My nemesis seems to hold a peculiar power over everything that he touches. First Meuril, now Capricia!
—journal of Syrill of Undrun, 43rd day of summer, 700
“Poor Syrill.” Corry glanced at Capricia, who stood frowning at the floor. “Did you hear what I said about the centaur?”
She nodded.
“Do you believe me?”
“I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me you could shift?”
“Because I didn’t know! I shifted in front of the Raiders because I was frightened. Syrill should never have told you; he promised he wouldn’t.” Before she could respond, Corry said, “What did Syrill mean: ‘This is about Natalia’?”
Capricia’s eyes flickered away. “My mother.”
“And why would the treaty with the cats have anything to do with your mother?”
Capricia sighed. “She was killed by wolflings, Corry…shortly before Sarder-de-lor fell to Demitri. That’s part of the reason father would never do anything to help them.”
“I’m sorry.”
To his surprise, Capricia laughed. “You’re sorry for me?” Before he could answer, she turned and left the archer’s box. “I believe you. I have to go now.”
* * * *
True to their former agreement, Capricia found employment for Corry as a royal clerk, an occupation he discovered he enjoyed, because it gave him access to the royal library. Unfortunately, the publicly available texts only went back about five hundred years, and Corry wanted to look into the more distant past. Capricia, however, said that most of her books in the old picture language had been burned the day he disappeared, and she would not let him view the salvage from the fire. Capricia herself spent little time in her study these days. Her efforts seemed all consumed in the tasks of the new Filinian alliance, in the political maneuvering between her father and Lexis as they worked out the practical details of splitting the former wolfing kingdom between them. Capricia spoke to Corry more and more rarely as he settled into his life at court, and there were times when he even fancied she was still angry with him.
However, Capricia’s coolness towards Corry was nothing compared with Syrill’s attitude towards the new Filinian alliance. He fumed. He raged. He argued. Corry concluded that Meuril must be either very fond of Syrill indeed, or else he felt at least a little guilty about the circumstances of the Filinian treaty, for his patience seemed out of all proportion to Syrill’s worth to the kingdom. Laven-lay was not a big or formal place, and in time of peace, the city had no standing army. Syrill was nominally the caption of the castle guard, but he was so unfailingly rude to feline emissaries that Meuril did not encourage him to fill his role at political functions, and Syrill often did not volunteer.
For better or for worse, cats were becoming more and more common in Laven-lay. Corry saw them drifting in and out of the castle, and the feel of their eyes on him made his skin prickle. Lexis himself visited Laven-lay several times and stayed once for an entire red month.
He seemed to take a special interest in Capricia. One evening Corry was crossing a courtyard, when he saw the graceful bulk of the tiger approaching along the parapet above and to his right. A shelt was standing there, watching the sunset. Not until she turned her head, did Corry recognize Capricia. Curious, he backed into the shadow of the walkway and placed both hands on the wall. Their voices should have been inaudible at that distance, but contact with the stone brought them into sharp focus for Corry.
“Something troubles you, Highness.”
“Trouble is in the air, Lexis.”
“Do you discuss your troubles?”
“No.”
“Monsters grow largest when hidden.”
“Not my monsters.”
A soft laugh. “Do you keep them on leashes, then? Personal pets? I hope that tigers are not among them.”
Capricia’s rare laugh broke the evening’s quiet. “No tigers, Lexis.”
“Would you walk with one then? I am excellent protection against monsters.”
“Yes. I will walk with you.”
“Perhaps even talk?”
“Perhaps.”
Their voices grew fainter as they moved away, and Corry did not try to follow them. He had an idea that Capricia’s “monsters” had something to do with himself, and he was vaguely affronted that she would choose a recent enemy to confide in.
Capricia’s new confidence in Lexis was not lost on Syrill. He began disappearing for long periods into the forest. It was after one of Syrill’s prolonged absences in early winter that Corry woke to a bustle of excitement in the castle. The servant who usually brought his breakfast was late, and Corry could hear shelts whispering as they passed in the hall. He left his rooms early and went to the scriptorium, but he found only a half dozen of the usual thirty plus clerks.
“What’s happened?” asked Corry, approaching the conspiratory knot by the fire.
Several excited voices answered him at once. Corry caught the word “hanging.” “Whose hanging?”
“Sham Ausla.”
Corry was surprised. “The Raider? Fenrah’s cousin?”
“The same,” said the eldest scribe. “Laylan caught him in a trap and brought him here last night. Chance came thundering in this morning.”
“Does Fenrah know?” asked Corry.
Several fauns shrugged. “They say Sham was alone when Laylan took him, and the trap was drugged, so there was no struggle. Laven-lay was closer than Danda-lay.”
“Chance wanted to take the villain to Danda-lay and make the execution a big affair,” said another, “but Laylan says trying to take Sham through the forest would be as good as releasing him, so Chance agreed to have the execution here. Cliff fauns been working on the scaffold since before dawn! There’s to be a great spectacle.”
Another faun harrumphed. “This will be bad for us if Fenrah retaliates.”
The elder scribe nodded. “I heard that Laylan advised against the show, but Chance is determined to make it public, since he feels the Raiders humiliated him publicly.”
Someone drew a delicate breath. “I heard Jubal came, and Shadock didn’t.”
Corry looked from one face to another. “Who’s Jubal?”
“You don’t know?” asked someone, but another
held up a hand.
“He hasn’t been here long enough.”
“It’s an old scandal,” began the eldest scribe. He hadn’t laughed with the others. “And an unproven one. No need to keep blackening the prince’s name after all these years.”
“Prince?” mocked one fauness. “You mean, might-be-prince?”
The older faun shot the others a reproving glare, but they continued anyway. “The cliff faun queen, Istra, didn’t approve of her lord’s treatment of the wolflings, said it was immoral how no one came to their rescue when the cats took Sarder-de-lor. Some of the royal advisors sided with the king, some with the queen. The court in Danda-lay was almost split over it. Rumor has it that she took refuge in the arms of a sympathetic young officer of the guard, Jubal.”
“Pure conjecture,” interrupted the old clerk.
“Barely!” exclaimed someone else. “Rumor is, they’re still lovers. Everyone knows the king and queen haven’t shared the same bed in years.”
“Court gossip,” muttered the elder scribe, but all the others were nodding.
“I don’t see what this has to do with Chance,” said Corry.
“Doesn’t his name say it all? That’s what Shadock called him, anyway. Good chance he’s not even of royal blood. Many say he’s Jubal’s get.”
“Apparently there’s also a chance that he isn’t,” said someone else. “If Shadock knew the child could not be his, surely he would have had the queen banished and Jubal hung. But apparently, there was some doubt. Shadock really can’t do anything without making the situation look worse than it already does. Cliff fauns put considerable stock in appearances.”
“And Jubal has come to the hanging?” asked Corry.
“Yes, leading a mob of cliff fauns. Meuril wants armed support. He’s afraid of what Fenrah might do to Laven-lay in revenge.”
Corry had a sudden thought. “Do you know where they’re keeping Sham?”