Authors: Violette Malan

The Mirror Prince (15 page)

BOOK: The Mirror Prince

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“What do you think it has done, the Natural of these Trees, to have merited this cleansing?” Horse asked.

“Who can tell? Undoubtedly committed some folly, real or imagined, which has forfeited the promised protection of the Basilisk Prince.”

“Perhaps it merely ventured too close to the citadel of whatever pet of the Basilisk’s has the disposal of this holding.” The younger Rider murmured between lips carefully smiling to hide the feelings Windwatcher saw in his eyes.

The older Rider nodded as if in reply. He was careful never to complain about the Naturals in his own holding of Wind fast.
Thank you, Roc that guides me
,
that I do not know the name of this poor Natural
. His cheeks grew hot, as Windwatcher acknowledged his relief. But without the name on his tongue, he need not stop to make inquiries, and Riding here was reckless enough without that.

The guard captain, watching them as they rode by, lifted her hand in belated acknowledgment of Windwatcher’s salute, letting them pass without remark, but he knew himself a rash fool for coming this route. The path through
Ne’agal
, already less shaded than it had been, was long, and now that he and Horse of Winter were watched, they would have to Ride down every tortured span of it. Moving now would draw down the wrong kind of attention. Attention he could ill afford to draw, considering what he was wearing under his ruby-and-saffron tunic. It seemed to him likely that anyone looking at him would see the presence of his
gra’if
shining in his eyes.

“Is there nothing we can do?”

Windwatcher could hear the suppressed rage in the younger Rider’s voice.

“Nothing but die with it, which itself achieves exactly nothing.” The older Rider eyed the young messenger. “We are on our way to do what we can for all the others,” he added when he saw Horse press his lips together.

At first, there had been general protest when the Basilisk’s men began to move against Solitaries and the more active Naturals, but those who spoke had a habit of disappearing—Faded some said—and that was a lesson speedily learned. Not that Windwatcher had any love for Solitaries himself, no sensible Rider would, but when had the feeling against Naturals become so strong?

The instant they were out of sight of the workers, Windwatcher and Horse of Winter Moved into the courtyard of Griffinhome, the fortress of Honor of Souls, where servants in Honor’s green-and-gold livery were already waiting. One helped Windwatcher dismount, taking his gloves and Riding cloak, while another took the Cloud Horses around to the stables to be brushed off and fed.

Horse of Winter exchanged the borrowed ruby-and-saffron cotte he had worn as Windwatcher’s squire for the gold and green of his true colors as Herald of Honor of Souls, and started up the shallow, wide stone steps that led to Griffinhome’s main doors. Windwatcher carefully loosened the lacing at the collars of his waistcoat and shirt to reveal his
gra’if
mail, his eyes drawn upward to the turrets and domes of the fortress with a sense of seeing them for the first time. Fortress it was named, but battlements and barred gates notwithstanding, it had been built for beauty and charm, not to withstand any kind of attack.

“My lord?” Horse waited patiently at the great doors carved with their guardian Griffins.

“Griffinhome will not have Changed since my last visit.”

“No, my lord.” Horse exchanged a quick glance with one of the guards still in the courtyard.

“When I was young,” Windwatcher said, his eyes still admiring the flight of the turrets, “I had a cousin living close to the Shaghana’ak Abyss, who was to be married. He caused his fortress to Change every time one crossed a threshold. The entire visit became a game of hide-and-be-found.” Windwatcher shook his head slowly, still in awe of the magnificence of his cousin’s feat. “When it came time for the ceremony, every door opened into the marriage room, delivering the guests to the correct place at the correct time.”

“I have heard stories of such things, my lord, but none so elaborate as that.”

Windwatcher drew his gaze down from the skies to the young Rider’s face. “Now you wait to escort me through your fortress from courtesy, and policy, not from necessity.”

“And did my lady, Honor of Souls, Change Griffinhome often in the days before?” the young Rider turned to lead Windwatcher through the open doors.

Windwatcher ran his hands through his mane of red hair, smoothing it into some semblance of order. “I would not have been a welcome guest of your lady in the days before the Great War. I supported the Basilisk Prince’s claim to the Talismans, and she, as you well know, being of her
fara’ip,
is sister to the Prince Guardian’s mother, and so one of
his
most loyal supporters.”

He could feel the young Rider stiffen as they walked through the second, inner doors and into the interior of the fortress. Windwatcher waited for the inevitable question, but when it came, it was not was he expected.

“What became of your cousin?”

“One day, after the Great War, the Abyss widened, taking house and cousin with it.”

“The Basilisk?”

“It was wise not to speculate upon such matters, even then.”

“And does no one Change their fortresses now?” The young Rider’s voice was wistful, as if he would have liked to see such a thing himself.

“It is not safe now to show the power of that much
dra’aj
. It might earn you a visit from the Basilisk Prince.”

Horse of Winter nodded and turned into a narrow corridor.

“With respect, my lord, I find it hard to think that you once followed the Basilisk.”

Ah, there was the expected question after all.

“Easy to see when the game of Guidebeasts is over exactly how one’s pieces were swept from the board.” A shame he had not been a better student of the game before the War, he thought, as they rounded the turn and began to climb a darkwood stair, each step inlaid with small green stones making a pattern of leaves and flowers. Like every other elder house, Windwatcher had had the choice of backing either the Prince Guardian or Dreamer of Time, who became the Basilisk Prince. He’d made his observations, examined the pieces and the moves . . .

