Suddenly, her head cleared, and she had an instant to feel embarrassed, and glad that none of her students could see her making such an amateur’s mistake, dragging against the combined strength of two Riders. Use your opponents’ strength against them was practically the first lesson she taught anyone. She abruptly stopped fighting her captors and threw herself in the direction they were forcing her to go. Startled by the sudden lack of resistance, it was easy for her to yank them farther off balance and knock them into each other, the impact sufficient to free her from their hands.
Lightborn was shaking Max, and Blood was whistling a high, two-note signal as Cassandra launched herself into the Basilisk, striking him just below the knees and knocking him down. If only she could get her hands around his throat . . .
Riders in rough leather and gra’if came boiling up over the rounded edge of the Stone like wasps out of a nest. Wild Riders, she thought, seeing the Moonward Twins, her mouth widening into a grin. She knew Max would have a plan. Max always had a plan. He was no mean strategist after all. He could only Move a score, he’d said. But he hadn’t said how many times he’d already done it.
Cassandra shifted her weight, heaving herself over the prone Basilisk Prince, reaching around to get a better grip on his throat—these manacles weren’t attached to anything, and she was sure she could crack his neck for him even at this angle—suddenly her hands were pulled away by the darkmetal chain that hung between them. The Basilisk rolled away and smiled at her as he held up the chain, wrapped once around his own fist. It had not even occurred to her that her chains had been put on by the Basilisk himself and that, Keyed to him, they bound her to him also. She struggled anyway, digging in her heels and twisting her body against the uneven ground, but ultimately she was unable to resist the pull of the darkmetal. The Basilisk dragged her across the surface of the rock until all she could see through the hair that had fallen over her eyes was empty space.
Max felt a surge of power and clarity as the Chant stopped, and suddenly he could hear the sounds of fighting and one thin voice—he thought it was Moon—screaming. His heart tightened, and he struggled to his feet. He could think of only one thing that might make Moon cry out like that, and he ran toward the noise, pushing Riders, both friend and foe, out of his way. Thank god, either Blood or Lightborn had seen what was happening in time to call the Wild Riders he had hidden on the ledge under the rounded edge of the Stone.
Max stopped running.
The Basilisk stood at the brink of the abyss, Cassandra on her knees at his feet. Moon lay crumpled to one side, a red stain, brighter than the red of her dress, matting her hair on one side. She had tried to save Cassandra at the last, Max thought; whatever she had said before, she had tried to save her sister. The Basilisk looked up at Max and smiled. For an instant, Max thought he saw a cock’s head on the Basilisk’s shoulders, but then the image was gone.
“It appears you cannot be trusted after all, Dawntreader,” the Basilisk said, with a nod toward the Wild Riders. “I know your own death will not bother you, but perhaps this will.” He gave a jerk to the darkmetal chain he held, and before Max could move or call out, the Basilisk threw Cassandra over the edge and into the gorge.
“No!” the scream tore at his throat. Oh, Christ, there’s no bottom. Max flung himself to his knees at the edge of the precipice and found the retreating speck of darkness that was Cassandra’s body against the whiteness of the clouds. He imagined he could smell saffron flowers in the air where she had been.
Out of the corner of his eye, Max saw the strange Moonward Rider run to the Basilisk and attack him, lips drawn back from his teeth in a silent howl. The Basilisk rounded on him fast as a cat, but then Max’s focus narrowed. He concentrated on Cassandra, pushing aside the images his fear tried to show him of her falling until she starved to death, her body drying and wizened, still falling, days passing, weeks—
Max shook himself and gritted his teeth. He subtracted the sounds of battle behind him, subtracted the edge of the precipice under his hands . . . stop, a small, calm voice in his head said. You can’t help her if you Move to her; you’ll only die with her.
