The Prophet of Panamindorah Book One Fauns and Filinians Read online

  The Prophet of Panamindorah

  Book One: Fauns and Filinians

  By: Abigail Hilton

  * * * * *

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by: Abigail Hilton

  Cover Art by: Sarah Cloutier

  Map by: Jeff McDowall

  © 2010 Abigail Hilton. All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This material may not be reproduced, modified, or distributed without the express prior permission of the copyright holder. Artwork is displayed by agreement with the artists. All artists were paid for their work and hold the copyrights to that work.

  For Hughes, Jeff, and Amy.

  Table of Contents

  Other Books

  Map

  Prelude: Sing Muse

  Part I

  Chapter 1. Voices in the Walls

  Chapter 2. Music in the Dark

  Chapter 3. Laven-lay

  Chapter 4. A Conflict of Interests

  Chapter 5. An Introduction to Wolflings

  Chapter 6. Raiders

  Chapter 7. Fenrah

  Chapter 8. Trouble for a Key

  Chapter 9. Shift

  Chapter 10. The Agreement

  Chapter 11. Aspects of a Dinner Conversation

  Chapter 12. Thief

  Chapter 13. The End of a War and the Beginning of a Grudge

  Part II

  Chapter 1. Char

  Chapter 2. Laylan’s Success

  Chapter 3. Interrogation

  Chapter 4. A Festive Occasion

  Chapter 5. The Curious Construction of a Gallows

  Chapter 6. The Road to Danda-lay

  Chapter 7. Port Ory

  Chapter 8. The Sluice and the City

  Chapter 9. A Meeting of the Inner Council

  Chapter 10. Furs and Filinians

  Chapter 11. Salt and a Book

  Chapter 12. A Rendezvous Arranged

  Chapter 13. The Stone is Tossed

  The End

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Glossary

  Books by Abigail Hilton

  The Prophet of Panamindorah

  Fauns and Filinians

  Wolflings and Wizards

  Fire and Flood

  The Guild of the Cowry Catchers

  Embers

  Flames

  Ashes

  Out of the Ashes

  Shores Beyond the World

  Other Books

  Crossroads: Short Stories from Panamindorah

  If you are viewing this map on a black and white screen, I suggest opening it at least once on one of the many color viewers or free desktop applications to enjoy it in color.

  Prelude: Sing Muse

  Hope died with the day in the city of Selbis. In the west the sinking sun bled color like a severed artery, etching the shadows of parapet teeth on the red stone walls. In a tower room of the great keep, the light fell across a man, a wolf, and a tree. The man sprawled on a branch-strewn couch. He held an enormous dagger, its cross-guard set with jagged fragments of pearl, a strange pale jewel in the pommel. His other hand clutched something on the end of a necklace. Sap oozed from the torn branches beneath him, staining his white silk shirt and black trousers. He lay as still as a waxwork, humming softly under his breath, his clothes ruffling in the breeze that blew through the open window.

  A great black wolf lay on the floor, watching him through dull eyes. He wore an iron muzzle so heavy that he could barely lift his head. Blood glistened in the fur above his shoulder blades. Sometimes he offered a growl in response to the man’s humming, but the sound came weak and muted through the muzzle.

  The tree lay everywhere. It seemed to have passed violently through the window, leaving scratches across the walls and a dusting of loose mortar and fallen stone around the sill. The sticky brown sap had a sweet, sharp odor. It had pooled on the tiles and matted in the upholstery of the couch. The man’s coal black hair had grown sticky with the tree’s blood, yet he lay perfectly still and hummed.

  At last, an eagle dropped through the window. Its wings shot out to stop its dive an instant before it the floor. The man sat up and sheathed the dagger at his belt. He had pale skin and eyes as green as the leaves of the tree. He smiled. “Morchella.”

  The eagle shook its feathers. Its form rippled and leapt up like an uncoiling spring. A woman stood in the bird’s place, wearing a blue hooded robe. She tossed her head, throwing back the hood. The wolf managed a growl somewhat louder than before. The woman ignored him. She bowed at the waist. “They are coming, my lord. The battle went poorly today.”

  The man nodded. He did not seem surprised. “How near the city?”

  “They will be here before dawn.”

  He stretched, graceful as a cat, and let go of the necklace. The chain hung down in a sharp V, but nothing appeared on the end.

  “Gabalon,” said the woman, her voice losing its formality, “the city is in a panic. I spoke with Denathar at the gate. He is trying to keep the curfew, but soon he will need to make good his threats. The citizens think the war is lost. They are desperate to flee.”

  The man twirled his dagger thoughtfully. “They must not do that. Tell him to start executing the worst offenders. They must fear me more than they fear wolflings.”

  Morchella inclined her head. “He also said that while the city panics, you have been wandering around the forest tearing up trees.”

  Gabalon laughed. “Yes, I have.” He looked around in satisfaction at the half destroyed room. “Can you hear the music bleeding from it?”

  The wolf was growling again. He managed to get to his feet, but he could not lift his head. “Poor Telsar,” murmured Gabalon, “he was never good at bowing, but he is learning.”

