So what had come over him this afternoon? It couldn’t be it just the Sunward/Moonward thing. Could it?
The cab had pulled up in front of our house and I had to apologize as I searched through my wallet for the fare. I hopped out and went down the lane between our house and Barb’s, letting myself in through the gate. I was just resetting the latch when there was a SLAP! of displaced air and Alejandro was there, his arms around me.
“I am so sorry, my dear one,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
I backed off, my hand on his chest, until I could look him in the eye. “No.” My voice trembled, but I had to make a stand. “You’re sorry I got so upset. But you’re not sorry for upsetting me. You don’t believe you did.”
Alejandro released me and took a step back himself, squeezing his eyes shut and holding the tips of his thumb and index finger to his brow, as if he felt a migraine coming on.
My anger flared up again and I shook my head, long slow swings from left to right. “You believe I know you,” I said finally. “So why don’t you believe I know him?”
“It is not that I do not believe you,” Alejandro said. “It is that you may be mistaken.”
The calm I’d gained from my trip home vanished in a heartbeat, and I felt all hot with anger and disappointment. I propped myself against the patio table, my arms crossed in front of me. I know my face didn’t show very much, but Alejandro must have felt something; he moved away and sat on the edge of the small deck at the back of our house.
“Since when might I be mistaken?” Finally, my throat unlocked enough to let me speak. “Am I mistaken about you? Was I mistaken about the Collector?”
He was in front of me, his hands on my shoulders—gently, very deliberately not drawing me into his arms, though that was what he wanted to do. I was so upset I actually got a read on him, as if he had another self superimposed on him.
“My dear one, no. Querida, no. You are not mistaken about me. You are my fara’ip, my own blood. I will never harm you.”
Not knowingly—but to be fair, that amendment was only in my own head, not in him. No one can guarantee that they won’t hurt you by accident—or that they won’t hurt your feelings.
Well, maybe I could. But that wasn’t important just then.
Alejandro didn’t see that by doubting me he was hurting me, that his skepticism made me smaller. He took the one skill and talent I had and made it nothing. It wasn’t what he intended, no. But this was a clear case where intentions and outcome didn’t match, and it’s the outcome you have to take responsibility for. I took a deep breath and released it slowly.
“I was thinking about this on the way home,” I said. “Do you realize that until now we’ve never disagreed? That’s what makes this so difficult.” I shifted under his hands, and Alejandro released me. I crossed the patio on stiff legs and sat down on the edge of the deck. “Until now, my observations have always agreed with yours. But now, when what I’m telling you doesn’t match what you already think, it’s now you believe I’m mistaken.”
Alejandro sat down on the steps, so our heads were almost on a level, and we could speak more quietly. “I suggest a possibility only,” he said. “‘What if?’ is all I’m asking.” He raised his shoulders and turned up his hands. “What if you are mistaken? You have explained to me something of what you sense, and you have told me that your observations, or rather your interpretations, your own understanding, is sometimes limited because of what you do not know.”
Well, I hadn’t put it quite like that.
“You will admit that your experience, even of human life, is limited and these—the Outsider, the Rider—they need not think nor feel nor act in the way that you might expect. It is possible that you may misunderstand them.”
“You mean the way I misunderstand you? You’re not a human being.” This was the meanest thing I’d ever said, and I wished the words back as soon as they were out. Alejandro didn’t turn away, but he shut his eyes tight. He must have had this type of argument before, I realized. Maybe with one—or more—of his own partly human descendants.
“You are my fara’ip now,” he said finally. “It is too great a risk for us to trust this Rider. We know nothing of him. It is the risk that makes me speak this way.”