Cassandra’s body fell into the clouds below him and disappeared. Dying with her didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
No, he said, perhaps aloud. He felt the bond of the Talismans, the elegant grace of the Spear, the cold strength of the Sword, the rich fullness of the Cauldron, and the solid clarity of the Stone beneath his hands. Please, he said to them, showing them what he intended. Let her live. Don’t let her die like this, not like this. Alone. Let me help.
He felt the Talismans respond, each in its own way, to the desire of his heart, to what was, in a way, their own desire, since he was a part of them. WE AGREE.
Heart beating again, Max took a deep, preparatory breath, gathered his own dra’aj, all that he had apart from his link to the Talismans, and MOVED it, flung it out toward that dark falling speck. Dra’aj enough would transform you, the Basilisk himself was proof of that, if nothing else. The Basilisk Prince’s dra’aj was taken by force, and his Basilisk was tainted by addiction. But Max would give Cassandra, his Truthsheart, all that he had himself; given willingly, as his own mother had given him hers, it would be pure. Would it be enough? That the Talismans had given their consent gave him hope. Cassandra was Guided by a Dragon. Dragons could fly.
Max felt in the core of his being the Phoenix that was Dawntreader, that was the Prince Guardian, that was Max Ravenhill, leap up from its nest of fire and, closing its wings, plummet over the edge of the precipice, flying like a thrown spear to where he could hear the air whipping away from her mouth as she struggled to breathe against the rush of wind, heard the rush as it swept past her ears. Felt the struggle within her as she fought to turn her body, to make the air hold her up, to deny the powerful draw of the empty spaces beneath her.
Looking at her with his Phoenix eye, Max saw a hot blast of flame in her Dragon’s mouth, and reached out like a lover to the aid of the Dragon struggling to be born. His Phoenix poured its fire into hers, fed her dra’aj with his, and hoped it would be enough, as he felt his bond with the Talismans sustaining him, strengthening him, and then pulling him back with a SNAP! to feel his knees and hands bruised by the stone under them.
Cassandra tried to flatten her body as she had learned to do when skydiving, and though she knew that nothing and no one could save her from falling until she died, she tried not to think of it. She wished she could have said good-bye to Max; his anguished cry would be the last living sound she would ever hear. For that alone, she’d like another chance to kill the Basilisk Prince. Oh, please, Max, she called aloud, her words taken upward by the wind as soon as they left her mouth, Dawntreader , my Prince, get up and kill the bastard.
She wished she could have taken Moon in her arms one last time, to try to mend the broken thing between them. And what would happen to the poor Hound, now that she was not there? The air whipped past her mouth so quickly she barely had time to breathe it in. She tried turning over, but she could not stay flat unless she was facing down, limbs spread. The rush of air chilled her except where gra’if covered her chest and back.
Her gra’if. Where was it? Could she Move to it? She tried to clear her mind. There was no pain to distract her; in Healing the Hound she had Healed herself. She tried to block out the rushing air, subtract the cold, add the Dragon—she could use her Guidebeast’s wings right now—add the feel of her scaled gauntlets on her hands, the face of the Dragon resting over her face as she slipped the helm down. She felt a hot breath of fire as it passed through her throat. She rolled over after all, and thought she could see Max, reaching out for her as she floated, Dragon-bright, through the clouds. She saw the Phoenix streaking toward her, hot red and yellow-orange, with its great flame-tipped talons outstretched, its heat reaching for her, and she reached back with her great clawed hands for the Fire Bird.
And caught it.
Max felt someone pulling him back from the
edge, shoving a sword into his hands. A Moonward Rider—but he was gone, back to the fighting, before Max could tell who it was. His body felt different, and the strange enhanced perception that he associated with the Talismans was gone, though the connection was still there, thin as a thread. So his Binding still worked. He was still the Guardian, though his dra’aj was gone. It had to be enough. If his gift had worked, if she had become her Guidebeast, Cassandra, more than Dragonborn now, could do more than fly. She would be the only one of them able to Move from the Stone, since there was no barrier to a Guidebeast’s Movement, not even the barrier of the Talismans. If he kills me, he prayed to her, come back and eat the son of a bitch.
