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.
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.
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
Twilight edged forward, her Singer’s curiosity overcoming her caution. She had seen the Griffin Lord at a distance, but this was her first opportunity to observe him closely. Like herself, the Griffin was a Starward Rider, distinguished by his pallor, his dark blue eyes, and his elaborately braided hair, blazing platinum like a cloud of starlight. Like the rest of the present group, he affected the current monochrome fashion of the Basilisk’s fara’ip. His breeches and boots, his tunic, cut long enough to reach the knees and divided for riding, were a deep forest green, and heavily brocaded with griffins. However, unlike the others, who wore no jewelry whatsoever, the Griffin Lord displayed his individuality, or his recklessness, in the shape of a jeweled ring, worn in the left ear.
The Griffin was not, Twilight noted, the only one present who did not wear the deep magenta colors of the Basilisk Prince. But he was the only one who looked comfortable doing so.
“My lord Prince,” he said, his voice light, as if he’d found a way to whisper and speak aloud at the same time. He lowered his eyes and bowed with another graceful gesture of his hand. The Basilisk Prince reached out and touched the Griffin’s cheek with the back of his fingers as the Rider straightened.
“What news do you bring me, my dear one?”
“We have the Solitary who gave them warning, and this.” In his right hand the Griffin held out a hair ornament about the length of his thumb.
Twilight strained to see as the Basilisk Prince took hold of the little clip, turning it over in his fingers. Small as it was, it was extraordinarily detailed and lifelike, a three-dimensional depiction of
a dragon asleep, its nose buried beneath its tail like a cat napping.
“Is it gra’if ?” A murmur among those watching quickly stilled as the Basilisk Prince lifted his hand.
“No, my lord, the ornament is made of what the Shadowfolk call silver.”
“Do we know to whom it belonged?”
The Griffin Lord shook his head. “Two of the Wardens were Dragonborn. We do not know which of them dropped it.”
“If it is coincidence, I must say that I do not like it.” The Basilisk Prince turned the small silver dragon until it caught the sun. Twilight took a step back, getting several of the others between her and where the Basilisk stood with the Griffin Lord. She’d had her fill today of what the Basilisk Prince did not like.
“She often knows more than it seems possible for her to know,” the Griffin reminded the Prince. Twilight winced. No telling who the “she” under discussion was, but it sounded as if she should be more careful. And as for the Griffin Lord, he spoke boldly, more boldly perhaps than was safe. Twilight glanced around and saw that the other Riders were looking carefully at the fountains and shrubs that surrounded them. They all knew that the Prince loved the Griffin Lord, but others had been loved, and were seen no more.
“Where is he now?”
“They passed through the Portal, my lord. What would you have us do?”
The Basilisk turned to face them once again, and Twilight prepared her best smile. He inclined his head, and she bowed with the rest. As she raised her head, she caught the eye of the Griffin Lord. Something in his face . . . some unexpected look. The jewel in his ear flashed in the sunlight. Was he shaking his head at her, or had it been just a tremor of the light? As he turned his face from her, Twilight thought of the little Natural, staked out to dry within sight of her own pool, and wondered how far she could get from the court if she left now. Was it even worth the attempt? Was there any safe place for her to go? She thought again of the Water Sprite. No, she realized, an unexpected freedom in the thought, and it’s just as dangerous to stay.
She’d go, then. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure the Basilisk Prince would hear it and question her.
The Basilisk Prince felt the muscles in his face loosen, the tightness in his stomach—almost a cramp—die away. How much he enjoyed seeing the brightness in their eyes. He turned his back on the fara’ip and walked with his beloved friend toward the now distant tower.
“I had to discipline a Natural today, a little Water Sprite,” he said.
“Did you?” his friend answered. “I suppose it couldn’t be helped.”
“Most definitely not. But now, of course, there’s a gap in the Garden, and that will have to be taken care of before the Dedication.”
“As I have said, you do too much. Let others take care of these details.”
“Ah, how like you, dear one,” the Prince shook his head, smiling. “But it is the details that count.” A few more of them, he thought, and all would be accomplished. Soon now, very soon. He looked at the silver dragon in his hand. The tools he needed to make every Rider, every Natural, and even every Solitary as obedient as was the Garden through which he walked were almost in his hands. It only wanted the final piece, the Exile.
There had been those, the Prince recalled, placing his hand on the Griffin’s shoulder as they walked, who suggested—carefully, where they thought he would not hear of it—that everything he did stemmed from being passed over for the Guardianship, but it was not so. True, back before he was the Basilisk Prince, when he was only Dreamer of Time, he would have been content to Guard the Talismans, to hold the heart and good of the People as his charge. When his cousin, Dawntreader, was chosen instead, the Basilisk Prince had known that his was another, more difficult, path.
