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Authors: Violette Malan

The Mirror Prince (24 page)

BOOK: The Mirror Prince
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“You are safe now, my brother, you are home again.” His eyes dancing, the Basilisk took hold of Max’s right hand in his left and laid the back of his own right hand against Max’s cheek. The palm of that hand, and part of the fingers, were covered by a silky bandage. Max realized that the Basilisk was not sitting on a chair, but right on the edge of the chaise that Max himself was lying on.
 
The odd thing was, Max thought later, he really did feel safe at that moment. Warm and drowsy and content. The only uncomfortable note was the heat in the man’s hands. As if the Basilisk was burning with fever. Max had to school himself not to pull away.
 
“All alone in that Land of Shadow, how did you stand it?” The voice was resonant and warm, with an underlying note of deepness. If he wanted to, Max thought, the Basilisk could raise his voice and make the windows vibrate.
 
“It’s not such a bad place, when you get used to it.” That came out growly, and Max cleared his throat. He did his best to push the remnants of the dream from his mind, but they were stubborn. From the way the Basilisk Prince was talking, it seemed as if he didn’t know about the amnesia.
 
“You were always the bravest of us. That is what no one else remembers.”
 
“What about what
I
don’t remember?”
 
The Basilisk Prince nodded, as if he’d been expecting that.
He knows all right,
Max thought.
 
“I swear to you, I will make all things right.” The Basilisk patted Max on the shoulder. And again, almost against his will, Max felt comforted.
 
“I cannot know what your captors have told you, though I can guess.” The Basilisk shrugged, a rueful smile on his lips. “Hear me now, my brother. I need nothing from you.
Nothing.
This is the truth. Rather, tell me, Dawntreader, tell me what can
I
do for
you
.”
 
Max frowned, trying to concentrate. He hadn’t thought of Lightborn and Honor of Souls as his captors, but it was true that none of them had asked what he wanted. And they hadn’t exactly rushed to give him options. He didn’t mean Cassandra. Cassandra was different; she already knew what he wanted, and she
had
said that she would get him out if that’s what he decided, but still . . .
 
Max found that he believed the Basilisk. The Rider’s voice, his intonations, his face—all held the same quality of credibility, of
veracity
, that Cassandra’s held. Max wanted to help the people here, sure, of course he did. But of course he should weigh all the sides, consider all the possibilities. And really, more than anything else . . .
 
“I want to be Max Ravenhill,” he said, the words out before he was aware he’d meant to speak them. The same instinct that told him the Basilisk spoke the truth prompted him to do the same.
 
The Basilisk nodded, squeezing Max on the shoulder as he stood up.
 
“I can do that,” he said, still nodding. “I can let you have your human life again, once you’ve helped me . . . but I hope you will not ask it of me.” He looked around for a moment, moved a glass that sat on a small leather-covered table and stood frowning down at it. “The People
need
Dawntreader and what he knows, I know you understand this. But I also,” his eyes lifted to look past where Max lay on the chaise lounge at the round windows, “I miss my friend. No one understands me the way you—the way
he
did.”
 
Again, the quality of
truth
was heavy about him. For a moment Max saw the burden of the Basilisk’s loneliness, the same that could sometimes be seen in the faces of children who had lost a parent, whose childhood is lost also; children who realize they now face unimaginable responsibility. A loneliness tinged with despair.
 
“I hear we weren’t always in such harmony.” Max was careful to keep his voice neutral.
 
The Basilisk bit his lip and nodded again. “Perhaps.” He looked back at Max. “But you and I, we are the only ones who can know what passed between us. And I am not in the least afraid to have you restored. In fact, I seek it. We will come to an accord, I am certain.”
 
“You Banished me.”
 
“And saved your life doing so. There were many who sought your death, and you
would
have died had there not been this alternative.”
 
It was possible, Max nodded, considering. There was nothing in what the man said that actually contradicted what Cassandra had told him.
 
“What about my memory?”
 
The Basilisk shrugged, as if at a small thing. “I am offering to restore it. That is more than the others can do for you. And if, as you say, you prefer to be the human person you are now . . . once I have the Talismans, I can offer you that as well.”
 
The Basilisk’s face was open and serene, his eyes a warm topaz in the late afternoon light.
This would be so easy,
Max thought.
Let him have what he wants, and then I get what I want.
He wouldn’t even have to do anything, just let what was going to happen . . . happen. And then he’d be himself again.
 
“Whatever the others may say,” the Basilisk’s soft voice continued when Max did not speak, “the War was not caused by any enmity between us, and when you are restored, you will know this. We disagreed, yes, but left to ourselves, we would have come to terms. We both had enemies, and these others created war between us.” He stood and walked to the window, continuing to speak to Max as he looked out through the arches. “You saw clearly all along,” he said, “I know that now. I was misled. I allowed my pride to keep us apart. All of this,” he swept his arm toward the world outside the windows, “I prepare for the High Prince, whoever that might be. I wish—I hope, that it might be me.” He turned back to face Max, his eyes now hazel, clear, and direct. “But our first concern must be the People, and the Lands. Why should we wait? Let me end your Banishment now! Let me restore you, and together we will find the Talismans. They
must
be allowed to do their good offices, or all will be lost. Will you help me?”
 
Max squeezed his eyes tightly shut. It
could
have been a misunderstanding; human history was full of wars started over stupider things. Cassandra and her friends could be wrong . . . couldn’t they? After all, Cassandra hadn’t even been here, she only knew what she’d been told, and while Honor of Souls and her allies seemed very plausible, well, so did this man. The changes that were happening to the Lands
could
be just the Cycle ending. And as for what the Basilisk had been accused of, again, the years Max had spent studying taught him that sometimes rulers did things that seemed pointless or even cruel to those who didn’t have access to the whole picture.
 
