Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (48 page)
Max looked down. “No one has ever been to the Stone, or left it, without a Guardian to Move them.”
“So, if you are dead . . . ?”
Max inclined his head once, his eyes fixed on Lightborn’s.
“So this is a trick?” Lightborn’s smile was joyous. “We will lure him to the Stone, and we will kill him.”
“Or die ourselves, yes.”
“A simple plan. I like it.”
Cassandra smelled the Hound the moment it entered the room and redoubled her efforts to pry loose the ring that fastened her darkmetal shackles to the floor. Using the chair leg was awkward, especially with her broken arm, but she thought she felt some give to the bolts that held the ring in place. What she did not feel was the distinctive movement the air would make as the Signs reactivated, and for a moment her heart leaped and the adrenaline surge gave her strength enough to pull the bolts free. She brought her concentration to bear, pushing aside the pain in her head and the throbbing in her arm. Even if the Hound followed her through the Move, if she could focus enough—
—a bruising grip on her ankle jerked her leg up and swung her around, letting go not when she was in the air as she half expected, but back on the floor so that she only slid across the flagstones and came to a jarring stop against the hearth of the fireplace, the chains of her manacles bruising her ribs and back.
Damn,
she thought, fighting the urge to clear her head by shaking it. Leaving the Signs open had been no oversight on the Basilisk’s part, but a calculated ploy. She couldn’t both defend herself
and
Move. And the distraction of freedom would be enough to make her defense a poor one. Or so the Basilisk might think.
Damn,
she thought, fighting the urge to clear her head by shaking it. Leaving the Signs open had been no oversight on the Basilisk’s part, but a calculated ploy. She couldn’t both defend herself
and
Move. And the distraction of freedom would be enough to make her defense a poor one. Or so the Basilisk might think.
She couldn’t hope to kill the Hound. The Basilisk Prince she could have managed, even with the cracked ulna, but the Hound was a different matter. She wasn’t even sure that it could be killed without
gra’if,
and her mail shirt made a poor offensive weapon. If she couldn’t solve Max’s dilemma by killing the Basilisk, she had to do it by dying herself. Normally, you could count on a Hound for that. But this time . . .
gra’if,
and her mail shirt made a poor offensive weapon. If she couldn’t solve Max’s dilemma by killing the Basilisk, she had to do it by dying herself. Normally, you could count on a Hound for that. But this time . . .
He’s been told to scare me,
Cassandra thought, drawing in slow careful breaths to save her ribs.
So how can I get him to kill me instead?
She could start out by seeming more injured than she was. Because it had to be a kill, a clean kill. No sane person would choose death by Hound as a good method of suicide. She remembered very clearly Nighthawk’s advice when he’d taught her how to kill Hounds. “Don’t let them feed,” he had said to her, “if it seems to you that you will not prevail, kill yourself before it begins to feed.” Good advice, she was sure. Sound. She shut her eyes tight against the throbbing in her arm, a counterpoint against the ringing in her head.
Cassandra thought, drawing in slow careful breaths to save her ribs.
So how can I get him to kill me instead?
She could start out by seeming more injured than she was. Because it had to be a kill, a clean kill. No sane person would choose death by Hound as a good method of suicide. She remembered very clearly Nighthawk’s advice when he’d taught her how to kill Hounds. “Don’t let them feed,” he had said to her, “if it seems to you that you will not prevail, kill yourself before it begins to feed.” Good advice, she was sure. Sound. She shut her eyes tight against the throbbing in her arm, a counterpoint against the ringing in her head.
Forcing air out of her lungs, she used the hearthstone and then the mantel of the fireplace to pull herself to her feet, kicking the heavy skirt of her gown out of the way. She was just straightening her knees when the Hound swept her feet out from under her and pounced on her, landing lightly on all four clawed feet, crouching over her with jerky flaps of its stunted wings. She managed to get her arms up to protect her head, but the strain on the broken bone, weighed down by her manacles, was telling. Her forearm moved as if it was not a part of her, but a dead weight. If only it were as numb as dead weight usually was, then at least it wouldn’t cost her so much effort to ignore the pain.
If she couldn’t concentrate enough to Move, could she concentrate enough to Heal herself? In the past, she had often Healed humans with little more than a touch, almost without thinking of it. She wasn’t human, but perhaps she could Heal enough—ooof!
The Hound had pounced again, this time giving her a savage bite that might have broken ribs, except that under her clothes her
gra’if
mail shirt hardened, protecting her from the Hound’s teeth. Frustrated, the Hound batted her with its spiked tail, sending her sliding partway across the room until she came up against the divan with a jarring thump.
gra’if
mail shirt hardened, protecting her from the Hound’s teeth. Frustrated, the Hound batted her with its spiked tail, sending her sliding partway across the room until she came up against the divan with a jarring thump.
