The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book 1 Fauns and Filinians

* * * *

  Char sat at a small table, staring morosely at a cup of tea. He had never drunk tea until last red month, and he still found the taste unpleasant. He was wearing clothes, too—an odd, confining sensation. His long furry tail twitched nervously where it hung down behind the chair. He was fairly certain he was the first slave ever to enter Daren’s private study. Beside the fire, Daren’s anduin hound growled softly. He wasn’t used to seeing slaves in here, either.

  On the other side of the small table, Daren sipped his tea. “I am told you are acclimating to your new quarters. I trust the food is to your liking?”

  Char’s eyes flicked away. He was unaccustomed to looking fauns in the eyes unless he wanted their attention, and right now Daren’s attention was making him uncomfortable. “Yes.”

  “Good. And the sleeping arrangements?”

  Char nodded.

  Daren frowned and toyed with his tea cup. “Please don’t hesitate to tell me if anything is not to your taste.”

  Char met Daren’s gaze for a moment. “Why are you doing this, sir?”

  Daren smiled. “Do you really require a reason?”

  “I—” Char bit his lip. “Yes.”

  A pause, then, “You see that dog?” Daren motioned to the anduin hound.

  Char nodded.

  “What is he for, do you think?”

  Char’s brow furrowed. “Hunting?”

  “Yes, and what are you for?”

  “The gem mines,” said Char meekly.

  “Yes. I also have slaves for tracking, bred for their sense of smell. They’re better than the hounds, actually, but slow and no good at bringing down the quarry once they’ve found it. The dogs have their purpose, and the tracking slaves have their purpose, and you have your purpose.”

  Char nodded. He could feel a familiar knot in his stomach. He had no name for it, but he didn’t trust himself when it was there. Unconsciously, the twitching of his tail increased to lashing.

  Daren smiled. “We breed our slaves for docility, but you’re an aberration, Char. You have courage, spirit.” He watched the lashing tail. “Anger. These qualities could be put to good use.”

  He stood up and leaned against the mantel. “Many fauns disagree with me. They think it’s dangerous to breed fighting slaves.” He glanced down at his dog. “Ah, but most useful things are dangerous, aren’t they?”

  Char shut his eyes and gripped the table. He was seeing red. “You want me to mate with that female in my quarters, don’t you?”

  “Do you dislike her? I have a few other specimens in—”

  “It’s not that.” He was amazed Daren was allowing him to speak this way, but the lack of reprimand made him bolder. “It’s…it’s…” What is it? He’s given me clean, comfortable living quarters, better food than I’ve ever had in my life, and a beautiful female to bed. All this when I tried to kill him. An image leapt into Char’s mind—his sister, dripping wet, her eyes frantic.

  “Why didn’t you include Gleam in your…your project?”

  “Because she didn’t fight back. I saw beauty, but no spirit. Her purpose was not—”

  The knot in Char’s belly had grown unbearable. “She was my family!”

  Daren hesitated. Char was fairly certain that Daren had never been interrupted by a slave who lived to tell about it. Daren took a deep breath. “Quite. Perhaps I should have brought her here. It would have been a small price to pay for your cooperation.”

  Char was stunned. It was the closest thing he’d ever heard to an apology from a faun. He hesitated. “What is your lordship’s purpose?”

  Daren laughed aloud. “Very good! You are able to think and also to attack. That is good. I want those qualities.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” said Char, but another idea had come to him. “The dog was a desert dog…or a wolf,” he said quietly, “and you made it an anduin hound.”

  “My family made it, yes, over many generations.”

  “And I am a slave, and you will make of me…what?”

  “You are a gem mine slave, and I wish to make fighting slaves.” Daren stood up and pulled a rope by the mantle. “You know what I want, and I’m not asking anything unpleasant. But the breeding season for your kind will be over soon. Do you understand?”

  “My kind?” repeated Char. He thought he saw Daren hesitate. He didn’t mean to say it that way. A faun servant had appeared to take him away, but Char ignored him. He looked straight at Daren. “What is my kind, sir?”

