Free The Prophet of Panamindorah, Book One Fauns and Filinians by Abigail Hilton Page B

stood and circled the table. “I
spent last night looking at my books about the flute, and you will
be gratified to know that there is some mention of…of stopping
time, or—I don’t quite understand it—of traveling in time.”
    “Then you believe me?”
    “The manuscripts speak of moving forward, but never of moving back. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps you are an iteration or even a wizard from Panamindorah. You
certainly have a wizard’s way of meddling. Perhaps you have known fauns and wolflings and other shelts in a time when shelts
and wizards still knew the ancient script. Perhaps you lost your
memories in the process of changing worlds. However, you cannot
reclaim your lost place in Panamindorah. You cannot solve the
riddles you want to solve, because they would have happened
hundreds of years ago to people who are all dead.”
    Corry’s eyes dropped. He traced an aimless
design on the table top. “Capricia—”
    “Hundreds of years dead ,” she
reiterated, “and you can’t ever go back.”
    “And your point is?”
    “You can’t get back your lost place, but you
can make a new one. My father is impressed with you. So is Syrill.
You are a hero to the citizens of Laven-lay. You’ve drawn so much
public attention to yourself that it would be difficult now to
explain your disappearance. Very well. Stay in Panamindorah. Make a
life for yourself.” She paused. “Of course, I would like your help
to translate the old script.”
    Corry’s eyes brightened. “I would very much
like to—”
    “However, the books are mine, and you will
handle them only as I allow. Is that clear?”
    “Naturally. What about the flute?”
    “The flute is no longer your concern.”
Capricia moved towards the door. “I will help you acclimate. Money,
by the way, is still called cowries, even though we use coins. Try not to appear totally ignorant. Along those lines, the
public and royal libraries here in Laven-lay may be of interest to
you. First, though, I’ll send someone to take your measurements.
You’ve been invited to the king’s table for dinner, and
the…uh… garments you’re wearing will not do.”
    * * * *
    When Capricia left Corry’s room, she went
straight to her own chambers and shut the door. Her attendants came
running, but she ordered them all away and went out to her private
garden. Her hands were trembling. I had to let him stay. There’s
nothing else I could do, except have him assassinated. If that’s
even possible.
    She’d noticed uncharacteristic vagaries in
Syrill’s narrative of their escape. There’s more to that story.
I need to get Syrill alone.
    Capricia glanced at the monument in the
center of her garden—a white pillar about waist-high, crowned with
golden wings arched in a protective shield around a kneeling
fauness. Flames licked at the wings, kept alight by an invisible
feed of oil from beneath. She had specifically requested that it
remain unadorned with words. The servants said that she did so was
because she was pious, and she let them say it. In reality,
Capricia disliked inscriptions about the Creator. She’d never felt
safe since her mother died, and the protective wings of the statue
seemed like a mockery to her.
    Capricia turned away from the Monument. Probably the name in the old text is not Corellian’s. Likely
he’s is just the son of some wizard that Gabalon deposed. In that
case, I think I can handle him. I think.

Chapter 11.
Aspects of a Dinner Conversation
    This is a bright day for my enemy and for me
one of the blackest.
    —journal of Syrill of Undrun, Summer,
1700
    Corry woke to see late afternoon sunshine
streaming through his window. Capricia had sent an army of tailors,
who’d measured him and taken away his clothes. He hoped they
planned to bring more by the time he was expected at supper.
Corry’s eyes strayed to a leather-bound book beside his bed.
    A Concise Illustrated History of
Panamindorah by Capricia Sor. He reached for it and began
flipping