Max put his hand to the ground, bracing to push himself to his feet. He had half expected to die, as his mother had died giving him all her dra’aj. He was drained, but alive. His emptiness was familiar, he realized. He had lived with this for years as a human, and he would be able to live with it now. Thank all the gods he could remember being without dra’aj; it would have been more than an unprepared Rider could tolerate. He laughed, startling himself with the harshness of the sound. He wondered how the Basilisk would feel if he knew that the Chant of Oblivion he’d once used on Max was the thing that ended up saving his life. He had been the Prince long enough to feel a little disoriented, now that he was without dra’aj once again, but that was the worst of it. Would any of them be able to leave this place, he wondered, now that he could no longer Move them?
He looked around as a Rider stepped to his side, and he saw that the young Moonward Rider who had helped him was the stranger, the one who had clung to Cassandra. The young Rider was deathly pale, and his face was drawn as if by long sickness.
“Is she safe?” he said, his voice a harsh growl.
“I don’t know,” Max said. “I hope so.”
The young Rider nodded, looking over the edge. “I am her Hound,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Max didn’t have a chance to ask him what he meant, jumping to his feet just in time to block a blow aimed at the young Rider by one of the Basilisk’s men. In minutes they were fighting back to back, pushing their way toward the Table of the Talismans, where Blood, Lightborn, and a few of the Wild Riders still held off a knot of Riders dressed in purple. Max cut once, twice, lunged for the wrist of the man who faced him and pulled him onto his blade, yanked the blade out, and stepped over the body as it fell.
In seconds, he and the young Rider had joined the others around the Talismans, as the remaining purple Riders regrouped around the Basilisk’s flickering form. Max could see the Ogre’s body lying still, massive—dead or injured—he could not tell, on the far side of the Stone, beyond where Trere’if swayed, still rooted to the rock. The few bodies he could see wore purple. Where were the rest of the Wild Riders?
“Faded,” Blood said in answer to Max’s question, as he tied a strip of cloth around a small wound in the thigh of one of the Moonward twins. Max couldn’t tell whether it was Wings of Cloud or Bird in Flight. “We could have prevailed, but the Basilisk has taken them. As we grow weaker, his strength increases.”
“Father, I am sorry. I’m afraid we’re all going to die here.”
“There is no better place to die, nor any better people to do it with,” Blood said, getting to his feet and giving the remaining Moonward twin a rough pat on his shoulder.
Max shook his head. “I haven’t been completely open with any of you. I didn’t want—I still hoped and I didn’t want to take from you what hope you might have.” He looked away, seeing that the Basilisk and his men were grouping for another charge. He had less time than he thought. “When I was restored, the Talismans showed no signs of expecting the High Prince. But, when the Banishment ended, they wanted to come here, and I brought them, hoping,” Max put his hand on Lightborn’s shoulder.
“I?” Lightborn choked out his laughter, wiping blood from his face with the back of a filthy hand. “You thought the traitor might be the High Prince?”
“Enlightened traitors sometimes make the best princes. I thought—your joining with us was the only real change that took place after the Banishment ended. I hoped it might be what the Talismans were waiting for,” Max looked around again, “but the Cycles end with us,” he said. “There is no Prince.”
It was Blood on the Snow who finally spoke. “Do not despair so quickly, my son. Among the Wild Riders it is known that the Cycles end with the death of the last who knew the High Prince of old.” Blood looked at Max, his eyes narrowed. “I am the last of the old Cycle,” he said. “The last Wild Rider still living who has known a High Prince. Old he was, ancient beyond seeming, and I but a child. With my death, for good or for ill, the Cycle ends. It may be, as you have said, my son, that we will die here. But we are not dead yet.”
“Father.” Max found himself unable to say more. He cleared his throat and looked away. His father was right. No better place to die, or better people to do it with. The Talismans were safe, where they wanted to be. He searched the tiny flame left within him, and felt it burn true. Whatever their purpose might be, Max had accomplished it.
