Authors: Violette Malan
The Mirror Prince (9 page)
Almost finished. Just the last few pieces to fall into place.
A little tune played its way through the back of his thoughts just as the shaft of sunlight rang the second golden bell on his worktable.
He turned back into the room and clapped his hands sharply, making the Starward Singer jump. “Come!” he said. “It is time to visit the Garden. You will accompany me.”
“I thank you, my lord Prince,” the Singer said, rising to her feet, “but my other duties—”
“You have no other duties but to serve your Prince.” The Basilisk found it hard to talk around the sudden constriction in his throat, and the tug in his viscera. Normally he could be patient with these small annoyances, but lately . . . perhaps he was tired. The Griffin Lord had told him to rest, and he should have heeded his friend’s advice. He could feel, almost
see,
the glow of
dra’aj
in the Singer, luminous and thick as cream. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, and he willed them away before they would be noticed. He motioned her to precede him through the room’s arched doorway, careful to stay far enough from her to resist the pull of her
dra’aj,
watched her cross the landing and let her get two steps down the wide staircase before following.
see,
the glow of
dra’aj
in the Singer, luminous and thick as cream. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, and he willed them away before they would be noticed. He motioned her to precede him through the room’s arched doorway, careful to stay far enough from her to resist the pull of her
dra’aj,
watched her cross the landing and let her get two steps down the wide staircase before following.
He needed her alive, he chided himself, unfaded. Would need her until at least tomorrow, when she could tell him where they had left off today. After tomorrow? Well, he would see.
He waited until they were passing the empty Council Chamber before he trusted his voice enough to ask her about a detail that had caught his notice. “What do you know of the discipline called ‘writing’?”
The Singer put her hand out to the railing as she turned her head to answer him.
“A tool of the Shadowfolk,” the Singer said. “I believe there have been attempts to create a written form of our language, but none have succeeded.”
“Why?”
The Singer walked down several more steps away from him before she realized he had stopped. The knuckles on the hand holding the rail had turned white, and he nodded, waiting.
“It is not known, my lord Prince.” Her blue eyes were so beautiful, almost dark in her suddenly pale face. “We can read and write in the Shadowtongues very easily, once we are taught. We need not even be taught the different tongues, it is as if they were all the same for us. It is only our own tongue that we cannot ‘write.’ It is thought that our language is too pure to be physically reproduced.”
“Yes, that is likely,” the Basilisk Prince smiled as a new thought occurred to him. “From our tongue came all other tongues. We are the seed, the beginning.” That fit what he had long believed about the Shadowlands and its connection to the Lands. He signaled to her and continued his descent. “Still, it is not possible that the Shadowfolk have a skill we cannot match,” he told her. “When the Garden has been Dedicated, this will be your new task.”
“Yes, my lord Prince.” This time, the Singer did not turn around.
Almost immediately, he regretted his impulsive words. The project was much too important to leave in the hands of a Starward Rider. Surely there must be a Sunward Singer among the many Singers of the People. But, if he chose a Sunward, would there not be discontent? Once or twice his friend the Griffin Lord had advised that he divide his tasks and responsibilities more evenly among the three Wards. The Griffin had many failings, but for all that he had an excellent understanding.
Nevertheless, good advice could be hard to follow. Though it was only natural, it would not do to show too much favor to Riders of his own Ward. His purpose was to unite Riders against Solitaries and Naturals, to put an end to the petty squabbles that traditionally arose among Moon, Sun, and Stars—not to add to the factiousness. They were all Riders, after all, and had much more in common with each other than they had with any other beings. They were not so much at odds when Guidebeasts were still seen, the Songs told, when Riders still had
dra’aj
enough for their Beasts to manifest. Then there was less talk about which Ward a Rider claimed.
Then
honor and status came from the strength of your Beast, not from the color of your skin, hair, and eyes.
dra’aj
enough for their Beasts to manifest. Then there was less talk about which Ward a Rider claimed.
Then
honor and status came from the strength of your Beast, not from the color of your skin, hair, and eyes.
Still another proof, if he needed it, that Riders had fallen, another sign that the end of the Cycle was near, that changes had to come. He had done all he could, more, he thought, than anyone else could have done to solve this final problem, to restore Riders and all the Lands to their proper glory. There was only one thing lacking, one missing piece to the puzzle, and that would be supplied by the Exile.
The Starward Singer had waited for him in the entrance hall at the foot of the tower. Now was not the time to be thinking about all he had left to do. This was his time for relaxation, for recreation. At his gesture, the Singer turned and opened the doors into the Garden.
