“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 his 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-de-lor 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.
Char shut his eyes. At Daren’s feet lay a girl shelt, tears of fright mingling with the grime on her face. She wore a ragged shirt, colorless with dirt. Her fur and hair might have been white.
Daren looked at the overseer. “What is this?”
The overseer fidgeted. “It appears to be a girl, sir.”
Daren sneered. “’It appears to be a girl, sir.’ I can see why you’re still working traffic. Cart-puller, come here.” Char could not move. Two guards stepped forward, took him by both arms, and dragged him before Daren. “Why was this creature hiding in your cart?”
Char gulped. He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
Daren turned and prodded the female with his hoof. “On your feet.” She obeyed shakily. “Now clean up this mess. You over there, give her a shovel.”
The girl tried, but at the first step her lips parted in a gasp of pain. She hobbled forward, favoring one leg. Daren knelt and felt the leg. “It’s broken. She’s useless.”
Char found his voice at last. “She broke it in the mine! She was following orders, and a section of the roof gave way. It won’t take long to heal. She’s a very good worker. Just let her rest a few days, and she’ll work harder than anyone!”
“Yes!” interjected the girl. “I work hard. Please give me a few days. You won’t be sorry.”
“That leg won’t heal before mid-winter,” murmured Daren as he crouched next to the trembling girl. He ran a hand over her dirty fur, then snapped his fingers. “Water!” Someone jumped forward with a bucket, and Daren doused her with it. He stood back, examining the dripping results. The girl’s fur and hair were now a pale cream. She had a pattern of leopard-like spots, broken only on one flank by a mark that looked like a bull’s eye. Like Char, she had a dog-shaped tattoo. “Beautiful! Really lovely,” said Daren. “Take her to block seventeen.”
“NO!” Char leapt against the fauns. His sudden courage took them by surprise, and he slipped loose. Char ripped the sword from the sheath of one guard and stabbed the other. Suddenly everything was noise and blood. Fauns tried to pin him, but Char was not finished. With strength forged in a lifetime of hard labor, he charged through the guards, knocking them aside like toys, and lunged at Daren. The royal consort watched the scene calmly and drew his sword as the slave charged. For a few seconds Daren parried the onslaught. Then he turned his sword at an angle, allowing Char’s weapon to enter the hole in the steel. He wrenched his sword to the side, jerking Char’s blade from his hands and sending it soaring into the undergrowth.
Char stood blinking, weaponless. Then the soldiers swarmed forward and bound him. Char did not struggle. As suddenly as it had come, the rage went out of him, leaving him cold and frightened. He watched as they tossed the girl into a cart headed in the right direction.
“Who was she?”
Char dragged his eyes back to Daren. He had nothing left to lose. “My sister. Her name is Gleam.” His own voice sounded tiny in his ears.
Daren nodded to an overseer, who raised his short lash and began whipping Char in the manner of a mildly bored professional. Daren continued speaking softly. “How long do you think you could have hidden her? Ninety days until that leg healed? Impossible. In the end all of your risks are for nothing, and you share in her fate. You
would have done better to obey our rules and turn her over to the guards. Do you think slaves can outwit their masters?”
Char did not answer. He felt the whip, but his mind was on the sword. Where will he strike? How long will he play with me?
Daren took a couple of steps back and forth. Blood trickled down Char’s back and dribbled onto the wood. “So you will cut me to pieces? You do not have intelligence, yet you have courage—a rare thing in a race of groveling cowards. Tell me...did you really think that you could kill me?”
Char met his gaze, and for a moment his fear left him. “I didn’t think. I knew.”
Char expected Daren to kill him then, but the swamp faun only smiled. When the earth was beginning to swim before Char’s eyes, Daren held up his hand. “Enough.” The whipping stopped, and the slave swayed on his feet. Daren reached out to steady him with the tip of his sword. “Take him to block eleven,” he said to one of the guards.
“But, sir, he’s killed a guard!”
Daren raised an eyebrow. “Do you think yourself more expensive than a mine slave?”
Char did not hear what the guard replied. He could hardly believe what Daren had said. He’ll not kill me immediately? What is he planning? Char raised his eyes again as the fauns fitted a noose around his neck and fastened a restraint on his feet.
“What do they call you?” asked Daren.
“Char.”
“Well, Char.” Daren’s sword flicked out like a snake’s tongue and left a line of blood on Char’s cheek. “We’ll meet again. Try not to be so stupid next time.”
Chapter 2. Laylan’s Success
My nemesis seems to hold a peculiar power over everything that he touches. First Meuril, now Capricia!
—journal of Syrill of Undrun, 43rd day of summer, 1700
“Poor Syrill.” Corry glanced at Capricia, who stood frowning at the floor. “Did you hear what I said about the centaur?”
She nodded.
“Do you believe me?”
“I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me you could shift?”
“Because I didn’t know! I shifted in front of the Raiders because I was frightened. Syrill should never have told you; he promised he wouldn’t.” Before she could respond, Corry said, “What did Syrill mean: ‘This is about Natalia’?”