The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy

by Abigail Hilton

  Her voice continued—low and soft. “A crisis developed in the kingdom two generations before Canisaria fell. This was in the time of Malic’s great grandfather. That king had three children—the eldest a son, the middle a daughter, and the youngest another son. The king and the crown prince died in a hunting accident. That left the daughter as heir to the throne, but she abdicated, so the youngest son became king. He was Malic’s father. The older princess went on to have three children. One of them was my mother.”

  Laylan nodded. “So royal, but no longer in the direct line. However, all those who were died in the sack of Sardor-de-lor. What about Sham?”

  Fenrah shook her head. “Noble, yes, but not royal. He was born to my father’s sister.” Her voice caught—like a rusty hinge on an old door, opening with difficulty. “We were in Sardor-de-lor when the city fell. I was five, Sham seven. We escaped because we were small and the cats were careless. They had so much to kill that day. We climbed into the drainage system and splashed through the blood that was gushing down from the streets.”

  Laylan had heard the stories and knew she was not exaggerating. The sack of a shelt city by cats was a thing out of nightmare. In their excitement the big predators cared only for the sport of killing. He had spoken to a few fauns who had been in the outer city and escaped, but never from the inner city—the palace and its grounds. She could tell scenes that would make any shelt bristle to his tail-tip. But surely this is not a secret from her pack. Why did she bring me here in private? Aloud, he said, “So you are the only one—the heir to the Canisarian throne.”

  Fenrah bowed her head. She was still a moment. Then her hand shot out. Laylan leapt back, but the hand was empty. “When you caught Sham last summer he told me he saw a ring on your finger. I want— I think—” She tried again, “May I see it?”

  Laylan did not like surprises. She’d given him sufficient start to make his heart rate jump, and he had half a mind to walk out, but he was also curious. Slowly, he worked the ring loose and handed it to her.

  Fenrah examined it critically by the light of the lamp. Her back was to him, and he could not see what she was looking at. “Who gave it to you?” she asked.

  “My mother.” It was the only thing he had of hers and its gift nearly the only memory.

  “Liar. You stole it off some wolfling you killed.” She spoke without heat, but with something like disgust.

  Laylan was surprised. Fenrah had always seemed to consider him beneath her contempt. Her judgment now offended him. “No such thing! Rings and chains are a liability in a fight, and if there’s one thing I’ve had to do in life, it’s fight.” Laylan’s mouth snapped shut against his anger. “I’ve killed many shelts,” he said more levelly, “but I’ve never taken trophies. I’d need a better reason to wear something that might catch and rip my finger off.”

  Fenrah turned back to him. Without any sign of temper, she said, “The kingdom of Canisaria suffered a scandal many years ago. I was not alive at the time, but I heard rumors. The story goes of how, when Malic was a young prince, he fell in love with a wandering entertainer that visited Sardor-de-lor. She came with a troop of performers. They stayed many months and feasted and danced, and the whole court made merry. However, no one realized the seriousness of Malic’s bond with one of the performers until she was found to be with child. He declared that he would marry her. The king was outraged and embarrassed. No son of his, he vowed, would marry a wandering mountebank.

  “The king sent the actors away with orders never to return. The prince was locked in his room and restrained until he accepted his father’s verdict. They say he never quite overcame his bitterness. They also say that in some distant country the young performer gave birth to Malic’s firstborn.”

  Laylan hesitated. Something was shaping that he did not like. “Interesting. But this was only a court rumor. I’ve never heard it. And if this person does exist, no one is likely to know who he or she is. For all practical purposes you are the heir to Canisaria.”

  “Ah, but you will remember that my line abdicated two generations ago. This person, should he or she exist, is in the direct line.”

  Laylan looked noncommittal. “You’ll never find this shelt, Fenrah.”

  “There is something else,” she continued. “The performer was a fox shelt.”

  The air in the room seemed suddenly very heavy. Laylan felt the jaws of a trap closing. “That’s unusual. I haven’t met many in this part of the country.”