I couldn’t help thinking how lucky it was that I hadn’t told Alejandro everything I knew—if he didn’t trust Wolf now, he would certainly never trust him if he learned Wolf used to be a Hound. Still, I owed it to him to consider what he was saying. When Wolf had first touched me, I’d been startled, but now that I had the context to understand what it was I felt about him, the contradictions in him…
“Alejandro, what Stormwolf says about the new High Prince, all of that is true. I have the context for that—you gave it to me yourself, and I can’t be mistaken about it. I’m in no danger personally from Stormwolf—or from Nik and his people for that matter.” At least not the kind of danger Alejandro was worrying about. “There’s no risk there, I know it. It’s you Nik needs to help him and the others, not me.” With luck, Alejandro wouldn’t notice that I was shifting the emphasis off of Wolf. “He doesn’t even know I’m psychic.
“Of course there’s interpretation in what I do; you know there is. But if—” I searched through my experiences for an example. “If a man believes he’s getting away with cheating on a business deal and he isn’t, I’m going to know, whether he does or not.” I tapped the signet ring Alejandro wore on his left index finger. “When I touch an object, I can see who made it, who it once belonged to, and who it belongs to now.”
“You knew the name of the Solitary who forged my gra’if blade.” Alejandro’s gaze was turned inward, remembering. He began to nod. “Even though I had long forgotten it.”
I felt a smile coming on. “I see what’s really there, even if I don’t always understand the whole truth of it.” I thought about Wolf calling me a Truthreader, but I thought I wouldn’t mention him just now. I put my hand on Alejandro’s arm. “When I first met you, I didn’t know you were a Rider, because I didn’t know that’s what your people call yourselves. But I knew you weren’t human, and I knew what it was about you that was different, the Moving and…and—” [How he still hears his wife’s voice singing to him in the wind; hears her voice and feels the touch of her hand and that’s why he won’t go back, won’t ever want to be in a place that did not know her.] I blinked and swallowed. Another thing I would never say aloud. “And I know that you would never harm me, or let me come to any harm.”
Alejandro rubbed his face with both hands. He’d been doing that a lot more since we’d arrived in Toronto. He wasn’t exactly regretting we’d come, but almost.
“I apologize,” he said. “I am sorry both that you were upset, and that I contributed to the cause of it.” This time he meant it.
“And you believe me?”
“About the message the Moonward one brings? Yes, of course. But you must understand, I trust you. Him I cannot trust so easily. Not without knowing him better.” Alejandro stood and put out his hand to pull me to my feet.
“But you trusted Nighthawk right away, when you didn’t know him.”
Alejandro shrugged. “Nighthawk is a Sunward Rider.”
I blinked at him as he held the screen door open for me. I’d known about the different Wards thing—I just hadn’t realized how big it was.
“But come,” he said walking ahead of me toward the kitchen. “There is food to prepare, dinner to eat. And—who knows?—telephone calls to make.”
Okay. I followed him into the kitchen. He was letting me get refocused on our normal lives; putting the other stuff on hold. Saying that his problems with Wolf were really just Rider politics, something he hadn’t paid attention to in generations—and something I didn’t have to pay attention to at all.
I realized I’d been expecting him to reopen the “let’s get you somewhere safe” discussion, and I was relieved to know that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe I wasn’t going to be put at risk ag
ain in the fight against the Hunt, but I wasn’t going to be sent away.
I thought of the warmth of Wolf’s skin, the strength in his hands. Good, I thought.
Chapter Six
LIGHTBORN THE GRIFFIN LORD rode half a length ahead of the mixed group of Riders accompanying him, barely gaining on the magenta-clad Riders in front of them. The landscapes flashed by as they Rode, now a soft wooded path, now the cropped grass of a tended lawn, now the hooves of the Cloud Horses plashing hock-deep in cold surf. Lightborn smiled, aware, as always, of the liquid slide of muscle as his Cloud Horse galloped.
“They are heading for the Portal,” Windwatcher said from just behind his elbow. “Why?”
Why, indeed? There were five guards at each Portal, which meant these seven Riders had not a chance of taking them out before Lightborn and his Riders fell upon them from the rear.
“Come, my Clouds! Faster!” Lightborn could not let his people slacken their speed. They must keep on the heels of their quarry, harrying them, breaking their concentration, so that they would be unable to Move.
