The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (12 page)

“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 herself, 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 something 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 this 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-day-lore 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 tunnel 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.

He risked a glance. Not three feet in front
of him stood a large, cinnamon colored dog. The creature stood
about two thirds the height of a wolf. Its dark nose sniffed
delicately. Char stood paralyzed, unable to take his eyes off the
animal. He knew what it was: an anduin hound, bred on the estate of
his Lordship, Daren of Anroth. The breed, said to be a cross
between wolves and the wild desert dogs, had been created by the
house of Anroth hundreds of years ago and honed for generations. It
was the source of Char’s tattoo—Daren’s chosen sigil.

A shadow fell across the dog’s back. “Come
Doega. You must allow the slaves to work. Are you hungry, my
friend?”

Char trembled as the hound drew closer. He
dropped his gaze, felt its hot breath on his cheek. A black gloved
hand moved into his line of sight, holding a morsel of red meat.
The hound took it with its tongue and moved away. Char let out his
breath slowly. His hands felt moist as he clutched the handles of
the cart.

Suddenly a fierce baying erupted. This time
Char was startled enough to turn around. The hound had left its
master’s side and was circling the cart. In one bound it leapt atop
the pile of loose rock and began to dig. Char felt suddenly
cold.

“Doega!” snapped the voice. For the first
time that day Char turned to look at Daren. The royal consort stood
in the center of the path, a trim figure immaculate in his pale
blue tunic and black cape. His black hair swept back from his high
forehead, close-cut in the habit of swamp fauns. He came over to
the cart and put his black-gloved hands on the edge, watching his
dog.

“You,” called Daren to one of the overseers.
“What’s this?”

The overseer glanced at the pass card in
Char’s hand. “Suspected gem stones, sir.”

“Mmm...” Daren ran a finger through the
debris. “Empty it.”

“Yes, your lordship.” He turned to Char. “You
heard him! Dump it!”

With trembling hands, Char struggled out of
his harness and went to the back of the cart. He tried to think
what to do, but his mind was a blank of terror. He slid the bolt,
and the cart bed opened, loose rock spewing onto the planks. A
flash of color caught Daren’s attention. His dog saw it too, darted
forward, and came up with a struggling mass of fur and skin.

Daren spoke, “Drop it.”

His dog growled, its yellow eyes wild. Daren
whipped his sword from its sheath and struck the hound across the
top of the head with the flat of his blade. “DROP IT!” The dog
yelped and released his catch. Daren raised the sword again. The
blade was peculiar—a scimitar with a lobe-shaped piece cut out,
giving it a fang-like appearance. The dog went down on its belly at
his feet. Daren stared at it for a moment, then sheathed his
weapon.