The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Read online

  But the cheetah only looked at him curiously. “Well, take care of yourself at Lupricasia. Lots of shelts here would like you not to remember what happened to your money belt.”

  Corry smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Happy hunting.” Shyshax turned and moved away.

  As they talked, Corry had been looking at the statue of the ram behind Shyshax, and without really thinking about it, he noticed a lion and leopard approach and stand in the shadow cast by the torchlight. Now as Shyshax trotted to the other side of the bridge, Corry noticed them step away from the image and glide through the crowd in the direction Shyshax had taken.

  They’re following him. He walked quickly to the far side of the bridge, but of course the cats were gone. Corry didn’t like it. He could imagine what some Filinians would like to do to a cheetah who’d spied for Syrill during the wars. Still hoping to see Shyshax again, Corry left the bridge on the opposite side of the city. For a time he wandered among the shelts, but he grew tired of the noise.

  Finally he strolled down to the banks of the Tiber-wan and walked along the riverfront, looking at the boats. He heard a splash. Corry glanced up in time to see a wide ripple well out in the river. Big fish, he thought, but the ripple did not go away. Something was moving in the water, making an arrow against the current. Corry walked forward along a wooden pier, trying to get a better look. Must be a cowry catcher.

  The creature swam in place for a little longer, then moved towards a stretch of sandy beach several yards away from Corry. A head appeared. It was a shelt’s head, but it had no tufts on its ears. Corry had grown so used to looking at heads with furry ears that the sight seemed somewhat repulsive. The ears were naked and fleshy, pointed, and folded against the head. The dripping form came up slowly until the figure seemed to be sitting in the shallows. Then it stood. Corry took a step back. Definitely not a cowry catcher.

  Something rose out of the river beneath the shelt. Corry gasped. It looked like an extremely ugly dragon. Corry realized that he must have made a noise, for the shelt whirled in his direction, stared a moment, then dove back into the river. The monster sank and disappeared.

  Heart pounding, trying not to run, Corry trotted back to the base of the pier and up one of the paths that led to a road. He managed to slow to a walk as he reached the first building. Just before he turned the corner, he stopped and looked back. The river flowed dark and smooth and undisturbed.

  Corry walked back toward the bridge. The night had gone sour. He felt like all of the shelts he passed watched him and whispered things that he could not hear. Instead of seeing the brightly colored lanterns, he saw the shadows they cast. Not nearly soon enough, Corry found the bridge, crossed without stopping to look down, and headed for the Unsoos.

  He was nearly back, shouldering his way along a particularly crowded road, when he almost ran into a large snow leopard moving in the opposite direction. “Excuse me,” said Corry, then stopped. That was Ounce, Lexis’s lieutenant. He turned just in time to see the leopard stop beside a figure in a side street. The shelt stood in shadow, yet something about the form looked familiar. It turned, and Corry caught a flash of gold chain and the silhouette of long, thick hair.

  “Capricia?” But she was already gone.

  Chapter 8. The Sluice and the City

  Danda-lay, Danda-lay,

  city ancient,

  hunter victim,

  benevolent tyrant,

  pearl of the sky.

  —old wood faun poem

  “Watch the road, Corellian! By the hoof! One would think you were the one who stayed out all night, and I was the one who went to bed early!” In the gentle wash of morning light Port Ory looked like a different city—calmer, emptier.

  Syrill was giving a tour. “Up that lane is the official meeting hall for the guild of tanners, as I’m sure you can tell by the stench. Furs and skins pour into Port Ory every year to be processed. Fauns grow food along that side of the river, also on their rooftops. See the gardens?”

  A fauness glided past them, carrying a wreath of flowers, and Corry did a double-take. Her fur was long and faintly curly, white like a cliff faun’s, but her skin was the nut brown of a wood faun’s.

  Syrill grinned. “That woke you up!”

  “What is she?” Corry asked in a low voice.

  “A satyr—half wood faun, half cliff faun.”

