Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (35 page)
“My lord?”
It wasn’t the voice of the Hound. The Basilisk Prince looked up to find his guard had returned.
“Those who were felling the wood of
He’erid
have not returned.”
He’erid
have not returned.”
“And?”
“N-nothing, my lord.”
The Basilisk nodded. “Come here to me,” he said to his servant, whose eyes had focused on the flickering of the Hound.
With her soldier’s training, Cassandra had been aware of all the ambient noises of the Tarn, the twitters of unseen birds, the rustle of clothing as she breathed, the sound the wind made as it whispered through the heather, the soft whickers of the Cloud Horses as they spoke to one another up on the ridge, the click of their hooves on rock as they fidgeted, and the chink and ring of their jeweled harness. When Max took a step forward into the water and touched the Lady’s hand with his own, all sound stopped—snapped off like the sudden silence when someone touches the CD player’s OFF button in the middle of a piece of music. And if that piece of music was loud enough, the listener would be left for just a second with this numb feeling that she had lost the ability to hear. Except that now, the feeling didn’t go away. Lightborn touched her arm; his lips moved, but Cassandra heard nothing.
It’s shock,
she thought.
It must be.
she thought.
It must be.
She saw the Lady of Souls reach up to touch Max’s face and stepped forward herself, sword lifted. And again, when she called Max’s name she heard nothing, not even the sound being conducted to her ears through her own bones. It was as if she had never had ears. Max had fallen to his knees before the Lady’s watery throne. The Natural of the Lake was leaning forward now, her long-fingered hand on Max’s face, her own sightless eyes fixed on his, as if they looked into each other’s souls.
Cassandra threw herself toward the water, but straining as hard as she could, her muscles bunching, teeth gritting with concentration, it was as if the air around her had suddenly turned solid.
Abruptly, the Lady rose to her feet, and in one sweep of motion, deliquesced, disappearing completely as if she had never had solid substance, and Max fell face forward into the water.
Cassandra heard the splash.
She ran forward and with shaking hands pulled Max back from the edge of the Lake, until he was completely out of the water. His eyes were closed, and he did not seem to be breathing, but as soon as her hands touched his skin, her own heart, frozen in her chest, began beating once again.
“He’s alive,” she called over her shoulder.
While a young boy fans the flies away, he sits cross-legged in a loincloth on the shady side of the marketplace and tells how the dragon swallowed the sun on the day of creation, and people toss coins and handfuls of dried fruit into his bowl.
He sits on his heels on the sunbaked sand, listening to a Solitary, gray-skinned and gravel-voiced, explain where the water was hidden and how he might bring it forth.
He stands beside his king on a beach and draws a horse in the sand with the point of his sword.
He stands beside his king on a French hillside and argues with him about where the longbow men should be placed.
A very tall Rider with crow-black hair, bone-white face, and eyes the cold gray of iron touches his face. “I am Blood on the Snow,” the Rider says, “and you are my son.”
He sits behind the scenes at the theater and watches his friend Will’s play, thinking that his beloved would do a better job of the swordplay, and that he must suggest it to Will.
A Sunward Rider, hair and skin bleached colorless with age, puts
Sto’in,
the Cauldron of Plenty, into his hands and tells him to look within it.
Sto’in,
the Cauldron of Plenty, into his hands and tells him to look within it.
He looks up from the scroll he’s painting and sees his beloved, naked under her dragon-patterned silk kimono, bringing him tea. He wishes they didn’t have to go to Kyoto tomorrow.
He climbs over the stone sill to where a woman, her golden hair turned amber by the torchlight, waits with a drawn sword in her hand, next to packed saddlebags, riding cloaks tossed on top. He’s been to check their horses. “You were right,” she says to him, “they didn’t listen to me.” “They never do,” he says, taking his cloak from the top of the packs. “We’d best be off.”
He feels the flutter of the Phoenix in his chest, its fires burning.
