The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians (22 page)

Syrill watched him go. “Don’t let that grin
fool you. Any pegasus living on the cliff has seen black times.
It’s the mountains they dream of until their dying day, and this
cliff isn’t the same. He can’t ever go home.”

Corry stared into the black sky.
Like me.
Only his home is far distant, and mine is far past.
Then he
remembered something. “Syrill, what was the song about? The song
the little minstrel sang on the Sky Walk. Something that happened
in Kazar?”

Syrill laughed. “In Kazar, yes, but I don’t
know that it ever happened. The Unibus disappeared four hundred
years ago, probably got finished off by Ounce’s kin. The swamp
monster, now, he’s alive and well, if you believe all the old
faunesses cliffside.”

“Unibus,” repeated Corry. “Ah, yes, the
Unicorn Maid.” He had read about Unibus—unicorn shelts. They were
creatures of legend, said to know something of magic. The last
survivors had fled into the Snow Mountains, deep in Filinia in the
time of Gabalon. Corry had heard tales of sightings by snow
leopards, but never by fauns.
The Unibus would have been alive
in my time,
thought Corry
.

Syrill was still speaking. “Every time a
shelt or animal goes missing in Kazar, they blame it on their
monster—a monster made of quickslime and alligators most likely. No
one can agree on what he looks like. Some say he’s a shelt—a
wolfling or a lizard rider or even a cat shelt. Some say he’s a
wizard or an iteration. If he exists, he must be either very old or
very prolific, because mothers have been frightening their children
away from the swamp with his stories since my grandmother was a
babe. They say he keeps a pet cobra—a huge snake big as an
alligator.”

Syrill stood and stretched. “I suppose you’ll
want to see the library?”

“Yes!”

“In council, they mentioned a new book on
display. Some history that was found in a secret room. Everyone’s
in raptures because it has a drawing of Gabalon.”

Corry’s eyes widened. “By someone who
actually saw him?”

“Why else would scalars be slavering over it?
We’ve got hundreds of drawings of Gabalon!”

“But none by an eyewitnesses. Yes, I want to
see the book.”

* * * *

“It is wonderful, isn’t it?” burbled the
librarian. “Incredible condition for being so old.”

“Incredible.” Syrill leafed through the
small, brown volume. “Who is the author?”

“Someone named Archemais,” said the
Librarian. “He wrote his name both in the old pictographs and the
phonetic. We’ve no record of him in our archives, and some scholars
suspect the name is a pseudonym for the great travel-writer of the
high wizard period, Artanian Lasa. The author of this book claims
to have produced both the illustrations and the text—a feat few
shelts could have managed at that time. From his sparse use of the
phonetic and what we know of the pictographs, this book is a travel
guide to Selbis in the height of its power.”

“Impressive,” said Syrill in a voice the
clearly indicated it wasn’t.

Corry had to admit that the book did not look
like something to get excited over. It was about the height of his
hand, with a plain leather cover, similar to many other volumes in
the library. The pages were slightly yellow, written mostly in the
old picture language. He read some of the text to himself, but
found only a very technical discussion of Selbis in the time of
Gabalon—its economy, geography, law, sewer, prisons, courts, etc.
Corry wasn’t sure exactly what he had hoped to find, but this
wasn’t it.

The illustrations were not much better than
the text, just map after map of Selbis. Even the picture of Gabalon
was disappointing. It showed a man in loose trousers, shirt, boots,
and cape. He had flowing dark hair. One hand rested on the hilt of
a long sword, and a dagger hung in his belt. Corry studied the
picture minutely while the librarian babbled.
There’s nothing
familiar about it,
he decided at last.
He just looks like a
man. That could be me when I’m grown.

Syrill seemed to have the same thought. “I
suppose Gabalon didn’t sleep alone,” he muttered, glancing from
Corry to the picture. “Probably had all kinds of shelts in his bed.
You could be some great great grandson, Corellian. He looks kind of
like you.”

Corry snorted. “As easily as you could,
Syrill.”

“Nah, I’m not tall enough.”

