Lexis seemed to read his thoughts. “Tip of my tongue. Don’t kick me, Syrill.” When he’d finished, he said, “If you’ve got something to tie it up with, that would help.” Syrill had little trouble finding a frayed corner of sleeve that would tear. When he’d tied the bandage, he lay down again, this time facing Lexis. He was trembling. He told himself it was the cold.
Lexis settled down at the base of the branch and stretched out a paw alongside Syrill. Syrill had an idea it was meant to be comforting, but it felt more like a threat. Lexis’s paws were weapons. He could push me off and say the dogs killed me. He wouldn’t have to lie much.
Syrill tried to count the dogs below and gave up. Their bodies made weird, shadowed shapes in the grass, and the faint reflections from their eyes winked like malevolent fireflies. He could be certain of only two things: there were many of them, and they were not leaving.
Lexis’s voice cut into his thoughts. “I have found,” he said, as though they had been carrying on a conversation all evening, “that shelts—and cats, too—tend to hate what they’re afraid of. I would like to avoid being hated, so tell me: how can I make you less afraid?”
Syrill laughed shakily. He tried to sit up. “I’m not—” He stopped. “I smell like it, don’t I?”
Lexis only looked at him. Syrill looked away. “There’s nothing you can do. My own shelts will hang me when we get back. What does it matter if you kill me out here?”
Lexis flexed his claws against the branch. “I don’t think you should assume—”
“That!” interrupted Syrill. “Don’t do it.”
Lexis looked at his paw. “Oh.”
“Claws. Seeing them makes fauns nervous—like a drawn sword.”
Lexis smiled. “I never thought about it.” He hesitated. “I promised you an explanation earlier—why I let you win the war. Do you want to hear it now?”
Syrill sat up straighter. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep tonight, not with the throbbing in his leg growing steadily more insistent. “Tell me.”
Chapter 18. Lexis Explains
Of all the beasts in Middle Panamindorah during Gabalon’s reign, only the cats retained their ability to speak. Many stories have been told to explain this. Fauns say the cats betrayed their shelts in exchange for the wizard’s favor. A wolfling myth says they bartered their souls. The cats, of course, have their own story.
—Capricia Sor, A Concise History of Panamindorah
“My father,” began Lexis, “had a proverb: Cats love only their mates and their masters.”
Syrill considered. “Where does that leave the king?”
“Loving very little.”
“His children?”
“Me?” Lexis flicked his tail. “He cared for me, cared for what would happen to the kingdom because of me. Love, though, is a luxury a Filinian king can ill-afford, particularly for his cubs, who must fight to the death. I never met him until I’d proven myself in the Field of Bones. I was half grown by then.
“The proverb was a lie, though. My father loved Ounce. He was comfortable with all his officers, but with Ounce, he was as easy as I ever saw him. They were both opportunists. Neither of them would have seen the point in stopping something that was working. To do anything else would have been dishonor, weakness, imperfection, and waste.”
Syrill heard himself say, “You mean it would have been waste not to start killing the wood fauns, since it seemed to be working so well with the wolflings?” Before Lexis could say anything, Syrill dropped his forehead against his knee and groaned. “Don’t answer that. My tongue operates independently of my brain when I’m in pain. Continue.”
To his relief, Lexis gave one of his little purring chuckles. “Only when you’re in pain?”
“Or drunk or angry...or awake. Continue.”
“My father did understand that the effort required to continue the war would eventually outweigh the advantages of conquest. In his final illness, he recalled me from the fighting for counsel. He said, ‘The fauns will never forgive me; there is no reason why they should. They will forgive you, however—more than that, they will thank you.’”
“For what?” asked Syrill.
“He said,” continued Lexis, “‘Ounce will never serve another master. He is dangerous, and you must kill him before the vultures have done with me.’”
Syrill grimaced. For once he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I told you the first part,” said Lexis, “so that you would understand the second. It is customary for a new Filinian king to replace his predecessor’s cabinet. Cats form their loyalties at a young age—powerful bonds, exclusive. They may be friendly with many, but they serve only one. Often, the old advisors are killed, but sometimes they are simply allowed to leave. Father mentioned Ounce specifically, so that I would not misunderstand. It was as though he said, ‘Kill all of them, even the one who is my dearest friend.’”
