Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (2 page)
Malcolm felt his lips stretch out in the parody of a smile. “Why don’t you bring my wife?” he sneered. “My children? Threaten to hurt them if I don’t tell you? Hmmm?” Their silence gave him the proof he had not needed. “You’ve made a mistake there, my brothers. You have no weapons now.”
“Have we not?”
Malcolm laughed. His throat was raw and he felt like choking, but he went on laughing until his legs gave out and the only thing holding him up was their hands. There was a sudden, sharp pain on the side of his face.
“You’re fools,” he said finally. He tasted blood, and spat. “I would have told you,” he said. “Not just to buy the lives of my wife and my children. Not just for that.” He got his feet under him and tried to stand. Their hands tightened. “You could have stopped me on the street and asked me and I would have told you. I wouldn’t even have asked if you meant him harm. Why should I? I would have told you.”
“Yes, yes. And now you will
not
tell us, is that it?”
not
tell us, is that it?”
Malcolm laughed again, but stopped as Oranges raised his hand.
“Perhaps you
will
kill him. But perhaps he’ll surprise you.” Malcolm’s arms didn’t hurt anymore, and he found he could stand upright. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you more than you wish to know. You have named me Bringer of Storm, and in that you speak truly, a storm comes. But this storm will break over
your
heads. This storm will come as a dragon and devour you. Here is my curse on you, my brothers. The man you seek is called Ravenhill. You will find him to sunward in the place the storm gathers. The place called Toronto.”
will
kill him. But perhaps he’ll surprise you.” Malcolm’s arms didn’t hurt anymore, and he found he could stand upright. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you more than you wish to know. You have named me Bringer of Storm, and in that you speak truly, a storm comes. But this storm will break over
your
heads. This storm will come as a dragon and devour you. Here is my curse on you, my brothers. The man you seek is called Ravenhill. You will find him to sunward in the place the storm gathers. The place called Toronto.”
“Do you think we free you now?” Mown Hay breathed in Malcolm’s ear. “Do you think you buy your life with this?”
Malcolm shook his head. He bought nothing. Jenny was dead and they would kill him, and it did not matter. His children were dead, and his time in the Shadowlands was over. And that did not matter.
He saw movement over Orange’s shoulder and the habit of living made him look. A rangy white dog with dark red markings came trotting out of the kitchen, smiling a toothy doggy smile, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
And even while part of him—the part that was still Malcolm Jones, Associate Professor of European History—wondered how so large a dog had managed to move so silently, the dog
changed
, growing grotesquely larger, its fur becoming scales, and its snout dripping. The part of him that was Stormbringer began at once to struggle in the iron hands that held him. That part of him recognized the dog. He was still ready to die. But not this way. He would rather live than feed the Hound.
changed
, growing grotesquely larger, its fur becoming scales, and its snout dripping. The part of him that was Stormbringer began at once to struggle in the iron hands that held him. That part of him recognized the dog. He was still ready to die. But not this way. He would rather live than feed the Hound.
Stormbringer gathered himself and flung out all his
dra’aj
. As his power left him, and the final darkness covered him, he heard a howling.
dra’aj
. As his power left him, and the final darkness covered him, he heard a howling.
Chapter One
CASSANDRA KENNABY REVERSED her rapier and placed it, swept hilt first, in her assistant’s waiting hand. She grinned at her opponent, giving the girl’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, before turning to where spectators’ chairs were set up a safe distance behind a sturdy mahogany railing. Her friend Barb was leaning on the barrier, shaking her head, half smiling.
“You okay?” Cassandra asked, pulling off her mask. “You look a little pale.”
Barb shook her head again. “For a minute there . . . the swords moved so fast . . . I thought you were going to kill her.”
“That would defeat the lesson.” Cassandra wiped her face with her sleeve. Her silver hair clip clattered to the floor and, cursing mildly, she retrieved it, pushing her gold hair back from her face. “Sarita’s not fast enough to hurt me,” she added, turning to watch her young opponent receive the congratulations of the other students. “And I wasn’t planning to hurt her.”
“I guess.” Barb shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone fence with real swords before.”
“Sarita’s reached the stage where she won’t learn anything further using foils and épées.” Cassandra spoke over her shoulder as she led her friend down the narrow corridor toward her office and her private shower. “Fencing’s an art, I grant you, but it’s a
martial
art.”
martial
art.”
