Shadowlands (14 page)

He stepped back from me, and the
pushing
against my psyche was gone. We were standing in the middle of a large rectangular room. A dining table and chairs took up the far end, close to the windows, and there was a fireplace in the center of the long wall on my right, with two wing-backed chairs drawn up to it. A low table divided them, and the one on the right also had a smaller, round table on its other side. A book sat on it, with a slip of paper marking the place where the reader had left off.

Not the Rider,
I thought. That book had been sitting there, abandoned, for quite some time.

“You are not afraid of me.” His voice growled. “At least, not any longer.”

“Well, no. You thought you were saving me from those others—not that I was in any danger from them—in fact, they thought they were saving me from you. You have questions to ask me.” I was babbling. I pressed my lips together, shocked at myself, and feeling the blush spread over my face. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
At least, not on purpose.
But I didn’t say that part aloud.

“And how do you know this?” He looked down at his hands then, as if he thought they would turn into something else.

My knees felt wobbly, so I sat down on the arm of the nearest wing-backed chair, letting my backpack slide to the floor at my feet. “I’m psychic, I know things about people,” I said. “True things.” I was a little surprised that I told him so easily what I took pains to hide from other people. I picked up the book. “This doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to a gray-eyed Rider, with honey-gold hair. A Starward.” The same one who’d written the letter to my neighbor Barb, I realized with a shock, the same gray-eyed woman I’d seen when I touched him; the one he loved and feared. “She was very sad when she was reading this, but not because of the book. There’s a dragon around her, and she’s not sad anymore, is she?”

“A Truthreader.” The Rider immediately cut his eyes away, focusing on the small figure of a dragon, crudely pinched out of clay as if
by a child’s fingers, that sat on the mantel of the fireplace. As if he thought that I couldn’t read him if I wasn’t looking into his eyes.

I took this chance to get a more complete look at him, since I hadn’t been able to until now. I knew what he smelled of [cinnamon] and the feel of his palm against my lips [smooth], and the hardness of his arms and body, but not much more.

He was taller than Alejandro, and younger-looking, though I knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Touching him, he’d seemed very old, and much younger at the same time. It had something to do with a change he’d gone through recently, but none of the images that had poured through me told me any more.

He looked pale in the dim light that filtered through the sheers, but then, I imagined I looked pretty pale myself. His mouth was wide, the lips generous and, just at the moment, turned down at the corners. His ash-gray eyes were wide over high cheekbones, and when he stepped closer, I again saw the scarring around the right one. There was something significant about that, I realized. Most Riders healed without scarring, so for this guy to show marks…I found myself half reaching out to touch him again, just to see what I could find out.

I gave myself a shake, and pulled back my hand. What was I thinking?

“What truth do you know about me?” His voice was low, and the growl was still there. The hair rose on the back of my neck and on my arms, and I had to remind myself that I wasn’t in any danger.

“You’re a Rider,” I said. [The gray-eyed female Rider; the letter.] “And just now a messenger. Something important has happened, something that changes the world as you know it. That’s the message you bring.”
And you’re alone
. I caught my breath. He was afraid of going [being] insane. Riders rode together with others, in troops. It was dangerous for them to be alone.

Alejandro—but Alejandro wasn’t alone, I thought, nodding to myself. He’d always had his family, his
fara’ip
, as he now had me. But this guy, all he had was the gray-eyed Rider he feared [loved].

“I don’t know your name, but your Guidebeast has some lion it in.”

“I am Stormwolf,” he said. “The Chimera guides me.”

I admit, I shivered a little then. Chimeras. Not your pretty fairy-tale Guidebeast.

“I am sent by the Dragonborn Prince.”

The air around us changed when he said those words. Maybe it was just the way he said them. As if they were charged with some special meaning beyond the simple words. Special for him, in particular.

“I don’t know that one.” I swallowed and wondered if I could ask for a glass of water. “I know about the Basilisk Prince.”

“The Basilisk is no more. The one known as Truthsheart, daughter of Clear of Light, and guided by the Dragon, is acclaimed High Prince.”