  “Oh...” Corry had read a few oblique references to satyrs, and he gathered they were a cross between two different shelts.

  “Half-breeds can’t usually have children,” continued Syrill, “but they’re often beautiful. In fact, the unofficial ‘Guild of the Ladies’ is here in Port Ory. Families, especially old ones, frown upon mixed marriages for the obvious reason that such unions produce no fertile heirs. Most satyrs are illegitimate. This city is full of them, and the Guild of the Ladies attracts them. My home province is cliff-side, and I know a few from back then. If you like, I can introduce you this evening.”

  Corry was looking desperately for a change of subject. “Are there any nauns at this festival?”

  Syrill cocked his head. “Nauns?”

  “Yes—shelts without hooves or paws. I saw something last night that looked like...I don’t know what it looked like, but not like a faun and certainly not a wolfling. It had legs, so it wasn’t a cowry catcher.”

  Syrill looked curious. “Someone told me yesterday that we have alligator shelts at the festival this year. They don’t always come up for the festival. But when were you out last night?”

  Corry breathed a sigh of relief. Alligator shelts. Of course. Not a dragon. An alligator.

  He remembered now that he’d read about these shelts—”lizard riders,” the fauns called them. They lived in Kazar Swamp, technically citizens of the swamp faun nation, but the lizard riders were tribal and kept to themselves.

  “I got hungry and decided to get food from a street vendor,” Corry told Syrill. “I saw an alligator and its shelt swimming in the river. They startled me.”

  “Oh. Did you see anything else interesting?”

  “Well...” Corry thought about the lion and the leopard following Shyshax. He thought about Ounce and Capricia. No good talking about cats to Syrill, though. He’ll get angry, and I’m not sure there’s anything to get angry about. “I saw a faun and fauness painted blue and green.”

  Syrill laughed. “Yes, they do that sometimes. It’s the rutting season, you know.”

  Corry did not know and wasn’t sure he wanted Syrill’s explanation, so he kept quiet. As they rode to higher and higher street levels, Corry recognized the bridge ahead. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse over the western side. This morning the air was clear, and he could see the suggestion of a horizon far away.

  When they reached the bridge, Corry stopped near the outer edge and dismounted. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the drop. Syrill looked amused. “When you grow up in a cliff-side town, you get used to it.” He followed Corry’s gaze. “All that green and brown near the foot of the cliff is Kazar Swamp. It rises into savanna along that greenish, goldish area, and there...” he made a broad arc with his arm, “is the Anola Desert.”

  Corry stared at the sea of golden brown, stretching away and away to the horizon. Here and there tiny dots and ripples broke the desert’s monotony, but one point stood out above the rest. “Iron Mountain?” asked Corry. The dark spike reared like a tooth from the distant sand.

  “The largest centaur city. Incidentally, Targon, their new king is supposed to be present for the festival. It will be his first meeting with Shadock and Meuril.”

  “Are those mountains in the distance?” Corry squinted.

  “Yes, the Pendalon range. Pegasus and their shelts live in the Pendalons, but they haven’t sent representatives to the festival in the last few years on account of their war with the griffins and grishnards. Beyond the mountains is an ocean—a desert of water.

  “This bridge,” he continued as he turned away, “i
s a monument to cliff and wood faun alliance, erected less than a hundred years after the wizard wars.”

  Corry turned to the inner side of the bridge, overlooking the city. “What are those?” he asked, pointing to two dry shoots opening off the main river.

  “Those are the alternate falls. Every few years, the cliff fauns turn the river into those channels and repair the cliff which the water has chiseled away.”

  “And what’s the portcullis-looking-thing under the bridge?”

  “An emergency measure to stop large boats. I once saw a ship sucked into the falls. All the fauns got off in time, but they couldn’t save the ship. It broke apart and went down to Danda-lay in pieces. Little boats go over frequently—stupid kids playing betting games. There’s been a push for years to double the number of bars in order to save smaller boats, but it costs money that so far the city council has seen fit to spend on other things.”