It was playing with her like a cat, she realized, as it morphed into a leather-and-furred dragon, deformed and wingless. But cats sometimes were careless enough to kill their prey before they intended to. Somehow, she had to get this one to do that. The Basilisk was counting on her to react to the Hound like any Rider, with fear and loathing. But she wasn’t any other Rider. Either the Basilisk had forgotten that she had killed a Hound in the Shadowlands, or he had never been told. Cassandra strongly suspected it was the latter.
Could that be her approach? She swallowed and tasted blood, spat it out on the floor. Could she taunt it with the death of its pack mate? It had worked with the Basilisk, and the Basilisk, she now knew, was more than half Hound. Could she get this one angry enough, or careless enough, to kill her?
“What were you to start with?” She cleared her throat and spat out another gob of blood. “Chimera? Griffin? Just some big kitty cat, huh?”
This time, when it batted at her, she clutched at the limb—she couldn’t be sure whether it was arm or leg. The scales under her hands morphed to feathers, to skin, to soft wet flesh, to rough fur and back to scales again. She clung, pain numbing her right hand, trying to bring her teeth to bear, until the Hound shook her free by the simple expedient of banging her against the wall until her grip loosened and she let go. She looked up right away, tossing her head to clear her hair from her eyes, even though it set her head to clanging like a bell.
“What’s the matter? Can’t keep your shape?” It circled her more warily now, pupilless eyes blinking, spiked tail lashing like a big cat’s. “I’ve killed one of you already,” she said. “Maybe you knew him? Looked like he might have had some cat in him. Or her.”
The Hound snarled and sprang for her, wings sprouting from its leathery back, scales changing to feathers even as it hovered over her, claws snatching. Cassandra picked up a chair, forcing her numb right hand to close over a leg, and heaved it at the distortion hovering, wings beating, above her. The momentum of throwing the chair unbalanced her, and as she was teetering, the Hound landed on her shoulders and knocked her to the floor. Again her
gra’if
shirt hardened, saving her from having the air knocked out of her. She twisted, feeling the Hound’s shardlike talons dragging through the skin of her arms, and closed her hands on its forelimbs, digging through the feathery layer to touch the skin beneath. It was not, as she somehow expected, burning hot, but cold, clammy, as if the Hound were injured or dying. Cassandra felt heat rising in her blood to answer it. She felt the heat pouring from her into the Hound.
gra’if
shirt hardened, saving her from having the air knocked out of her. She twisted, feeling the Hound’s shardlike talons dragging through the skin of her arms, and closed her hands on its forelimbs, digging through the feathery layer to touch the skin beneath. It was not, as she somehow expected, burning hot, but cold, clammy, as if the Hound were injured or dying. Cassandra felt heat rising in her blood to answer it. She felt the heat pouring from her into the Hound.
No,
she thought.
she thought.
His Signed Room was dark and quiet, even the fire in the hearth had gone out, ashes cold now and half-burned bits of kindling spread across the singed floor. The first thing the Basilisk saw, when his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, was broken furniture. He drew his brows down. His Guidebeast set was scattered over the floor and several of the pieces were crushed and broken. It was not until he had peered around the room twice that he saw the body of Sword of Truth lying in a heap by the far wall, what he had taken for shafts of light her
gra’if
mail shining bright as flame through the tears in her dress. The Basilisk motioned with his hand, halting the guards at the door. His hands shook and he told himself it was rage. If the Hound had killed her, after being given strict instructions that Sword of Truth was not to be seriously harmed . . . He forced himself to breathe deeply. Her words had troubled him, but only for a moment. What she suggested was not possible. Riders did not
become
Hounds. The Hunt was the Hunt, and always had been, Cycle through Cycle. She had wanted to strike at him, that was all. To destroy his confidence. But she had chosen her weapon badly, her accusation too wild to be believed—though not too wild to punish. He strode forward, avoiding the broken furniture and crumpled rugs, and mindful of the game pieces still whole on the floor. His hand went once more to the Horn he wore around his neck. If she were dead . . .
gra’if
mail shining bright as flame through the tears in her dress. The Basilisk motioned with his hand, halting the guards at the door. His hands shook and he told himself it was rage. If the Hound had killed her, after being given strict instructions that Sword of Truth was not to be seriously harmed . . . He forced himself to breathe deeply. Her words had troubled him, but only for a moment. What she suggested was not possible. Riders did not
become
Hounds. The Hunt was the Hunt, and always had been, Cycle through Cycle. She had wanted to strike at him, that was all. To destroy his confidence. But she had chosen her weapon badly, her accusation too wild to be believed—though not too wild to punish. He strode forward, avoiding the broken furniture and crumpled rugs, and mindful of the game pieces still whole on the floor. His hand went once more to the Horn he wore around his neck. If she were dead . . .
But she was not dead. And neither was the naked Rider asleep in her arms.
“Well,” the Basilisk said, his voice a bare whisper. “Perhaps I will keep her after all.”
He swung around and went back to the waiting guards.
“Bring them both.”
