The Troll had been carefully searched for gra’if when he was captured, and the chains that held him now were ordinary darkmetal, though Signed, of course, by the Basilisk himself. Only the Basilisk could free the Old One now, supposing anyone would want him free. It was not safe to have gra’if metal around a Solitary, everyone knew that. After all, it was the Solitaries who made it, no one knew how. And who knew what tricky spells might be lying in wait for the unwary? No one who wished to follow the Basilisk Prince wore gra’if nowadays, even if they might have a suit of it hidden somewhere in their home.
Peace remembered his older sister having gra’if, and how proud of it she had been. Peace never admitted to anyone that as a child growing up he had envied his older sister, and that his major ambition had been to have gra’if of his own one day. There was no knowing where his sister was now, which was a good thing, otherwise Peace would have to tell. He sighed and slid the hand mirror back into his pocket.
“Has the prisoner given any trouble?”
Peace jolted to attention, almost dropping his glaive. If the Basilisk noticed how startled he was . . . but a stolen glance showed him that Dreamer of Time was looking over Peace’s shoulder, at the suspended Troll.
“No, my lord Prince.” Acutely embarrassed by the croak in his voice, Peace cleared his throat as quietly as he could. If he did not know better, Peace thought, he would think the Basilisk had been running. He was breathing in shallow, uneven gasps, and Peace noticed a light beading of sweat on his lord’s forehead and upper lip. Instead of the normal, ruddy complexion of a Sunward Rider, the Basilisk was pale, his skin blotchy.
“Are you well, my lord Prince?” he ventured.
“Yes, my boy. Yes. Come here a moment, would you?” The Basilisk Prince gestured and Peace approached him, head bowed. The Basilisk laid his arm around Peace’s shoulder, leaning on him. The boy slipped his own arm around the Basilisk’s waist, realizing that his lord needed steadying, regardless of his reassuring words. Why, the Basilisk’s hand was bleeding.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Peace at Dawn, my lord. My mother is Light in the Sky, and the Dragon guides me.”
“Dragonborn are you? Ah, well, it can’t be helped.” The Basilisk patted him on the shoulder, and Peace felt bold enough to raise his head.
“My lord?”
“Nothing, my dear, nothing. Look into my eyes.”
Puzzled but happy, Peace at Dawn turned his head enough to look at the Basilisk Prince directly, eye to eye, as the great lords did. He was being Seen he thought, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. He could hardly wait to tell his father.
“. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .” the Basilisk said.
Peace opened his mouth, but he could not form the words to apologize for not hearing what his lord had said. Neither could he shut his mouth again.
“. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .” the Basilisk said, and Peace felt the brush of warm breath on his cheeks, smelled the faint, not unpleasant scent of the wine the Basilisk had taken that afternoon.
The Basilisk Prince leaned toward Peace, his own lips parted, and gently sucked the air out of Peace’s lungs in a long hiss.
“. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .” the Basilisk said. As Peace began to tremble, the Basilisk’s eyes burned red, and his arms tightened like vises around Peace’s shoulders.
No, Peace thought, wait.
“. . . . . . . .”
But the Basilisk Prince was still speaking, his tongue flicking in and out of his thinning lips and Peace stopped struggling to find his own voice. He couldn’t interrupt the Prince, could he?
The Prince’s face seemed to grow longer, his nose sharper and his eyes impossibly large, and red, and still. The Basilisk Prince went on speaking the lines Peace at Dawn could not hear, as he felt his limbs stiffen and his blood grow still. By the time he thought of struggling, of calling on the light that perhaps lay within himself, of calling the fires of his own Beast, those fires, deep within him, had turned to stone.
Twilight Falls Softly waited to leave her chambers until after the late meal had been served, when she could be reasonably certain that everyone in the Citadel would be about their evening amusements. The Basilisk Prince had not been seen since he’d gone off with the Griffin Lord, though gossip had that lord already back to the stables and gone. No point in waiting until full dark, she told herself, glancing out her open window to where the clouds blew over the moon. There would never be a moment when the whole court would be asleep—and if there were, what explanation could she give for not being asleep herself? One of the guards-in-arms who was always patrolling the Citadel itself would be sure to stop and ask her. No, better to go now, while there were still Riders out and about in the Garden, enjoying the small freedoms that night brought, even here in the court of the Basilisk Prince . . .
If only she were able to unlock her knees and stand.
Twilight knew that if she stayed, she would only become another one of those never seen again, never spoken of. She would never make it through another day with the Basilisk Prince without betraying herself, not with the image of the drying Water Sprite always before her eyes. Twilight wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, even though a fire burned in her hearth. If only she could stop trembling. And if she were to go, it had to be now, tonight. Even if somehow she could avoid the Basilisk Prince tomorrow, if she waited until the Garden was Dedicated—and that event was not far off, messengers had been sent with invitations and Riders were even now gathering at the court—she would not be able to simply walk away. Only Movement would take her out of the Garden then. And no one Moved within the precinct of the Basilisk’s court without his feeling it, without his knowing, somehow.