  Morchella glanced at the wolf. “What else do you plan for him?”

  Gabalon walked to his prisoner. The animal was large as a pony. It swung its iron muzzle, but Gabalon reached down and caught it easily. “Even now, he does not know how to run away.”

  “You have what you need?” asked Morchella.

  “I have.”

  “Then, what—?”

  He waved a hand. “I will know when I am finished and not before.” He kicked one of the wolf’s feet from under it, and the animal went down heavily on its belly. The muzzle made a sharp clink against the tiles. “Take him back to the dungeons. I’ll be down shortly.”

  Morchella looked amused. “Will you not leave him sane long enough to see the destruction of his army? That is unlike you, Gabalon.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll let him keep his sanity. His music is so strong. Perhaps I will need it again. His tongue, on the other hand, I can do without.”

  The wolf jerked his muzzle, and this time he caught Gabalon on a shin. The man’s hand descended with reptilian swiftness to seize the wolf’s bloody ruff. Telsar clamped his teeth on a whine. “They are already lost,” said Gabalon, “all your wolves and wolflings. They think they have their teeth at my throat, but victory will turn to dust in their mouths.” He bent close to the wolf’s ear and purred, “I could not have done it without you.”

  Morchella wrinkled her nose. “He stinks of blood and filth.” She was searching among the leaves on the floor. Finally she found the wolf’s collar and chain. “What of Archemais?”

  Gabalon stood and straightened his sap-stained cuffs. “Ah, yes, you were not here this morning. We had an attempted theft.”

  Morchella’s eyebrows rose. “Of what?”

  “The Muse, of course.”

  “I see you still have it.”

  “
Yes, and after this morning Archemais will be too frantic over his own losses to worry about helping the rebel army.”

  Morchella gave a delighted laugh. “What did you—?”

  Gabalon waved her away. “Take Telsar to the dungeon and my message to Denathar. I must begin the evening’s work.”

  He turned and walked to the window, shaking the leaves from his clothes as he went. Without breaking stride, he stepped onto the windowsill and over the edge. An instant later, a huge winged shadow passed over the tower, blotting out the sun.

  Part I

  Chapter 1. Voices in the Walls

  Historians have written chapters or even books about the night Selbis fell to the cliff faun armies. However, few historians devote more than a couple of paragraphs to that night a hundred years before when Selbis almost fell to the Durian wolves and wolflings. Lack of information partially accounts for their silence. It was a curious event—perhaps more legend than fact. However, some part of the story must be true, for the Endless Wood derives its name from this incident.

  Some say the city floated. Some say it gathered about it a moat of blue flame. Some say that Gabalon polluted the air of the wood with a deadly plague. All agree on this: Durian wolves and wolflings entered the wood alive—and disappeared forever.

  —Capricia Sor, A Concise History of Panamindorah

  Corry ran a hand lightly along the library wall. The director’s office was above this spot. He pressed both hands against the plastered cement blocks. Sometimes he could do the thing he was trying to do, and sometimes he couldn’t. Please work today.

  No one had ever let him read his file. Corry thought that was unfair, especially since he couldn’t remember half of the events it contained. He could remember coming to the children’s home, but that was back when his mind was still slipping. He knew he’d arrived almost a year and a half ago.

  That’s almost all I remember of my whole life. But somewhere there’s a file that tells more, and somewhere up there, someone is going to talk about it to strangers.

  “A potential foster home,” the director had said. These people were not looking to adopt him. Corry didn’t care one way or the other. What he wanted was that file.

  Corry pressed his hands harder against the wall, probing for the tiny vibrations that would form…words.

  “…has never been physically violent to our staff, but I cannot promise that he will not become violent, which is another reason I will understand if you refuse.”

  Corry thought that was the director, because he’d listened to her in her office before. He couldn’t be sure, though. People’s voices sounded different when he listened to them this way.

  “What’s his name?”

  “He told us his name is Corellian. We’ve been calling him Corry.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “We don’t know. He can’t remember.”

  The voice grew faint, and Corry shifted his hands.

  “…wearing strange clothes …symptoms of shock.” The voices steadied and grew clearer.

  “His condition improved with regular meals and a calm environment. A few days after he arrived, he began trying to speak to us, but he spoke a language no one could understand. Now he seems to have forgotten it.”

  Corry held his breath. Yes, that seemed right. He remembered being frustrated with people when he first came because they wouldn’t answer his questions.

  The foster parents asked about abuse. The director said she thought it certain. He waited impatiently while the people upstairs speculated about cults and children kept in solitude who invented their own languages. That’s not what happened to me, he thought.

  Finally, the director said. “His records are full of incident reports. You can read them.”

  No, don’t read them! Corry almost said aloud. Talk about them! You’ve got to talk!

  “…no idea how to use zippers…behaved as if all foods were strange to him. Electronic devices… He loves books, and I think he’s learned a lot of what’s normal from reading. He asked me one day how we got all the letters to look the same shape and size. He’d never seen typeset.”

  Corry sagged against the wall. He could vaguely remember some of that. For a moment he couldn’t hear them and thought they might be reading.