“It’s not like watching a competition. I mean it is, but . . .” Barb waved her thought away with an impatient twitch of her hand.
“We don’t teach that kind of fencing here,” Cassandra turned back to her friend. “Fencing isn’t a way to score points, it’s a way to kill people.”
Barb laughed. “You tell the parents that?”
Cassandra shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to hide her own smile. “Some people can’t handle the truth.”
When all the students had gone for the day, and the street doors of the dojo were bolted, and even the practice swords had been locked away, Cassandra opened the long wooden chest that sat against the wall behind the old maple trestle table she used as a desk. The chest was made of ash wood and had been carved to her design by a master carver, long before she had come to Toronto with the old sensei to open a dojo in the western world. The carving showed a sleeping dragon, curled around a group of revelers feasting in a bright forest clearing, and was so detailed and so lifelike that occasionally people—including those who tried to open the chest for purposes of their own—found themselves unable to look away from the sight of the guests dancing, especially when the dragon winked and stretched out its curved claws like a lazy cat.
Cassandra slipped the battered leather case containing her dueling swords into the space left for it at the back of the chest. Her fingers brushed against a larger bundle wrapped in heavy folds of raw red silk and she felt a sudden tug of longing deep in her chest.
“You will need that, I’m thinking.”
Heart in her mouth, Cassandra spun around, crouching to take advantage of the desk’s cover, a throwing knife already in her hand, and found what looked like an eleven-year-old boy standing in the open doorway of her office. Long practice kept her face calm, her expression one of neutral interest. She took in the layers of baggy clothing, the beanie cap, and the wide skateboard. But this was not some child who had stowed away in one of the locker rooms, waiting for a chance to play with the weapons—or steal the computers. In his eyes the centuries showed, turning his child’s face, his body, his clothing, and even the skateboard into parody. He would have fooled any adult human, but Cassandra knew that this boy had never been eleven. And never a boy.
Under her surprise, a part of her was almost glad to see him, even if he
was
a Solitary. It had been over a hundred years since she’d seen or spoken to any others of her kind here in the Shadowlands. The Basilisk Prince had been discouraging travel between the worlds for centuries and had finally set a guard around the Portals—something that had turned out to be a good thing for humans, who were less plagued by Ogres, Trolls under bridges, kidnapped children, and demon lovers. But something that made life terribly lonely for those Riders whose duties kept them here.
was
a Solitary. It had been over a hundred years since she’d seen or spoken to any others of her kind here in the Shadowlands. The Basilisk Prince had been discouraging travel between the worlds for centuries and had finally set a guard around the Portals—something that had turned out to be a good thing for humans, who were less plagued by Ogres, Trolls under bridges, kidnapped children, and demon lovers. But something that made life terribly lonely for those Riders whose duties kept them here.
So a strange Rider would have been surprising enough, but a Solitary? And a strange Rider she would have felt behind her, would have sensed. A Solitary was like so much empty space.
And there are no Solitaries anywhere
, Cassandra reminded herself,
who can be trusted
.
And there are no Solitaries anywhere
, Cassandra reminded herself,
who can be trusted
.
“I greet you, Younger Sister,” the Solitary said, his voice like shifting gravel. “You are Sword of Truth. Your mother was Clear of Light. The Dragon guides you. You are no kin to me, but I know you.”
Cassandra inclined her head, once down, once up, slowly, careful to keep her eyes on the Old One’s face. She had no trouble recognizing the ritual greeting, though, to her knowledge, she’d only met one Solitary before. Riders like herself didn’t mix with Solitaries—not by choice anyway.
“I ask your pardon, Elder Brother,” she said, giving one of the allowed ritual answers. “I do not know you.”
“Say, rather, you do not recognize me, for you
do
know me. I am Hearth of the Wind, the Last Born,” he said, “and the Earth guides me. The Shadowfolk call me Diggory,” he added, and waited.
do
know me. I am Hearth of the Wind, the Last Born,” he said, “and the Earth guides me. The Shadowfolk call me Diggory,” he added, and waited.
“Cassandra,” she said, inclining her head once more in acknowledgment that she had, indeed, met him before—though then he hadn’t looked anything like a young boy with a skateboard.