Corry thought the library itself far more
interesting than the book. The complex of buildings were at least
ten times the size of Laven-lay’s library, full of the rich aromas
of leather and ink and illumination paints. Furtively, Corry slunk
away. He’d been rambling happily for an eighth watch when he
rounded a corner and came face to face with Laylan. His hat with
its long wolf tail looked oddly out of place in this establishment
of culture. “I’ve come to see this famous book,” he said. “Any idea
where I could find it?”

Corry grinned. “I’ll show you. Syrill is
probably ready for me to rescue him from the librarian.”

Syrill stood in the same place when Corry
returned, hunched over the pages. “Have you learned all the hidden
wisdom of Panamindorah yet?” whispered Corry.

“Getting there. I just noticed something
interesting. See anything familiar?”

Corry looked down and saw that they were back
to the drawing of Gabalon.

“No. Syrill, are you still trying to make him
my sire?”

Syrill smiled. “Seriously, Corellian. Look
closer.”

Corry obeyed, but he still didn’t see
anything new.

“That’s Gabalon?” Laylan was staring at the
drawing.

Syrill glanced at him. “You see it, too?”

Laylan bent close over the page. Corry
realized that he was holding his breath.

Syrill began to chuckle. “Nice, eh?
Fitting.”

Corry was lost. “What are you talking
about?”

Laylan looked at the librarian. “You’re sure
this is Gabalon? You’re positive?”

The scholar looked uncomfortable. “Well,
we’ve no documents to compare it with, but the author claims it was
drawn by an eyewitness, and his accounts match—”

Corry heard the sound of claws clicking
against stone and turned to see Shyshax come round a bookcase. He
sighed with relief when he saw the shelts. “Laylan, I’ve been
looking everywhere for you.”

Laylan’s attention remained on the book. “The
details, the weapons—the artist saw them too?”

“Laylan?” Shyshax nosed his leg.

“Yes,” said the librarian. “Funny you should
mention it. This book reveals an interesting story behind that
dagger he’s wearing. Supposedly, the gates of Glacia, the city of
the Unibus, where made of one solid pearl, and when Gabalon
attacked the city, he—”

“Laylan—”

“Not now, Shyshax!”

“—broke the gates and set some of the pieces
in the dagger. He took the blade and stone in the pommel from—”

“Laylan!” Shyshax jumped up impatiently,
“someone is trying to kill me!”

Laylan turned his full attention to his
mount. “Shy, I told you to stay out of the wine.”

The cheetah growled. “I’m not drunk! Twice
today strange things have happened. A stone came loose from a roof
and smashed into the street not five paces from me. Only moments
ago someone tried to push me off a bridge, and now I think someone
is following me.”

“He’s right,” said Corry suddenly. “About
being followed, I mean. Last night after you talked to me on the
bridge in Port Ory, Shyshax, I saw a lion and a leopard follow you
away. I thought then it looked odd.”

Laylan sighed. “The Filinians haven’t
forgiven you, I guess. I’ll talk to Meuril about it. You’d better
stay with me from now on.” He glanced at the picture one more time.
“I’ve got to go see Chance and tell him that—” He stopped, then
tapped the picture with his index finger. “That’s it.
That—is—it
!” Then he was running from the building, Shyshax
at his heals.

Corry looked at the picture again and at last
he saw what they were talking about. The large dagger Gabalon wore
at his hip was familiar.

“Unicorn gold,” sniffed the librarian, who
apparently resented being interrupted. “Legends say that the base
and core of a unicorn’s horn is made of gold that has peculiar
qualities, some of which survived in Gabalon’s dagger.”

Corry grinned. He had seen that stone
before—bathed in moonlight and nestled in black fur. “I remember
now, Syrill. It’s Fenrah’s dagger.”

* * * *

Chance stood by a window in his tower
chamber, watching the throngs of merrymakers. He used to enjoy
these festivals, but lately snickers followed him wherever he went.
Only a few moments ago, a street minstrel had dared to sing a
particularly insulting version of “The Prince’s Magical Gallows”
right in the royal plaza. The minstrel has been a wood faun and
likely didn’t know he was under the window of the prince in
question.