They were close enough now that Lightborn could see two Starwards in with the other Riders. Unusual. It was the Basilisk’s Sunward followers—most favored by him and therefore most twisted from the true—who made up the bulk of those who were resisting the rule of the High Prince.
Abruptly, the scene around them changed to a dense wood, and they slowed, some in both parties cursing. Lightborn knew immediately that these were Trees—Naturals—and he shouted out: “I am Lightborn, son of Honor of Souls, cousin to Dawntreader, the Prince Guardian. Hear me, Trees, and help me. Stop these, my quarry, hold them safe for the High Prince’s justice.”
There was more cursing, but now it came only from ahead of them, along with one long drawn-out sound that was more howl than curse.
“Lightborn, what passes?” Windwatcher was at his right hand in an instant, his Cloud Horse finding the path suddenly easy.
“The Trees assist us,” Lightborn said. “Our quarry will be waiting for us ahead.”
“The Trees can do this?” The voice came from behind them.
Lightborn glanced around. The young Rider who spoke looked around her, shoulders hunched. There had been an edge of fear in her voice. Windwatcher, his Sunward face ruddier than usual, had opened his mouth to answer this breach of discipline, but Lightborn stopped him with a raised hand.
“A straight question,” he said. “And deserves a straight answer.” There had always been tensions between Riders, Naturals, and Solitaries—something Cassandra was trying to eliminate. “They can do this, and more. But you will see they only defend themselves, or answer the call of the High Prince, as now.”
“And that is lesson enough for today,” Windwatcher said. The younger Rider wore his colors, and she was his to discipline. “Our business is now before us.”
The path the Trees had left for them widened into a clearing, where their quarry was held. Five were still mounted, kept on horseback more by the vines and branches that twined around them than by their own inclinations. Two had attempted to flee on foot before the trees had stopped them as well. One of these spoke up immediately as Lightborn came into view.
“How can you! How can you side with these Naturals against us?” The outrage in the Sunward’s voice had an edge of hysteria. The Basilisk’s people had good reason to fear the Trees.
“I speak here for the High Prince.” Lightborn dismounted and approached the spokesperson. “I call on you to submit in her name.” He crouched down on his heels and put his hand on the vine that wrapped itself around the Sunward Rider. “I am of her fara’ip, and cousin to the Guardian. The Trees only keep you from Moving because I have asked them to.” Lightborn straightened to his feet, addressing all those held prisoner.
“The Basilisk is no more,” he said. “He has Faded, and his dra’aj is returned to the Lands. You need not Bind yourselves to serve the Princes, if you have no heart for it. But you must Bind yourselves to do no more harm to others of the People.”
“Where will we go?” Still the one on the ground.
“Back to your homes,” Windwatcher suggested. “Back to your own fara’ips, where you belonged before the Basilisk took you.”
“And if we have none?”
Lightborn smiled, spreading his hands. “Begin anew.”
The one on the ground struggled to get up and, as if reading his new intent, the vines and branches released him, withdrawing into the shade. “I am Thunder Cat, my mother was Stormlynx, and the Hydra guides me.”
It seemed that the others would follow the example of their leader, rising cautiously to their feet as the Wood released them. Lightborn left them for his men to sort out, and allowed Windwatcher to pull him to one side.
“How many?” the old warrior asked.
“You mean ‘how many more?’” Lightborn shrugged. “Who would have thought there would be any? What keeps them fighting, when the Basilisk is Faded?” He thought about what Moon had said, and wondered how many of those she thought looked askance at her did so because of their own pasts. How many were others like herself—and like himself—followers of the Basilisk’s who’d come to their senses and now wished it forgotten.
“Will the High Prince have to examine these?”
“She will, or some other Dragonborn who can read the truth,” Lightborn said. “And now what?” Sharp cries and the snapping of branches had him heading toward the edge of the clearing.
“It’s the two Starwards,” Windwatcher said, snorting his displeasure as he followed close behind.