“And my people say that Riders have no sense of humor.” Diggory bowed and turned his stone-colored eyes to the open chest. “For you’re well named, then, Truthsheart.”
Cassandra lifted her eyebrows and deliberately turned her back on him, though it made the fine hairs on the back of her neck shiver. She put out her hand to close the chest’s lid.
“Best leave it open, I think. You’ll have need of what you keep there.”
Cassandra turned back to face the boy with old eyes.
“You’ve said that already.”
“I bring you word from Nighthawk.”
Possible, Cassandra thought, since it was in the company of her fellow Warden that she’d met this Solitary before, but . . .
“Why send you?” she asked, her glance, before she could stop it, flicking to the phone on her worktable.
“Because he cannot come himself, and I am surer than the technology of humans.” The Old One took a step closer to her. “Your Oath calls you, Warden. The Exile is in danger of his life. Take your weapons and go to him.”
Cassandra’s heart leaped, but she leaned back on the edge of the chest, crossed her ankles, and folded her arms. Offhand, she couldn’t think of any reason why a Solitary would want to trick her into tearing off armed into the streets of Toronto, but that’s exactly why she had to be careful. Being tricked by a Solitary was humiliating at best, fatal at worst—then again, be too careful and she might trick herself. Slowly, she had to go slowly.
“I find this hard to believe,” she said.
Diggory smiled, showing far too many teeth for a human boy. “Of course you do. After all this time? When no steel has ever touched him, no bullets found him? Why,” the Solitary leaned forward and lowered his voice as if sharing a secret with her, “even earthquakes and plagues wait until he has gone his way before they begin their feeding. He has forgotten his
dra’aj
, but it has not forgotten him.”
dra’aj
, but it has not forgotten him.”
“And so?”
“And so that was humans, and it’s not humans my lord the Exile needs to fear and never was, there you’re right. But the Banishment nears its end, and the Basilisk Prince moves his pieces upon the board, and they wear the shape of the Hunt. Do you tell me the Exile has nothing to fear from this?”
Cassandra stopped in mid-shrug, allowing the knife to slip back into her hand from its sleeve sheath. “The Hunt? I had always understood the end of the Banishment to be a good thing.”
“And so it might have been. But the Basilisk Prince builds his Citadel in the Vale of
Trere’if
. Yes,” Diggory continued as Cassandra stifled an involuntary movement, “he has dared so much. Now he knows that which he has sought to know this long time, and now he seeks to know what only my lord the Exile knows. And he cares not what means he uses to learn it. And it’s for
you
to keep the Exile safe, as always.” Diggory smiled like the sun coming through clouds and Cassandra almost found herself smiling back.
Trere’if
. Yes,” Diggory continued as Cassandra stifled an involuntary movement, “he has dared so much. Now he knows that which he has sought to know this long time, and now he seeks to know what only my lord the Exile knows. And he cares not what means he uses to learn it. And it’s for
you
to keep the Exile safe, as always.” Diggory smiled like the sun coming through clouds and Cassandra almost found herself smiling back.
What he said was true. The Basilisk Prince had grown in power and importance since the time of the Great War; some said he was High Prince in everything but name. Even Cassandra, who had not set foot in the Lands of the People the whole time of the Banishment, had heard that much. Still . . .
There was only one thing the Exile might know that the Basilisk Prince wanted: the whereabouts of the Talismans—but that didn’t make sense. What had happened to make that knowledge so important now? Frowning, Cassandra studied the open, guileless face of the Solitary.
“I come to you almost too late,” the Old One said, as if in answer to her unspoken suspicions. “I do not need to tell you the end comes, but you
must
act or your Oath is forfeit. Come, Truthsheart, would I trouble to lie? To you?” Diggory shook his head. “You think it was a jest, what your mother named you? Younger Sister, listen to your heart. You know I speak the truth.”
must
act or your Oath is forfeit. Come, Truthsheart, would I trouble to lie? To you?” Diggory shook his head. “You think it was a jest, what your mother named you? Younger Sister, listen to your heart. You know I speak the truth.”
Cassandra studied the Troll eyes in the boy face. Even if she did know the truth when she heard it—and right now that seemed like a mighty big if—she wouldn’t be quick to let this one know it.
“And what is the price of this truth, Elder Brother? Or has Nighthawk paid it?”
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