The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (7 page)

Syrill tossed his head. “How much? Come,
Fenrah, let me pay it myself and be done. The cowries will be at
whatever place you specify before Meuril would have time to call a
meeting.”

Fenrah’s dark eyes dropped. “What makes you
think I’m asking for cowries?”

“Oh? What’s your price, then? Filinian pelts?
I have those, too.”

She shook her head. “I’ve only asked one
thing of Laven-lay, ever: no more bounty laws.”

Syrill was silent a moment. “I see you want
to kill me after all.”

Fenrah shook her head. “Meuril is fond of
you—”

“Fenrah, he won’t do it.”

“He may if you ask. I have a pen there, and
parchment. Write him. I’ve never made a faun die the sort of death
you keep for us. But if this will produce better results, so be
it.”

Syrill stood very still. Finally, he said,
“Surely you realize that in my profession, one must have the
respect of one’s fellows. How will it be if the common shelts say,
‘Syrill begged for his life, and so now we must live with bandits
and murderers?’ No, Fenrah. Meuril can make his decision on the
strength of your own arguments. I’ll not cloud his judgment with
pleading.”

She sighed. “Canids are not all bandits and
murderers. I understand you work well enough with Laylan.”

Syrill shrugged. “I was referring to the
common shelts. What I think is another matter.”

Fenrah stepped suddenly close to him. Corry
caught the scent of leather oil on her clothes and the lingering
odor of wood smoke. “General,” she half whispered, “I am not your
enemy, and you are not mine. Help me in this.”

Syrill shook his head. “I can’t. I would if I
could.”

Fenrah sighed and stepped away. “It’s not
cowries we want. We’ll take them if that gets Laven-lay’s
attention, but we’re not highway bandits. To ask for your ransom in
cowries would undermine the message I have been trying to send. I
did not invite this hostage situation. This is the best I can think
to deal with it.”

She turned away, and Corry thought that she
had finished. Fenrah, however, had only gone to retrieve something
from the block of wood. “Recognize this, General?”

Syrill leapt forward. Xerous seized him with
both hands, lifting him a little in the air.

Fenrah was laughing. “I’ll take that as a
‘yes.’” She nodded to Xerous and Talis. “Take them away.” The
object she held was a silver key.

Chapter
8.
Trouble for a Key

The average Filinian has a personal
investment in battle which no faun leader can impart to his own
soldiers. Deep in shelt territory, a thousand cats would be hard
pressed to find enough game to feed even half their number. They
must fight, for they must eat.

—Capricia Sor,
A Prelude to War

“You can sit here in natural silence or you
can lie here unconscious,” said Xerous. “You choose.” He let Corry
and Syrill drop to the ground. Their legs had been re-tied. Xerous
sat down on the opposite side of the deck with his back against a
tree trunk. He propped his hands behind his head and watched
Runner’s yellow sickle winking across the trees.
The wolflings
take their monthly calendar from Runner, which has a cycle of about
fifteen days—a “yellow month.”
Corry shook his head.
Why do
I remember such a useless thing?

High in the sky, Dragon was as full as ever.
Corry thought perhaps the fauns used it for their months, but he
wasn’t sure. He remembered that a red month was about sixty days.
He also remembered the color of the third moon.
Blue moon, and
it’s cycle is inconsistent. Shelts call it Wanderer.

“Wake up!” Corry’s eye snapped open. Dew lay
moist on his skin. Runner had set, and Dragon was well down the
sky. Something kicked him in the ribs. “Iteration! Wake up!”

“I’m awake,” grunted Corry, scooting away
from Syrill’s sharp little hooves.

“They’re changing guards; Sevn had to be
looked for. Hurry! We haven’t much time!”

“Time for what?”

“My hooves,” said Syrill impatiently.
“There’s a horn shoe—very thin, and a small blade inside—Laylan’s
idea, very practical.”

“Knife?” Corry blinked at him. “You had a
knife all the time?”

“Couldn’t get to it,” growled Syrill,
“Anyway, I
had
to know whether she had the key.”

Corry was already fumbling at Syrill’s
hooves—awkwardly, because his hands were tied behind. He found the
shoe, secured with tiny nails. It had two pieces for each side of
the split hoof. On the inside outer edge of each shoe, Corry found
the slender strip of sharp metal. He worked one lose and began to
saw at the ropes on Syrill’s wrists. “Why is the key
important?”

“It’s Laylan’s master trap key. It was the
whole point of the raid. They wanted Meuril’s copy. They probably
didn’t even know I had one. Hurry!”

“Laylan’s traps are keyed?”

“Yes. Only four copies exist. Chance and
Meuril each have one, and Laylan has the original. Recently he
entrusted one to me, because my soldiers have gotten caught in
them, and I wanted to try the traps on Filinians.” Syrill’s hands
were free. He wrenched the other shoe off and started working on
his feet.

“Can’t Laylan change his locks?” asked
Corry.

“Yes, but it would probably take a yellow
month. Wolflings could do a lot of damage in that time. Besides,
I
am responsible for the key.”

Corry saw the real issue then. “Syrill,
surely Laylan doesn’t expect you to keep it at the expense of your
life.”

Syrill kicked free of the last of his ropes.
He knelt behind Corry and expertly sliced through the remaining
strands. Then he spun him around and hacked through the knots at
his feet. “You,” he panted, “can run as you please.” He glanced up,
a glint of scorn in his eyes. “No one would expect anything else of
an iteration.”

Corry sat up straight. For just a moment, the
world blurred, and his color-sense flamed—the dead reek of the
darkness, the intoxicating wine of Dragon moon, the velvety
richness of the leaves—then everything slid back into focus. Syrill
was looking at him oddly—contempt giving way to uncertainty, almost
fear. “What did you just do?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What did it look like?”

“I—”

Creeeak!

Corry felt the wood tremble as Lyli trotted
out of the darkness. She gave a cry of alarm that broke off as
Syrill slammed into her. She struggled to bring her sword into
play, but Syrill had closed too quickly, and the two staggered back
onto the narrow catwalk.

Corry heard a yelp of pain. Syrill was around
her and gone. Lyli was holding her shoulder, and Corry realized
that Syrill must have sliced her with his hoof-knife. She turned
with a snarl to slash at Corry with her sword. He lunged backward,
felt the blade cleave the air near his belly, lost his balance, and
toppled off the catwalk.

Leaves and branches slapped him as he fell.
Something was constricting his arms and legs, choking him. Corry
reached out blindly to stop the strangling. Ropes, a pulley?

He halted, dangling. He’d just managed to
keep himself from being hung.
This must be Sevn’s device—that
chair I came up in.
Corry risked a downward glance and was
relieved to see the forest floor not three feet below, faintly
visible in the predawn.

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. They
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 still 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.