very prolific, because mothers have been frightening their children away from the swamp with his stories since my grandmother was a babe. They say he keeps a pet cobra—a huge snake big as an alligator.”

  Syrill stood and stretched. “I suppose you’ll want to see the library?”

  “Yes!”

  “In council, they mentioned a new book on display. Some history that was found in a secret room. Everyone’s in raptures because it has a drawing of Gabalon.”

  Corry’s eyes widened. “By someone who actually saw him?”