Syrill’s disgust registered in his voice. “Did you tell Ounce?”
Lexis gave a little huff. “Of course not. He already knew.”
“I will never understand cats,” said Syrill.
“No, but humor me for a moment and try. Or at least, try to understand my situation, because, frankly, my own people say I think more like a shelt.”
“Do they?”
“Yes, but we’ve already established you disagree. Now listen because, you’ll like what comes next. At least, it will justify your suspicions. Father not only told me to kill them; he gave me the weapon to do it—a weapon that would stop the faun wars and dispose of his old council in one stroke. He wanted to leave me a kingdom well-founded, at peace, and thoroughly under my paw. He would have, too, if I’d done what he suggested.”
Syrill’s voice dropped to a growl, “What weapon?”
“You know,” said Lexis softly.
Syrill sat up straight. “I knew it! I knew the cats killed Natalia! Demitri made it look like a wolfling attack so that Meuril wouldn’t lift the siege of Sardor-de-lor.”
“Correct. But Demitri had more in mind than cutting off the wolflings. He sent his own officers on that expedition. Purportedly, he did this both to ensure competence and to keep the secret entirely in-house. No subordinates were to know that we had orchestrated the killing. Both I and my brother were alive at the time and privy to some state secrets, but we were not told. Neither was I told when I won my right to live and rule. Demitri never told me what happened to the wood faun queen until that last private audience as he lay dying.”
Syrill was incredulous. “He wanted you to sacrifice his officers for peace?”
“Yes. Well, not just for peace; for stability. I was truly not responsible for the killing because I had known nothing of it. I was to denounce my father’s officers, let the fauns execute them, and thereby give Meuril the vengeance and answers that he craved. I could then appoint my own council. Demitri felt certain this would ensure for me a solid throne and peace on undisputed borders of a kingdom considerably larger than he had found it. He gave me the queen’s signet ring to prove my story to Meuril.”
Syrill could not help himself. “Your father was a monster.”
Lexis said nothing.
“You didn’t do it.”
“No. And if he were here, he would tell me I am now paying the price. His officers had guessed what I was to do with them. I thought the danger had passed, that they had accepted my acceptance of them, but apparently Liliana still felt threatened. Who could blame her?”
Syrill still couldn’t get his mind around the betrayal. “Your father didn’t really love Ounce or anyone else.”
“Ah, you are wrong. Ounce was his friend, perhaps his only friend. What’s more, Ounce knew my father’s plans for him long before I came of age. He knew his life would be measured by Demitri’s, and he accepted it.”
Syrill shook his head. “I don’t believe you.”
Lexis purred a laugh. “Which part?”
Syrill only shook his head.
&n
bsp; “You don’t understand cats, Syrill. We’re not evil, just...pragmatic. My father was wrong about some things.”
“About quite a few things!”
“Perhaps. For one, Ounce didn’t turn on me. I think he may even be looking for me.”
Syrill thought for a moment. “I can see you’ve tried to change the way your nation does business. You let both your cubs live. But you kept up the war in the wood for more than a year after Demitri died. You’re not going to defend that with some merciful excuse.”
Lexis’s voice took on an edge. “I don’t need to defend anything to you, Syrill.”
Syrill stiffened. “No,” he said after a moment, “you don’t.”
Lexis’s tone softened. “If you find yourself on a runaway cart, bounding down a steep slope, you can’t save yourself or the deer or the passengers by suddenly applying the brake. The cart will tip over, the deer will stumble, and everyone will die. I was born on a runaway cart. If I had used my father’s suggestion, I could have ended the war as soon as he died, but I wasn’t prepared to do that. I had to find another way to stop the cart without turning it over.
“I let you win in the end. I probably would have let it happen earlier except that you seemed bent on not only winning, but annihilating us. I didn’t trust you to even parlay without trying to kill me. I had to run away to Meuril in the middle of the night to arrange a surrender that wouldn’t cripple my nation.”