He swims frantically against the current, but it’s too strong for him. Any minute now he’ll run out of air, any minute now his screaming lungs will force him to open his mouth and inhale. He feels a warm hand on his face, his body, and he relaxes, allowing his lungs to breathe.
Cassandra ran her hands over Max’s body, checking for injuries. He was alive, but until—and unless—he recovered consciousness, they wouldn’t know whether he’d failed the test, whether the Lady had indeed taken his soul and left them only an animate shell. Just as she was beginning her examination for the third time, Max gasped for breath, drawing in air and coughing as if he had indeed been drowning.
He caught her searching hand in one of his.
“You’re always checking for broken bones,” he coughed nonexistent water out of his lungs, “and you never find any.”
Cassandra’s mouth was open, the words she’d used to answer him a hundred times already on her lips, when the realization of what he’d said struck her still and silent. She sat back on her heels, her hand still trapped in his. He knew what she always did. This wasn’t the first time during his long Banishment that Cassandra had checked him for injuries, and it wasn’t the first time she hadn’t found any. And he
knew
this. Nor was it the first time that he’d brushed away her examining hands and he knew that, too. Max Ravenhill couldn’t have known it. The Prince couldn’t have known it.
Who was this?
knew
this. Nor was it the first time that he’d brushed away her examining hands and he knew that, too. Max Ravenhill couldn’t have known it. The Prince couldn’t have known it.
Who was this?
Again she tried to pull away, but he held her.
“It’s me,” he said, sitting up and drawing the hand he still held to his lips, pressing his mouth to her palm in the way that always made the skin on her belly contract. “I’m here. I’m
still
here.
I’m
still here. I remember you. I remember . . . everything.” His lips smiled and his eyes danced.
still
here.
I’m
still here. I remember you. I remember . . . everything.” His lips smiled and his eyes danced.
Cassandra tried to draw air over the lump in her throat, to blink away the tears in her eyes. She found herself on her knees, held so tightly to his chest that even through her
gra’if
and his she could feel the thumping of his heart next to hers, the uneven shudder of his breath, the skin of his face on her lips, the taste of his tears mingled with her own.
gra’if
and his she could feel the thumping of his heart next to hers, the uneven shudder of his breath, the skin of his face on her lips, the taste of his tears mingled with her own.
Some inexpressible time later Max—she couldn’t think of him as the Prince, she’d never known the Prince—helped her to her feet, brushed the hair back from her face, tucked her hand through his arm, and turned with her to face the others.
Moon stood with her fingers on her mouth, her eyes wide open above them. She looked from Max’s face to Cassandra’s and back again. Cassandra smiled at her, and Moon slowly lowered her hands.
Lightborn had his hands outstretched, and stood with one foot in front of the other, as if he’d been coming to their aid. His face was a strange mixture of hope and fear, a smile trembled on his lips.
“Well, Lightborn. I asked you once if you were my brother,
Cousin.
I can answer that question myself now.” Max let Cassandra’s hand fall but didn’t move away from her.
Cousin.
I can answer that question myself now.” Max let Cassandra’s hand fall but didn’t move away from her.
Lightborn took another step forward, his hands still reaching out toward them. “Dawntreader—”
“Still my cousin but no longer my brother, isn’t that right? Not my
fara’ip
and not for some time. You know, I’m not surprised you’d work against me, Lightborn. But to bring the Basilisk’s men to your own mother’s house, that’s an act of betrayal few have the spine for.”
fara’ip
and not for some time. You know, I’m not surprised you’d work against me, Lightborn. But to bring the Basilisk’s men to your own mother’s house, that’s an act of betrayal few have the spine for.”
Cassandra looked between the two men, shocked.
Max stepped away from Cassandra, one pace closer to Lightborn. “Why look at me like that?” he said to his cousin. “Did you think I wouldn’t remember? Or did you think I didn’t know?”
Cassandra drew her sword.
“Small wonder you did not offer to give the Lady your soul to restore my memory,” the man who had been Max Ravenhill continued. “You knew that you had but to wait and your master would do it for you. How far behind us are they?”
