The Mirror Prince (19 page)
Authors: Violette Malan
“We would stop you,” Lightborn said, the steel in his tone at odds with the smile on his face.
“You would try,” agreed Cassandra. She sat back in her chair, and folded her arms, the picture of stubborn resistance. But Max had seen her slipping two bright
gra’if
daggers into her sleeves, and knew she was ready to back up her words. He squeezed his eyes shut. This was all he needed.
gra’if
daggers into her sleeves, and knew she was ready to back up her words. He squeezed his eyes shut. This was all he needed.
“Stop,” he said without thinking. Honor of Souls, who had been gently drumming the side of her wine cup with her fingertips, keeping time to a tune only she could hear, froze in midtap. Windwatcher and Lightborn both sat back in their chairs. Only Cassandra did not move. Max swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “If you children are through checking whose sword is longer, maybe we can get back to the matter at hand.” He turned to Honor of Souls. “You were about to tell us why you brought us here.”
A curious smile, a twinkle in her eye, and Honor opened her mouth to speak, only to have Lightborn cut in before she could begin.
“The Basilisk Prince wants the Talismans, and the Prince Guardian is the only one who knows where they are.”
A little muscle jumped at the side of Cassandra’s mouth as she shook her head. “When the Banishment ends, the Talismans will reappear, and everyone will know where they are. Try again.”
This time Honor of Souls raised her hand, and Lightborn subsided, leaning back in his chair, eyes on Cassandra.
“The Basilisk Prince does not wish to wait,” Honor said, in her cool silk voice. “He wants the Talismans now, and if that is not possible, he wants the Guardian in his hands and captive when the Talismans appear, not free and a rallying point for others.” Honor looked around the table before focusing once more on Max and Cassandra. “The Basilisk has found the Chant of Binding.”
Max looked at Cassandra, ready to take his cue from her reaction, but this time her face was blank. A cold spot in his stomach, there for so long he’d started to ignore it, expanded to twice its size. He already knew Cassandra well enough to know that showing nothing but calm wasn’t good. He glanced quickly at the others, and saw nothing there to reassure him. Lightborn had a hand to his ear, twisting his earring. Windwatcher leaned forward on one elbow, chin on his fisted hand, but the knuckles of that hand were white.
“What does that mean?” His voice trembled with the beating of his heart, but no one else seemed to notice.
“According to the Songs which touch upon it,” Honor said, “the Chant of Binding goes back to the very first Cycle, or at the least to the Cycle when the Talismans were made, if they are not the same.” The elder hesitated, her eyes searched Max’s face. “It is for the Guardian only to know it, for it can be used to bind the Talismans.”
“To
bind
the—” Cassandra’s voice climbed higher as she bit off her words. Max realized that the pain in his wrist was her hand, clamped so tight that he had reached across to grab at her fingers before he was consciously aware of moving. He forced himself to stop trying to pry her fingers loose and instead laid his hand gently on hers.
bind
the—” Cassandra’s voice climbed higher as she bit off her words. Max realized that the pain in his wrist was her hand, clamped so tight that he had reached across to grab at her fingers before he was consciously aware of moving. He forced himself to stop trying to pry her fingers loose and instead laid his hand gently on hers.
“What? What is it?” he said through clenched teeth.
“The Talismans cannot be bound by force,” she said, loosening her grip. “They cannot. They
must
not.”
must
not.”
“Okay, okay. Take a deep breath and explain it to the human guy. What’s the real problem? The Talismans get bound anyway, don’t they?”
A bit of color returned to Cassandra’s face as she breathed more slowly. “You don’t understand. These aren’t just symbols like a human king’s crown and scepter; the Talismans are the manifestation of the Lands themselves. The Guardian has the responsibility of protecting the Talismans, of preserving them and through them the Lands and all the People: Rider, Solitary, and Natural. When the time comes, and the High Prince is chosen, the Guardian binds the Prince to the Talismans, to the Lands, with mutual consent.” She shook his arm. “Do you see? The Prince is bound
to
the Talismans—not the other way around. What will happen if that binding is reversed, so that the Basilisk Prince became not the servant of the Talismans, but their master?”
to
the Talismans—not the other way around. What will happen if that binding is reversed, so that the Basilisk Prince became not the servant of the Talismans, but their master?”