“What about the wolflings?” asked Syrill.
“The wolflings,” Lexis sighed. “That will leave a stain across cat/shelt relations for generations. I have no idea what to do about the wolflings.” He hesitated. “Any ideas, general? The wood fauns aren’t exactly innocent of wolfling blood, but the heaviest fault does lie with us.”
Syrill thought about the daily display of sad, thin bodies on the gibbet outside the gates of Laven-lay—outside the gates of most wood faun towns. It had always sickened him. He felt an affinity with the wolflings in his hatred of cats and his suspicions about Natalia’s death. But did I ever actually do anything about it?
Lexis’s voice dropped to a murmur. “I was at the fall of Sardor-de-lor. My father ordered that both I and my brother attend. I remember looking down and seeing my front legs bright red to the elbow. I’d only been walking through the streets.”
Lexis looked, unseeing, down at the winking eyes of the dogs. Syrill realized that he could distinguish the individual stripes on the cat’s face. The sky was lightening.
“I think—” began Lexis. “I think that’s when I decided.”
“Decided what?”
“To change things. At least, that’s the first time I can remember doing something strange. I was standing on a grating, looking at the...well, the killing; I can hardly call it fighting. We were near the wolfling palace. I was surrounded by my bodyguards. I glanced down and saw through the grating a drainage tunnel and, in the tunnel, two little wolflings. They were a girl and boy in rich clothes. The girl was very small, and the boy had her by the hand. She looked exhausted. I don’t think she ever saw me, but he did. He looked up just as I looked down, and we stared at each other. I knew I should say something to my bodyguard, but instead, I lay down on my belly and covered the grating. I suppose the wolflings ran past. A second later, I sat up, and they were gone. I remember feeling guilty about it later—guilty as one feels after a stolen treat. I knew it was wrong, but it tasted right.”
Syrill had always been quick to laugh and quick to cry. Whether it was the pain in his leg or the loss of blood or exhaustion or hunger or fear, he didn’t know, but he knew he didn’t want Lexis to see. He turned away, both legs dangling off the branch, and pretended to watch the dawn. A moment later, the paw against his back shifted and he felt a heavy weight. Looking down, he saw that Lexis had stretched out and laid his head across his lap. Syrill cursed softly. Lexis didn’t stir.
You’re doing it again—just like you did in the pit, working me around to the point where I’ll do whatever you think you need, spinning the truth into something you can put around my neck and lead me with. But he didn’t say it, because he didn’t trust his voice, and anyway, he didn’t quite believe it. Syrill leaned back on his arms and watched the sunrise.
A moment later, Lexis sat up so abruptly Syrill nearly lost his balance. He looked down and saw not a single dog. Instead, something shelt-shaped stood beneath their tree, peering up at them. Syrill heard a nearly sub-sonic noise like a cauldron coming to a boil. He took a moment to realize it was coming from Lexis. The cat opened his mouth and hissed. Syrill didn’t think he’d ever seen all of Lexis’s teeth at the same time.
“Are you—” began the stranger, but Lexis didn’t give him time to finish. He sprang from the tree like a bolt from a crossbow and would have made short work of the newcomer, had that person not moved with preternatural swiftness.
“I know what you are,” snarled Lexis. “You may deceive the eyes or an inexperienced nose, but you don’t deceive me.”
The stranger was backing away. “True. You know what I am, but not whom.”
“What is more than enough to make you worth killing.”
“A strange way to repay me for getting rid of the desert dogs.”
“I’ll take a dog over a snake any day,” spat Lexis.
“Your cubs would disagree,” said the stranger.
Lexis froze.
“They’re safe, and they’ve been looking for you. I thought you might like to see them.”
END BOOK II
Book III Fire and Flood
Chapter 1. Skeletons in the Closet
The question is not whether we will find our answers, but whether we want to.