Several of the Riders assembled outside the Basilisk Tower, most in the deep magenta colors of the Basilisk Prince, tried to catch her eye as she came through the doors, but the Prince was much too close behind for Twilight Falls Softly to risk any kind of signal. There were those present who might betray her for even a change of expression, even a frown due to too bright a sun. It was hard to be in the Basilisk Prince’s
fara’ip,
difficult to win a place, more difficult still to keep it. None here had anything to fear or gain from her; as a Singer she had her own
fara’ip,
the bonding closer than blood, and wanted none of the Basilisk’s, but there were many who would not believe it.
fara’ip,
difficult to win a place, more difficult still to keep it. None here had anything to fear or gain from her; as a Singer she had her own
fara’ip,
the bonding closer than blood, and wanted none of the Basilisk’s, but there were many who would not believe it.
She moved quickly down the wide stone steps and turned when she reached the flagstones at the bottom, turned in time to bow with the others as the Basilisk Prince appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps. The doors closed behind him of their own accord, framing him in brightness as their golden wood caught the rays of the sun and gave a special glow to the burgundy of his hair.
Twilight discreetly edged backward, hoping to lose herself in the group of waiting Riders. It wasn’t unusual, she’d been told, to feel uncomfortable in the Basilisk Prince’s presence—that was the price of exposure to great power—but his direct regard was beginning to terrify her. Too many people who’d received that regard were seen no more, as if the weight of the Prince’s notice removed you from the notice of all other Riders. Once or twice she was sure she’d seen a look of hunger in his eye. She’d learned to identify the danger signals, the sudden pallor, the minute trembling of the hands, the almost imperceptible dampness of brow and upper lip.
Were her nerves powering her imagination, or was the Basilisk Prince paler than usual today?
Twilight fell into step with the others as the Basilisk led the way down the first path. He liked to stroll through the Garden every afternoon and check the progress of the Builders, and he liked to take a select group of Riders with him. These thought of themselves as his
fara’ip,
but privately Twilight wondered whether the Prince was capable of such a bond. The group, always small, was frequently made up of the same Riders—today Twilight saw the Singer Snow on the Mountain and her own kinsman Patience in Time in the group—though not always the Prince’s current favorites. Twilight Falls Softly had been told—Singers heard everything eventually—that sometimes the Basilisk Prince took a special guest to enjoy the Garden privately with him, but the Prince always returned alone. No one but the Naturals living in the Garden knew what happened on those occasions.
fara’ip,
but privately Twilight wondered whether the Prince was capable of such a bond. The group, always small, was frequently made up of the same Riders—today Twilight saw the Singer Snow on the Mountain and her own kinsman Patience in Time in the group—though not always the Prince’s current favorites. Twilight Falls Softly had been told—Singers heard everything eventually—that sometimes the Basilisk Prince took a special guest to enjoy the Garden privately with him, but the Prince always returned alone. No one but the Naturals living in the Garden knew what happened on those occasions.
As the Basilisk Prince led them near a fountain, the chuckling water leaped, forming a crystalline tower in the air, subsiding only as the Prince’s steps passed by. Twilight murmured and smiled with everyone else, each of them careful to catch the Prince’s eye so that he could approve of their pleasure in the manifestation. Twilight had to admit it; it
was
impressive, the grace of it, the perfect melding of space and time and movement. More than anything else in the Basilisk Prince’s court, it showed how real his power was.
was
impressive, the grace of it, the perfect melding of space and time and movement. More than anything else in the Basilisk Prince’s court, it showed how real his power was.
A small woman, thin as a stem, skin like pallid moss, pale violet of hair, stood ankle-deep at one side.
“You have done well,” the Basilisk Prince told her, his voice ringing like silver bells. “Tell your people.”
“Thank you, my lord Prince,” she said, her voice as crystal as the water, as she bowed her head and disappeared once more.
The promenade continued, and Twilight found herself able to make small conversation—about the Garden—with her kinsman Patience, who introduced her to another Rider, a Sunward, whom she did not know. As she relaxed, smiling freely at a remark the Sunward Rider made, she realized how very tense the day’s work with the Basilisk Prince had made her. She might be just as tense tomorrow, but for now the Basilisk Prince was pleased, chuckling his delight as the Garden acknowledged his passing, each section in its own way, here with sounding waters, there with a light fall of snow, with flowers that bloomed as he approached and closed as he walked out of their meadow. The Prince laughed aloud as the party was caught in a sudden shower of rain, and Twilight laughed with him.
