Chapter 4. A Conflict of Interests

Of all the shocks in my life, only one could match that of finding Corry in Laven-lay. The second jolt was yet to come, so I believed I had experienced the worst.

—Capricia Sor, Prelude to War

“There’s not much to tell.” Corry stopped. “There’s not much I can explain,” he corrected.

“Begin to try,” growled Capricia. Her tufted ears were flat back against her head. They looked to Corry like little horns.

“I didn’t belong where you found me,” said Corry. “I belong here, in this world—Panamindorah.” He had not known the word when he started, but it came to him as he spoke.

Capricia seemed unimpressed. “Then why did I find you in the other place?”

“I don’t know. I was found by…people in that world, and they took care of me for…a year, perhaps. I’ve lost my memory. Can you understand that? It was taken from me somehow. Your language, the names of places, the fauns—it all seems familiar. I even remembered the names of the moons last night. The little yellow moon is called the Runner or sometimes the Wolf’s Eye, and the red moon is the Dragon.”

“Yes,” said Capricia. “Dragon Moon, Demon Moon—full last night. The superstitious would consider that an omen. The soldiers probably mentioned it to you on your way here.”

Corry shook his head. “No one told me.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me the name and color of the other moon, the one that was not up last night.”

Corry put a hand to his head. Yes, there is another. After a pause, he shook his head. “I can’t remember.”

Capricia did not seem surprised. “How did you get here?”

“I was in the grove where you found me, and I fell asleep. I had been trying to play the music that I heard before I saw you. When I woke up and started walking towards the house, I was nearly knocked down by a group of fauns on deer-back and some big cats chasing them. I followed their tracks into Panamindorah.”

“Regrettable,” said Capricia. “The music seems to work both ways. Perhaps it has bewitched you. You think you belong here, but you don’t, and you must go back.”

“No.”

Capricia laughed. “You can’t say ‘no’ to me. I am the crown princess and civil regent. I can have you imprisoned. I can decide that Syrill was right.”

“Yes, but you can’t send me back.” He watched her for a moment. “No one else knows, do they? It’s your secret. If you try to make me do something, I can show your guards the flute, as much as it can be shown. They’ll have to believe me.”

Capricia turned pale—mostly, Corry thought, with anger. “You can’t blackmail me!” But she truly did not know how to answer him.

While she simmered, he let his eyes stray to the desk. He was standing almost against it, and a battered volume lay open beside him, partially burned, with the ancient, blackened pages crumbling around the edges. The city had a double outer wall, so that archers might harry any enemy who gained access to the first ring. Watch towers were set at—

“What are you doing?” snapped Capricia.

Corry glanced up. He’d unconsciously run a finger along the words. “This book looks old. Is this about the flute?”

Capricia’s lip curled. “You can’t read that.”

He read it to her. After half a page, she interrupted him. “The meaning of that writing has been lost for a hundred years. You cannot read it.”

Corry cocked an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’m making it up—all that business about walls and towers? I can’t explain it to you, but I can read this. What city is it talking about?”

“Selbis.”

“Where is that?”

Capricia said nothing.

After a moment, Corry asked, “Why did you try to get rid of the flute?”

When it became clear that she would not answer, Corry glanced down at the book. “I could help you translate it.”

“No.” Capricia crossed the small room in two strides and shut the old book. Her bright, brown eyes bored into his. “Corry—”

“My name is Corellian.”

He thought he saw her flinch. “Corellian, if you have any honor or compassion or reason, listen to me: the flute is evil. Its music has bewitched you. Take the flute back to your own world where you belong and it can do no harm.”

Corry felt sorry for her, but he would not agree. “These feelings and memories and ideas were in my head before I ever touched the flute. I won’t go back.”

Capricia’s eyes flashed. Corry could tell she was used to being obeyed and certainly was not used to making an entreaty and being refused. “Very well. Stay. Someone will kill you within a year without my protection. Shelts here do not love iterations.”

“What is an iteration?”

“The misbegotten offspring of wizards and shelts.” Capricia was thinking. “Corry, I can have you killed by those who will not give you time for conversation. I can take the flute and make a better disposal. Your choice is simple. Go back or die.”

“Tonight?” Corry indicated the late afternoon shadows.

“In the morning. You may stay the night.”

“If I can’t change your mind by tomorrow I’ll go…if you will tell me some things about your world.”

Capricia looked wary, but nodded.

“What is a shelt?”

“Anything in Panamindorah that has a face like ours and walks on two legs is either a shelt, a wizard, or an iteration. But wizards and iterations are rare or extinct.”

“But if iterations are extinct, why did Syrill think that I was one? And how is a shelt different from a faun?”

Capricia opened her mouth, then closed it. “On second thought, there’s no reason for me to tell you these things. I think I have been more than generous in allowing you to stay the night, and now I must explain you to my father. We will leave as soon as possible in the morning.”

* * * *

“King Meuril will see you now,” said a sentry.

Corry and Capricia stood in a circular antechamber. Slanting windows curved around the domed ceiling, letting in cascades of sunlight. Two grand staircases ran up the walls on either side of the room, and a balcony overhung the center. As they stepped into the throne room proper, Corry was dazzled by the variety of plants and the play of sunlight skipping off green-veined marble. The throne itself was a massive wood seat with carved antlers spreading above it.

The king was not sitting on the throne, but pacing the room with several other fauns. Corry caught sight of Syrill and wondered whether they were discussing his upcoming interrogation. A moment later, he knew the idea was sheer vanity. Syrill was a general and must have more important things to discuss with his king.

As they drew nearer, Capricia took the lead. “A moment of your time, my lord.”

The king moved away from his councilors. Syrill’s eyes flicked over Corry and away, and Corry knew that he’d been dismissed as an item of little importance. Close-to, Meuril looked frail in his rich green robes. He was bald, but had a thick froth of gray hair around his temples and small, keen eyes of the same color. “Capricia, what is this business about an iteration?”

“Father, allow me to introduce Corellian, an orphan from a village in the far west. On our last journey to those provinces I spoke with him and promised him refuge here because of the ill treatment he received from the fauns on account of his iteration blood. Recently wolflings attacked and burned his settlement. Corry alone escaped. He has journeyed far to reach us, trying to enter faun villages, but they reject him because he does not look like a shelt.”

The king studied Corry, and his face softened. “I, of all shelts, ought to appreciate such a loss. My realm extends its condolences. How old are you, Corellian?”

Corry thought a moment. I suppose it won’t do to say I don’t know. “Fourteen, Sire.”

Meuril smiled. “An excellent age to become an apprentice and adopt a trade.” He paused. “You are strangely dressed, friend. Is it so different where you come from?”

“Very different.”

Meuril nodded. “You may stay here as a guest of the princess until you find other lodging. If you have difficulties with my citizens, we will help you in what ways we can.”

A servant appeared at Meuril’s summons, but Capricia stepped forward. “Father, I will show him to a room.”

* * * *

“I don’t like lying to your father,” said Corry as Capricia opened the door to a guestroom.

“It was necessary.”

Corry glanced at her. “Who are you afraid of? What would it matter if everyone in Panamindorah knew about the flute?”

“Hush! I told you, the hall is not the place to discuss this. And until tomorrow, I’ll take that.” She stepped forward suddenly, reached into his pocket, and took the flute. Then she shut the door, and Corry heard the click of a lock.