  Fenrah’s voice sounded angry at last. “Haven’t you seen the impression on the inner circlet of your ring?”

  “Of course I’ve seen it—a bird flying with a crescent moon.” He couldn’t keep the frustration out of his own voice any longer. “That’s not the royal insignia of Canisaria, Fenrah!”

  “No. That is the family sigil of Ausmainern, the royal line of Canisaria—not the national standard as displayed on the flag and royal seal, but the family sign. I’m not surprised you never recognized it. Family signs weren’t used for state purposes. That sigil has probably never been seen on any document or bit of metal since Canisaria fell.”

  Chapter 3. Secrets Unraveling

  Lizard rider: the shelt of a water lizard, the only native naun still extant in Middle Panamindorah. The exact number of lizard riders living in Kazar Swamp today is unknown, but assumed to be less than a thousand. They have no central government or written language and generally attempt little contact with the world outside their swamp. They live in clans and are frequently at war with one another.

  Lizard riders were said to be the first inhabitants of the swamp, while the goat shelts inhabited the desert and plains. At some point in the distant past, the shelts known today as swamp fauns explored Kazar and found it suited them. They quickly gained ascendancy over the ever-quarreling lizard riders. Today, the small number of lizard riders still living in the swamp have official protection from Kazar’s government, though it is said that local lords still hunt the lizard riders for sport or retaliation against their occasional raids.

  When studying these shelts, it is important to remember that they do not think of themselves as a nation, only as individual clans. They have been known to enlist swamp faun aid against each other whenever possible.

  —Anson’s Political Encyclopedia of Panamindorah

  Danthra blinked in the sunlight reflected from the sheet of moving water that covered the plaza before the Palace of Danda-lay. By now the water had washed nearly all the glass and filth from the plaza. Gripping his flag of truce like a weapon, the lizard rider urged his enormous mount out of the shadow of the buildings. Nothing moved along the barricade as he advanced, but his beast sensed his nervousness and hissed. Idar-mor was afraid, and when a water lizard was afraid, it responded with aggression.

  Danthra gripped the flag tighter. He had not brought his clan up out of their protected swamp for this. His agreement had been only to open the gates of Danda-lay, should those gates be sealed by water. His clan received payment, but, more to their taste, they received looting rights and the promise of revenge against a rival clan upon successful completion of their task. He had kept his shelts out of the fighting yesterday and last night. In spite of pressure from the zool, he’d also kept them out of the disastrous storming of the barricade.

  These cats have sent her half mad, thought Danthra. Outside her door, he had listened to her railing at one of her officers. How could this have happened? Hadn’t they taken measures to ensure the absence of cats in the battle for Danda-lay? What of the centaurs’ promises? She cursed them all for a herd of geldings. Where were they now that they were needed?

  She was no more pleasant with Danthra. They were all trapped in the city. If the cats gained an advantage, did he imagine they would spare his lazy mud lizards? She was sick unto death of his excuses. She was paying him three times what he was worth. “You lizard riders grow fat, while my shelts die in the streets. You will do your part.”

  Even then, Danthra had balked. He h
ad referred to their original agreement, and she’d actually laughed. “Show it to me. Where does it say you need not take part in battle?”

  Danthra had reddened. No lizard rider he had ever known could read or write. Of his fifty-six clan members, only nine had ever been to the top of the cliff before, and only three had been to a Lupricasia. He had more experience than all of them with the fauns, yet he could barely write his own name, and he could not read a word.

  Sharon-zool had shaken her shiny black hair. “You must do your part. I’m not asking you to fight, not yet. All I want you to do is carry a message and look dangerous. You’re good at that—standing about and looking dangerous.”

  Oscillating gentling on his lizard’s back, Danthra passed beneath the shadow of the golden winged Monument. It seemed sinister today—all wings and no body. We do not belong here—high in the air. This is a place for those with fur and feathers.