In the silence of the next section of Garden, Twilight could hear running water splashing and tinkling over rock, and a voice light as a rainbow singing in accompaniment to the water.
“What do you here?” There was no laughter in the Basilisk Prince’s voice now.
Sudden silence and the water stopped, the singing stopped. Twilight was almost sure that her breathing had stopped, and that even her heart had stilled.
“Come forth,” the Basilisk said. “Do not make me compel you.” A small Natural, a Water Sprite almost the image of the one they had already seen, stepped to the edge of the water. Pale green as a lily pad she was, hair like jade, eyes the rich hue of emeralds.
“You are not to sing, not to let your waters play, except in my presence.” The Prince spoke in sorrow, like a father to a wayward child. Twilight slipped her hand into the crook of her cousin Patience’s elbow, needing suddenly to feel something solid and warm. All around her the group of Riders stifled their movements, becoming as still as the water they were near.
“My lord Prince,” the crystal voice rang pure, true notes, “the Garden is large, and you come so seldom . . . it is my Nature to sing and play.”
“Your Nature? Your Nature is bound to me. You have no Nature unless I will it.” Even now his voice was gentle and soft. Twilight did not relax, and the muscles in her kinsman’s arm were like
gra’if
metal.
gra’if
metal.
“But, my Lord, we—”
“
WE?
There are others? You conspire to disobey me? Who are these others?” Now was his voice a terrible thing, and Twilight closed her eyes, unable to bury her face in Patience’s sleeve as she longed to do.
WE?
There are others? You conspire to disobey me? Who are these others?” Now was his voice a terrible thing, and Twilight closed her eyes, unable to bury her face in Patience’s sleeve as she longed to do.
“No, my lord,” the little Natural chimed. “I mean, I mispoke my lord Prince, there are no others. I—”
“It makes no matter.” The Prince’s voice was once again calm, and Twilight let go the breath she was not aware of holding. All would be well, she’d been frightened for nothing.
“You
will
warn them, you yourself will serve as warning to any ‘others’ who might think to defy me.”
will
warn them, you yourself will serve as warning to any ‘others’ who might think to defy me.”
Quick as a cat, the Basilisk Prince seized the Water Sprite by her fragile upper arm and pulled her out of the water. Twilight winced when she saw the little Natural’s unformed feet; she was never meant to stand on a dry surface. The Prince turned to the Rider next to him, the nice Sunward Warrior Patience had just introduced her to, and pointed to a patch of rocky ground, well away from the little Natural’s pool.
“Stake her there,” the Basilisk Prince said, thrusting the Water Sprite to the ground. “Let her dry. Let her
dra’aj
return to the Lands.”
dra’aj
return to the Lands.”
Twilight sank her teeth into the inside of her bottom lip, hoping her face was impassive, hoping she had even managed a small smile and small nod of approval. She doubted it very much, but she hoped. The little Natural would dry slowly. Her pool would shrink with her until eventually, after hours or days, she would be only a thin film discoloring the rocks, and then the wind would blow even that away.
“Let us continue,” the Basilisk Prince said, smiling, as he led them past the struggling Natural.
Twilight thought about meeting the Prince in his workroom on the morrow, and forced a smile to her lips.
The group passed into a formal garden within the Garden, where stone paths and neat hedges separated carefully placed flowers and topiary. The Basilisk Prince quickened his pace as he glimpsed the figure making its way down the path toward them.
The Griffin Lord,
Twilight thought. If only he’d arrived earlier, the little Natural might still be alive. The Basilisk Prince’s wrath could be deflected, if caught early, but nothing could persuade him to undo what had been done. These days it seemed that only the Griffin Lord’s opinions had any effect on the Basilisk Prince’s behavior. The Griffin came striding toward them, purposeful and sure, pausing with a beautiful movement of his hand at the required distance. The Prince, rather than gesturing the Griffin to approach, stepped forward himself to meet him.
The Griffin Lord,
Twilight thought. If only he’d arrived earlier, the little Natural might still be alive. The Basilisk Prince’s wrath could be deflected, if caught early, but nothing could persuade him to undo what had been done. These days it seemed that only the Griffin Lord’s opinions had any effect on the Basilisk Prince’s behavior. The Griffin came striding toward them, purposeful and sure, pausing with a beautiful movement of his hand at the required distance. The Prince, rather than gesturing the Griffin to approach, stepped forward himself to meet him.
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