“My lords,” the Moonward Rider who had called himself Cassandra’s Hound said. “They come.” Max shook himself. It was a bit early for self-congratulations, he thought, if the Basilisk still lived.
The Basilisk Prince approached them, preceded by the remainder of his men. This time there was no denying that flickering appearance of the Basilisk beast as he came nearer. He even seemed to stumble a little, as if on unfamiliar feet, and turned his head from side to side, as if he saw through a bird’s eyes.
“Whatever else happens,” Max said, pushing himself away from the rock table that held the Talismans, “kill the Basilisk. Those with gra’if come with me to the front. Don’t let him live,” he said, unsure whether he spoke to anyone besides himself. “Don’t look him in the eye, and keep striking no matter what you see. Nothing else is important.”
Yelling at the top of his lungs, Max charged forward. He forced the Rider guarding the Basilisk’s right flank back three steps. They weren’t outnumbered, but even as he thought this, Max saw the Basilisk Fade a Starward Rider he did not know. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father go down on one knee, and Lightborn leap to stand over the older Rider. “Watch my back,” Max called to the young Moonward Rider who still stood near him, and turned his eyes to the Basilisk. What he had said was true, only the Basilisk mattered now. Let the Talismans be free, he thought, let the Cycles end in peace.
Max shoved a Sunward Rider out of his way to bring himself face-to-face with the Basilisk. Flushed with color, and almost vibrating with energy, the Basilisk Prince flickered, and this time stayed a Basilisk long enough that the sword dropped from his Beast’s claws.
Max bared his teeth. “Oops,” he said, and struck.
The Basilisk morphed back to his own shape, ducked the blow, and “. . . . . . . .” he said.
Max laughed as he became aware of his advantage. That Chant had no power over him; he had no dra’aj to bind. “Try something else,” he said, laughing, “I’ve heard that one already,” and he cut at the Basilisk’s face, open mouthed in surprise.
But again the Basilisk ducked the blow, recovering his sword in an easy sweep of his hand. Max’s heart sank. Full of stolen dra’aj, he was much stronger, and much faster, than Max could have anticipated. Even when they were young, he had needed all of his wits and his speed to beat the Basilisk with a sword. Hacking away at men-at-arms in a melee was one thing, but except for an hour or so of practice with Cassandra, he hadn’t faced a master with a sword in his hand for centuries. And without his own dra’aj . . . ?
Was Cassandra alive? Did her Dragon float among the clouds? Would he ever know?
His ankle turned under him, and he felt the point of the Basilisk’s blade enter him, stabbing his lower left side, just under the edge of his gra’if mail. The Basilisk Prince would have remembered that vulnerable spot from when they’d sparred together all those
years before. This time, instead of the blunt blow of the practice sword, Max felt a sharp pain, and he smelled blood and saw Cassandra’s face haloed by the light of a streetlamp. He sank to one knee. Full circle, he thought, as for a moment he felt oily pavement beneath him, and not the Stone of Virtue. Dead from a gut wound. He had no dra’aj, none that would keep him alive long enough to be saved by anyone not a Healer. Killed by a Hound. Don’t let it take you alive, he remembered Cassandra saying. Had he dreamed everything between that moment and this? Was Cassandra a Dragon, or was she lying dead in the alley? The cold was beginning to spread even as he pushed himself back to his feet.
There was a roar of flame as a Dragon—red with a silver breast, each perfectly formed scale outlined in a delicate line of black—soared over the edge of the precipice, breathing fire. The fighting stopped as everyone looked up at the Guidebeast hovering over them with slow sweeps of its red-and-black wings. The young Moonward Rider howled in triumph, tossing his sword in the air, and Max had a moment to think how beautiful she was, before he flung his arms around the Basilisk, trapping his sword arm.
The Mirror Prince Page 36