It was the Talismans that were important, everyone agreed on that.
You could help him find his Talismans and go back to being Max Ravenhill.
It was really very simple, when you thought about it. All he had to do was wait, and then go home. Home to his books, and his classes, and his students.
 
And Cassandra, would she come home with him?
 
“You smell like a Hound,” he said in a hoarse whisper. Strange. He hadn’t even been aware he was going to say that.
 
“I’ve given you too much to think about.” The Basilisk turned until he had his back to the window. With the light behind him, Max couldn’t see the man’s face. Couldn’t tell whether the Basilisk had heard him.
 
“Rest now. Nothing need be decided until the Sun turns. A fitting time for Dawntreader to return, if that is what you decide. In the meantime, rest, think, consider. I will have food brought to you.” The musical voice was wistful, and before Max could move, the Basilisk Prince had bent over him and kissed him softly on the forehead.
 
Max watched the Basilisk leave and then lay back, shutting his eyes, feeling the tremor of reaction set in. The man had sounded sincere, but that was easy, wasn’t it? Anyone could sound sincere, if he really wanted to. Hell, Max did it himself all the time. Besides, it was possible that he could be a monster and still miss his friend. Could smile and smile and be a villain.
 
Max didn’t realize, until he heard the quiet shuffling sounds, that the Basilisk had not left him alone in the room. He turned over to face the door again and found another Rider standing there, this one pale and dark-haired like Max himself, leaning with his back against the closed door. The Rider was white-faced and breathing hard, his lips compressed into a thin line. As soon as he saw Max looking at him, he spoke.
 
“Sitting pretty, you think?” His voice was a husky caress. “You should have said yes, spawn of Solitaries. You should have fallen over yourself and thanked him for the opportunity to say yes, while you had the chance. Then he might have been kind, he might have been quick. You don’t deserve his kindness, and you won’t get it.” Suddenly, before Max could prepare for it, the Rider had crossed the room and planted his fist squarely just below Max’s rib cage. His
gra’if
mail shirt hardened instantly, deadening the blow. Max found that he was just able to make his lungs draw in air.
 
“Does this mean no breakfast?” he gasped.
 
The Rider cursed, backhanding Max across the face with his closed fist.
 
“Your Solitary’s tricks won’t help you here,” the Rider said, spitting out his words. He snapped a set of dull metal manacles to Max’s wrists as Max struggled, unable to turn away in the angle of the chaise longue. “You won’t rule here, not when we’re through with you. I’m to take you to a place where you can ‘rest’ and ‘consider. ’ ” Max didn’t like the Rider’s smile.
 
The Moonward Rider dragged Max from the chaise, across the floor, and into the doorway before he could even think to fight back. He was on his back, stretched out at full arm’s length, the entire weight of his body pulling against the cuffs digging into his wrists. He tried to hook his heels around the doorframe, but the dark Rider merely kicked at his head and groin until he stopped.
 
And SLAM! they were in another corridor, this one much darker and colder.
 
Here there were no wood floors, but cold gray flagstones perfectly fitted so they seemed smooth as marble. The dark Rider kicked open a door and dragged Max through.
 
As soon as the door was open, Max’s nose was assaulted with a horrible, acrid smell, like a sewer burning. His eyes began to smart and he coughed roughly, his nose wrinkling. The Rider pulled him almost upright, and before Max could get his feet properly under him, the chain that bound his wrists was shackled to the wall. The room was dark, and at first Max couldn’t see what was causing the smell, even though the slack in the chain gave him plenty of room to twist around. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the dim light entering through slits in the stone walls high over his head. Here the stone was the same carefully fitted smooth gray rock as the floor, veined, Max now saw, like marble, unremarkable except for a wide blotch where something obscured the reflection of the light. He twisted around the other way, squinted to get a better look, and whirled back around to face the still open doorway, gagging, stomach trying to climb up out of his throat. It couldn’t be. His mind tried to reject what his eyes had seen, but it wouldn’t.
 
Against his will, his head dragged him around again and his eyes forced him to look at what was stuck on the wall. He could tell that it had once been alive—Max prayed to whatever gods were listening that it wasn’t
still
alive—but the only thing he could be sure of was the front half of a skateboard sticking out to one side of—he gagged and turned away, dragging in great shuddering breaths until his stomach sank back into place and stayed there. He looked back at the dark Rider, but the soldier wasn’t looking at the thing on the wall. His pale eyes were fixed on Max himself.
 
“We only need you until the Banishment ends,” the Rider said, his voice as matter-of-fact as the weather-man’s announcing a clear morning with seasonal temperatures. “After that,” he paused and jerked his head toward the abomination on the wall. “Consider it while you ‘rest.’ ”
 
Anger and disgust choked him, and without thinking Max swept the Moonward Rider’s feet out from under him with the same move that had been used on him back in Honor of Souls’ upper hall. Once he was down, Max smashed him in the forehead with the manacles around his wrists and wrapped the slack of the chains around the Rider’s throat.
 
Max probably wouldn’t have done what he did next if it hadn’t been for the skateboard.
 
 
Cassandra poured warm water over the back of her neck and set the jug down on the stone hearth. She squeezed the excess water out of her hair and straightened, tossing it back off her face, feeling it drip on her back.
 
BOOK: The Mirror Prince
8.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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