The Mirror Prince

by Malan, Violette

  The older Rider nodded as if in reply. He was careful never to complain about the Naturals in his own holding of Wind fast. Thank you, Roc that guides me, that I do not know the name of this poor Natural. His cheeks grew hot, as Windwatcher acknowledged his relief. But without the name on his tongue, he need not stop to make inquiries, and Riding here was reckless enough without that.

  The guard captain, watching them as they rode by, lifted her hand in belated acknowledgment of Windwatcher’s salute, letting them pass without remark, but he knew himself a rash fool for coming this route. The path through Ne’agal, already less shaded than it had been, was long, and now that he and Horse of Winter were watched, they would have to Ride down every tortured span of it. Moving now would draw down the wrong kind of attention. Attention he could ill afford to draw, considering what he was wearing under his ruby-and-saffron tunic. It seemed to him likely that anyone looking at him would see the presence of his gra’if shining in his eyes.

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  Windwatcher could hear the suppressed rage in the younger Rider’s voice.

  “Nothing but die with it, which itself achieves exactly nothing.” The older Rider eyed the young messenger. “We are on our way to do what we can for all the others,” he added when he saw Horse press his lips together.

  At first, there had been general protest when the Basilisk’s men began to move against Solitaries and the more active Naturals, but those who spoke had a habit of disappearing—Faded some said—and that was a lesson speedily learned. Not that Windwatcher had any love for Solitaries himself, no sensible Rider would, but when had the feeling against Naturals become so strong?

  The instant they were out of sight of the workers, Windwatcher and Horse of Winter Moved into the courtyard of Griffinhome, the fortress of Honor of Souls, where servants in Honor’s green-and-gold livery were already waiting. One helped Windwatcher dismount, taking his gloves and Riding cloak, while another took the Cloud Horses around to the stables to be brushed off and fed.

  Horse of Winter exchanged the borrowed ruby-and-saffron cotte he had worn as Windwatcher’s squire for the gold and green of his true colors as Herald of Honor of Souls, and started up the shallow, wide stone steps that led to Griffinhome’s main doors. Windwatcher carefully loosened the lacing at the collars of his waistcoat and shirt to reveal his gra’if mail, his eyes drawn upward to the turrets and domes of the fortress with a sense of seeing them for the first time. Fortress it was named, but battlements and barred gates notwithstanding, it had been built for beauty and charm, not to withstand any kind of attack.

  “My lord?” Horse waited patiently at the great doors carved with their guardian Griffins.

  “Griffinhome will not have Changed since my last visit.”

  “No, my lord.” Horse exchanged a quick glance with one of the guards still in the courtyard.

  “When I was young,” Windwatcher said, his eyes still admiring the flight of the turrets, “I had a cousin living close to the Shaghana’ak Abyss, who was to be married. He caused his fortress to Change every time one crossed a threshold. The entire visit became a game of hide-and-be-found.” Windwatcher shook his head slowly, still in awe of the magnificence of his cousin’s feat. “When it came time for the ceremony, every door opened into the marriage room, delivering the guests to the correct place at the correct time.”

  “I have heard stories of such things, my lord, but none so elaborate as that.”

  Windwatcher drew his gaze down from the skies to the young Rider’s face. “Now you wait to escort me through your fortress from courtesy, and policy, not from necessity.”

  “And did my lady, Honor of Souls, Change Griffinhome often in the days before?” the young Rider turned to lead Windwatcher through the open doors.

  Windwatcher ran his hands through his mane of red hair, smoothing it into some semblance of order. “I would not have been a welcome guest of your lady in the days before the Great War. I supported the Basilisk Prince’s claim to the Talismans, and she, as you well know, being of her fara’ip, is sister to the Prince Guardian’s mother, and so one of his most loyal supporters.”

  He could feel the young Rider stiffen as they walked through the second, inner doors and into the interior of the fortress. Windwatcher waited for the inevitable question, but when it came, it was not was he expected.

  “What became of your cousin?”

  “One day, after the Great War, the Abyss widened, taking house and cousin with it.”

  “The Basilisk?”

  “It was wise not to speculate upon such matters, even then.”

  “And does no one Change their fortresses now?” The young Rider’s voice was wistful, as if he would have liked to see such a thing himself.

  “It is not safe now to show the power of that much dra’aj. It might earn you a visit from the Basilisk Prince.”

  Horse of Winter nodded and turned into a narrow corridor.

  “With respect, my lord, I find it hard to think that you once followed the Basilisk.”

  Ah, there was the expected question after all.

  “Easy to see when the game of Guidebeasts is over exactly how one’s pieces were swept from the board.” A shame he had not been a better student of the game before the War, he thought, as they rounded the turn and began to climb a darkwood stair, each step inlaid with small green stones making a pattern of leaves and flowers. Like every other elder house, Windwatcher had had the choice of backing either the Prince Guardian or Dreamer of Time, who became the Basilisk Prince. He’d made his observations, examined the pieces and the moves . . .