All the Songs agreed that the Guardian of the Talismans was the one Rider—the one among all the People—who could never be High Prince. It was that task which Dreamer of Time knew to be his own, but Dawntreader had refused him the Talismans. Refused him. Even now, the Basilisk had to consciously refrain from forming fists at the thought. Even at the end of the War, when Dawntreader had surrendered, and Dreamer of Time was hailed for the first time as the Basilisk Prince, he had been unable to act. He’d quietly tested his allies and had seen that there was no heart left in them, at that moment, to force Dawntreader to their will. Renewed conflict—and forcing the Guardian would have meant exactly that, as the arrogant son-of-Solitaries well knew—would have been the result. Dawntreader’s surrender had achieved what a war he could not win had not: it had gained him time. Or so he had thought.
But the passage of time had changed many things. Now very few gave thought to the welfare of the Prince Guardian, and the state of his Banishment. Many, if asked, would not even know if he lived. And now, now that the Basilisk Prince had all the allies he could want, he no longer needed them. The little tune threaded its way through the feelings behind this thought. Now he had the means to force Dawntreader to do what was needed.
The Prince stopped to stroke the ornamental grasses that grew against the Citadel wall. He drew the stems through his hand, inhaling the clean green scent of the crushed plant. This time, the Prince Guardian would agree to give the Lands the High Prince they so badly needed. This time he would not be able to refuse. The Prince drew his hand back sharply. The edges of the grass had cut his hand. He smiled. He should have remembered the greenery did more than look pretty. He turned to the Griffin.
“Find them. Bring them to me,” he said, looking at the blood on his fingers. “The child of the Dragon is not to be killed, mark that.”
“And the Solitary?”
“I will see him now.”
“It shall be as the Basilisk Prince wishes.”
Cassandra dropped Max’s hands and covered her eyes with her palms, biting back a scream of frustration.
“What’s wrong? Why isn’t it working?”
Cassandra shook her head. “I don’t know!” The words came out louder than she had intended. Abruptly, she turned from him, scanning the room.
“Maybe you should try to relax.”
Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut, her hands in fists. Could she, for heaven’s sake, have two seconds’ peace to think? Was that too much to ask? At times like this, she felt that only her Oath kept her from slapping him silly. Max’s tone had been gentle, the rough velvet of his voice comforting, but his advice made it all the clearer to Cassandra just how little he understood, and just how alone she was. She rubbed her eyes, feeling the pull of exhaustion. Just how long had she been awake? Had she had any sleep since Diggory had come with Nighthawk’s warning?
“I just can’t focus on the room,” she said, resenting the tremor she heard in her voice. She took a deep breath and looked around her once more, trying to concentrate on the details. The room looked strangely familiar, considering how long it had been since she’d last visited a Rider’s fortress. It looked as though whoever had brought them here meant them to be comfortable. There were thick rugs on the polished stone floor, darkwood chairs like most of the elder lords had, the kind that would conform themselves to your shape without the aid of cushions or padding. There was a spread of wine, juices, fruit, and cheeses on the inlaid table, each item in its own never-empty plate, basket, or carafe. The walls were covered in brightly embroidered tapestries that looked as soft as flannel and smelled like laundry dried outside on a warm breezy day. There was even a fire burning in the grate, warming the room and filling it with the smell of apples. Altogether a pleasant, comforting place, Cassandra thought, taking her lower lip between her teeth, but if she were unable to form a picture of it in her mind, she could not Move them.
Max picked up a carafe and carefully sniffed at it.
“I suppose this will be poisoned?”
Cassandra shut her eyes again. Couldn’t he tell she was trying to think? “If they wanted to kill us,” she said through clenched teeth, “we’d be dead already.” She opened her eyes to find him looking at her, a softness she
hadn’t seen before in his eyes.
“Listen,” he said, in his voice like velvet. “I was serious. If there’s nothing we can do, we need to put it out of our minds and relax.”
Cassandra turned her back on him and continued her examination of the room. The Exile had always been full of advice, and she’d heard that particular piece before. But that was when they were dealing with humans; things had changed now, as the never-ending supplies of food reminded her. And besides, she wasn’t convinced there was nothing she could do. Just because she couldn’t Move didn’t mean they shouldn’t try to get out by ordinary means. And get out they must, that was clear. A room with no exit was still a cell, no matter how thick the carpets and how good the wine. The Troll Diggory had given his life that she might keep the Exile safe, and that was a sacrifice she had no intention of wasting. The Troll had been right all along, she thought; something was terribly wrong. What did the Basilisk want with the Exile, and why couldn’t it wait until the end of the Banishment, especially now that it was so close?
Cassandra rubbed her forehead with stiff fingers. One problem at a time, she instructed herself, hearing the echo of her voice saying the same thing to her fencing students. If only she found herself as easy to obey as they did.
The Mirror Prince Page 7