I thought about what Alejandro had explained to me, and frowned. Images were trying to organize themselves in my mind, but—

“Would you mind?” I said, I took a step closer to Stormwolf and held out my hand. He hesitated, but he must have known what I wanted, or else they had a similar custom in the Lands, because he took my hand as if to shake it, though all he did was hold it firmly.

I was expecting the warmth, but not how comforting it felt. And I was surprised at how he shut his eyes tight, and turned his head away, like a dog that expects to be smacked.

It was easier this time, but still shocking enough to take my breath away and make me cling to his wrist with my other hand. Most of what I read I already knew. This was the end of the story that Alejandro had told me, the story of the Guardian Prince’s exile, and the Warden who saved him by taking him through the Portals. I saw a Phoenix, and a Sword and a Spear and a Cauldron and a Rock—
Ma’at?
—and a Basilisk destroyed in a Dragon’s fire. So now all was as it should be back in the Lands. Or would be soon. Everyone safe and sound.

Well, everyone except Stormwolf, that is. Sometimes even I forget that I also see the truths people don’t know about themselves—as well as the things they know, but are trying to hide. I’m not sure how to describe it, but there was a part of Stormwolf that cringed away from me, as if I were shining a spotlight on him that was too bright to handle. Even though now he was looking at me, right into my eyes with his outer self, it was another matter inside. Inside, he was still turned away. Inside, he was ashamed.

[Inside, he was a Hound.]

I caught myself before I could pull my hand away, I don’t think
even he noticed it. He wasn’t a Hound now, but he had been one, and part of him thought he always would be. She had saved him, the High Prince, and he loved her for it—though her ability, the
power
that made her able to save him, frightened him a little. He loved her for saving him, and trusting him. But he was also very much afraid the trust might be misplaced, that the Hound part of him might come out and destroy him again—and others along with him.

He was angry, too, at himself, and at her—though he wasn’t
ever
going to admit that part—because he still had the skills of the Hunt, and she was asking him to use them. These skills set him apart from everyone else, but they were useful skills. Boy, did I know how
that
felt.

I had a useful skill myself. A skill that set me apart from everyone else. So useful I’d been Collected. A liability, until Alejandro had rescued me.

And I couldn’t tell anyone any of this, I realized. I couldn’t even tell Alejandro. He wouldn’t believe that Stormwolf was no danger to us—he’d chase him away. And a part of Stormwolf would accept that as deserved, and I couldn’t let that happen. His wound was too fresh. He needed more time, or he would throw away everything the High Prince had done for him. So I had to lie to my friend, my friend who’d saved me, in order to maybe help save someone else. I told myself Alejandro would understand.

Alejandro. Oh, crap. I felt in my pocket and looked around for my knapsack. “Where’s my mobile?”

“He’s telling the truth,” I said. “We can trust him.” Alejandro had met me in the lobby, half overjoyed to see me safe, half furious that I had scared him so badly, even though it wasn’t my fault.

“No, not possible that you can trust any of these guys,
mademoiselle
.” The tall man with Alejandro, his voice softened by his French accent, gave his name as Yves Crepeau. He was dressed in business casual, as if he worked in one of the glass-walled office buildings nearby and was on his coffee break. Like Nik, he was older than he looked. Much older. I got a familiar jigsaw puzzle vibe from him, so I knew right away what he was. His eyes kept drifting away as he spoke, but not as though he found the hotel lobby interesting. And the whole time he was rubbing his left index finger with his right hand, as if there was a mark there he wanted to rub away.

Nik had sent him with Alejandro, instead of coming himself. That couldn’t be good.

“He’s not a Hound,” I said, frowning at him. “He’s another Rider.” Here, Yves snorted and the corner of his mouth twisted up. I turned to focus on Alejandro. “And not one of the Basilisk’s. He’s got news, good news.”

Yves had drifted along with us as far as the elevators, but refused to go up. “I don’t need to see this fellow,” he said. “Just to see you’re okay. I’ll tell Nik. He says call him if you need him.” He looked at Alejandro and pressed his lips together before shrugging.

