“And why should I tell you?”
“You seem interested in surviving.”
“You’ve already given your word not to kill me.”
Archemais laughed. “I’m about to leave for Laven-lay, General. What do you think these fealidae will do with you once I’m gone? How bound do you suppose they’ll feel by my promise?”
A pause. “So what are you offering me?”
“I’ll see that you survive. I’ll see that you’re not left in the hands of anyone who will harm you, and I’ll speak for you when this is over and council comes to pass sentence.”
Another pause. Archemais spoke again, “You didn’t agree with the zool about any of this. You wouldn’t even be talking to me if you had. You’d never have surrendered so quickly. You knew the whole thing was a mistake from the beginning. Help us clean it up.”
“I won’t help you do anything.”
“Then at least help yourself.”
“My weaponless soldiers are being killed by fealidae,” snarled Rquar, his fist coming down on the table.
“Ah.”
“Put them somewhere safe with faun guards.”
“Alright.”
“Now.”
“No, first you tell me what I need to know. Then I will arrange it. You have my word.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s all you’re going to get. Do we have a deal or not?”
A long pause. “Daren was sent to Selbis,” said Rquar. “He was told to begin repairs on the city’s defenses.”
“You thought this peculiar?” prompted Archemais.
“I thought it mad,” growled Rquar. “The city is a ruin, a place for an ambush or perhaps a desperate stand, but the centaur wanted to hold it as some kind of...I don’t know. I wasn’t privy to all the discussions.”
“This centaur—how long have you known him?”
“I don’t.”
“How long has the court known him, then? When did he start attending upon your mistress?”
“Why don’t you ask her that?”
“She’s dead.”
Another pause. “He began coming a few years ago, before he became their new king. He killed the old king, but everybody knows that. They’re barbaric, half beasts. They—”
“I’m not interested in centaurs, just Targon.”
“He’s like the rest of them—gaudy, brash, illiterate, loves to watch things bleed.”
“And he’s well-known among the centaurs?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did he grow up on Iron Mountain?”
“I think so. Yes, I remember he used to come with a cadre of young stallions from the city, all of them bragging about how far they could run across the desert without water—as though frying one’s brains were something to celebrate.”
“Did he have any close friends? Lovers? Relatives?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Are you sure, Rquar?”
The swamp faun thought a moment. “There was one stallion about his age who was almost always with him—Mercurion. I believe he’s his second now.”
“Did Targon change at all recently? Think hard, Rquar. This is important.”
“He stopped bringing all the others. And I seem to remember that he got better taste in clothes—which is to say, he started wearing them.”
“Can you remember whether there were any physical changes?”
“Not that I saw. You think he’s a wizard, don’t you?”
Archemais didn’t answer. “He jumped,” he said to himself. “He actually jumped.”
“Which one is he?” Rquar waved the book he’d been reading. “You say here there were eight wizards who survived.” Corry saw with a guilty start that it was the old volume found in Danda-lay before all the trouble started. He remembered then where he’d heard his father’s name before—he was the author of the book.
Archemais glanced at it. “Tavaris hasn’t been keeping track of my things, I see.”
“Which one?” repeated Rquar.
“Well, they all disappeared when the city fell.”
“But—?”
“But only Gabalon could have jumped.” He stood. “I’ll give you what you asked for. This interview is over.”
* * * *
The walls remembered him. Gabalon saw it as soon as he came into the city. They were scarred and burned, but he’d put his own blood into those red stones, and they still sang true. His castle, too, remembered. Some of the rooms echoed yet in his mirrors, and he brought them out, piece by piece, at night when no one was watching.
His centaurs worked feverishly with plaster and ax and hammer, although he could tell that Mercurion, at least, had finally decided he was mad. Gabalon would like to kill that one, but Targon protested, and his protests were still enough—barely enough—to be dangerous.
Gabalon was mildly surprised not to find Daren and his swamp fauns in the city. They were supposed to have begun the work. Instead, they seemed to have camped briefly and then left. Almost, he wondered if one of his old disciples had made mischief for them. He checked all the likely haunts, but found nothing. My wizards are long gone, he decided, fled to distant parts of Panamindorah. When they hear of my return, they will come.
He was displeased to find his inner castle wall ringed with traps and deadfalls. Two centaurs died and one was badly wounded before he could remedy the problem. He found evidence that wolflings had been using his castle. A door to the Otherwhere had disappeared, and his dagger was no longer in its hiding place. He found the remains of cooking fires and tidy stashes of food, clothing, and weapons. The intruders, however, were nowhere to be found, and he did not give them much thought after removing their snares.
His centaurs grew daily more amazed at their own progress, congratulating themselves as guard towers sprouted again like spiky mushrooms from the walls. Gabalon visited the work sites in between the crews. He put his hands to the stones and sang softly. It was not as good as the Muse, but this was his own work, and it answered him. Daily, nightly, bit by bit, the city straightened, righted, healed itself. Selbis was waking up.
Chapter 9. Jump
Let us not forget that while we are planning to surprise our enemy, he may be planning the same.