  “A slave,” said Daren with a stiff smile.

  Char shook his head. “But you just said that was my purpose. What I am is something different, isn’t it? Your purpose isn’t to be a faun, any more than the dog’s purpose is to be a dog. My purpose can’t be the same thing as what I am.”

  Daren motioned at the servant. “Take him back to his quarters.”

  * * * *

  Corry looked up from the book he was copying. Someone is trying to sneak up on me. The scriptorium was cold and quiet at night after the others went home. The shelves were a shadowy labyrinth, his single candle the only light. He felt, more than heard, the vibrations of footfalls through the stone floor. This is it. Whoever sent the centaur has sent someone else. He let the intruder get a little closer, then jumped up and spun around. This time he had a sword. He’d been practicing.

  Syrill raised his hands in surprise. He’d come in without a light, apparently following the gleam of Corry’s candle. Corry sheathed the sword, feeling foolish. “Syrill. I didn’t know you’d come back.”

  “Got here early this evening. You’re a bit jumpy.”

  Corry didn’t try to explain. “Are you home for a while, then?”

  “Yes, I was wondering what your plans are for Lupricasia.”

  Corry raised an eyebrow. Lupricasia was the spring festival in Danda-lay, said to be extravagant. He gathered up his tools from the table. “Come back to my rooms and we can talk.”

  Syrill followed him, chatting about the weather and the condition of the roads. When Corry reached his rooms, he stirred up the fire, then rang for a servant and asked for hot drinks. “All three moons should be full next yellow month,” Syrill was saying as they sat down, “and the early flowers are blooming, which should please everyone. Fauns enjoy flowers for Lupricasia. You’re welcome to travel with me if you like.”

  Corry looked at the fire. “I’ll think about it.”

  Syrill seemed surprised. “I generally get excellent accommodations, and I know where to find all the best food and dancing. A stranger could get lost, and shelts are a bit leery of an iteration traveling alone.” He hesitated. “Do you have other travel arrangements?”

  Corry said nothing.

  “Ahhh…” Syrill nodded knowingly. “There’s a fauness involved. Do her parents know yet? They may not be keen on the idea, but—”

  “There’s no fauness,” snapped Corry. He turned to look at his friend. “Syrill, I want to know why you told Capricia about my shifting. You promised not to tell anyone; you gave your word.” He felt a burst of relief even as his voice flamed in anger. He’d been wanting to bring up the topic all winter, but had never found suitable opportunity.

  Syrill’s brown eyes slid away from Corry’s angry green ones. “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that! I told her I couldn’t shift, and I believed it at the time. She was very angry when I came back, and I’m still not sure she trusts me.”

  Syrill toyed with his drink. “Corellian, you disappeared for a red month. She was frantic to find you. I thought maybe you’d shifted and couldn’t shift back. You didn’t seem to have much control over it. I thought maybe you were ashamed, had run away.”

  Corry sat back. It was a reasonable conclusion. But you still lied to me, Syrill.

  “You never have told me where you went,” said Syrill.

  “I had unfinished business,” muttered Corry.

  “I thought you couldn’t remember anything before you came here.”

&nbsp
; “My memory is spotty. I don’t want to talk about it. Besides, you’re the one who kept disappearing this last year.”

  “A good point.” Syrill took a deep breath. “So, while I may not be a good repository for secrets you hope to keep from the princess, I do make an excellent traveling companion.”

  Corry sighed. “Alright, I don’t have any plans for Lupricasia.”

  * * * *

  They left eight days later. By then, Laven-lay was full of shelts and animals in transit. Syrill took only two mounts and no servants, but they would clearly not be alone on the road. It was still called the Triangle Road, although only this arm of the triangle was in current use. The road had been paved with large, smooth stones in the time of the wizards. It connected Laven-lay to Port Ory, where one could take tunnels to Danda-lay on the cliff. The third point on the triangle was Selbis—the old wizard capital. No faun town lay closer than a day’s journey to the ruins. Corry had heard all kinds of ghost stories. Naturally, he was interested.

  “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.