Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (8 page)
“I cannot take the Exile through the Portal,” Cassandra said. “The end of the Banishment may be near, but it is not ended. His life would be forfeit and mine as well.”
“His life’s forfeit here, if the Hunt has its way. Those Who Hunt will follow your Moves, but they cannot follow through the Portal, not without a Rider to help them. Even with my help,” he added when she still hesitated, “you cannot kill them all. It may be that you have no choice.”
“Wait a minute, no choice about what?”
Diggory grinned as Cassandra looked back and forth between them, frowning.
“You’ve said that the Prince’s safety had value above all other things,” she said finally. “Do you hold to that now?”
“Younger Sister, I do. I will guard your back, Sword of Truth. But we must go now.”
Cassandra waited a long moment before nodding. “Very well.” She turned to Max and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Please, trust me.”
“But—” he turned back to the Troll, and wasn’t really surprised to find the boy Diggory back, skateboard and all.
“I see you are full of questions, my lord Prince, but I advise you to follow your Warden. The time for answers has not yet come.”
“That’s what
she
keeps telling me.”
she
keeps telling me.”
With Diggory right behind him, Max caught up with Cassandra just as she reached the iron ladder that would let them up onto the platform. He could tell from the color and shape of the tiles, even before he was close enough to read the signs, that they were already at the subway station at Union, only two levels and maybe a hundred yards away from the train station proper.
At first he was surprised to see the platform empty, but once they were all off the ladder and he could make out the platform clock, he understood. Somehow it had gotten to be after two in the morning; the theaters that kept the downtown streets crowded were long closed, and the bars would have given last call. The train that almost got them must have been empty, on its way to bed in the yards.
As Cassandra headed for the exit at the far end of platform, Max edged closer to her. Maybe there were
some
questions that could be answered now.
some
questions that could be answered now.
“Why does he look like a little boy?” Max kept his voice whisper quiet.
“The better to lure my prey, my lord Prince.” Though he’d reverted to his boy shape, Diggory’s voice was still gravelly and booming.
“What kind of . . . oh.” It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what could be lured into dark alleys by a young child. “So is it children or child molesters?”
“Ah, I had not thought of that.” Max could swear the Troll was laughing. “Has to be the one or the other, does it?” The Troll made a gusty sound that Max realized was a chuckle, but said nothing more.
“Ignore him,” Cassandra advised. “That’s all the answer you’re going to get. He’s trying to distract you.”
“And he’s good at it,” Max said, shaking away the images in his head.
Cassandra had almost reached the exit, with Max close on her heels, when she skidded to a stop, reversed her direction, grabbed Max by the elbow, and propelled him back the way they’d come.
“What the—” Max looked back over his shoulder, and what he saw encouraged him to run faster.
“Go,” Diggory growled as they passed him. “These are mine.” As he spoke, he was already changing, and by the time Max looked back again, the little boy was gone, and the Troll was back.
They rounded the corner on the platform’s other exit and were pounding up the stairs when the screaming started.
Max stopped, hesitated, and took two steps back.
“Max.”
He looked up to Cassandra, above him on the stairs. She was smiling a grim smile.
“Trust me, that’s not his voice.” When Max still didn’t move to follow her, she added, “He’s buying us time to get away. Let’s not waste it.”
It didn’t seem right to run away. Smart, but not right.
Max followed Cassandra up the stairs to the street level, and through the one-way turnstiles. She banged through the plate glass street doors so fast he almost didn’t realize they’d been locked. They ran across the deserted street, and, watching now, he saw the locks “pop” as Cassandra wrenched open the doors to Union Station. This end of the station was the shopping level, and they ran past closed and darkened storefronts, heading for the exits on the far side that led to the train levels.
Now it was Cassandra’s turn to hesitate.
“What?”
“This should be close enough, but . . .” She closed her eyes, forehead wrinkling in concentration. “We’ll have to go up another level.” She headed for an escalator, motionless now, and once again Max followed, by this time thoroughly confused. Street level at the subway end of the train station wasn’t street level through the whole station, he realized as they went up.
They had reached the top of the escalators and passed into the lower level of the train station proper when they heard the howling, and the skittery sound of paws with ragged nails against the terrazzo floor. Max glanced back in time to see a large, light-colored dog with liver markings come into sight at the bottom of the motionless stairs. Behind it, incredibly quickly and silently, moved the Troll. When he saw Max looking at him, Diggory grinned and placed his huge clawed finger against his lips. The Troll then reached forward and grabbed the Hound by its tail, exactly as a small child might grab a pet dog that was trying to get away from it.
Max hoped never to see a child do to a pet dog what the Troll did to the Hound.
“Max, over here.”
Max was happy to turn his eyes away. Cassandra was beckoning from behind an ornate marble counter, once part of the original ticket booth and now, from the evidence, used as a combination condiment and lunch counter by the nearby fast food outlet.
Cassandra had sheathed her sword once more, and held out both her hands to him. “Quickly, look into my eyes.”
Max clasped her offered hands and waited while Cassandra took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. Out of the corner of his eye, Max saw a flash of movement just as Cassandra pulled him roughly to the left. A long dark arrow pinged off the marble next to Cassandra’s elbow and fell to the ground. Max was still staring at it, open mouthed, when Cassandra dragged him away.
They ran, crouching over, to the end of the marble counter. Any farther and they would lose what cover it was giving them. Ahead of them on the right the marble floor became an inclined ramp, leading down in a gentle slope that was easy on travelers’ legs and luggage. Still holding on to his arm, Cassandra looked first toward the incline, then back toward the far end of the counter, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
“How bad is it?” Max asked her. And where was Diggory, he thought, just as the Troll dived around the counter to join them. He had shrunk to fit, but there was still uncomfortably little room. Max wondered if the arrow shaft protruding from the Troll’s leg was impeding him at all.