—Archemais, A Wizard’s History of Panamindorah
Istra Windar was in one of Laven-lay’s gardens when she heard the news: Danda-lay was saved. Stories of how she’d been saved and by whom flew like birds around the city of Laven-lay—cats and fealidae and wizards and through it all, her palace guard. Jubal, it seemed, had made wine out of vinegar. In addition, the Raiders were in Laven-lay, and in spite of Shadock’s outraged protests, Meuril would not give his consent to have them executed. Istra would have liked to see these wolflings she’d risked so much for, but that didn’t seem safe. In a few days the victors would be in Laven-lay, and then there would be a great deal of talking.
That night, Istra did not dream of wolflings or cats or Jubal or Shadock. She dreamed she was a girl again in the city of Ense on the banks of the Tiber-wan, playing with her dearest friend, the wood fauness, Natalia. In the dream they both knew what was to happen to them, and their play was tinged with sadness.
Natalia made a little shelt of clay and said, “I will marry him and be a queen. I will have a daughter and be happy for a little while.”
And Istra made a little shelt of stone and said, “I will marry him and be a queen and have many sons and be unhappy for a long while.”
They made little clay wolves and little clay cats and little clay deer and set them to fight one another, and Natalia said, “Will you miss me when I am gone?”
Istra, who had no blood sisters, said, “My sister, I will miss you until I die.”
“Will you avenge me?” asked Natalia.
Then Istra took the little shelt of stone and broke him and ground the bits to powder with her heel. Then she woke up.
* * * *
In the great audience
room of Laven-lay, before the antlered throne, a strange group of shelts and animals were about to meet. Lexis was the first to arrive, and he paced in the sunlit hall among the huge potted plants. Ounce came in a little later and watched him from the top of the dais. “Tell them what you have to tell them, Lexis.”
“I could tell them enough to start another war.”
Ounce stretched out on the dais. “Or enough to stop one.”
“I know it was you who saved me when I was a cub and those assassins tried to kill me—the ones we all thought were cheetahs, but were really lions—I know that was you.”
“I did that for Demitri,” said Ounce.
“You did a lot of things for Demitri.”
“Yes.”
“But in the last few years, you’ve also done a lot of things for me.”
“As I said: do what you must.”
At that moment, two small animals darted through the partially open throne room doors. Lexis frowned, “I don’t think anyone invited you, my dears.”
“Please, Father, please!” Leesha was wriggling with excitement. “We want to hear what Archemais says about the centaurs and the swamp fauns! Please!”
Loop was trailing behind the cubs. He shot a glance at Ounce, then turned to Lexis. “They were insistent, sire, and you did not expressly tell them—”
At that moment, the expression on Lexis’s face changed so abruptly that Loop stopped and looked round. Fenrah, Sham, Laylan, and Chance had come into the room. The cats and wolflings looked at each other in complete silence for a moment. Sham had a peculiar expression on his face. At last he said, “I know you.”
Lexis took a step forward. “I always wondered. Well, you’ve both grown.”
Fenrah glanced between them.
“You never saw him,” said Sham. “But during the sack of Sardor-de-lor, a white tiger cub covered a grating and let us pass.”
“It was very long ago,” said Lexis, “and not representative of some of my behavior since. I am...sorry for what you and your people have suffered.”
Fenrah tried not to appear surprised, but she failed. At last, she said, “I didn’t expect it to be this easy.”
Ounce made a strange grumbling noise behind Lexis. He was laughing. Lexis gave a bitter smile. “Hold that thought.”
“Fenrah Ausla.” It was Archemais, resplendent in somewhat archaic court dress. “I have wanted to meet you.”
She gave a little bow.
“Where is Dance? Him I would like to see even more.”
“He’s in the courtyard,” said Fenrah, “where they’re keeping us. I’m sure the fauns will let you visit, but we are not free to come and go as we wish.”
“I think I can remedy that,” said Lexis.
“You?” Fenrah frowned. “How?”
The door to the throne room opened fully. Meuril and Shadock entered, their advisors humming around them like a swarm of bees. Capricia came last, silent, a little apart from the others.
Lexis cleared his throat. “Sire,” he said to Meuril. “I have something to say to you that is not for everyone’s ears.”
Meuril hesitated, then sent all the advisors out of the room. Shadock started to leave as well, but Lexis said, “Please stay, Sire. I would like you to hear this as well.” A look passed between them. Shadock clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
Lexis turned to Meuril. “I would like to tell you what happened to your wife, the lady Natalia.”
This was not what the shelts had been expecting. They grew immediately silent. “Syrill was right,” continued Lexis, “my father orchestrated her death so that the wolflings would be blamed and you would not come to their aid. He sent his councilors to do it and told me nothing until he lay dying. He instructed me to use this information to make my peace with you, blame his old council and hand them over so that you would have revenge. I could then name my own council and establish myself in peaceful Filinia and Canisaria. He gave me something to prove my story. Ounce, did you bring it?”
The snow leopard leapt down and spat out a bit of metal at Meuril’s feet. Slowly the king picked it up. No one in the room doubted that he was looking at Natalia’s ring.