“That is what the Basilisk seeks,” Lightborn said, his tone for the first time without the lilt and archness of his courtier’s voice. Part of Max noted how much he preferred this voice. “Dominion over all the Lands. Not to lead, but to drag by the throat.”
Max bit his lip. Part of him wanted to laugh, to say, “Ah, yes, the old world-domination trick,” but he remembered the Hound, the touch of its paws, the cold focus of its eyes. His fingers moved as if by themselves to touch his
gra’if,
rubbing until he could feel the tiny scales. It was all real. All of it.
gra’if,
rubbing until he could feel the tiny scales. It was all real. All of it.
“That’s not all,” he said, his voice sounding hollow and strange to his ears. “You say the Talismans will manifest at the end of the Banishment. Will the Banishment end if the Prince Guardian dies?”
“No,” Windwatcher said firmly. “Indeed, that was the very reason Banishment was chosen—to protect the Guardian’s life.”
“But he doesn’t have to live beyond that.” Max looked up, seeing the truth in their faces.
Windwatcher nodded. “If the Basilisk Prince succeeds, it means the end of the Lands as we know them. He is already making of them a twisted blight, and . . .” the old soldier looked as though he were about to spit, remembered where he was, and refrained. “There are no children of this generation, neither Rider nor Solitary nor Natural,” he said finally. “Without the Prince, if the Cycle does not turn, this will be the end of the People.” Windwatcher clamped his jaws tight.
“We cannot have the Basilisk as High Prince, we cannot allow him to bond with the Talismans by force.” Honor’s voice sank to a thread of sound. “Better the Cycle turns without us. We
must
keep the Talismans out of his hands, we must take them now, ourselves, and destroy them, if need be.”
must
keep the Talismans out of his hands, we must take them now, ourselves, and destroy them, if need be.”
“That is our purpose,” Windwatcher said. He leaned forward rapping the table with his knuckles, looking from Max to Cassandra and back again. “We bring back the Prince Guardian before his Banishment is ended, that he may serve his purpose. That he may protect the Talismans.”
Cassandra sat back, patting the arms of her chair with her open palms, staring at some spot high up on the opposite wall. There was nothing there but a pattern in the paneling. “And that’s the reason for the Hound, and the others—no one is trying to kill him, just to bring him alive to the Basilisk.” She lowered her gaze and looked at the others, searching their faces in turn, her eyes narrowed. “To keep him until it’s time to kill him. Or even to make him tell where the Talismans are.”
“Yes.”
“How long do we have?” Cassandra said.
“One turn of the Sun,” Lightborn said.
Cassandra gripped the arms of her chair.
Max looked from face to face. “Explanations please.”
Eyes lowered, Cassandra spoke through trembling lips. “A little more than a week,” she said, “and the Talismans will be revealed, and the Basilisk will simply take them . . .” Her voice faded away and she licked her lips.
“Is there a way to restore him?” Windwatcher growled. Max’s heart jumped in his chest. This was the real question, wasn’t it? The one he was more than half afraid to hear answered.
“I will not trouble to deny,” Windwatcher was saying, “that you did not have my support before the Great War, when Dreamer of Time asked to be Tested. Like many, I mistrusted that a Rider raised by Solitaries was a true Rider. Well, I will fight beside you now; I would fight beside even Solitaries, and I am not the only one whose heart has changed in this way.” The old Rider’s eyes narrowed, and such was the man’s focus that it seemed Max was alone in the room with him. “You would not give your reasons for refusing Dreamer of Time—an action we took to be a sign of your arrogance, and your holding yourself apart from Riders, your true people.” Windwatcher lowered his gaze and frowned before looking Max once more in the eye. “Many of us can guess at your reasons now. Since we are speaking truth,” Windwatcher looked at the other faces around the table, “I have said I would now give the Prince Guardian my backing, nor will I withdraw it, not for the Hunt, or any other peril.” Windwatcher touched his
gra’if
with the first two fingers of his right hand, and Max felt a sudden thickness in his throat, knowing that he’d just seen the man swear an oath. “But I know what others will say. Some who would give their support gladly to the Prince Guardian will not fight without him. So, I ask again, can he be restored?”
gra’if
with the first two fingers of his right hand, and Max felt a sudden thickness in his throat, knowing that he’d just seen the man swear an oath. “But I know what others will say. Some who would give their support gladly to the Prince Guardian will not fight without him. So, I ask again, can he be restored?”