  He was close enough now to see blood stains on the statuary and furniture of the barricade. He saw bits of shattered glass gleaming in its hollows. He felt naked without a weapon. I am in range of their arrows. If they were going to kill me, they would have done so.

  Perhaps they have no arrows left, answered a treacherous voice in his mind. Perhaps all their archers are dead. Perhaps they are waiting to tear you apart with claws and teeth.

  Danthra would have rather done any amount of fighting than walk weaponless into a den of cats. The zools of Kazar have always been bad for lizard riders. What made me think I could handle the wasp and avoid its sting?

  “Stop right there.”

  Danthra obeyed, his mount rumbling as it scented his fear.

  “What do you bring us, mud dragon? If it’s anything but a full surrender, you can take it and throw it over the Sky Walk and yourself as well.”

  Danthra held himself rigid. Lizard riders did not tremble. “I bring a message from the zool of Kazar,” he said. “It is not my message, but hers.”

  He heard a buzz of low voices. At last, the first voice said grudgingly, “You’re good at swimming, eh, mud dragon? Good at swimming down tunnels?”

  Danthra gripped his mount harder with his knees and said nothing.

  “Go to the place where the flood tunnel passes under the barricade. Enter there, and we’ll hear your words...and break your bones, too, if you forget the meaning of that flag you hold.”

  “I’m unarmed,” snapped Danthra. He was relieved to feel anger replacing his fear. Anger was much easier to deal with.

  Urging his water lizard along the barricade, he came to the place where the flood tunnel passed beneath. The fauns had stacked rubble across it almost to the waterline, but Danthra’s mount slipped effortlessly into the deep trench, and they swam beneath the barricade. Almost at once, Danthra and his mount came up against a dam and were forced to surface. At first, he thought he saw nothing but cats. Then, he noticed a handful of fauns standing beside a smallish cat—in his agitation, he’d forgotten the names of their kinds—and talking.

  Danthra’s mount had turned its nose upstream to keep from being dashed against the dam, and it held its place in the current, keeping Danthra’s head above water. At last, one of the fauns said, “Well, do you have something to say to us or not?”

  Reluctantly, Danthra guided his mount to the edge of the channel. He tossed the flag onto the paving stones and then urged Idar-mor over the edge. The cats moved away from him, growling and circling as more and more of the beast slid from the water. Danthra dismounted and stood dripping in his oiled tunic, his eyes darting from the fauns to the cats. He addressed himself to the faun who’d spoken. “Sharon-zool insists her message be delivered in a tower.”

  The faun raised an eyebrow. “Any tower?”

  “Any tower overlooking the plaza.”

  He could see that the faun did not like this. He’ll like it even less when he learns why.

  “May I know the reason?”

  “I am to give you no message until we enter the tower.”

  A murmur of conversation rippled through the ranks of cats. The faun said a few words to those around him, then, “Very well, but your mount stays here.”

  The faun led the way across his half of the plaza towards the palace. Several other fauns walked with him, along with the small cat. Two large and dangerous looking cats took up the rear. “What is your name, lizard rider?” The faun sounded almost friendly.

  “Danthra.”

  “My name is Jubal. What is your rank?”

  “We have no ranks.”

  The faun frowned. “Do you serve others or do others serve you?”

  “We serve ourselves.” Danthra had not expected questions about himself. He did not like this. His anger was ebbing into fear again.

  The faun said no more until they’d reached the top of one of the outer towers. The room was small, and Danthra could feel the hot breath of one of the cats on the back of his neck. “Look into the main street just beyond the plaza,” he said without waiting for Jubal’s questions.

  Jubal went to the window. One of the other fauns had beaten him there and he began to curse. Danthra knew what they were looking at. Sharon-zool had probably started the executions as soon as he left with his flag of truce. Anyone with a view of the main street of the city would be able to see the ten hastily erected scaffolds with their burden of cliff fauns.

