Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (45 page)
He felt a stirring, as flames within him rose, and he straightened, his hands still on the Cauldron.
Clearly, this was what they wanted. Was it possible? Was there now a High Prince to be brought to the Stone? But what had changed in the last few sunwidths? Unless Lightborn . . . Max sat down heavily on the small folding stool that stood before the chest holding the Talismans. What about Lightborn? It was possible. Max grinned and shook his head. Lightborn had changed since the time before the Great War, when the Basilisk Prince had asked for the Testing. He had changed and grown even since Max’s own return to the Lands. Was that what the Talismans had been waiting for? Would they now Choose?
Max closed his eyes, reached out again with his Phoenix heart, but this time there was no answering surge of flame. The Talismans had told him all they had to tell for now. Perhaps he grasped at straws. Perhaps, after all, there was to be no High Prince, and the Cycle would not turn . . . perhaps it was only that the Talismans wished to be joined with the last of their
fara’ip
. Well, then, he would do that much for them. And for himself. And if there should, after all, be more than that? Well and good, he would be ready.
fara’ip
. Well, then, he would do that much for them. And for himself. And if there should, after all, be more than that? Well and good, he would be ready.
But there was something he had to do first. Max closed his eyes and curled his fingers around the dragon torque at his neck, the scales warm and pliant. She was alive. Alive and presumably safe, though unable to Move. Well, he could think of two reasons for that. Unconscious or Bound. Either way, even the Basilisk would not offer to trade him anything other than a live Cassandra. He hoped they were keeping her in the tower room and not the dungeon.
He reached out to stroke the Dragon helm sitting next to the Talismans on an old piece of embroidered silk that Blood on the Snow had given him. The rest of the
gra’if
she couldn’t wear into the Citadel was here as well, her gauntlets and greaves, her swords and daggers. Cassandra had Moved to him using his own
gra’if,
but he didn’t think he could do that. Her ability to Move to him had more to do with her being a Healer, he knew, and specifically with having Healed him many times, than with her having used his
gra’if
.
gra’if
she couldn’t wear into the Citadel was here as well, her gauntlets and greaves, her swords and daggers. Cassandra had Moved to him using his own
gra’if,
but he didn’t think he could do that. Her ability to Move to him had more to do with her being a Healer, he knew, and specifically with having Healed him many times, than with her having used his
gra’if
.
As he pulled his own gauntlets on, he remembered the darkmetal shackles, and tucked her thin mailed gloves into his belt.
“You will go to her, then?”
Max hadn’t heard Blood on the Snow enter the tent behind him. “I must,” he said without turning around. “She came for me.” Even if it was just the Oath that brought her, he thought, even if that was all it was, he had to go after her now. He touched the Dragon torque again. He had bound her to him the only way he could, so that the end of the Banishment wouldn’t separate them. He hoped it would be enough.
He turned to face his father, unprepared to find the Wild Rider smiling.
“I will not stop you, my son.” Blood’s voice was a soft thread of sound. “On the contrary. I came to be sure that you understood what this,” Blood touched the torque around Max’s neck with the tip of his index finger, “bound you to.”
“I understand,” Max said. In the look he exchanged with his father, Max saw all the words that neither of them could say, as the ghost of the woman they had lost stood between them.
“Go to her,” Blood whispered, stepping back from him.
Max emptied his mind of everything except his missing torque. He knew where it was the same way the he knew where his feet were, where the tips of his fingers touched the inside of his gloves. It was a part of him, he had only to Move toward that part of his fire that was—There!
He was in a broad passageway, a part of the Citadel he had never seen. The walls were paneled in darkwood, and the floors were dressed in reddish stone, polished mirror smooth. His Phoenix torque lay under his right hand, on top of a hall table. Of course. As it was really
his gra’if,
they would have been able to remove it. The table also held a vase filled with apple blossoms and the weapons Cassandra had been carrying, several daggers, a throwing knife, and a sword with blood hastily and poorly wiped off. Max hooked the Phoenix torque—he no longer thought of it as his—through his belt to leave both hands free.
his gra’if,
they would have been able to remove it. The table also held a vase filled with apple blossoms and the weapons Cassandra had been carrying, several daggers, a throwing knife, and a sword with blood hastily and poorly wiped off. Max hooked the Phoenix torque—he no longer thought of it as his—through his belt to leave both hands free.
