Shadowlands (16 page)

“How can you! How can you side with these Naturals against us?” The outrage in the Sunward’s voice had an edge of hysteria. The Basilisk’s people had good reason to fear the Trees.

“I speak here for the High Prince.” Lightborn dismounted and approached the spokesperson. “I call on you to submit in her name.” He crouched down on his heels and put his hand on the vine that wrapped itself around the Sunward Rider. “I am of her
fara’ip
, and cousin to the Guardian. The Trees only keep you from Moving because I have asked them to.” Lightborn straightened to his feet, addressing all those held prisoner.

“The Basilisk is no more,” he said. “He has Faded, and his
dra’aj
is returned to the Lands. You need not Bind yourselves to serve the Princes, if you have no heart for it. But you must Bind yourselves to do no more harm to others of the People.”

“Where will we go?” Still the one on the ground.

“Back to your homes,” Windwatcher suggested. “Back to your own
fara’ips
, where you belonged before the Basilisk took you.”

“And if we have none?”

Lightborn smiled, spreading his hands. “Begin anew.”

The one on the ground struggled to get up and, as if reading his new intent, the vines and branches released him, withdrawing into the shade. “I am Thunder Cat, my mother was Stormlynx, and the Hydra guides me.”

It seemed that the others would follow the example of their leader, rising cautiously to their feet as the Wood released them. Lightborn left them for his men to sort out, and allowed Windwatcher to pull him to one side.

“How many?” the old warrior asked.

“You mean ‘how many more?’” Lightborn shrugged. “Who would have thought there would be
any
? What keeps them fighting, when the Basilisk is Faded?” He thought about what Moon had said, and wondered how many of those she thought looked askance at her did so because of their own pasts. How many were others like herself—and like himself—followers of the Basilisk’s who’d come to their senses and now wished it forgotten.

“Will the High Prince have to examine these?”

“She will, or some other Dragonborn who can read the truth,” Lightborn said. “And now what?” Sharp cries and the snapping of branches had him heading toward the edge of the clearing.

“It’s the two Starwards,” Windwatcher said, snorting his displeasure as he followed close behind.

“Here, here, now. You’ll damage yourselves.” Lightborn laid one hand on the nearest shoulder and the other on the rough bark of the nearest Tree. “They are afraid of you,” he said, addressing the Natural. “They cannot help themselves; the Basilisk trained their minds against you.” If anything, the thrashing of the two Starwards increased. “Please, if you would, release these Riders, it is their fear which makes them fight you.” Slowly, reluctantly, as if they disagreed but did not know how to say so, the vines and branches withdrew.

Lightborn took a firm hold on the elbow of the Rider nearest to him, concerned that the man still grimaced, his contorted face fixed now on Lightborn’s own. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Windwatcher was helping the other one, who also stared, still wide-eyed, pulling back from his living bonds. The one Lightborn was holding cried out, swinging his arms and catching Lightborn himself in the chest with his flailing fist.

“Steady now,” he said, laughing. “I’m no Tree.” The Rider pulled away, cursing, and Lightborn took a step toward him, only to fall to his knees as his legs refused to hold him. He looked down at the spreading stain of blood on the front of his tunic, heard the sound of raised voices, pounding feet, and screaming. Felt, from far away, hands on his shoulders, heard Windwatcher bellowing for the Healer who would not come in time.

Moon
, he said.

As he Faded, Lightborn had the strangest feeling that his killer had not really wanted to hurt him.

W
ALKS UNDER THE MOON felt her heart lift when she saw Max returning with Cassandra—nothing, not even the dark news Nighthawk had been telling her, could displace the glorious secret she had come to share with her sister. At the moment Cassandra seemed paler than usual, her storm-gray eyes looking dark against her ivory skin. She was dressed in her usual blood-red tunic over a silver shirt, black leggings, and boots, with
gra’if
showing at wrists, neck, and forehead. Her honey-gold hair, a shade or two darker than Moon’s, hung loose, telling Moon that her sister had recently used her Dragonform.

