The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 6

  He landed with a soft thump and turned towards the sound of a growl. A wolf and a wolfling child were standing a few feet away. The wolf was black and enormous. This has to be Dance. Corry’s forehead came only as high as his shoulder. The child stood only about half as tall as Corry. The wolfling did not give an instant alarm as Corry expected, but stood staring at him. Wild black hair hung thick to the child’s shoulders. He had a thin, pointed nose and enormous black eyes.

  Somewhere voices had begun to shout. There was a sound of running feet in the dry leaves. The small wolfling broke from Corry’s gaze and darted away.

  The black wolf began to growl. Eyes of yellow gold stared from a face of such obvious intelligence that for a full half minute Corry expected the animal to speak. At last, the wolf leaned forward, sniffing. Corry felt that his heart would break through his ribs. Running is useless, he told himself over and over. Best to stay still.

  Corry felt certain that Dance understood that he was an escaped prisoner. He expected the wolf to roar or howl at any moment. Dance, however, remained oddly calm. Slowly the snarl died in his throat. His lips lowered so that Corry could no longer see his teeth. His ears came up. Then, to Corry’s utter astonishment he whined, and his tail waved slowly behind him.

  And the world sank away.

  Shadows. Stairs. Dark, dripping tunnels. Fear. A dungeon vault, and a hulking shape. Yellow gold eyes.

  “What are you doing here, cub? Come closer. Let me smell you. Creator bless you, you smell of earth and stars and wind. No, don’t speak. You smell of freedom. Be still and let me taste that air one last time. You can’t free me. Brave cub, but this was foolishly done.”

  An argument in whispers. The feel of fur through bars. “There must be a way. We need you, Telsar.”

  Corry bit back a cry. The vivid images in his head washed around and collided with the reality of the dawn wood. He stared into the yellow eyes of the black wolf. “Telsar?”

  The wolf whined. Then he turned and bounded away, leaving a trembling Corry in the confusion of his half-remembered past. He knows me! How can that be?

  Someone was shouting. Corry fled. He ran blindly, hardly caring where he went. He stopped when he saw Syrill. He’d caught the wolfling child. The others must have been just behind, for they appeared suddenly out of the trees, down the trunks, from swinging ropes.

  “Stop!” growled Syrill, pressing the knife against the throat of the struggling wolfling.

  Fenrah slid to a halt. Behind her Corry saw Sham, Sevn, Danzel, and Xerous. “If you come any closer, I’ll kill him,” said Syrill. “I’m sure you can understand hostage situations.”

  Sham’s lips tightened. “If you make any scratches on that pup, I’ll patch them with your pelt!”

  Fenrah raised her hand for silence. “What do you want, Syrill?”

  “The key.”

  “Alright.” Her tail rose behind her back and twitched to the left. Out of the corner of his eye, Corry saw Talis and Lyli moving through the trees to get behind Syrill. “But tell me, General, what will you do when you get it? We can easily recapture you on foot in the forest. We may kill you. If you stop right now, I’ll forget this ever happened. If not, Meuril may lose a valiant officer, and I will feel much regret at having helped Lexis—”

  “Give me the key,” snapped Syrill.

  Fenrah reached into a pouch at her belt, then extended both hands, one with the key, the other reaching for the young wolfling. “Let him go,” she murmured. “Come, Huali.”

  The youngster waited with an almost feline, emotionless attention. Corry realized that during the whole episode he hadn’t made a sound, though he had bitten Syrill on the arm.

  Syrill’s grip on the wolfling loosened, and he held out his hand. Corry flinched as he watched Lyli draw her sword behind him. They’ll kill him before he takes five steps. I’ve got to do something.

  Without giving himself time to think, Corry leapt from behind the tree, yelled wildly, and ran. Xerous caught him in a matter of seconds, spinning Corry to the ground and pinning him with his sword. He could tell that Xerous would have dearly loved to kill him, but he deferred to Sham several yards away, who shook his head.