  After an uncomfortable moment of staring into the churning water and wondering what it would be like to sail over the edge in a small boat, Corry got back on his doe. Syrill led them down through the other side of town until they came to a dry sluice that angled away from the river. A flight of steps took them to the bottom. They walked along the sluice, together with quite a few other travelers, until it turned into a tunnel. A round stone door stood open to the traffic. Two cliff faun guards stood beside it, flashing in their gilded breastplates. Corry recognized one of them.

  “Jubal!” exclaimed Syrill. “So they’ve put you on gate duty today?”

  Jubal smiled. Like Chance, he had golden curly hair falling to his shoulders. However, Corry could see no other resemblance. Although all cliff fauns had paler skin than wood fauns, Jubal could have been called dark beside Chance, and he had a natural, easy charm that could not be less like the stiff angry prince.

  Jubal put his hand on Syrill’s shoulder in greeting. “This year’s feast has drawn unusually large crowds. Can you believe all the shelts? And the cats! Maybe it’s just the rebound from the war years when we couldn’t have any cats.”

  Syrill snorted. “I suppose letting in the rabble does enlarge the crowd. A question of quantity over quality.”

  Jubal burst out laughing. “Forgive me! I forgot that I’m not supposed to say the word cat around General Syrill. A thousand pardons, your honor.”

  For all he appreciated the sentiment, Corry was surprised that Syrill didn’t fly into a rage. Instead, he almost chuckled. “Corellian, I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced to this troublemaker. Jubal is from my hometown. I remember him chasing Blix out of his bean sprouts before Blix grew his first set of antlers.”

  “I remember chasing you out of my little sister’s bedroom,” rejoined Jubal, “before you got your first—”

  “And then,” interrupted Syrill with a cough, “Jubal went to seek his fortune in the big cities and so did I.”

  Jubal shook his head at Syrill. He turned to Corry. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Corellian. I saw you at the Raider hanging fiasco, and of course I’ve heard of you. Welcome to Danda-lay.” He indicated the tunnel, and Corry and Syrill led their deer inside.

  The tunnel walls were polished so smooth that Corry thought water must have been the original architect. Lanterns lined the passage. Corry also noticed what looked like trapdoors in the walls. Instead of handles, a wooden paddle protruded from each. “What are those?”

  “Water gates,” answered Syrill. “If Danda-lay is ever attacked, the river is their ultimate protection. They can open the sluice gates to this channel and another on the opposite side of the Tiber-wan.” He pointed to the paddles. “These are designed to catch the pull of the river and open. They connect to underground portions of the Tiber-wan and would supplement the initial burst, making it very difficult for a would-be attacker to dam the river from above. Danda-lay is designed to withstand almost endless siege.”

  The passage had begun to wind and slope steeply downward. Corry began to hear, and also to feel, a dull rumble through the stone. The sound grew louder, until Syrill had to shout to be heard. Finally Corry saw a speck of daylight ahead. The row of lanterns ended. A fresh breeze mingled with a fine spray of water hit Corry in the face as he reached the threshold of the tunnel.

  Huge stone steps fell away at their feet, curving left. The sluice itself went on into an enormous pool. Above their heads, the waterfall plummeted into this reservoir, sending up a constant spray and thunder. Looking out towards the cliff’s edge, Corry saw the tallest buildings he’d yet encountered in Panamindorah—heaps of elaborately ordered masonry, homes built upon homes and carved from other homes, all agleam with polished rock and precious stones. To his right, stood what must be the palace—a series of even more elaborate buildings carved into the cliff face and curving in a half circle around the waterfall’s pool. A wide radius of smooth rock around the pool separated it and the palace area from the city and reminded Corry of a much grander version of Laven-lay’s parade ground.

  Syrill was shouting in his ear. “Danda-lay was originally built on a natural shelf of the cliff,” he bawled, “but as you can see, it’s outgrown itself. Some of it is inside the cliff now, and other parts have just piled up.”