She forced herself to relax, sitting up straight on the edge of her bed, her ankles crossed as her mother had taught her, hands clasped in her lap as if she sat at her lessons. Her fingers entwined, she starting tapping her thumbs to the music she was playing in her head. She thought again about taking her new gown. Made in the traditional rainbow hues worn by Singers, she had worn it only once since coming to the Prince’s court. But whoever it was the Prince would send to her rooms when she did not arrive in his workroom at the appointed hour would take careful note of what was there, and what was not. So long as there was no evidence of flight, if her rooms did not look as though she had run away, they would waste time looking for her in the wrong places, time she could use to get well away. She must take nothing with her, absolutely nothing except what she was wearing now.
And she couldn’t wear the rainbow-colored gown now, not and expect to go unnoticed.
Twilight’s hands stilled as her eyes turned once more to her darkwood harp. No, she told herself for the fourth time in as many minutes. Absolutely nothing. She sat up straighter, squaring her shoulders. Even that must stay. Especially that. Her work with the Prince did not call for her harp, and if it were missing in the morning, it would not look as if she had been on her way to him. With her most precious possession here in her rooms, everyone would think she had merely stepped out of them and was somehow detained about the Citadel.
She took a deep breath, and another, as if she were about to Sing in company. She forced herself to stand up before she could think of any further reasons not to and marched to the Chimera-carved door. Her hand on the jeweled latch, Twilight glanced back once more at her harp. No! She turned away, resting her forehead against the cool darkwood of the door. She let the music she was thinking flow down into the muscles of her throat, opened the door, and stepped through. She hummed a little louder as she neared the bottom of the tower steps and heard the murmur of voices ahead of her. Hearing her humming music, no one she passed in the Citadel, or in the Garden once she reached that far, would speak to her, or interrupt her in any way, believing that she made a new Song.
There were only two guards gossiping in the hall at the base of the Chimera Tower. As she expected, they merely nodded politely and turned away as she walk
ed beyond them to where the courtyard door stood open to the night air. In minutes she was through the courtyard and the gate beyond it, and some of the tension left her neck and shoulders. As she expected, there were other Riders out strolling in the Garden, and she was congratulating herself on escaping their notice when a Sunward Rider looked at her sharply, an unexpected look of concern on his face, and Twilight realized with a jolt of terror that she had stopped humming. She forced what she hoped was a reassuring smile to her lips—it felt like Death’s own grimace—and hummed a short motif over twice, with a small variation the second time, as she passed him by. He smiled and nodded, turning back to his own companions, persuaded, Twilight hoped, that whatever he’d seen on her face was nothing more than Singer’s block. She focused once more on her music, and relaxed the set of her shoulders, letting her arms swing naturally in time to her humming as she strolled along the paths.
She wanted to run, but she let the Song she was humming govern the speed and pacing of her footsteps, just as it would if she were really making a Song. Any direction would do for now. As for when she reached the edge of the Vale of Trere’if—she was not going to call it the Vale of Basilisks ever again—well, there had been a rumor of Wild Riders to the Windward, and she supposed that was as good a direction as any. She did not know how large the Vale was, but she would walk all night if necessary. All day. Until she was free. Or until they found her.
Twilight shivered and pushed that thought from her mind. She went on humming, even though there was no one near her, allowing the simple, everyday task to relax her. She had never been particularly powerful, her dra’aj was nothing out of the ordinary, but she’d always felt invigorated after Singing. She’d heard it was the same for others with special talents, even Healers and Warriors, that they felt stronger after they’d used their gifts.
When she realized where her feet were taking her, she stopped, heart hammering in her chest, even the Song dying away in her throat. It seemed she could leave her harp, but there was something else—someone else, she corrected—she could not abandon. Leaving the harp bought her time, it was a step toward a safety that was precarious enough as it was . . . surely stopping to free the little Water Sprite would undo all of that? It was madness, and dangerous madness at that.
Her feet were carrying her forward, even as she debated. Apparently she had made up her mind without knowing it. In fact, now that she actually thought about it, stopping to free the Natural would take only a few minutes, and the act itself wouldn’t add much danger to her flight. Who would even notice? Twilight strode forward with more purpose. No one would go to check on the little Natural. Only those who had been present this afternoon knew about her staking, and none of them would have reason to do it. Even the Prince, supposing anyone would remind him, would not order such a check. There would not even be a guard posted to prevent interference, and all for the same reason: it would never occur to anyone that someone would defy the Basilisk Prince by setting the Natural free. As soon send someone to see if the sun had risen.