—Kenslo, king’s annals
Amid the long shadows of Archemais’s library, Corellian lay awake. He could hear the soft snores of his companions, and the supper they’d eaten sat warm and pleasant in his belly. The banked fire gave off a soft glow. He was tired.
But he could not sleep. It wasn’t the strange mixture of serpent’s den and scholarly residence they’d found behind the locked door. It wasn’t the enormous snake skin lying in one of the rooms—its eye-covers large as teacups. It wasn’t the dead alligator hanging in the cool cellar. What was keeping Corry awake was the other locked door—the one that led presumably to Archemais’s bedchamber. That, and the Earth items he’d found lying about the house.
Corry had a terrible suspicion. He wasn’t sure when he’d allowed himself to examine it, but he knew it had been there for quite a while, locked behind its own door. Images tumbled through his head—bits of lost memories tangling with the events of the past four days—the picture of Gabalon from the book in Danda-lay, Archemais’s green eyes, Dance in a dungeon, a tunic and trousers laid out beside the bathing pool—a little small, but they fit.
Corry got up and went softly to the door that led into the rest of Archemais’s house. He stepped into the hall beyond, shut the door, and flipped on the electric lights. He went past the door to the cellar steps, past the kitchen, and there was the door to the bedroom.
Corry thought for a moment. He’d never been taught how to pick a lock, though he thought he understood the rudiments. He went to the kitchen and searched until he found some kind of skewer. He returned to the door, but soon gave up. Nothing inside the lock felt like a tumbler. In fact, it doesn’t even feel like a lock. Corry stopped. He looked at the lock for a long moment. It was molded metal, with embellished shapes of leaves and fruit. Finally, he reached out, gripped it with his whole hand, and tried to swivel. The lock turned. It rotated around the axis of the keyhole—the false keyhole—and Corry saw behind it the real keyhole—flush with the wood. He took out the key to the main door. It fit.
* * * *
Tolomy couldn’t sleep either, but his keen ears detected Corellian’s uneven breathing, and Tolomy didn’t feel like speaking with anyone. Finally, the iteration got up and went further into the house. Tolomy rose at once and glided out the door that led to the bat
hing passage, through the tunnel, and into the frosty night. He moved through a fallow vegetable garden and poked about under a likely-looking hedge, but the wildlife seemed in short supply. No surprise there, considering what lives here. He did, at last, find a mouse, with which he amused himself for the better part of a half watch.
Then he went to the stream and had a long drink. When he raised his head, the iteration was standing not ten paces away. The cursed thing moves like a cat.
Corry sat down on the riverbank. Tolomy wondered if he could still slink away without being seen. Then Corry spoke. “It must be difficult—to have Demitri’s soul and Lexis’s conscience.”
Tolomy would later give himself some credit for not flinching. He would also, in later analysis, surmise that his utter stillness was a kind of flinch. For a moment, he couldn’t even breathe. “How did you—?”
“I saw the expression on your face after you killed those dogs...and the fauns.”
Tolomy’s mind raced. His eyes darted to Corry and then away.
Corry lay back on the grass and put his hands behind his head. “You were enjoying it. The only thing you’re really afraid of is yourself.”
Tolomy found his voice. “That’s not true.”
“Oh?” Corry glanced at him. Tolomy saw the eyes, almost as green as his own under the black shadow of hair. “I knew something about you didn’t make sense, but until that moment, I didn’t know what. You’re always watching yourself. Everything you do, every calculated action, is a lie. I suppose when your family hunts, you miss your kills on purpose.”
“You,” sputtered Tolomy, “know nothing about me.”
“That makes two of us.”
The cub jumped to his feet. “I know what I am! I behave the way I do for good reasons.” He wanted to stop, but the words came crawling out of his throat like wasps from a broken nest. “My first memory is of a kill. Some little creature that had gotten into our nursery. I remember how it squirmed, the crunch of its bones, the warm blood in my mouth, and it was pure pleasure, even then. I snuck away to hunt long before they began training us, but you’re right: I do miss my kills when I’m around other cats, because I don’t want them to know—” He bit down the words. Why am I even talking to him?
The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 36