  Meanwhile Syrill and Fenrah were throwing up a shower of leaves. Corry realized that his diversion must have given Syrill a chance to try for a better hostage. Lyli, Danzel, and Sevn circled them with drawn swords, awaiting an opportunity. Suddenly a huge black shape shot from the trees. Dance caught Syrill and tossed him in the air to land with a grunt on his back. The dazed faun tried to rise, but the wolf was already standing over him, looking to his mistress for permission to kill.

  Chapter 9. Shift

  It is on this day of all days that I feel in need of counsel, and I have none. My father has never been interested in the old books, and he would count all my work in that direction as folly. I need an ally. I am utterly alone.

  —diary of Capricia Sor, Summer, 1700

  Fenrah got to her feet behind Dance. “Sevn, do you have rope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang him. Do it quickly.”

  “Fenrah!” came Xerous’s deep growl, and Lyli cleared her throat behind him. Corry thought at first that they were going to argue in Syrill’s defense, but the way Lyli gripped the handle of her skinning knife made him think otherwise. “You said—!”

  Fenrah glanced at them wearily. “Why torture him? Do you really think it will make any difference? I did not plan for this. It has gone far enough.”

  Behind her, Sevn was knotting a hangman’s noose, while Sham advanced on Syrill with drawn sword. Syrill could not rise with Dance bristling over him. He still gripped the little hoof knife in one hand, knuckles white around the key in the other.

  Do something!

  Just then, distant, but distinct in the crisp morning air came the sound of horns. “Xerous, get back up there and break camp!” barked Fenrah. “Danzel, Huali, help him. Dance, go assemble the pack. Sham, Sevn, I want that key in my hand and that faun on a rope. Lyli, finish that one.” She jerked her head towards Corry.

  He felt a rush of air beside him as Xerous sprinted away. He saw Sevn toss the noose around Syrill’s neck without bothering to get the knife away from him. Dimly Corry was aware of Lyli uncoiling beside him, drawing back with her sword to kill him in one stroke.

  Corry drew in breath, but something seemed to have happened to his lungs. Long after they should have reached capacity, he kept drawing air, filling and filling. The world blurred. He could see each of the shelts around him only as a red silhouette, more orange in the limbs and brightest red in the torso and head. Corry gulped, and a dizzying array of taste-smells flooded his brain. He seemed to have gained height. Lyli was standing below him, but he had difficulty distinguishing her sword until she moved it. Everyone had gone very still, and he wondered whether he had just died. Then someone screamed. There were shouts. The noises came to him like sounds underwater.

  Lyli seemed to be running from him. Sham and Sevn were backing away. Fenrah held her ground a moment. Then he heard her breath one word. “Arrows!” All the wolflings turned and ran.

  Next moment the world slid back into focus. Corry stood with his hand clutching his chest. “What happened?” he gasped.

  Syrill was grinning at him. “Why did you wait so long?”

  He was running now, and Corry had to sprint to keep up. “That horn was my soldiers looking for us. With any luck, they’ll find us before the Raiders do. Make some noise.” He began to shout, occasionally whistling between his fingers.

  Very shortly, this sound was answered by a bugle-like snort. Corry nearly stumbled, but Syrill laughed aloud and whistled again. Corry heard hoof beats, and then Syrill’s stag bounded into view. Seconds later, they were on his back.

  “What did you become?” asked Syrill as they bounded away. “I know you shifted, saw the blur as I turned, but at the moment I was afraid to take my eyes off Sevn.”

  “Do you mean I changed shape?”

/>   “Yes. Was it an accident? Panicked, did you?”

  “I suppose. I don’t really know how I did it. You didn’t see me?”

  “No.” Syrill sounded disappointed. “You still don’t know what shelt blood you carry?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Syrill didn’t seem to hear him. “Well, you’re no faun-blood. They’d never run from a deer. From their expressions, you’d think they’d seen a monster.”

  “If I had faun blood, I would have shifted to a deer?” asked Corry.