“Are you familiar with the expression ‘out of the frying pan, into the fire’?”
“That bad, huh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You must use the Portal, Truthsheart. It is your only chance. Even you cannot Move here.”
“There are Riders with them,” Cassandra said. “The Hunt can follow.”
“I will create a diversion,” the Troll said. “By the time I am finished, you will be gone.” Diggory smiled, and Max looked away from what was stuck between his teeth.
Cassandra looked at the Troll, her brow creased and the corners of her mouth turned down. Finally, she nodded. “I thank you, Hearth of the Wind, Last Born.”
“You are my
fara’ip
now, Truthsheart, truly my sister. Tell the others what became of me.”
fara’ip
now, Truthsheart, truly my sister. Tell the others what became of me.”
“I will, Brother,” she smiled stiffly, “so long as the same fate does not befall me.” She turned to Max. “This way, my lord Prince.”
Max didn’t move. “We can’t leave him.”
“Do not take this from me, my lord.” Diggory sketched a sign in the air between them and without another word, leaped up on the counter, cracking the marble and scattering boxes of straws and stir sticks.
As the Troll began to roar, Cassandra grabbed Max’s hand and, still doubled over, dragged him running for the ramp. When another arrow shot past them, Cassandra drew her sword again and used it to knock two more arrows out of the air before they could reach them. Then they were down on the lower level, where short passages along each side of the concourse held the escalators that led to the train platforms.
They did not take any of the escalators, however; they ran straight down the center of the vast hallway, their footsteps echoing loudly on the granite floor. A set of tall double doors with the words “Panorama Lounge” etched into their frosted glass panels blocked off the far end of the concourse. Cassandra ran toward them, and Max thought that she intended for them to make their stand there, with the doors behind them, or perhaps in the lounge itself. But she didn’t slow. When she raised her sword, Max realized that she was planning to cut them a way through the glass, and his steps faltered.
Cassandra tightened her hold, and Max felt the bruising grip of her fingers just as a giant fist grabbed him around his middle, crushing the air from his chest, and threw him toward the door.
The air was sucked out of his lungs until they ached and the world around him blackened and the blood began to roar in his ears. A great pressure squeezed him like a snowball in the hands of a giant, smaller, smaller, until suddenly the pressure released and he soared free.
Then he was lying on a flat, cold surface, stars impossibly bright and impossibly high overhead. The air was warm and humid, nothing like as cold as it should be for the stars to be so bright, and Max could smell flowers. Cassandra was pulling herself to her knees and crawling over to him. Max heard the sound of pounding feet, and the last thing he saw was the shadow above her, knocking Cassandra on the head, and the last thing he felt was the weight of her body as it fell on top of him.
Chapter Three
THE BASILISK PRINCE, Dreamer of Time, looked to his left just as a shaft of sunlight warmed the small golden bell enough to make it ring. He smiled and pushed away from the worktable and its layers of drawings. The Singer across from him—a Starward Rider, as it happened, her carefully braided golden hair three shades lighter than the color of the bell—relaxed back into her chair. The Basilisk Prince smiled again, and the Singer dropped her eyes.
“That will be all for today,” he told her. “You will remember where to begin tomorrow?” He stood up and walked over to the window without waiting for her to answer what had not really been a question. Of course she would remember, that was what Singers were for. He found his workroom warm again today, despite the opened windows. He looked down at the Garden below, laid out to match the drawings on his table, each section with its own peculiar character. Almost finished. In the years since the War, he’d had every Rider who visited his court—not that they’d known then that it was his court—interviewed by a Singer. And he’d sent Singers out to interview other Riders, whether influential or unimportant, Sunward, Moonward, or Starward. He had given each Singer precise instructions, to use his or her unique ability to record, from each Rider met with, descriptions of the parts of the Lands they knew, the places they’d visited, passed through, lived in.
And while these descriptions were being collected, synthesized, and refined, the Prince had asked his Warriors, those Riders who had fought for him against the Exile, to cleanse the Vale of
Trere’if
for him. And then, he smiled, he had sent for the most renowned Builders to come and create his Garden. The Lands in miniature he had told them the Garden was to be. From his vantage point, the Prince could see how neatly each section was divided from the rest by white pebble paths. The final touch, the Dedication, only waited for him to be declared High Prince. Then, as a symbol of his new power, he would use those pebbled paths as guides to create walls of
dra’aj
, his
dra’aj
, and from that moment visitors to his court would have to Move from section to section. Only he would be able to walk through the Garden like an ordinary Rider. It would be ordinary only for him. It was important, he thought, that all the People who came to his Citadel, especially the Solitaries and the Naturals who came to what would then be the court of the High Prince, be reminded of who and what commanded here. Riders. The only race of the People who could Move unhindered through the Lands. This place, this Garden, would be a symbol of that Power.
Trere’if
for him. And then, he smiled, he had sent for the most renowned Builders to come and create his Garden. The Lands in miniature he had told them the Garden was to be. From his vantage point, the Prince could see how neatly each section was divided from the rest by white pebble paths. The final touch, the Dedication, only waited for him to be declared High Prince. Then, as a symbol of his new power, he would use those pebbled paths as guides to create walls of
dra’aj
, his
dra’aj
, and from that moment visitors to his court would have to Move from section to section. Only he would be able to walk through the Garden like an ordinary Rider. It would be ordinary only for him. It was important, he thought, that all the People who came to his Citadel, especially the Solitaries and the Naturals who came to what would then be the court of the High Prince, be reminded of who and what commanded here. Riders. The only race of the People who could Move unhindered through the Lands. This place, this Garden, would be a symbol of that Power.
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