When will I
—but no, Moon pushed that thought away, her hand on her belly. She needed all her
dra’aj
for other things, now. She would manifest her Manticore afterward, when the right moment came. She stood, lower lip between her teeth, as Cassandra approached, Max speaking in her ear. Her sister’s face was still as marble until Cassandra met Moon’s eyes and smiled, reaching out her hand to her, as she turned to greet Nighthawk, her old mentor.

Moon searched her feelings for any sense of discord. There had been a time when she would have been jealous of the bond that evidently
existed between the old Sunward Rider and her sister, but now she smiled, feeling only the echo of her sister’s pleasure.

“Let’s go inside,” Max was saying. Now that the High Prince was back, it seemed that every eye in the camp was turned toward them. Max gestured, and the seats she and Hawk had been using disappeared.

The interior of the tent was full of light, but in every other way more closely resembled a palace than a pavilion. There were carpets and rugs on the floor, comfortable furniture, and even a fireplace in one wall, with a salamander dancing it in. There was a table, but Cassandra sat in her chair by the fire, and Moon took her usual place—at least when they were in private—on the hearthstone near her sister. Food and wine arrived, portions were cut, plates and glasses passed, and Moon saw Max and Hawk exchange a glance.

The lift to Cassandra’s right eyebrow showed the High Prince had seen it as well. “So.” Her sister looked at each of them in turn, but smiled only at Moon.
Does she know? Can she?
“The Hunt is in the Shadowlands. Stranded there, perhaps, with the fall of the Basilisk Prince?”

Hawk set his plate down on the small table next to his chair. “And joined, perhaps, by Basilisk Warriors who have fled there.”

“It lacked but this.” Cassandra had picked up a plate of fruit, but now she put it aside. “To have the problem spreading into the Shadowlands already, with all that I must contain and deal with here.” Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head, looking to the Prince Guardian. But Max was clearly thinking of something else. He got up and moved to look out a window that gave not on the camp outside the tent, but the heart of a forest glade.

“The Hunt was taken there to find me,” he said. Moon noticed that as he spoke, his hand had drifted down to the spot on his side, low and on the left, where a Hound had once injured him. He seemed unaware that he’d done it.

“And that makes the Hunt our responsibility.” Cassandra rubbed her forehead with the fingers of her right hand. “I agree. But who can I send? Who has the necessary experience of both the Hunt and the Shadowlands?”

Max turned back from the window. “I’m afraid that as far as many
here are concerned, the Hunt can stay in the Shadowlands as long as they like.”

“But surely…” Hawk’s voice trailed into silence.

“It’s different for us,” Max said. “We’ve lived there. It’s as much our home as the Lands, though never in the same way.”

Cassandra touched Moon on the shoulder. “Dear one, what do you think?”

Moon knew what her sister wanted: the perspective of a Rider who had never been in the Shadowlands and, moreover, who might have a better idea of what some of those who had previously supported the Basilisk Prince might think.

“For those of us who lack your experiences, the Shadowlands is only the place of the Prince Guardian’s exile. Nothing more,” Moon pointed out. “Many think of it as a mythical place, and of humans as creatures of myth, nothing more.” Moon stroked the griffin pin in her lapel. “Though the Wild Riders might enjoy it. They love strange paths, and have long seen it as part of their life task to destroy the Hunt.”

“There is your answer, then,” Hawk said. “Send the Wild Riders to the Shadowlands. I can work with them.”

“We can’t.” Max drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You don’t understand, Hawk. The Cycle has turned, but it’s not like pushing a reset button.” Moon was bewildered, but it was evident that Nighthawk understood the reference. “Everything didn’t just return to normal. Cassandra’s busy all day, every day, healing the Lands—not just the parts the Basilisk twisted and perverted, but areas of neglect and decay from the waning of the old Cycle.”