“I expected the Guardian to lose, but,” he shook his head. “There’s a way of losing that is not losing . . . and a way of winning that has no triumph in it. I should after all have backed the Red, and not the White, however logical my choice seemed at the time. But in truth it was not logic that influenced me, but prejudice and personal dislike.”

“Dawntreader must have seemed an odd choice for the old Guardian to have made, given his upbringing.”

The older Rider looked sideways at the young one, but there was no criticism in Horse’s face, only the willingness to understand. “The last Rider who should be chosen, many of us thought. And so, when the old Guardian Faded, and the new one refused Dreamer of Time a chance to offer himself to the Talismans, many of us were shocked that Dawntreader, the new, the untried Guardian, would refuse him. Arrogantly and without seeking counsel, without even recourse to the Talismans.”

“Did no one think it suspicious that Dreamer of Time should be so quick to offer himself?”

“Give us credit for some few wits, Horse of Winter. No one doubted that the Cycle was turning, that the times did indeed call for a High Prince. Already there were fewer births, and mysterious changes to the Lands, inexplicable losses of
dra’aj,
and disappearances, as people, even places Faded. Some thought it the end of the world.

“And many of us, myself among them, believed we understood the Prince Guardian’s motives all too well. We saw in Dreamer of Time a good candidate for High Prince . . .” Windwatcher let his voice fade away, not needing to say what Dreamer of Time had become.

“And in the Guardian you saw a Rider raised by Solitaries, a Rider you believed could not have the welfare of his own People in his heart. You saw a Cycle coming in which Riders would become the unimportant third,” Horse finished the thought for him. “And so the War?”

“And so the War.”

The War had been long, so long that everyone was grateful for an end to hostilities, though there were those who saw surrender in the Prince Guardian’s request for a cease-fire. When it became evident that the Guardian did not feel that way, these same Riders would have had him compelled. The Prince Guardian had not feared them, saying that they could not force him without killing him, and that he knew they would not kill him. It was at this point that the Basilisk Prince, Dreamer of Time as he was still, came forward with his plan of Banishment. Let us give the Guardian time, he had suggested. While he thinks quietly and undisturbed, let us do what we can to ready the Lands for the turn of the Cycle. We will be prepared when the Guardian is ready to act.

Even the Guardian’s followers saw wisdom in this, so measured and reasonable it had seemed, asking only that the Talismans be well protected in their Guardian’s absence. So Dreamer of Time was listened to, and commended for his wisdom, and began to be called the Basilisk Prince.

But what was seen as wisdom had shown itself to be wiliness and cunning.

“The Banishment has been so much longer than any of us believed possible,” Windwatcher said. “All of your life, which has been long, young as you are.” Horse of Winter opened a chamber door and Windwatcher entered, turning in the doorway to complete his thought. “The Lands worsen, as if the Cycle turns faster now. And the Basilisk Prince gathers more and more power as those who would speak against him disappear, Faded or gone into hiding. He has long closed the Portals to the Shadowlands, so that none may visit the place of Banishment, and the Prince Guardian is spoken of no more.”

“Except darkly.” The younger Rider made no move to leave.

“Speak on,” Windwatcher said.

“What of the Basilisk’s strange malady?” Horse of Winter asked. “It is said that he is occasionally seen sweating and pale, his hands shaking.”

Windwatcher shrugged. “I have heard this also, and I have heard that Riders disappear from his very court, even from his
fara’ip,
and nothing is done, no voice is raised. They say the Hunt is about him always now, fawning on him and doing his bidding.”

“Surely not?” There was no mistaking the shock in the younger Rider’s suddenly pale face.

“Who will speak against it? More and more are of the Basilisk’s mind. They see nothing wrong in using Hounds to Hunt down Riders, see nothing wrong in killing Naturals. Somehow they cannot see that the Lands grow not more prosperous, but more poisoned.”

Horse of Winter pulled out a cushioned chair and Windwatcher lowered himself into it with a sigh. He only hoped the news that had made it imperative to summon him was good. He thought he could guess why the Prince Guardian had refused the Basilisk on the Talismans’ behalf. Given the chance, he thought he would now do the same himself. There were worse things, after all, than the end of the world. If they did not find a way to stop the Basilisk Prince, they would all, very soon, learn what that was.

Max found it difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat and the sudden dryness in his mouth. He never thought he’d look back with fondness on the attack of the Hound, but there was something to be said for events that moved so quickly you didn’t have time to feel afraid.

Not that the smiling man standing before them, left thumb tucked in his belt, right wrist resting negligently on the basket hilt of a sword dangling unsheathed from the same belt, exactly inspired fear. In fact, the Rider looked enough like Cassandra to be her taller, fairer cousin. His eyes were a dark blue, their depths enhanced, if anything, by the color of his clothing. Belt, knee-high boots, breeches, short tunic, even the points of the laces closing the full sleeves of his shirt, were dyed an identical shade of rich emerald. His platinum hair was elaborately braided off his face, and hung down his back below his waist. He wore a single silver ring with a green stone in his left ear, and though his smile was open, it made Max conscious of every smear of dirt on his own skin, and every splotch of wet Hound’s blood on his clothes.

The man turned his smile on Cassandra and inclined his head. “I am Lightborn,” he said. “Honor of Souls is my mother, and the Griffin guides me.”

Cassandra inclined her head once, never taking her eyes from the pale Rider’s face, but did not speak.

BOOK: The Mirror Prince

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