Authors: Violette Malan

The Mirror Prince (16 page)

BOOK: The Mirror Prince

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Lightborn waited, lips compressed, until, with the smallest of shrugs, he turned and took a step toward Max, his hands outstretched as if in welcome. Cassandra slid between them, noiseless on the thick carpet, and Lightborn froze, backed off slowly, and lowered his arms.

“Your Warden almost killed three of my people,” he said, his eyes flicking to Max over Cassandra’s shoulder, “before we knocked her down.” When his thumb was once more hooked in his belt, Cassandra eased back to her position next to Max.

“She’ll do better next time,” Max said.

Lightborn threw back his head and laughed. “Well said, my brother. And how did you enjoy the wine I left for you?”

Max hesitated, his heart suddenly pounding. He was fairly certain Cassandra would have mentioned a brother, if only as a way to offer him more proof.

“Are we brothers?” he said finally.

The man’s smile died away as he shot an uneasy look at Cassandra. “You have been kind enough in the past so to speak of me. I trust I do not now overstep the Prince Guardian’s good grace.”

“Look—”

“Forgive me, my Prince, but my mother comes.”

The tapestry was pulled aside by unseen hands to allow the entry of a formal party. Two of them, simply dressed in green and gold, with plain swords sheathed, took up positions next to the opening in the tapestries.

The lady who came smiling toward them was dressed in a green-and-gold gown that fell in a long drape to her feet, leaving her arms bare. She was clearly related to Lightborn, with the same delicate hawklike nose and beautifully arched eyebrows. And, like Lightborn, the smile she gave Max was full of warmth. But Max would have expected someone at least in her sixties, and this woman looked no older than the man claiming to be her son. Early thirties at the most would be Max’s guess, no older than himself, or Cassandra.

Max raised his eyebrows. Of course Cassandra claimed that she was over a thousand years old, and that Max himself was older still.

These people aren’t human,
Max reminded himself, returning her smile with a shallow bow,
they can look however they want.

The man with her, foxy-haired with bronzed skin, and dressed in deep ruby red and dark yellow, looked to be in his late forties. His topaz eyes narrowed as Max looked at him, but not in challenge. Max felt chilled, but he bared his teeth in a grin just the same. He’d once had a professor in graduate school at Seattle University with that same calculating gaze, someone who made you feel unprepared no matter how much you’d studied. Max’s stomach sank as it occurred to him that Professor Malcolm Jones might be part of his false memories.
Not now,
he told himself,
think about that later.

He glanced at Cassandra out of the corner of his eye. She stood relaxed, feet shoulder-width apart, hands hanging loose, knees slightly bent, lowering her center of gravity. She had edged away from him again and turned slightly, so that she could keep everyone in sight. Her eyes were bright, and she seemed on the verge of smiling.

Max had seen that almost smile on her face in the alley, as she waited for the Hound to arrive. He stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders and taking a full breath. They’d come out of that in one piece.

The lady in green-and-gold bowed, and as if this was a signal, both the older man and Lightborn put their hands on their sword hilts and began to draw. Fast as thought, even while their blades were still clearing their scabbards, Cassandra was in front of him, kicking the sword out of Lightborn’s hand, leaping to snatch it out of the air as it came down, and, landing on her toes, holding the point not at Lightborn, but at his mother’s throat.

Lightborn took a step toward his mother before freezing into immobility, but the lady herself only smiled, her eyes sparkling as she slowly lowered her hand.

“My Prince,” she said in a voice like silk on glass. “A word.”

“A word,” Max agreed, his eyes flicking between Cassandra’s face and the point of her sword, millimeters from the older woman’s neck.

“Fealty,” said the lady, and at that word Lightborn sank down to one knee. After a slight hesitation, the older, redheaded man knelt also, and, keeping his gaze fixed steadily on Cassandra, reversed his sword, offered it hilt first to Max. Max stepped around Cassandra, careful not to crowd her, took the offered weapon, and backed away once more.

“I have no need to offer you my sword, my Prince,” Lightborn murmured, “since your Warden holds it already.”

Cassandra slowly lowered the blade she held, but did not back away.

The lady inclined her head. “You are right to be cautious, Truthsheart. You will not remember it, but you are known to me. Your mother was Clear of Light, and the Dragon guides you. You were one of the three Chosen-to-Watch. My name is Honor of Souls, my mother was Eye of Evening, and the Hippogriff guides me. My son you know, and this our comrade and adviser is Watches the Wind, he is Roc-guided. I knew your mother well, Truthsheart, and I welcome you to Griffinhome.”

Max cleared his throat and touched Cassandra lightly on the shoulder with the fingertips of his free hand. “Perhaps if we put the swords away, there’d be less chance of killing someone by accident.”

Honor of Souls turned back to him and her smile deepened as her eyes took on a soft glow. “From the look of Truthsheart,” she said, “I doubt it would be an accident.”

“Cassandra . . .” Max began.

“Who set the Signs on this room?” she said, ignoring him.

“I did,” said Honor of Souls, her voice caressing. “For your own safety. My spies tell me that those who searched for you have returned to search the Shadowlands, not finding you here.”

“There are not many still with
dra’aj
enough to Sign a room.” It was impossible not to recognize the pride in Lightborn’s voice.

His mother waved away his words. “I would give all I had to keep safe the Prince Guardian, even were he not the child of my sister.”