“And there are the Basilisk’s Warriors,” Moon picked up her glass of wine and put it down again without tasting it. “Those who cannot, or will not accept the change.”

“I need the Wild Riders to deal with them,” Cassandra said. “They are made up of all Wards, and have
fara’ip
with both Solitaries and Naturals. They are the closest thing we have to a neutral force, accepted by all. The only force I can use to both hunt down and protect my People. Until the crisis here is over, I cannot spare them.” Cassandra sighed. “Still, it goes against the grain to simply leave the Hunt in the Shadowlands.”

Moon saw the same dejection on the others’ faces. “What about the Horn?” she said. “If we could call the Hunt…”

Cassandra shivered, and Moon put her hand on her sister’s knee. For a moment she, too, felt the echo of the Horn, the cold it brought, and the sound so low it shook your bones.

“The Horn.” Cassandra lifted her hand to her neck, stroking the Phoenix torque with her fingertips. “Did the Basilisk not have it?

Moon tilted her head to one side, considering. “He was known to give it to some of his trusted favorites to use for him,” she acknowledged. “As we ourselves witnessed. Most granted such favor were only too happy to give the artifact back to him when their task was done. Dealing with the Hunt, even in a position of power, is said to be an unpleasant thing.” She tilted her head and considered. “The Basilisk had it with him at the Stone.”

“I could check there,” Max put in.
It would have to be him,
Moon thought. As Keeper of the Talismans, only the Prince Guardian could Move to the Stone.

“And if it is not there?” Cassandra asked.

“Moon, you’re the closest we Riders have to a historian.” Max looked to Nighthawk. “During the Exile, Moon began researching the ancient Chants by gathering Singers and comparing different versions of Songs.”

“Ingenious,” Hawk said. “Like a modern scholar, comparing different myth cycles to discover history.”

“Exactly. She’s not a Singer herself, but she has extensive knowledge of the Songs.” Max turned back to her, his green eyes bright. “What can you tell us of the calling of the Hunt?”

Moon sat up straighter on her perch, eager to help, to wipe away the stain she still occasionally felt of being one of the Basilisk’s court. The Hunt had not been her major focus; the Basilisk Prince had already been in possession of the Horn when she first knew him. But, of course, you cannot make an extensive examination of Songs for one topic, and not note others as you pass them by.

“I know of seven hundred and forty-eight Songs mentioning the Hunt,” Moon said finally, accepting the quince tart Max passed to her, and breathing in deeply as she savored its aroma. “Of these, two hundred and ninety-six tell of the Hunt being Called, seventy-four mentioning the Horn specifically, but only three in any way describe it.” She placed the tart, whole, into her mouth.

“Remarkable,” Hawk said.

Moon chewed and swallowed. “Is it not? You would think there would be more, and yet, there it is.”

Moon caught a look as it passed between Cassandra and Max. Both of them seemed to be stifling smiles, and Moon felt her cheeks grow warm. Apparently, it had not been the number of Songs which Hawk had found remarkable.

“All three descriptions agree that the item is made of bone, dragon bone or griffin, perhaps. Much is unclear as it must be inferred from the context.” Moon picked up her wine and this time sipped at it. “The object that I saw was somewhat the size of my index finger.” She held her finger up to show them, and turned to Cassandra. “But
you
will have had the most experience with Hounds, my sister, with your Healing.” Moon froze.

“Moon, what is it?”

She hesitated, unwilling to add to her sister’s burdens, but…“You did not know about the presence of the Hunt when you sent Wolf to the Shadowlands. Is it safe for him to be there, alone?”

They were all of Cassandra’s
fara’ip
, but Moon looked upon Wolf in particular as her brother. After the fall of the Basilisk, she had needed a quiet place to contemplate the evil she had done during her time as his willing tool. Wolf also—newly returned to his true self from a time infinitely longer, and more evil—had need of the same quiet seclusion. This had made them closer than others with whom they shared
fara’ip
.