Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (10 page)
Twilight edged forward, her Singer’s curiosity overcoming her caution. She had seen the Griffin Lord at a distance, but this was her first opportunity to observe him closely. Like herself, the Griffin was a Starward Rider, distinguished by his pallor, his dark blue eyes, and his elaborately braided hair, blazing platinum like a cloud of starlight. Like the rest of the present group, he affected the current monochrome fashion of the Basilisk’s
fara’ip
. His breeches and boots, his tunic, cut long enough to reach the knees and divided for riding, were a deep forest green, and heavily brocaded with griffins. However, unlike the others, who wore no jewelry whatsoever, the Griffin Lord displayed his individuality, or his recklessness, in the shape of a jeweled ring, worn in the left ear.
fara’ip
. His breeches and boots, his tunic, cut long enough to reach the knees and divided for riding, were a deep forest green, and heavily brocaded with griffins. However, unlike the others, who wore no jewelry whatsoever, the Griffin Lord displayed his individuality, or his recklessness, in the shape of a jeweled ring, worn in the left ear.
The Griffin was not, Twilight noted, the only one present who did not wear the deep magenta colors of the Basilisk Prince. But he was the only one who looked comfortable doing so.
“My lord Prince,” he said, his voice light, as if he’d found a way to whisper and speak aloud at the same time. He lowered his eyes and bowed with another graceful gesture of his hand. The Basilisk Prince reached out and touched the Griffin’s cheek with the back of his fingers as the Rider straightened.
“What news do you bring me, my dear one?”
“We have the Solitary who gave them warning, and this.” In his right hand the Griffin held out a hair ornament about the length of his thumb.
Twilight strained to see as the Basilisk Prince took hold of the little clip, turning it over in his fingers. Small as it was, it was extraordinarily detailed and lifelike, a three-dimensional depiction of a dragon asleep, its nose buried beneath its tail like a cat napping.
“Is it
gra’if ?
” A murmur among those watching quickly stilled as the Basilisk Prince lifted his hand.
gra’if ?
” A murmur among those watching quickly stilled as the Basilisk Prince lifted his hand.
“No, my lord, the ornament is made of what the Shadowfolk call silver.”
“Do we know to whom it belonged?”
The Griffin Lord shook his head. “Two of the Wardens were Dragonborn. We do not know which of them dropped it.”
“If it is coincidence, I must say that I do not like it.” The Basilisk Prince turned the small silver dragon until it caught the sun. Twilight took a step back, getting several of the others between her and where the Basilisk stood with the Griffin Lord. She’d had her fill today of what the Basilisk Prince did not like.
“She often knows more than it seems possible for her to know,” the Griffin reminded the Prince. Twilight winced. No telling who the “she” under discussion was, but it sounded as if she should be more careful. And as for the Griffin Lord, he spoke boldly, more boldly perhaps than was safe. Twilight glanced around and saw that the other Riders were looking carefully at the fountains and shrubs that surrounded them. They all knew that the Prince loved the Griffin Lord, but others had been loved, and were seen no more.
“Where is he now?”
“They passed through the Portal, my lord. What would you have us do?”
The Basilisk turned to face them once again, and Twilight prepared her best smile. He inclined his head, and she bowed with the rest. As she raised her head, she caught the eye of the Griffin Lord. Something in his face . . . some unexpected look. The jewel in his ear flashed in the sunlight. Was he shaking his head at her, or had it been just a tremor of the light? As he turned his face from her, Twilight thought of the little Natural, staked out to dry within sight of her own pool, and wondered how far she could get from the court if she left now. Was it even worth the attempt? Was there any safe place for her to go? She thought again of the Water Sprite.
No,
she realized, an unexpected freedom in the thought,
and it’s just as dangerous to stay.
No,
she realized, an unexpected freedom in the thought,
and it’s just as dangerous to stay.
She’d go, then. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure the Basilisk Prince would hear it and question her.
The Basilisk Prince felt the muscles in his face loosen, the tightness in his stomach—almost a cramp—die away. How much he enjoyed seeing the brightness in their eyes. He turned his back on the
fara’ip
and walked with his beloved friend toward the now distant tower.
fara’ip
and walked with his beloved friend toward the now distant tower.
“I had to discipline a Natural today, a little Water Sprite,” he said.
“Did you?” his friend answered. “I suppose it couldn’t be helped.”
“Most definitely not. But now, of course, there’s a gap in the Garden, and that will have to be taken care of before the Dedication.”