“I was unwilling to betray his old council members,” continued Lexis. “I thought I could make them trust and work with me. I was wrong, at least about Liliana. She thought I was waiting for an ideal moment to make my announcement and plotted with the centaurs and swamp fauns to kill me before that happened.”
He stopped. Capricia had moved to stand beside her father. She put her arm around him. Meuril’s shoulders were shaking.
“The wolflings are completely innocent of your wife’s death,” said Lexis. “It is unfair to continue punishing them for it. As for my council, two of them are dead. For the other two, I would say in their defense that they did as they were ordered for a king they trusted and admired. Demitri is your real enemy, and he is dead. If this is not enough to satisfy you, we are here in your court and at your mercy.”
Meuril shook his head. “I want no more lives,” he said thickly. “Are you finished?”
Lexis inclined his head.
“These particular wolflings,” said Shadock suddenly, “were never accused of murdering Natalia. They are accused of bandit activity, of raiding Danda-lay and Laven-lay, of illegal trespass on lands forbidden to them. I see no reason they should be forgiven these things just because their elders were falsely accused of a crime.”
Lexis growled low in his throat. “I am in a forgiving mood today, Sire. Perhaps you should be, too.”
“Is that a threat, cat?”
“Is that gratitude for saving your city?” sneered Loop. “Or are you smarting, because you ran, and we fought?”
Shadock drew himself up. “How dare you?”
“You will not execute these wolflings.” It was Chance. “They saved my life, and I have given them my protection.”
“Your protection,” said Shadock, “from me?”
“Yes, from you especially, Father. If you raise a hand against them, I promise you this: I will appear at every public function in Danda-lay. I will make myself as visible as the Great Monument. You will find it completely impossible to hide or ignore me, and shelts will talk and talk and talk.”
The blood rushed to Shadock’s face. He sputtered for a moment and looked as though he might begin shouting. Then Archemais spoke, “Enough. We will not execute these wolflings because we need them. They will help us win a difficult battle. If we do not win, there may be no more Monuments, perhaps no more Danda-lay or Laven-lay.”
He had their attention. “A wizard who is injured,” said Archemais, “has several choices. He can try to shift his matter to heal himself, but if he is badly hurt, he may not have the strength. Instead, he may consolidate his useful tissue and shift to something small. Normally small shapes are difficult for wizards, because they must compress their material, but when they have little to work with, a small shape may be their only option.
“Rebuilding from such a setback takes time. The wizard must rest, perhaps for a few hundred years, and then he must consume a great deal of living tissue to rebuild himself. A faster way exists, but it is dangerous. The wizard may ‘jump’ to a willing subject—incorporate himself into the subject’s mind and slowly absorb the subject. If at any point in this process the subject decides to fight, the wizard risks losing himself.
“I believe this is what happened to the centaur Targon. I believe that Gabalon met him somewhere and convinced him to form a partnership. In merging, all the wizard’s powers and memories become part of the subject, and likewise all the subject’s powers and memories become part of the wizard. However, when a much older and stronger being melds with one younger and weaker, the self of the weaker is swallowed up and essentially ceases to exist. This is probably not something Gabalon told his subject.”
“Wizard or not,” sniffed Ounce, “Selbis is a ruin. I was there only days ago. Even with all the centaurs in Iron Mountain wo
rking day and night, it would take a year and more to make the city anything like defensible. Centaurs are formidable, but they have never been numerous. If you wood and cliff fauns attack that city, you cannot possibly lose.”
Archemais shook his head. “The city you saw a few days ago will not be the city we find when we march on Selbis. There is blood magic in those walls and in that castle. When he calls, it will waken. The city will heal itself. Not all his wizards are dead—perhaps none of them. When they hear he has returned, they will come out of hiding and join him. We must strike now while he is still at his weakest, still limited by his attempts to keep his identity secret.”
“What did you mean about us Raiders,” asked Fenrah. “What is it you think we can do?”
“Gabalon planned for most of what is happening now,” said Archemais, “but he did not plan for you—a pack of accomplished bandits living in his citadel. I have no doubt that you’ve made ways in and out that he could know nothing of.”
“You want us to open the gates for you?” asked Sham.
“More than that. You have a rat shelt among you, yes?”
“A what?” asked Lexis.
“The youngest member of this wolfling pack,” said Archemais, “is neither young, nor a wolfling. How the Raiders came to have a thousand year old rat shelt in their pack does not presently concern this council. What should concern you is the myth—more than a myth—that Selbis is built on the ruins of the underground kingdom of the rat shelts. In my day, Selbis pumped its water supply from an underground river, and the city used to have occasional quakes and strange floods. It was said that the city had grown too heavy for the labyrinth of caves far beneath, that it would one day sink. Few in old Selbis knew the way into the deep places under the city, but the rat shelts were said to have sailed ships on the old river long ago. A living rat shelt might remember the way. A clever wolfling pack with thunder powder might find a means to dam the river. Then the city would flood, perhaps sink.”
“So the Raiders will let us into Selbis,” said Meuril. “And perhaps they can sabotage the city. At what price comes this assistance?”
The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 42