  “I expected the Guardian to lose, but,” he shook his head. “There’s a way of losing that is not losing . . . and a way of winning that has no triumph in it. I should after all have backed the Red, and not the White, however logical my choice seemed at the time. But in truth it was not logic that influenced me, but prejudice and personal dislike.”

  “Dawntreader must have seemed an odd choice for the old Guardian to have made, given his upbringing.”

  The older Rider looked sideways at the young one, but there was no criticism in Horse’s face, only the willingness to understand. “The last Rider who should be chosen, many of us thought. And so, when the old Guardian Faded, and the new one refused Dreamer of Time a chance to offer himself to the Talismans, many of us were shocked that Dawntreader, the new, the untried Guardian, would refuse him. Arrogantly and without seeking counsel, without even recourse to the Talismans.”

  “Did no one think it suspicious that Dreamer of Time should be so quick to offer himself?”

  “Give us credit for some few wits, Horse of Winter. No one doubted that the Cycle was turning, that the times did indeed call for a High Prince. Already there were fewer births, and mysterious changes to the Lands, inexplicable losses of dra’aj, and disappearances, as people, even places Faded. Some thought it the end of the world.

  “And many of us, myself among them, believed we understood the Prince Guardian’s motives all too well. We saw in Dreamer of Time a good candidate for High Prince . . .” Windwatcher let his voice fade away, not needing to say what Dreamer of Time had become.

  “And in the Guardian you saw a Rider raised by Solitaries, a Rider you believed could not have the welfare of his own People in his heart. You saw a Cycle coming in which Riders would become the unimportant third,” Horse finished the thought for him. “And so the War?”

  “And so the War.”

  The War had been long, so long that everyone was grateful for an end to hostilities, though there were those who saw surrender in the Prince Guardian’s request for a cease-fire. When it became evident that the Guardian did not feel that way, these same Riders would have had him compelled. The Prince Guardian had not feared them, saying that they could not force him without killing him, and that he knew they would not kill him. It was at this point that the Basilisk Prince, Dreamer of Time as he was still, came forward with his plan of Banishment. Let us g
ive the Guardian time, he had suggested. While he thinks quietly and undisturbed, let us do what we can to ready the Lands for the turn of the Cycle. We will be prepared when the Guardian is ready to act.

  Even the Guardian’s followers saw wisdom in this, so measured and reasonable it had seemed, asking only that the Talismans be well protected in their Guardian’s absence. So Dreamer of Time was listened to, and commended for his wisdom, and began to be called the Basilisk Prince.

  But what was seen as wisdom had shown itself to be wiliness and cunning.

  “The Banishment has been so much longer than any of us believed possible,” Windwatcher said. “All of your life, which has been long, young as you are.” Horse of Winter opened a chamber door and Windwatcher entered, turning in the doorway to complete his thought. “The Lands worsen, as if the Cycle turns faster now. And the Basilisk Prince gathers more and more power as those who would speak against him disappear, Faded or gone into hiding. He has long closed the Portals to the Shadowlands, so that none may visit the place of Banishment, and the Prince Guardian is spoken of no more.”

  “Except darkly.” The younger Rider made no move to leave.

  “Speak on,” Windwatcher said.

  “What of the Basilisk’s strange malady?” Horse of Winter asked. “It is said that he is occasionally seen sweating and pale, his hands shaking.”

  Windwatcher shrugged. “I have heard this also, and I have heard that Riders disappear from his very court, even from his fara’ip, and nothing is done, no voice is raised. They say the Hunt is about him always now, fawning on him and doing his bidding.”

  “Surely not?” There was no mistaking the shock in the younger Rider’s suddenly pale face.

  “Who will speak against it? More and more are of the Basilisk’s mind. They see nothing wrong in using Hounds to Hunt down Riders, see nothing wrong in killing Naturals. Somehow they cannot see that the Lands grow not more prosperous, but more poisoned.”

  Horse of Winter pulled out a cushioned chair and Windwatcher lowered himself into it with a sigh. He only hoped the news that had made it imperative to summon him was good. He thought he could guess why the Prince Guardian had refused the Basilisk on the Talismans’ behalf. Given the chance, he thought he would now do the same himself. There were worse things, after all, than the end of the world. If they did not find a way to stop the Basilisk Prince, they would all, very soon, learn what that was.

  Max found it difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat and the sudden dryness in his mouth. He never thought he’d look back with fondness on the attack of the Hound, but there was something to be said for events that moved so quickly you didn’t have time to feel afraid.

  Not that the smiling man standing before them, left thumb tucked in his belt, right wrist resting negligently on the basket hilt of a sword dangling unsheathed from the same belt, exactly inspired fear. In fact, the Rider looked enough like Cassandra to be her taller, fairer cousin. His eyes were a dark blue, their depths enhanced, if anything, by the color of his clothing. Belt, knee-high boots, breeches, short tunic, even the points of the laces closing the full sleeves of his shirt, were dyed an identical shade of rich emerald. His platinum hair was elaborately braided off his face, and hung down his back below his waist. He wore a single silver ring with a green stone in his left ear, and though his smile was open, it made Max conscious of every smear of dirt on his own skin, and every splotch of wet Hound’s blood on his clothes.