  “Yes, of course,” muttered Syrill, thinking. “Perhaps a bear? A very large one? No, I still can’t imagine her fleeing that way from a bear. Perhaps a...” He licked his lips in disgust. “A cat. They say an iteration lives a long life. Still, I’d have thought you too young, even for an iteration. Cat shelts were gone before my grandparents’ time.”

  Corry sat silent while Syrill discussed his possible lineage. “Syrill?” he interrupted.

  “Hmm?”

  “I saved your life back there, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I helped you get the key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do me the kindness of not telling anyone that I shifted.”

  “Ah. Corry, it is not necessarily a mark of dishonor to have a wizard’s talents. It’s only distrusted, because wizards mistreated shelts in the past.”

  “Until shelts killed them all?” asked Corry sarcastically.

  “I think they mostly killed each other.”

  “Whatever. Wood fauns won’t trust me if they know I can shift. The less like a wizard I seem, the better I’ll get on here. Syrill, if I’ve been any help to you, do this for me.”

  Syrill inclined his head. “I will not disclose your talents without your permission. However, you should consider the possibilities. As you’ve just seen, the ability to shift could be very useful. I would not be at all opposed to having an iteration in my army...even if your true form is a cat. Yes, come to think of it, that might be most useful of all.”

  Corry laughed. “Are you inviting me to become what you accused me of being: a spy?”

  “They’re only bad when they’re on the other side!” quipped Syrill. “Laylan has done some work for me. His cheetah’s tracks don’t attract attention from enemy scouts. The pay is excellent. Of course, there are drawbacks. If you think the Raiders are fierce, then the cats may give you a green turn. We got a prisoner back last red month whom they’d tortured. He died yesterday. The cats had licked all the skin off one arm.”

  * * * *

  Capricia Sor watched the sunrise from the window of her study, high in the tower where she’d taken Corry two days ago. A plate of breakfast sat untouched on a tray beside her. The pot of tea on her desk had received more attention. She’d drunk all of it and had not slept. Words and phrases ran together in her mind—the scholarly commentaries, so scant and confusing, the partial interpretations of the ancient language, her own notes from interviews with a few very old cliff fauns, the last to have spoken with anyone who knew the old writing.

  The princess was deeply troubled. “Corellian...” She rolled the name around on her tongue. “Yes, it is possible. I thought the pronunciation different, but it is possible.”

  Boom! A servant banged open the door without knocking. Capricia turned with an angry reprimand, but stopped when she saw the excitement on his face.

  “They’re back!” exclaimed the servant and then remembered to bow. “Syrill has returned safely, your highness, along with your iteration friend, Corellian. All Laven-lay is talking about him. Syrill reports that he could not have escaped without Corellian’s help, and they have rescued the master trap key from Raider hands! They will enter the castle in a moment. Your father wants to greet them himself.”

  Capricia frowned as the messenger scampered away. How will I ever get rid of him now?

  * * * *

  Corry felt giddy during the parade through Laven-lay. The whole city seemed to be attending their progress up the street. He wished Syrill would hurry inside out of the press, but Syrill was preening and kept his stag’s pace to a stately walk. They dismounted on the steps of the castle and entered the antechamber, carried along by the throng, only escaping when a cry of, “Make way for the King!” forced the crowd apart. Corry saw Meuril in the entrance to the throne room, beckoning them nearer.

  Syrill strode forward, and Corry followed more hesitantly. “My dear general,” said the King, “my nation’s debt to you grows ever larger.”

  Syrill bowed. “I did no more than my duty, Sire.”

  “And you,” Meuril turned to Corry, “your reception into my realm makes this act even greater. If I am to believe my general’s message, he and the key would not be here but for you.”

  Meuril turned to the throng. “Friends, we have averted disaster because of this young iteration. Who among you would be so prejudiced as to deny him citizenship?”

  A chorus of approving cheers erupted, and Meuril smiled. “Corry, you are hereby granted citizenship of Laven-lay and all the rights of trading, traveling, and protection it affords. To ensure that all shelts honor my decision I am entrusting you with a ring bearing the sign of my own house. Wear it, and you are one of us.”