Next to the table was an ordinary darkwood chamber door, such as might lead to any bedroom or sitting room. This door, however, had a gleaming inlay, bright and silvery and hard to focus on. The door was Signed. Max knew who was behind the door, and even though he knew there was nothing he could do about it, he flattened himself against it, his cheek pressed to the door’s tooled surface, hands reaching as if he could force his fingers through the wood, as if his thoughts, his love, could pass through. He couldn’t move, unwilling to go without her; unwilling to face the decision he now had to make.
He didn’t Move until he heard the sound of approaching feet.
Max looked across the makeshift table at Blood on the Snow, Lightborn, and Windwatcher, studying each Rider in turn, assessing the different strengths he would find in them. Exactly as if they could help him. But they were Riders, he knew what they would say. He knew what he would have said himself, before he had lived his human lives. One Rider’s life was a small price to pay to keep the Talismans out of the Basilisk’s hands. A very small price when weighed against the good of the Lands and all the People. Cassandra would tell him the same thing herself. Everything they had done had been done with the purpose of keeping the Talismans away from the Basilisk. One Rider’s life.
But Cassandra’s life?
Even he might consider—for a moment—Cassandra’s life a fair exchange if it bought the good of all the Lands and all the People. If sacrificing her life meant the start of a new Cycle. But if he were wrong about the possibility of a High Prince, if his hope about the change in Lightborn was nothing more than that, hope born of desperation . . . then giving up Cassandra wouldn’t buy them anything. If the Cycles were ended, if he was the last Guardian, Cassandra’s death at the hands of the Master of the Hunt would buy him and his followers nothing more than a little bit of time. Time they would spend running from Hounds.
Max looked at the faces across the table again, but there were still no answers there for him.
“My son,” Blood said, getting to his feet. He had always looked what he was, Max thought, the oldest among them, but this was the first time he’d seen Blood move like an old man. “I know what you are thinking. You are wondering whether you can live with yourself when you have chosen your duty over your love. I once made such a choice, and I tell you, you can. But I tell you this, also. While it is possible to live with the decision should you choose duty, you will wish it were not. Do not speak hastily. Weigh what you must do.” He gathered up the other two Riders with a sideways jerk of his head and led them out of the tent.
Max took a deep breath. His father’s understanding was more comforting than he could have imagined, though it didn’t help him. It was easy to choose between right and wrong; it was much harder to choose between two things when both were right.
And what, after all, if he were wrong? Would Cassandra’s death buy the Talismans the time they needed for the Prince to appear? He had said, arrogantly he now saw, that they could ignore the Basilisk. But the Basilisk would not stop hunting him, would not stop killing his friends, there would always be someone dear to him—he looked through the tent opening to where Lightborn and Windwatcher had joined Blood on the Snow at the far side of the clearing. When they felt his stare and turned to look back at him, he shook his head minutely and lowered his face into his hands. This had to stop, and stop now.
He was in very great danger of making the same mistakes he’d made the first time around. When he’d let his own arrogance and his own pride make his decisions for him. This time he’d better think. All those years in the Shadowlands, planning other people’s campaigns, testing strategies. What had he learned? What were his goals? What did he want to happen?
He could not let the Basilisk have the Talismans. He could not let the Basilisk kill Cassandra.
He could kill the Basilisk.
Max’s laughter hurt his throat. It was so obvious he felt stupid. He saw exactly how he could do it, too. And if things went wrong, well, the Talismans would be where it seemed they wished to be. It was worth the risk.
He strode to the doorway of the tent, looked around the Riders outside until he caught the waiting Singer’s eye and nodded. He motioned toward his father and Lightborn and waited until they were all gathered around him.
“I have made my decision,” he said. “But I will tell it only to the Basilisk himself.”