“Wait,” I said. I didn’t like his color, and if anything his eyes seemed more unfocused now, dropping away from mine as if he lacked the strength to keep them looking at me. On impulse, I reached out and took hold of his right wrist. He stopped rubbing, but didn’t pull away. Again, the jigsaw puzzle feel, but the pieces were starting to scatter. There was something missing.
Dra’aj
, I thought. A moment ago there had been enough of it; now, it was seeping away.

I transferred my hand to his shoulder. “You need help,” I said. “Soon. Is Nik nearby?”

“Sure, outside.”

Then why hadn’t he come in?
“Go to him. Yves? Look at me.” I waited until he met my eyes. “Go to Nik right now,” I said, trying not to shake him.

“I know. You don’t have to tell me.” He didn’t sound particularly interested, but as I watched Yves walk away, I was satisfied. This had happened to him before, many times. He might one day let it go too far, wait too long. But not today.

The elevator came, and we stepped in. As we rose to the top floor, I filled Alejandro in on what I’d learned—not everything, just what Stormwolf had told me about the new High Prince.

Stormwolf was still standing in the middle of the room, as if he hadn’t moved since I’d left him to fetch Alejandro.

“So. Moonward one.” Alejandro’s voice was as sharp as his sword. Oh, crap. I’d forgotten all about this animosity between the Wards. This was the last thing I needed to deal with just now.

“I am Stormwolf.” His voice was low, and the growl was back. Again I found myself wanting to step back from him, but forced
myself to stay where I was. “My mother was Rain at Sunset, and the Chimera guides me.”

“I am Graycloud at Moonrise. Starwalker was my mother, and the Hippogriff guides me,” Alejandro said. “I do not know your mother, Moonward one.”

Alejandro was formally telling Stormwolf that they’d never met. I guess when you lived as long as these guys did, that kind of thing was necessary.

“Nor I yours,” Stormwolf said, which was the response Alejandro expected.

I was beginning to see that this meeting wasn’t working out the way I’d hoped.

“So they were wrong, these Outsiders, you are not a Hound. You are some other tool of the Basilisk, no doubt,” Alejandro put in. “Perhaps even he who called the Hound I killed.”

My mouth fell open as I rolled my eyes. Alejandro hadn’t heard a word I’d said to him in the elevator. “He has nothing to do with the Basilisk Prince, Alejandro.”

Alejandro turned toward me without taking his eyes from the other Rider. “Perhaps. There
was
a Hound following you, but out of curiosity only, it was not set on your trail.” His eyes narrowed. “I did not know it was a Hound until I saw the dog shape. How was it able to retain the semblance of a Rider for so long?” There was no mistaking the accusation in Alejandro’s voice.

And there was no mistaking the look of confusion that passed over Stormwolf’s face. Anyone would have seen it. Anyone except Alejandro, that is.

“I might ask you that question,
Sunward
.” Wolf spat the word out like a curse. “Did anyone see this Hound but yourself?” Stormwolf stalked several paces forward, and Alejandro took hold of his sword cane in both hands, ready to pull out the blade.

“There is no Dragonborn Prince,” he said.

“There
was
no Dragonborn Prince,” Stormwolf said.

“Wait, wait.” I put my hand on Alejandro’s arm. “He’s telling the—”

Alejandro shook me off with an abrupt jerk. Shock more than anything else made me take a step back.

I could
feel
the force of their conflict, like a fourth presence in the room. This had happened to me before—emotions running so high
and so hot that they swept over me like a blast of hot wind in an air-conditioned room, bringing the grit and smells of the outside. For a moment I stood frozen, as if I was still with the Collector, as if I had no option but to wait until the storm subsided. Then I remembered who and where and when I was, and I started walking.

I must have been at the elevator before they even realized I was gone.

What really annoyed me was that I had nowhere to go but the house. We hadn’t been living in Toronto long enough for me to have found a place I went to think things over, and I wasn’t disposed to just wander the streets, not now that I knew what might be out there. I shivered. Touching him, I’d caught the echo of what Alejandro had killed and it hadn’t quite left me.

If we had been at home—and I realized I still thought of Madrid that way, the only real home I’d had since I’d been taken—I would have gone to the Retiro, or to my favorite corner of the Plaza Mayor, and Alejandro would have come, eventually, to find me. I guess that was the real reason I was going to the house now.