  Jubal did not react as Danthra had expected—with howls or curses or possibly a command for the cats to tear the messenger limb from limb. Jubal just stood there with his back to the room. The faun who’d been cursing grew silent. The silence stretched on until it seemed to twang like a bow string.

  Danthra had expected a cue, but finally decided to deliver his message without one: “The zool of Kazar bids you surrender. If you do not, she will execute ten citizens of Danda-lay each watch. She asks you to observe that half of these will be children.”

  “I have observed that already,” came Jubal’s voice, and there was nothing friendly about it now. “What else?”

  Danthra swallowed. “She also commands me to remind you that, while grain may be growing scarce in the city, cliff fauns are still in abundance.”

  The oldest of the fauns present spoke sharply. “Are you saying that the swamp fauns plan to eat the citizens of Danda-lay if they run out of food?”

  Danthra shrugged. “This is siege.” Although it’s no longer clear who is besieging whom.

  Jubal drew a deep breath. “Is there anything else?”

  “No.”

  Jubal was silent a moment. “Tell your queen that I request a conference. She may name the time, but I will name the place—in the parade ground, in front of the barricade.”

  Danthra swallowed. “And what about your citizens?”

  Jubal turned to him at last, his face a mask. “What about them, Danthra? You know her majesty. What do you suppose will happen to them if I surrender?”

  Danthra said nothing. He wanted badly to leave, but the faun wasn’t quite finished.

  “Why do you fight for Sharon-zool, lizard rider?”

  Danthra’s eyes slid away. “She pays us.”

  “With what?”

  “Gold. And revenge against the Bladderwort clan.”

  “How if I out-bought her?” asked Jubal.

  Danthra smiled faintly. “I doubt you could.”

  The cliff faun almost smiled back. It was not an expression Danthra cared to see again. “I think I could give you something more valuable than gold or revenge, Danthra.”

  “What?”

  “Your life.”

  * * * *

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Corry stood in his father’s lamp lit bedroom. Every wall that did not contain bookshelves contained paintings—some no larger than his palm, others nearly life-sized. He recognized himself, looking only a few years younger than he looked now.

  “They’re my clothes, aren’t they? That’s why they fit. Except I’ve grown a bit in the last couple of years.”

  Archemais sto
od in his doorway. Corry had slept the rest of last night in his father’s room and waited there half the morning. Archemais entered and took off his boots. “Lexis is here.”

  “Is he?” Corry didn’t smile. “You might have told us before if you knew where he was.”

  “I wasn’t sure. I found out while you were with the swamp fauns.”

  “You knew he wasn’t in the slave camp, though.”

  “Yes, but I thought the future rulers of Filinia ought to see it. Syrill is here, as well. He seems to have made his peace with Lexis. They rescued Capricia from the centaurs and sent her on to Laven-lay.”

  Corry turned back to the pictures. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to see Syrill. “The pictures,” he persisted. “Is that my mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Corry stared at her. His mother had been a shelt unlike any he’d ever seen. Her hair and fur were silver-white. Her skin was black as onyx, with fine features and high cheek bones. Her eyes were as golden as a leopard’s and reminded him of a leopard’s gazing out of her dark face. She was a faun with split hooves and a long tail with a densely curling tuft. She looked bright and amused and happy.

  “Who was she?” he whispered. “What was she?”

  “She was an unibus,” said Archemais. He put a hand on Corry’s shoulder. “A unicorn shelt.”

  Corry shrugged him off. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were when we met in the swamp? And why can’t I remember her or you or anything before the last couple of years?”

  “You were forced out of the world without protection—out of time, out of space. You’re lucky you only lost your memories.”

  Corry was still looking at the picture. “Is she dead?” he whispered.

  “Yes. You were there when we burned her body.”

  Corry bit his lip. I can’t even remember my own mother’s funeral.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” said Archemais. “I hoped you would remember.”

  Corry shook his head. He was trying very hard not to cry. He turned to his father with a snarl, hands curled like claws. “What happened to me?”