“There may be a way,” Lightborn said.
Cassandra looked up into the silence that greeted Lightborn’s words, aware of the sinking of her stomach, aware yet again of the imminence of loss.
No,
she reminded herself,
this is
good,
this is what we want.
Even though a part of her refused to believe it. Sure, she’d told herself years before that there could never again be anything but her Oath between her and the Exile, but . . . knowing that something was coming wasn’t the same as facing it. With the end of the Banishment, she would finally be free. And alone.
No,
she reminded herself,
this is
good,
this is what we want.
Even though a part of her refused to believe it. Sure, she’d told herself years before that there could never again be anything but her Oath between her and the Exile, but . . . knowing that something was coming wasn’t the same as facing it. With the end of the Banishment, she would finally be free. And alone.
“There is someone who knows a great deal about the Chant of Oblivion,” Lightborn said. “It is possible she might have a suggestion.”
The others fell silent as Lightborn left the room. Max was flushed, and it was all Cassandra could do to stop herself from laying her hand against his cheek to check for fever. Instead, she rubbed her own face, her eyes feeling gritty with exhaustion. Maybe if this was really over, if her Wardenship was done, she could beg a bed of Honor of Souls and get some sleep.
“You said he was touched by a Hound,” Windwatcher said. “What of that?”
Cassandra roused herself, blinking. She should have known it would be the old warrior who would pick up that point. “I killed it,” she said, ignoring the challenge in the older man’s lifted eyebrow, “but if there are more—if the Basilisk Prince is using the Hunt . . .” she lifted her own brows, making it clear she was waiting for Windwatcher to tell her what he knew.
“People have not wanted to believe it,” Windwatcher finally said, his baritone rumble almost too soft to hear.
“I hear you,” Cassandra murmured, remembering the Hound’s blood on her jeans, still fresh and liquid, as it would always be. Liquid and fresh—
Cassandra sat up straight. “Our clothes,” she said. “Where are they?”
“Taken to be burned, I hope,” Honor of Souls said.
“No,” Cassandra said, sitting on the forward edge of her chair. “That was Hound’s blood, and we can use it to lure them here.”
“For what possible purpose?”
“To kill them,” Cassandra said.
“Of course.” Max saw where Cassandra was going with this. “We’ve got to assume that they’ll be sent after us again, right? This way we control the when and the where. We can be ready for them when they come.”
“Not possible.” Windwatcher shook his head.
Cassandra knew what was behind the older Rider’s words. For most Riders, Hounds, indeed the Hunt itself, had been only something the Songs told of. Her own father had seen the Hunt once, years before she was born, and some said that Max’s mother had been killed by the Hunt, leaving him to be brought up by Solitaries.
“I assure you they
can
be killed. I was taught by the Wild Rider Nighthawk, who was Warden with me in the Shadowlands. He had killed one in his youth, and he taught me the method, seeing that I bore
gra’if,
as he did.” It was Nighthawk who had warned her not to look it in the eye, stressing that she must keep striking, no matter what form it took. “Kill it, or make sure it kills you,” the grizzled veteran had said, “and whatever happens, do not let it feed while you still live.”
can
be killed. I was taught by the Wild Rider Nighthawk, who was Warden with me in the Shadowlands. He had killed one in his youth, and he taught me the method, seeing that I bore
gra’if,
as he did.” It was Nighthawk who had warned her not to look it in the eye, stressing that she must keep striking, no matter what form it took. “Kill it, or make sure it kills you,” the grizzled veteran had said, “and whatever happens, do not let it feed while you still live.”
“And where is your fellow Warden now?” Windwatcher asked.
“I don’t know,” she was forced to answer. Had he followed his own advice? she wondered with a sudden shiver. Could she hope that the old warrior had killed the Hound that found him, and was even now somewhere in the Shadowlands, hiding from the rest of the Hunt?
“I think we will burn your clothes, Truthsheart. Anything else is too dangerous.”
She was marshaling her thoughts to continue the argument when Lightborn returned, ushering in with him a young female Rider. Another Starward, Cassandra noted without much interest. Once such things would have made a difference to her, but after years among humans, petty distinctions of coloring and—
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