Twilight walked a little faster down the pebbled path, but when she came to the next cross path, she hesitated, teeth gnawing at her upper lip, as she turned first one way and then another. She had set off in the right direction without being aware of it, but now, now that she was consciously trying to find the right way, all the paths, all the trees, rocks, and hillsides looked the same under the moonlight. Her heart beat faster and she bit down harder to prevent the whimper that rose in her throat from escaping. For the first time in her life she wished that she were a Warrior, and not a Singer. If she’d been born a Warrior, she’d have freed the Water Sprite and been halfway to the Wild Riders by now. No Singer was going to Make a Song out of this daring escape; Twilight wasn’t even out of the Garden and she was already lost.
She stood still, heart stuttering, breathing uneven. If she panicked now, she’d be done for certain. She threw her head back and filled her diaphragm with air. Years of training relaxed her muscles, her breathing exercises quelling this panic just as effectively as it had ever done her stage fright. She had not particularly noticed their path this afternoon, she had been too busy watching the Prince. But she was a Singer, and she could not forget what she’d once known. Her heart slowed, she began to Sing the Song of the afternoon’s tour. She was careful not to let her voice grow louder as she grew more confident. Verse after verse came to her tongue, each little couplet and beat of rhythm a footstep on her journey. She saw where she had turned the wrong way, and retraced her steps into a meadow of sleeping flowers and began again. Here there had been snow, and here a shower of rain.
As she Sang, and her dra’aj rose and fell with the words, and her feet followed the notes along the familiar route, Twilight found herself wondering for the first time just where the dra’aj for the Garden came from. She had been told that it was the Vale itself, Trere’if that was, which provided the needed dra’aj, but if that were true, Twilight thought as her voice rose and fell in a whisper just loud enough for her own ears, then why was not her dra’aj stronger as well? Why not everyone’s dra’aj? Why only the dra’aj of the Basilisk Prince?
The clouds parted again as she rounded another turn in the path. The moonlight showed her just where they had heard—
Twilight stopped with a sharp intake of breath as she stepped into a shallow pool of water. She looked frantically around, but of course, she thought, breathing deeply again, if the pool was still here, then the Water Sprite had to be.
“Where are you?” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the wind in the trees. “Can you answer me?”
Twilight thought she heard a sound to her left, and as that seemed to match the picture she had in her head, she turned that way. She inched forward, feeling with her toes, fearful of stepping on the little Natural as she had stepped into the pool. A darker patch on the rocky ground, a sound of dry, hoarse breathing. Or was it just dry leaves blowing in the wind?
Twilight knelt and carefully felt in front of her. A whimper of sound told her that the brittle stick under the fingers of her left hand was no tree branch. Carefully she felt her way with soft finger touches along the Water Sprite’s limb until she found the rope fastening, tight above a joint. She pulled her belt knife out of its sheath and cut the rope from the stake end, unwilling to risk breaking the delicate limb by exerting pressure any closer to it. Freeing the limbs on the far side of the sprite was trickier, as reaching over the little figure put Twilight at a bad angle, but even with the moon’s light she was afraid to get up and move around, afraid she would step on the little Natural and shatter her like a pile of twigs.
She sat back on her heels, waiting until her hand stopped trembling before shoving the knife back into its sheath.
“I’m going to try to get you into the water,” she whispered, knowing that if she said it aloud, she would have to find the courage to do it. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. Can you make one sound, one sound only, to say if you agree?”
Again the whimper came, just once.
Twilight maneuvered her hands under the brittle rib cage, scraping the backs of her fingers against the rock beneath the sprite, afraid to handle her too much. It was like picking up a doll made of the driest twigs and dressed in cold silk. Twilight’s hands felt large and clumsy, and sweat trickled down her nose as she heard her own voice whispering the word “sorry” over and over. She got her hands under what she thought were the sprite’s armpits and lifted. The little arms reached up then, trailing their bracelets of rope, and hugged Twilight around the neck. The little Sprite’s hair broke and crumbled as she laid her head on Twilight’s shoulder.
Oh, Hydra that guides me, she thought, careful not to whisper her prayer aloud, please may I not break her. She turned as quickly as she could and this time stepped deliberately into the pool. She knelt and tenderly lowered her burden into the cool liquid. The water thrashed around her ankles, reminding her of the time her father had taught her to catch trout with her bare hands, a
nd suddenly she was knocked backward onto the ground as two strong wet arms were around her neck and her face was being covered by wet kisses.
As she swallowed a sob, Twilight realized that not all the water on her face came from the Sprite.
“Oh, my sister,” said the Sprite in her crystal voice. “Oh, thank you, my sister, thank you.”
“Can you leave here?” Twilight asked. Her heart sank. A fine adventurer she was, for certain. Until this moment it had not even occurred to her to wonder how the Water Sprite was to leave. She couldn’t go back to the Citadel for something to carry her in. She couldn’t. They would both be caught, and what good would that accomplish? But how could she leave the little Sprite now? Twilight was so taken with her own fears that she almost missed the Water Sprite’s answer.
The Mirror Prince Page 9