The Basilisk’s Guidebeast set was the most intricate Cassandra had ever seen, each piece carefully carved and inlaid with stones of different colors to make them as lifelike as possible. The little ruby-and-bloodstone Dragons that were her pawns even seemed to feel warm. Cassandra picked up her Cauldron and moved it two spaces to the left, where it could protect her High Prince. The long sleeves of her red, silver, and black gown didn’t quite cover the darkmetal cuffs on her wrists, and the chain that shackled them together swung, tapping against the edge of the table.
Cassandra leaned back in her chair. They had taken all her weapons from her, but her
gra’if
mail shirt they could not remove without killing her, and she had deliberately left the high collar of the gown open at her throat to let it show. She didn’t worry about her lack of weapons. Even the manacles didn’t trouble her, though they were threaded through a darkmetal bolt on the floor at her feet. Eventually, the Basilisk would get careless, venture too close, and she would kill him. She looked around the small chamber at the Signs embedded in the walls, then back at the Rider across the table who had powered them. But perhaps she would save killing him for a last resort.
gra’if
mail shirt they could not remove without killing her, and she had deliberately left the high collar of the gown open at her throat to let it show. She didn’t worry about her lack of weapons. Even the manacles didn’t trouble her, though they were threaded through a darkmetal bolt on the floor at her feet. Eventually, the Basilisk would get careless, venture too close, and she would kill him. She looked around the small chamber at the Signs embedded in the walls, then back at the Rider across the table who had powered them. But perhaps she would save killing him for a last resort.
“What are your plans for my sister?”
“I have no plans,” the Basilisk said, studying the board. “I have fulfilled my bargain. I have taken you from the Prince Guardian.”
Cassandra looked around the room, at the darkmetal and onyx embedded in the walls. “Somehow I don’t think this is what Walks Under the Moon had in mind.”
“My dear,” the Basilisk looked up at her from under his brows. “I said she could have you. I never said she could keep you.”
Half an hour, more or less, they’d had together, in this room, before the Basilisk came to play Guidebeasts. No, Cassandra was sure that wasn’t what Moon had had in mind when she’d made her bargain. At first, when Moon had knelt at her feet and put her head in Cassandra’s lap, she’d held herself stiffly away from the younger Rider. But a memory of the little girl who’d sat like this so often relaxed her spine, and a half-forgotten habit brought up her hand to stroke Moon’s hair.
“Do you remember the Fair at Vareye’vo?”
“Hmmm.” Cassandra had kept stroking Moon’s hair.
“The pageants, the Cloud Horse races, the tournaments of fencing. Singing. That is what I want. I want us to have those days again.”
“Do you think the Basilisk Prince will give it to us?”
“He is the only one who makes an attempt.”
“But he is not the High Prince; what he’s attempting is wrong.”
Moon turned her face up to look Cassandra in the eye. “I am not so certain he is not the High Prince,” she said. “The Songs say the identity of the Prince will be as clear as a sound from a bell, and there is no other obvious candidate. It
must
be him.”
must
be him.”
The “him” who sat across the table from Cassandra now.
“I would be interested to hear about your experiences in the Shadowlands, when we are both at more leisure,” the Basilisk said. He picked up his goblet of wine from the small side table next to his chair.
“I doubt there will be much leisure in my future.”
He raised his eyes to her as he set his wine down again. “It can be arranged. We must know more about them, and soon, if we are to assume our rightful rule over them. I know you could give me valuable insights into that world, and the value of its peoples.”
Cassandra lowered her eyes, pretending to study the board. Only years of discipline kept her from launching herself across the board at him. She couldn’t afford to show him her reaction to his words. She’d seen the effects of his interest in Malcolm Jones’ home—seen the remains of Mal’s human wife and children spread throughout his house. Did the Basilisk really expect her to help set the Hunt on humans who had not even the possibility of Moving to delay the inevitable? Who could never have
gra’if?
Nausea twisted through her stomach, and she forced herself to swallow.
gra’if?
Nausea twisted through her stomach, and she forced herself to swallow.
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