Dawn had the clarity that only comes on a cold fall day. Max’s breath fogged in the early light. The air actually seemed colder, now that the sun was up, than it had the night before. Blood on the Snow and Lightborn flanked him. Behind them stood the Ogre Thunder Under the Mountain her green-gray bulk overshadowing the Natural
Trere’if
who seemed almost delicate beside her. Beyond them was a semicircle of Wild Riders on their Cloud Horses, all that were left after Windwatcher had taken the others to the Portals.
Trere’if
who seemed almost delicate beside her. Beyond them was a semicircle of Wild Riders on their Cloud Horses, all that were left after Windwatcher had taken the others to the Portals.
“If this turns out badly,” Max said, “I’d like to say I’m sorry now.”
“Good to hear you are so confident,” Lightborn said. Blood merely shook his head, smiling.
Max grinned back.
Here we go,
he thought, as—SLAM!
Here we go,
he thought, as—SLAM!
The Basilisk had brought with him a full troop of mounted soldiers, all conspicuous in their soft purple clothing. One or two of the host’s Cloud Horses tossed their heads as their Riders reacted to the presence of the Ogre and the Wood. It was clear from this, and from the muttering that passed through the ranks like a breeze and was almost instantly checked, that most of them had not been told who and what they were going to meet. The Basilisk Prince himself was flanked by two Starward Riders, standing one at each of his stirrups, looking like pale flames in the dawn’s light. One of them was Walks Under the Moon, and the other—Max let out the breath he had been holding. The other was Cassandra.
Her face was dirty, bruised, and her
gra’if
mail shirt gleamed through tears in her clothing. There were darkmetal cuffs around her wrists, joined with a short chain. Max felt a flood of heat as the anger and fear he’d carefully suppressed surged to the surface. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill the Basilisk Prince with his own hands for no other reason than that the stone-sucking Basilisk had dared to touch her.
gra’if
mail shirt gleamed through tears in her clothing. There were darkmetal cuffs around her wrists, joined with a short chain. Max felt a flood of heat as the anger and fear he’d carefully suppressed surged to the surface. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill the Basilisk Prince with his own hands for no other reason than that the stone-sucking Basilisk had dared to touch her.
But he pushed the fires of his anger back, forcing himself to be calm, as calm as she appeared to be, glowing in the cloudy day like torchlight, her pale skin a golden cream, her gray eyes almost as brightly silver as her
gra’if
. The sight of her took Max back to the night Cassandra had killed the Hound, when she’d made the streetlight pale by comparison. There was a young Moonward Rider on her left, his purple cotte and leggings badly fitted, looking around him with small jerks of his head, holding her tightly by the forearm, not like a captor, but like a small boy who holds to his mother in an unfamiliar place. When Max caught her eye, Cassandra smiled and gave him a “thumbs up” sign with her left hand. Max bit the inside of his lip to keep his face straight, blinking furiously against the tears that threatened his eyes. He knew that look.
I’m ready,
the look said,
let’s go.
Didn’t matter that he’d had no chance to explain his plan to her, she knew he had one, and she was ready to back him up. She was ready.
gra’if
. The sight of her took Max back to the night Cassandra had killed the Hound, when she’d made the streetlight pale by comparison. There was a young Moonward Rider on her left, his purple cotte and leggings badly fitted, looking around him with small jerks of his head, holding her tightly by the forearm, not like a captor, but like a small boy who holds to his mother in an unfamiliar place. When Max caught her eye, Cassandra smiled and gave him a “thumbs up” sign with her left hand. Max bit the inside of his lip to keep his face straight, blinking furiously against the tears that threatened his eyes. He knew that look.
I’m ready,
the look said,
let’s go.
Didn’t matter that he’d had no chance to explain his plan to her, she knew he had one, and she was ready to back him up. She was ready.
Max hoped she didn’t remember that time in Florence.
The Basilisk urged his horse forward a pace, motioning to Cassandra.
“I have brought you Sword of Truth,” the Basilisk said, his voice smooth and cool.
Max took a step toward her before he could stop himself.
“Not so quickly, Dawntreader. Where are the Talismans?”
“I have taken the precaution,” Max said with a slight bow, “of Moving them to the Stone.” He indicated the men standing behind the Basilisk. “It seemed like a prudent course.”
The Basilisk inclined his own head, his gaze moving across the Wild Riders assembled behind Max. “Suppose I take you now?”
Max shrugged. “You cannot force me to Move you to the Stone,” he said.
“I still have Sword of Truth,” the Basilisk said, eyes narrowing.
Max held up his hand, index finger extended, as both Lightborn and Blood in the Snow stepped forward.
“How many times can you play the same card?” he said to the Basilisk. “I would have no reason to take you to the Talismans if Sword of Truth is dead.”
Cassandra still smiling, eyes bright, made a noise as if she might laugh.
“Then I am ready,” the Basilisk said, with a mocking bow.
“There must be witnesses,” Max said.
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