  The man turned his smile on Cassandra and inclined his head. “I am Lightborn,” he said. “Honor of Souls is my mother, and the Griffin guides me.”

  Cassandra inclined her head once, never taking her eyes from the pale Rider’s face, but did not speak.

  Lightborn waited, lips compressed, until, with the smallest of shrugs, he turned and took a step toward Max, his hands outstretched as if in welcome. Cassandra slid between them, noiseless on the thick carpet, and Lightborn froze, backed off slowly, and lowered his arms.

  “Your Warden almost killed three of my people,” he said, his eyes flicking to Max over Cassandra’s shoulder, “before we knocked her down.” When his thumb was once more hooked in his belt, Cassandra eased back to her position next to Max.

  “She’ll do better next time,” Max said.

  Lightborn threw back his head and laughed. “Well said, my brother. And how did you enjoy the wine I left for you?”

  Max hesitated, his heart suddenly pounding. He was fairly certain Cassandra would have mentioned a brother, if only as a way to offer him more proof.

  “Are we brothers?” he said finally.

  The man’s smile died away as he shot an uneasy look at Cassandra. “You have been kind enough in the past so to speak of me. I trust I do not now overstep the Prince Guardian’s good grace.”

  “Look—”

  “Forgive me, my Prince, but my mother comes.”

  The tapestry was pulled aside by unseen hands to allow the entry of a formal party. Two of them, simply dressed in green and gold, with plain swords sheathed, took up positions next to the opening in the tapestries.

  The lady who came smiling toward them was dressed in a green-and-gold gown that fell in a long drape to her feet, leaving her arms bare. She was clearly related to Lightborn, with the same delicate hawklike nose and beautifully arched eyebrows. And, like Lightborn, the smile she gave Max was full of warmth. But Max would have expected someone at least in her sixties, and this woman looked no older than the man claiming to be her son. Early thirties at the most would be Max’s guess, no older than himself, or Cassandra.

  Max raised his eyebrows. Of course Cassandra claimed that she was over a thousand years old, and that Max himself was older still.

  These people aren’t human, Max reminded himself, returning her smile with a shallow bow, they can look however they want.

  The man with her, foxy-haired with bronzed skin, and dressed in deep ruby red and dark yellow, looked to be in his late forties. His topaz eyes narrowed as Max looked at him, but not in challenge. Max felt chilled, but he bared his teeth in a grin just the same. He’d once had a professor in graduate school at Seattle University with that same calculating gaze, someone who made you feel unprepared no matter how much you’d studied. Max’s stomach sank as it occurred to him that Professor Malcolm Jones might be part of his false memories. Not now, he told himself, think about that later.

  He glanced at Cassandra out of the corner of his eye. She stood relaxed, feet shoulder-width apart, hands hanging loose, knees slightly bent, lowering her center of gravity. She had edged away from him again and turned slightly, so that she could keep everyone in sight. Her eyes were bright, and she seemed on the verge of smiling.

  Max had seen that almost smile on her face in the alley, as she waited for the Hound to arrive. He stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders and taking a full breath. They’d come out of that in one piece.

  The lady in green-and-gold bowed, and as if this was a signal, both the older man and Lightborn put their hands on their sword hilts and began to draw. Fast as thought, even while their blades were still clearing their scabbards, Cassandra was in front of him, kicking the sword out of Lightborn’s hand, leaping to snatch it out of the air as it came down, and, landing on her toes, holding the point not at Lightborn, but at his mother’s throat.

  Lightborn took a step toward his mother before freezing into immobility, but the lady herself only smiled, her eyes sparkling as she slowly lowered her hand.

  “My Prince,” she said in a voice like silk on glass. “A word.”

  “A word,” Max agreed, his eyes flicking between Cassandra’s face and the point of her sword, millimeters from the older woman’s neck.

  “Fealty,” said the lady, and at that word Lightborn sank down to one knee. After a slight hesitation, the older, redheaded man knelt also, and, keeping his gaze fixed steadily on Cassandra, reversed his sword, offered it hilt first to Max. Max stepped around Cassandra, careful not to crowd her, took the off
ered weapon, and backed away once more.

  “I have no need to offer you my sword, my Prince,” Lightborn murmured, “since your Warden holds it already.”

  Cassandra slowly lowered the blade she held, but did not back away.

  The lady inclined her head. “You are right to be cautious, Truthsheart. You will not remember it, but you are known to me. Your mother was Clear of Light, and the Dragon guides you. You were one of the three Chosen-to-Watch. My name is Honor of Souls, my mother was Eye of Evening, and the Hippogriff guides me. My son you know, and this our comrade and adviser is Watches the Wind, he is Roc-guided. I knew your mother well, Truthsheart, and I welcome you to Griffinhome.”

  Max cleared his throat and touched Cassandra lightly on the shoulder with the fingertips of his free hand. “Perhaps if we put the swords away, there’d be less chance of killing someone by accident.”