As Max drew his sword, Lightborn took a quick step back, and CRACK! He was gone.
“You’re lucky he didn’t draw; that’s a sword you’re holding, not a dog’s leash,” Cassandra said, relieved to find her voice steady.
To her surprise, the Prince whirled around, laughing, and scooped her into his arms, somehow managing to avoid both her sword and his own.
“It’s better to be lucky than good.”
“So you’ve always said.” Cassandra felt her lips trembling and tried her best to smile.
With one last kiss, he set her down and looked at the Lake, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn down until a line formed between them. He inclined his head in a short bow before turning back to Cassandra and her sister.
“Let’s be off before he brings the Basilisk down on us.”
“Will he?” Even as she spoke, Cassandra started back up the hill to where the horses still stood. “Surely he could have brought them at any time in the last three days?”
“He had no need to. With Lightborn here, the Basilisk was already with us. But now, without a spy in our camp, they have no choice but to come after us.”
Cassandra shook her head, biting her lower lip as she followed Max up the hillside to the horses. She hadn’t liked Lightborn much to start with—after so many years among the Shadowfolk she’d forgotten the casual arrogance of the Rider Lords—and yet she’d found herself changing her mind. It was hard not to like such an engaging man. True, his counsel had always been one of waiting and delay—had his insistence on going to his mother’s aid in Griffinhome been genuine or a tactic to delay Max’s escape? But there were many people whose natural caution made problems worse, not better. Still, he
had
tried to talk them out of coming to the Tarn, even if he hadn’t tried very hard, and he had tried to delay them once they were here. It
could
have been in the hope that the Basilisk’s Riders would catch up to them.
had
tried to talk them out of coming to the Tarn, even if he hadn’t tried very hard, and he had tried to delay them once they were here. It
could
have been in the hope that the Basilisk’s Riders would catch up to them.
She paused as she put her booted foot into the stirrup. But Lightborn had let Max play the Game, and what did
that
mean? She reined in her horse—Lightborn’s horse, she reminded herself, as they all were—with more force than she intended. It wasn’t easy to see the truth of all of this.
that
mean? She reined in her horse—Lightborn’s horse, she reminded herself, as they all were—with more force than she intended. It wasn’t easy to see the truth of all of this.
When they were all once again on horseback, Max turned to Moon.
“We have followed your lead this long while, sister of my love. Now I ask you to follow mine.”
Chapter Fifteen
HE GUARDIAN’S KEEP WAS the closest thing to a home he’d ever had. Not Hearth of the Wind’s desert rocks, not his father’s temporary camps with his band of Wild Riders, not Honor of Souls’ fortress, Griffinhome. Though he’d lived in all these places, this was the only place in all the Lands, or the Shadowlands now that he thought about it, that belonged only to him. A thick tower of rough-worked stone, its large circular rooms were stacked atop one another, each one comfortably but sparsely furnished. The furniture was placed, and the lighting arranged, in such a way that it had taken him some time to realize, when the old Guardian first brought him here, that the Keep had no windows or doors. It could not be found by accident or by Riding. It was the safest place he knew.
The layout of the tower was so simple that it had taken him only minutes to show Cassandra and Moon everything they needed to know to make themselves comfortable. The instant he could, he’d thrown himself into his favorite darkwood chair, still drawn up to the fireplace, exactly as he remembered leaving it, angled so that he could rest his heels on the raised hearth.
He pushed his hair back from his face and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. The Sun was almost turned, but he needed time to think, to sort out the jumble of thoughts and feelings that tumbled through him. He was Dawntreader, no doubt, but he was also Max Ravenhill, as well as all the other humans he had been over that long life. Would he really have killed Lightborn? Or was that just the shock of seeing him so close at hand? His sword had been in his hand. He remembered learning of his cousin’s betrayal, and in one sense that discovery and the feelings that went with it were only a few weeks old. But between him and that hurt, that shock, was the distance of all his human lives, all their pettiness and all their glory.
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