  Corry nodded. Statues of fauns, cliff sheep, deer, cats, centaurs, and unrecognizable creatures crouched or reared from the walls and parapets. Gemstones glittered in their eyes. Everywhere he looked, Corry saw the purple flag of Danda-lay with its white flower. As they descended the steps, he noticed something else in the wide plaza between the pool and the entrance to the main street: a Monument. As they drew closer, Corry couldn’t help but stare at it. The enormous pair of wings gleamed golden, beaded with moisture from the falls. They can’t light it, of course, in the spray, but as he drew nearer, he saw that the wings shielded a flame on the city side, apparently fed by a supply of oil from the base of the statue.

  Syrill stopped beside the Monument. The wings towered fully thrice the height of Blix’s antlers. “It’s huge,” Corry said, now far enough from the falls to speak in a normal voice.

  “Largest in Panamindorah,” said Syrill. “Very old, too. The scholars claim that it predates the Wizard Wars, but it still has a part in the festival.”

  “Oh?”

  “They douse it with oil and light it on the final day,” said Syrill. “Very pretty. They say in ancient times, the prophet used to light the fire. Now the king does it.”

  “Prophet?” asked Corry. He’d never read about this.

  “Yes, the prophet of Panamindorah. In the time of Gabalon, they say the prophet went bad, and we haven’t had one since.”

  “So this ceremony predates Gabalon?” Corry was more attentive now.

  “Oh, yes,” said Syrill. “Very ancient, Lupricasia.”

  He glanced at Corry’s doe, who was fidgeting and rolling her eyes. “Forest-bred deer don’t like this city much. Perhaps we should put them in the palace gardens before going out.”

  “Our deer have quarters in the palace?” asked Corry in surprise.

  “As do we,” chuckled Syrill. “Where did you expect I’d stay? Shadock provides accommodations for all the royal officials.”

  The palace at Danda-lay made Laven-lay’s castle look like a glorified hill-fort. After they had left the deer in a small but beautiful garden, a servant led them through a maze of halls, chambers, and courtyards. The palace had been built up and built upon and enlarged and enhanced until it was practically a city unto itself. Washers, cooks, tailors, smiths, butlers, and maids came and went in a steady stream, carrying supplies and messages and talking loudly to each other with a general air of festivity. Corry was dazzled by one carved ceiling after another, some of them overlaid with gold and silver and mother of pearl. Plush draperies and intricately woven tapestries adorned room after room and hall after hall. Fine wool and goat-hair rugs covered the dressed stone floors. Statues lined many of the courtyards and council rooms. Some of them made Corry blush. Syrill noticed this and amused himself with
a running commentary.

  “And this statue depicts the fabled hero, Clarion the centaur, who took an enchantress to wife. She made love to him in the form of a—”

  “Syrill, I can see,” snapped Corry.

  “Not if you keep looking at the floor. I thought you were a shelt for the arts, Corellian.”

  “I’d rather visit the library,” he mumbled.

  Finally they left the busiest part of the castle and started up a tower stair. The servant stopped at a door on one landing. Corry caught the faint odors of sandalwood and cedar. “Your room, sir,” he said to Syrill. “We’ve supplied two beds as you requested. We’d house your guest separately, but accommodations are tight during the festival.”

  “I’m sure this will do,” said Syrill with a wave of his hand. The apartment was not nearly so flashy or large as the one in the Unsoos, but Corry suspected the pictures on the walls were priceless antiques, and the gold edging on the wash basin was probably not paint. A glance out a window told Corry that they were high in the air, a little to one side of the waterfall, allowing them a view over the roofs of the city to the far away desert.

  The servant cleared his voice. “Sir is wanted in Council this morning. King Meuril asked me to remind you.”

  “Oh.” Syrill frowned.

  “That’s alright.” Corry was still looking out the window. “Just point me towards the library.”

  “It’s confusing. You’ll need a guide.” Syrill tossed the servant a coin. “I’m not in yet.”

  The servant tossed it back. “King Meuril begs me to remind sir that he will have sir’s ears if he is not at the meeting.”