Max flashed a look at Cassandra, but she looked back with eyes wide, shaking her head minutely. If he read her right, this was news to her as well. He looked back at Lightborn. Not brothers then, but cousins.

“You are not the ones who sent the Hound?” Cassandra’s dark chocolate voice was softly hoarse, as if tense throat muscles were only just beginning to loosen.

“Indeed, we are not.” It was impossible not to recognize and believe the tremor of distaste in Honor’s voice.

Cassandra studied the older woman’s face and nodded, satisfied. She took a step back, and lowered the sword. When Lightborn advanced with his hand out, however, Cassandra shook her head.

“I will trade you, sword for sword,” she said, and Max jumped as Windwatcher tossed back his red hair and laughed out loud.

“By the Wards, she is right,” he said, smiling and shaking his head, his voice rough and warm. “She knows none of us and we’ve taken her
gra’if
from her, helm and sword. Until we give it back she has no reason to trust or treat with us. And from what I see,” he said, nodding at Max, “at this moment she speaks for the Prince.”

Honor of Souls gestured to the two men standing guard and one lifted his hand in casual salute before pushing his way through the folds of the arras. Honor turned back to Cassandra.

“I give you my word on the love I bore your mother that your
gra’if
comes.”

Cassandra sketched a bow, reversed her grip on the sword and held it out, ornate hilt first, to the older woman. Honor took it with a smile and handed it to her son.

Once again Max found everyone, Cassandra included, looking at him, waiting for him. This time he wished he could make them look away. Max took another deep breath, and handed the older man his sword.

“I thank you, my Prince,” Windwatcher said.

“Don’t be so sure,” Max said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Where are your friends, Old One?”

The Troll known as Diggory spat out a mouthful of rock-gray blood and wished that he could have stained Dreamer of Time’s pretty purple tunic with it. But that Basilisk spawn had already learned not to get too close. Diggory grinned.

“You may not be smiling very much longer,” the Basilisk said, a hard edge showing through the melody of his voice.

“Perhaps not,” the Troll agreed amiably. “But then I won’t care, will I?”

“You will stop smiling long before you die, Son of Earth.”

“So far, it seems I’m to die of boredom.” This was fun, in its way. Diggory shifted his shoulders as well as he could, considering that he was hanging suspended in front of a darkmetal wall. The Basilisk and his inquisition had found that, effective as hanging him in midair might be if they intended merely to keep him, it was impossible to really torture a person unless there was something to push against. The last twelve hours had had their painful moments, but the inquisitors were discovering that it took a great deal to hurt a Troll. Even the parts of him which were now dragging on the floor didn’t hurt. Much.

“Tell me what I wish to know, and all I will do is kill you. Refuse me, and I can do much worse.”

Diggory laughed, more because he knew it would annoy the Basilisk than because he found anything funny. Almost, he
was
beginning to be bored. “You are stupider than you look,” he finally said. “Nothing you wish to know can be learned from me. Where is the Prince Guardian? I don’t know. Where are the Talismans? I don’t know. Who does know? I don’t know. I’ve just come from the Shadowlands, you idiot, and I can’t tell you what I don’t know, no matter what you do.” He spat again, wincing at the sudden pull of a torn muscle in his chest. “You’d have been smarter to let me escape and then follow me.”

“So you would know how to find him, if you were free?”

Diggory fell silent. He had forgotten that the Basilisk had always boasted of his little knowledge of and less congress with Solitaries. He would not know, therefore, that, Earth-born, Diggory could find anything that touched the earth. Even in the Shadowlands he had been able to find Truthsheart and the Prince Guardian in the subways. If his friends had touched the earth anywhere here in the Lands, Diggory would have a starting point for his search.

“If all I wanted was my freedom,” he said finally, “I could be still in the Shadowlands, eating prey and building bridges.”

“I would give you safe conduct to return there.”

“You talk a great deal of what you’d give me. So far, all you’ve given me is a look at my own bowels.”

The Basilisk gestured at the floor. “You could be mended. Find me the Guardian and you would have a Healer
and
your safe conduct. You have my word.”

This time Diggory stopped the smile before it reached his lips. He knew exactly what that word was worth. The heat he felt rising in his blood was not all due to the Basilisk’s lies, however. That was too old a story to fuel much fire. But that the ignorant spawn of a stone-faced Basilisk thought that
he
could trick a Solitary.

As if Diggory didn’t know that if the Basilisk set him free it would be only for long enough to hang Max Ravenhill on a darkmetal wall. As if Diggory would trade his freedom, or anyone’s freedom, for that. Better they were all dead, as his
fara’ip
believed him to be. His
fara’ip
. Now the Troll did smile. The Basilisk thought himself a trickster, did he? Well two could play at that game.

“What of my
fara’ip?
” he asked. “I would want them about me. Would you give them safe conduct as well?”

“Your
fara’ip?
”

Diggory could almost see the Basilisk’s thoughts turning, could almost see him examining the idea, looking for a flaw. Was it possible? Could the Basilisk Prince’s ignorance be deep enough to suppose that Solitaries were just that? Solitary?

“Yes, of course,” the Sunward Rider said finally. “I would extend the safe conduct to your
fara’ip
.”

Diggory stopped his by now unconscious struggle against his bonds and felt his abused muscles truly relax for the first time in hours.

BOOK: The Mirror Prince

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