Chance had sat on his windowsill and
listened, and when he’d heard enough, he added a well-placed arrow
to the feather in the mistral’s cap. The crowd had ended laughing
at the mistral, who fled, leaving a puddle on the stone. Chance,
however, did not miss the looks they shot towards his window as
they dispersed.
They despise me,
he thought.
And now they
fear me. They laugh or they fear, but there is nothing in
between.

He thought of his father.
If the minstrels
were singing insulting songs about Barek or Martin or Galen, he’d
have it stopped. Someone would bleed for it. But for me…he probably
laughs along with the rest.

Bastard.
He might as well have the
name tattooed on his forehead. The older he got, the less he looked
like the other princes. His father had bastards aplenty. They
received honors and lands. Ah, but he was different. He was the
queen’s bastard, and that was shameful—the more so because everyone
pretended not to see it.

Chance clenched his fist. If only they would
open their eyes, they would see he was Shadock’s son. Everyone knew
that Jubal had favored the wolflings in the war. Chance had never
favored wolflings. He killed them at every opportunity, was jealous
for the pride of his city, but it did not matter. All the court saw
was his golden hair.

Chance put down his bow. If he hung onto it,
he knew he would shoot another minstrel and not through the cap
this time. He went into his study and picked up his violin. Now
there
was music. Why did the street minstrels have to sing
at all? Words only got in the way. He went back to the window and
started to play. Chance played for a long time, one melody after
another, played until he could not hear the festival outside or the
minstrels or the voices of the nobility.

Suddenly the door flew open. Chance whirled,
his hand dropping automatically to the sword he always wore.
“Laylan. You might try knocking.”

Laylan was panting. Somehow he’d put his hat
on backwards. The wolf tail hung in his eyes, which were glittering
with excitement. “Chance, I’ve found it. I know where the Raiders
are hiding!”

Chapter 12. A Rendezvous
Arranged

Certain events in history resemble a stone
dropped into a pool. The stone sinks into oblivion, yet the ripples
go on.

—Archemais,
A Wizard's History of
Panamindorah

“Some pages are missing.” Corry pointed to a
ragged edge along the gutter of the book.

“No, it’s in perfect condition. We examined—”
The librarian stopped. “Well…how odd.”

Syrill was looking, too. “Looks like someone
filched from your treasure.”

The librarian sputtered. “That…that is not—”
He stopped. “I
was
called away briefly—”

“By whom?”

“A lioness wanted access to our old Filinian
records.”

“Well,” Syrill patted the deflated scholar on
the back, “don’t worry. It will probably hit the black market and
turn up in some library in the wood within a year. When it does,
I’ll have it sent to you.”

“Do you remember what was on those pages?”
asked Corry.

The librarian frowned. “Only maps of
Selbis.”

On their way back towards the palace, Syrill
insisted they stop to participate in the ancient spring dances. In
order to provide more room for dancing in their crowded city, the
cliff fauns had built terraced platforms in the main plazas. The
highest of them rose several stories off the ground. The best
dancers performed at the top where all could watch their liquid
twists and turns, while the more awkward fauns danced on the lower
levels. Musicians sat everywhere and every which way, differing in
talent as much as the dancers.

Syrill went to the top level and soon forget
about Corry. After embarrassing himself sufficiently to be certain
that he was not going to remember how to dance, Corry found a place
along the edge of the top platform with other bystanders. He was on
a level with the third story of buildings, hardly more than a long
stride from the balcony of the nearest. Up here, Corry could see
far out into the crowded streets, over the rooftops and beyond
beneath the brilliant moons.
They’ll all be full tomorrow
night.
He was just making himself comfortable on the boards,
when he saw something that made him stand up again. On the balcony
walkway of the building opposite, a figure emerged from a door and
ran towards him. She was cloaked and hooded, so that it took him a
second to recognize Capricia. The fauness stopped directly across
from him. She was so close, he could smell her light perfume, made
pungent with sweat. Capricia glanced over her shoulder, then back
towards the dancers. Her eyes focused on him.

“Corellian?” she asked in a shouted
whisper.

“Yes, what’s wrong?”

“I’m in trouble.” Her glance took in the
shelts behind him, and Corry turned too, but no one was paying
attention to them.