“As I have said, you do too much. Let others take care of these details.”
“Ah, how like you, dear one,” the Prince shook his head, smiling. “But it is the details that count.” A few more of them, he thought, and all would be accomplished. Soon now, very soon. He looked at the silver dragon in his hand. The tools he needed to make every Rider, every Natural, and even every Solitary as obedient as was the Garden through which he walked were almost in his hands. It only wanted the final piece, the Exile.
There had been those, the Prince recalled, placing his hand on the Griffin’s shoulder as they walked, who suggested—carefully, where they thought he would not hear of it—that everything he did stemmed from being passed over for the Guardianship, but it was not so. True, back before he was the Basilisk Prince, when he was only Dreamer of Time, he would have been content to Guard the Talismans, to hold the heart and good of the People as his charge. When his cousin, Dawntreader, was chosen instead, the Basilisk Prince had known that his was another, more difficult, path.
All the Songs agreed that the Guardian of the Talismans was the one Rider—the one among all the People—who could never be High Prince. It was
that
task which Dreamer of Time knew to be his own, but Dawntreader had refused him the Talismans.
Refused
him. Even now, the Basilisk had to consciously refrain from forming fists at the thought. Even at the end of the War, when Dawntreader had surrendered, and Dreamer of Time was hailed for the first time as the Basilisk Prince, he had been unable to act. He’d quietly tested his allies and had seen that there was no heart left in them, at that moment, to force Dawntreader to their will. Renewed conflict—and forcing the Guardian would have meant exactly that, as the arrogant son-of-Solitaries well knew—would have been the result. Dawntreader’s surrender had achieved what a war he could not win had not: it had gained him time. Or so he had thought.
that
task which Dreamer of Time knew to be his own, but Dawntreader had refused him the Talismans.
Refused
him. Even now, the Basilisk had to consciously refrain from forming fists at the thought. Even at the end of the War, when Dawntreader had surrendered, and Dreamer of Time was hailed for the first time as the Basilisk Prince, he had been unable to act. He’d quietly tested his allies and had seen that there was no heart left in them, at that moment, to force Dawntreader to their will. Renewed conflict—and forcing the Guardian would have meant exactly that, as the arrogant son-of-Solitaries well knew—would have been the result. Dawntreader’s surrender had achieved what a war he could not win had not: it had gained him time. Or so he had thought.
But the passage of time had changed many things. Now very few gave thought to the welfare of the Prince Guardian, and the state of his Banishment. Many, if asked, would not even know if he lived. And now, now that the Basilisk Prince had all the allies he could want, he no longer needed them. The little tune threaded its way through the feelings behind this thought. Now he had the means to force Dawntreader to do what was needed.
The Prince stopped to stroke the ornamental grasses that grew against the Citadel wall. He drew the stems through his hand, inhaling the clean green scent of the crushed plant. This time, the Prince Guardian would agree to give the Lands the High Prince they so badly needed. This time he would not be able to refuse. The Prince drew his hand back sharply. The edges of the grass had cut his hand. He smiled. He should have remembered the greenery did more than look pretty. He turned to the Griffin.
“Find them. Bring them to me,” he said, looking at the blood on his fingers. “The child of the Dragon is not to be killed, mark that.”
“And the Solitary?”
“I will see him now.”
“It shall be as the Basilisk Prince wishes.”
Cassandra dropped Max’s hands and covered her eyes with her palms, biting back a scream of frustration.
“What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?”
Cassandra shook her head. “I don’t know!” The words came out louder than she had intended. Abruptly, she turned from him, scanning the room.
“Maybe you should try to relax.”
Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, her hands in fists. Could she, for heaven’s sake, have two seconds’ peace to
think?
Was that too much to ask? At times like this, she felt that only her Oath kept her from slapping him silly. Max’s tone had been gentle, the rough velvet of his voice comforting, but his advice made it all the clearer to Cassandra just how little he understood, and just how alone she was. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the pull of exhaustion. Just how long had she been awake? Had she had
any
sleep since Diggory had come with Nighthawk’s warning?
think?
Was that too much to ask? At times like this, she felt that only her Oath kept her from slapping him silly. Max’s tone had been gentle, the rough velvet of his voice comforting, but his advice made it all the clearer to Cassandra just how little he understood, and just how alone she was. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the pull of exhaustion. Just how long had she been awake? Had she had
any
sleep since Diggory had come with Nighthawk’s warning?