“Here, here, now. You’ll damage yourselves.” Lightborn laid one hand on the nearest shoulder and the other on the rough bark of the nearest Tree. “They are afraid of you,” he said, addressing the Natural. “They cannot help themselves; the Basilisk trained their minds against you.” If anything, the thrashing of the two Starwards increased. “Please, if you would, release these Riders, it is their fear which makes them fight you.” Slowly, reluctantly, as if they disagreed but did not know how to say so, the vines and branches withdrew.
Lightborn took a firm hold on the elbow of the Rider nearest to him, concerned that the man still grimaced, his contorted face fixed now on Lightborn’s own. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Windwatcher was helping the other one, who also stared, still wide-eyed, pulling back from his living bonds. The one Lightborn was holding cried out, swinging his arms and catching Lightborn himself in the chest with his flailing fist.
“Steady now,” he said, laughing. “I’m no Tree.” The Rider pulled away, cursing, and Lightborn took a step toward him, only to fall to his knees as his legs refused to hold him. He looked down at the spreading stain of blood on the front of his tunic, heard the sound of raised voices, pounding feet, and screaming. Felt, from far away, hands on his shoulders, heard Windwatcher bellowing for the Healer who would not come in time.
Moon, he said.
As he Faded, Lightborn had the strangest feeling that his killer had not really wanted to hurt him.
Chapter Seven
WALKS UNDER THE MOON felt her heart lift when she saw Max returning with Cassandra—nothing, not even the dark news Nighthawk had been telling her, could displace the glorious secret she had come to share with her sister. At the moment Cassandra seemed paler than usual, her storm-gray eyes looking dark against her ivory skin. She was dressed in her usual blood-red tunic over a silver shirt, black leggings, and boots, with gra’if showing at wrists, neck, and forehead. Her honey-gold hair, a shade or two darker than Moon’s, hung loose, telling Moon that her sister had recently used her Dragonform.
When will I—but no, Moon pushed that thought away, her hand on her belly. She needed all her dra’aj for other things, now. She would manifest her Manticore afterward, when the right moment came. She stood, lower lip between her teeth, as Cassandra approached, Max speaking in her ear. Her sister’s face was still as marble until Cassandra met Moon’s eyes and smiled, reaching out her hand to h
er, as she turned to greet Nighthawk, her old mentor.
Moon searched her feelings for any sense of discord. There had been a time when she would have been jealous of the bond that evidently existed between the old Sunward Rider and her sister, but now she smiled, feeling only the echo of her sister’s pleasure.
“Let’s go inside,” Max was saying. Now that the High Prince was back, it seemed that every eye in the camp was turned toward them. Max gestured, and the seats she and Hawk had been using disappeared.
The interior of the tent was full of light, but in every other way more closely resembled a palace than a pavilion. There were carpets and rugs on the floor, comfortable furniture, and even a fireplace in one wall, with a salamander dancing it in. There was a table, but Cassandra sat in her chair by the fire, and Moon took her usual place—at least when they were in private—on the hearthstone near her sister. Food and wine arrived, portions were cut, plates and glasses passed, and Moon saw Max and Hawk exchange a glance.
The lift to Cassandra’s right eyebrow showed the High Prince had seen it as well. “So.” Her sister looked at each of them in turn, but smiled only at Moon. Does she know? Can she? “The Hunt is in the Shadowlands. Stranded there, perhaps, with the fall of the Basilisk Prince?”
Hawk set his plate down on the small table next to his chair. “And joined, perhaps, by Basilisk Warriors who have fled there.”
“It lacked but this.” Cassandra had picked up a plate of fruit, but now she put it aside. “To have the problem spreading into the Shadowlands already, with all that I must contain and deal with here.” Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head, looking to the Prince Guardian. But Max was clearly thinking of something else. He got up and moved to look out a window that gave not on the camp outside the tent, but the heart of a forest glade.
“The Hunt was taken there to find me,” he said. Moon noticed that as he spoke, his hand had drifted down to the spot on his side, low and on the left, where a Hound had once injured him. He seemed unaware that he’d done it.
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