  As Corry took the bit of gold from Meuril, he caught sight of two scowling brown eyes amid the smiles. Capricia.

  “Do you want to get out of this?” Syrill bellowed over the noise. Corry nodded and followed him as he edged his way to one of the small side doors leading off of the antechamber. Syrill shut it, and the sound diminished instantly. “How does it feel to be a hero?”

  “Safer,” said Corry, thinking of Capricia.

  Syrill gave him an odd look.

  “I mean,” Corry improvised, “now I don’t have to worry about fauns torturing me.”

  Syrill grinned. “You had to turn the blade one more time, didn’t you? Well, that won’t happen again, Corellian of Laven-lay.”

  Corry glanced at the circlet of gold. On one side it bore the leaf and buck’s head of Laven-lay, on the other side the image of a diving falcon. “The insignia of the House of Sor,” explained Syrill. “That’s Meuril’s personal sign. He’d never have given it to a faun, but prejudice against iterations is so strong, I suppose he thought it was the only way to ensure your safety.”

  They were in the garden now, moving beneath the living archways of flowering vines. Corry tried to put the ring on, but found it too large to stay on his finger.

  Syrill chuckled. “You’ll have to have it fitted by a goldsmith.”

  They walked for a moment in silence. “What’s your deer’s name, Syrill?”

  “Blix.” Corry could hear the pride in his voice. “I raised him.”

  “He’s magnificent.” Corry hesitated. “What will happen to the wolflings now?”

  Syrill glanced at him curiously. “Nothing, I suppose.”

  “But won’t the fauns—”

  Syrill snorted. “We’re speaking of Fenrah’s Raiders, not common thieves. Of course my soldiers will try to find them, but I’m sure they’ll fail. The Raiders’ mobility is their most peculiar talent.”

  “But they must have gone somewhere.”

  Syrill shrugged. “The Raiders are very mobile. Some say they have no den. Others say it’s impossible to operate so efficiently, to stash plunder so well, and to disappear so completely without a permanent den.”

  Corry looked thoughtful. If the Raiders were involved with Capricia’s finding the flute, perhaps their den holds more clues about my past. “I suppose everyone has searched thoroughly?”

  Syrill laughed. “Of course! If the Raiders have a home, they can be trapped...along with the mountain of treasure they have supposedly accumulated. If they have a home—”

  “They do.”

  Faun and boy turned together. In the path behind them stood a shelt who had come up without sound of footfalls. This has to be Laylan, thought Corry. The bounty hunter had red-furred l
egs and black canine paws. His bushy, white-tipped tail hung a full foot below the hem of his brown leather tunic. He had red hair the color of his fur, pulled back in a loose ponytail that was oddly reminiscent of his real tail. A black, wide-brimmed hat threw a shadow across his face. From the place where other hats might have carried a feather, dangled a limp wolf tail.

  “They have a den,” he said.

  Syrill grinned. “Laylan! This is Corellian, the iteration who helped save your key.”

  Laylan’s eyebrows rose. “You have saved me a great deal of trouble. Thank you.” He turned to Syrill. “I have news about Lexis’ movements that may interest you.”

  “Certainly. Good day, Corellian.”

  Corry watched them walk away—Syrill with his swinging gait and Laylan on gliding paws that never crunched a leaf.

  Chapter 10. The Agreement

  A promise is always a shackle. Made well, it will anchor you to life and reason. Made poorly, it will be to you a ball and chain.

  —Archemais, Treason and Truth

  Corry soon learned that Meuril had assigned him a suite of rooms in the castle. While he was exploring them, a servant arrived to return his backpack. Corry had not seen it since Syrill confiscated his possessions in the wood. Grinning, he brought out the orange cowry.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Corry turned to see Capricia in the doorway.

  “I brought it from Earth. It’s money, isn’t it? You use them for money here.”

  Capricia’s mouth twisted. “We...used to.”

  “Ah. What do you use now?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Corry sat down at a little table. “Aren’t you happy that I helped save the master trap key, Capricia? Or would you rather the Raiders have killed me?”