“I just can’t focus on the room,” she said, resenting the tremor she heard in her voice. She took a deep breath and looked around her once more, trying to concentrate on the details. The room looked strangely familiar, considering how long it had been since she’d last visited a Rider’s fortress. It looked as though whoever had brought them here meant them to be comfortable. There were thick rugs on the polished stone floor, darkwood chairs like most of the elder lords had, the kind that would conform themselves to your shape without the aid of cushions or padding. There was a spread of wine, juices, fruit, and cheeses on the inlaid table, each item in its own never-empty plate, basket, or carafe. The walls were covered in brightly embroidered tapestries that looked as soft as flannel and smelled like laundry dried outside on a warm breezy day. There was even a fire burning in the grate, warming the room and filling it with the smell of apples. Altogether a pleasant, comforting place, Cassandra thought, taking her lower lip between her teeth, but if she were unable to form a picture of it in her mind, she could not Move them.
Max picked up a carafe and carefully sniffed at it.
“I suppose this will be poisoned?”
Cassandra shut her eyes again. Couldn’t he tell she was trying to think? “If they wanted to kill us,” she said through clenched teeth, “we’d be dead already.” She opened her eyes to find him looking at her, a softness she hadn’t seen before in his eyes.
“Listen,” he said, in his voice like velvet. “I was serious. If there’s nothing we can do, we need to put it out of our minds and relax.”
Cassandra turned her back on him and continued her examination of the room. The Exile had always been full of advice, and she’d heard that particular piece before. But that was when they were dealing with humans; things had changed now, as the never-ending supplies of food reminded her. And besides, she wasn’t convinced there
was
nothing she could do. Just because she couldn’t Move didn’t mean they shouldn’t try to get out by ordinary means. And get out they must, that was clear. A room with no exit was still a cell, no matter how thick the carpets and how good the wine. The Troll Diggory had given his life that she might keep the Exile safe, and that was a sacrifice she had no intention of wasting. The Troll had been right all along, she thought; something
was
terribly wrong. What did the Basilisk want with the Exile, and why couldn’t it wait until the end of the Banishment, especially now that it was so close?
was
nothing she could do. Just because she couldn’t Move didn’t mean they shouldn’t try to get out by ordinary means. And get out they must, that was clear. A room with no exit was still a cell, no matter how thick the carpets and how good the wine. The Troll Diggory had given his life that she might keep the Exile safe, and that was a sacrifice she had no intention of wasting. The Troll had been right all along, she thought; something
was
terribly wrong. What did the Basilisk want with the Exile, and why couldn’t it wait until the end of the Banishment, especially now that it was so close?
Cassandra rubbed her forehead with stiff fingers.
One problem at a time,
she instructed herself, hearing the echo of her voice saying the same thing to her fencing students. If only she found herself as easy to obey as they did.
One problem at a time,
she instructed herself, hearing the echo of her voice saying the same thing to her fencing students. If only she found herself as easy to obey as they did.
“What kind of animal is this?”
Cassandra spun around. Max was pointing at the tapestry with the wine goblet in his hand. Cassandra’s hands clenched again, and she closed her teeth on the curse that rose, heated and furious, through her throat. How could he stand there admiring the artwork when everything had gone so radically wrong? Without another thought, Cassandra stalked over to his side of the room, grabbed a double handful of cloth, and yanked with all her strength.
Max leaped backward as yard upon yard of heavy fabric pulled loose and collapsed into a pile at their feet.
Cassandra froze, her hands still gripping fabric, her frustration-fueled rage draining away, replaced by a shiver as understanding dawned. She stared at the lines of onyx and darkmetal, some of them as fine as hairs, some as thick as her wrists, which a great use of
dra’aj
had blasted into the walls behind the arras. She pulled down more of the material, though she knew what she would find.
dra’aj
had blasted into the walls behind the arras. She pulled down more of the material, though she knew what she would find.
“Wow. Look at this workmanship—why would anyone
cover
this?” Max’s fingertips were centimeters from the darkmetal when Cassandra came out of her trance.
cover
this?” Max’s fingertips were centimeters from the darkmetal when Cassandra came out of her trance.
“Don’t touch it,” she said, knocking his hand up. “The room is Signed.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
Cassandra pushed her hair out of her face, longing for an elastic or even a piece of string to tie it back, avoiding Max’s eye as far as she was able. She was acutely aware that she had just lost her temper in a violent and embarrassing way in front of a man she was supposed to be protecting. And she was more than a little irritated to find that now that there really was nothing she could do, she
could
relax.
could
relax.
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