  “What’s synesthesia?”

  “A sort of cross-wiring in the brain that causes some senses to trigger others. It’s a rare condition. With Corry, his sense of smell seems most effected. It’s mixed up with his other senses, particularly with his sense of sight. He talks about smelling and tasting colors.”

  Corry bit his lip. He didn’t really think he had synesthesia. At least, he’d never been able to find a description of the condition that matched his own. For one thing, his ability to smell and taste colors came and went in a way that he could not always control. And hearing vibrations? He hadn’t been able to find any information about that.

  They were talking about boring things now, things he already knew—how he didn’t get along with the other children, how he liked animals, how he was small for his age, how they didn’t really know his age for sure, but placed it between twelve and fifteen.

  Corry felt an intense wave of disappointment. He took his hands from the wall. They hardly know any more about me than I do. He was still staring gloomily at the bookcases when the library monitor came to tell him the director wanted to see him in her office.

  * * * *

  He dreamed of a wood beneath a crescent blood red moon. Wolves. A pack? An army! Thousands, tall as ponies, preparing to rest now as the suggestion of dawn fanned across the horizon. Two-legged creatures walked between them, moving supplies, setting up tents.

  A figure appeared—taller than the rest. In the pre-dawn darkness he presented little more than a silhouette with the suggestion of a cape and boots. “Where are you, Corellian?”

  Corry moaned as he woke. He felt an aching in his sweaty hand. Bringing it close to his face in the dark bedroom, he saw that he was still clutching the cowry. His foster mother had given it to him. He’d seen the shell in a display when he walked into her house, and he couldn’t help but stare. It was glossy orange-gold, and she’d laughed when he told her he couldn’t accept it. Too valuable. She said it was worth only ten dollars. Corry felt foolish, but he’d taken it greedily and clutched it during the strangeness of supper in a new house with two other foster kids. The shell calmed him.

  Corry opened his hand wide and saw the red indention of the shell’s little teeth in his palm. He sat up on his elbows, dropped his head in the pillow and clutched the shell in both hands as though in prayer. He could almost taste the acid frustration.

  Dreams often troubled him, but it had been months since the images had been so vivid. Corry looked at the cowry again. Each time his eyes rested on it, something jumped inside him, and he could almost remember. When he first came to the children’s home, his dreams had been clearer. He had had a strong sense that some wrong had been done him, that he’d suffered some terrible loss. They said I spoke a different language when I came, but I can’t remember it now. I know that I’m losing something important. No matter what I do, it just keeps slipping away.

  Corry rolled over and sat up. The glowing clock on the table read 6:30. Faint sunlight filtered through the blinds. The lump under the covers in the other bed was still rising and falling rhythmically. Corry could hear pleasant sizzling and clinking coming from the kitchen, along with warm smells of biscuits and coffee and eggs.

  He rose and dressed, then tiptoed into the hall, through a door into the garage, and then outside. A five-foot chain-link fence ran along the back of the property, bordering an orange grove. Corry inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of orange blossoms and the blue of the Florida sky.

  He stepped onto the cool concrete sidewalk. Corry could not remember seeing orange groves until the drive yesterday from Orlando. The trees crowded close together in staggered rows, their deep green leaves contrasting with the pale gray sugar
sand between. Corry found the grove appealing. It reminded him of the cowry in a way he could not explain. He made his way along the sidewalk until he reached a gate.

  At that moment one of the Tembril’s cats came strolling through the back garden to have a dust bath on the sidewalk at Corry’s feet. He smiled and crouched to pet her. Bent close to the ground, Corry could look beneath the first row of trees. To his surprise, he saw a pair of dainty hooves and slender legs. They looked quite small, and Corry wondered if it might be a baby deer.

  Slowly he stood up. Although he could not see the hooves from this angle, he fancied he saw a trace of brown fur between the leaves. Corry maneuvered the gate open and stepped onto the sugar sand.

  “Corry!”

  He turned toward the voice. At the same instant, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shape bolt from behind the tree and away through the grove.

  The voice was Patrick’s, one of the other foster kids. “What are you doing?”

  Corry said nothing.

  Patrick eyed him with a frown. “Mrs. Tembril says to come in and help with breakfast.”

  Corry gave the grove another long stare before moving away. He was almost certain the shape had fled on two legs.

  * * * *

  “Mrs. Tembril, who lives in the grove?”

  “I don’t think anyone lives out there.” She glanced at her husband.

  He shook his head. “A juice company owns it. Pickers harvest the oranges, but they’re gone now. I don’t want you wandering around in the grove, Corry.”

  Corry kept his expression neutral. “I thought I saw a deer out there this morning.”

  Martin, who’d stayed in the house several summers, spoke up. “You’ll see plenty more if you keep your eyes open—raccoons, rabbits, armadillos, foxes. This area has a lot of wildlife.”

  Corry nodded. “Wildlife. Yeah.”

  * * * *

  The Tembrils said Corry needed to earn his room and board, and they had an endless list of small maintenance items for their foster kids to complete. Patrick called it slave labor, but it was still better than summer at the children’s home, so nobody complained very loudly.