“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.
“And that makes the Hunt our responsibility.” Cassandra rubbed her forehead with the fingers of her right hand. “I agree. But who can I send? Who has the necessary experience of both the Hunt and the Shadowlands?”
Max turned back from the window. “I’m afraid that as far as many here are concerned, the Hunt can stay in the Shadowlands as long as they like.”
“But surely…” Hawk’s voice trailed into silence.
“It’s different for us,” Max said. “We’ve lived there. It’s as much our home as the Lands, though never in the same way.”
Cassandra touched Moon on the shoulder. “Dear one, what do you think?”
Moon knew what her sister wanted: the perspective of a Rider who had never been in the Shadowlands and, moreover, who might have a better idea of what some of those who had previously supported the Basilisk Prince might think.
“For those of us who lack your experiences, the Shadowlands is only the place of the Prince Guardian’s exile. Nothing more,” Moon pointed out. “Many think of it as a mythical place, and of humans as creatures of myth, nothing more.” Moon stroked the griffin pin in her lapel. “Though the Wild Riders might enjoy it. They love strange paths, and have long seen it as part of their life task to destroy the Hunt.”
“There is your answer, then,” Hawk said. “Send the Wild Riders to the Shadowlands. I can work with them.”
“We can’t.” Max drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You don’t understand, Hawk. The Cycle has turned, but it’s not like pushing a reset button.” Moon was bewildered, but it was evident that Nighthawk understood the reference. “Everything didn’t just return to normal. Cassandra’s busy all day, every day, healing the Lands—not just the parts the Basilisk twisted and perverted, but areas of neglect and decay from the waning of the old Cycle.”
“And there are the Basilisk’s Warriors,” Moon picked up her glass of wine and put it down again without tasting it. “Those who cannot, or will not accept the change.”
“I need the Wild Riders to deal with them,” Cassandra said. “They are made up of all Wards, and have fara’ip with both Solitaries and Naturals. They are the closest thing we have to a neutral force, accepted by all. The only force I can use to both hunt down and protect my People. Until the crisis here is over, I cannot spare them.” Cassandra sighed. “Still, it goes against the grain to simply leave the Hunt in the Shadowlands.”
Moon saw the same dejection on the others’ faces. “What about the Horn?” she said. “If we could call the Hunt…”
Cassandra shivered, and Moon put her hand on her sister’s knee. For a moment she, too, felt the echo of the Horn, the cold it brought, and the sound so low it shook your bones.
“The Horn.” Cassandra lifted her hand to her neck, stroking the Phoenix torque with her fingertips. “Did the Basilisk not have it?
Moon tilted her head to one side, considering. “He was known to give it to some of his trusted favorites to use for him,” she acknowledged. “As we ourselves witnessed. Most granted such favor were only too happy to give the artifact back to him when their task was done. Dealing with the Hunt, even in a position of power, is said to be an unpleasant thing.” She tilted her head and considered. “The Basilisk had it with him at the Stone.”
“I could check there,” Max put in. It would have to be him, Moon thought. As Keeper of the Talismans, only the Prince Guardian could Move to the Stone.
“And if it is not there?” Cassandra asked.
“Moon, you’re the closest we Riders have to a historian.” Max looked to Nighthawk. “During the Exile, Moon began researching the ancient Chants by gathering Singers and comparing different versions of Songs.”
“Ingenious,” Hawk said. “Like a modern scholar, comparing different myth cycles to discover history.”
“Exactly. She’s not a Singer herself, but she has extensive knowledge of the Songs.” Max turned back to her, his green eyes bright. “What can you tell us of the calling of the Hunt?”
Moon sat up straighter on her perch, eager to help, to wipe away the stain she still occasionally felt of being one of the Basilisk’s court. The Hunt had not been her major focus; the Basilisk Prince had already been in possession of the Horn when she first knew him. But, of course, you cannot make an extensive examination of Songs for one topic, and not note others as you pass them by.
“I know of seven hundred and forty-eight Songs mentioning the Hunt,” Moon said finally, accepting the quince tart Max passed to her, and breathing in deeply as she savored its aroma. “Of these, two hundred and ninety-six tell of the Hunt being Called, seventy-four mentioning the Horn specifically, but only three in any way describe it.” She placed the tart, whole, into her mouth.
“Remarkable,” Hawk said.
Moon chewed and swallowed. “Is it not? You would think there would be more, and yet, there it is.”
Moon caught a look as it passed between Cassandra and Max. Both of them seemed to be stifling smiles, and Moon felt her cheeks grow warm. Apparently, it had not been the number of Songs which Hawk had found remarkable.
“All three descriptions agree that the item is made of bone, dragon bone or griffin, perhaps. Much is unclear as it must be inferred from the context.” Moon picked up her wine and this time sipped at it. “The object that I saw was somewhat the size of my index finger.” She held her finger up to show them, and turned to Cassandra. “But you will have had the most experience with Hounds, my sister, with your Healing.” Moon froze.
“Moon, what is it?”
She hesitated, unwilling to add to her sister’s burdens, but…“You did not know about the presence of the Hunt when you sent Wolf to the Shadowlands. Is it safe for him to be there, alone?”
They were all of Cassandra’s fara’ip, but Moon looked upon Wolf in particular as her brother. After the fall of the Basilisk, she had needed a quiet place to contemplate the evil she had done during her time as his willing tool. Wolf also—newly returned to his true self from a time infinitely longer, and more evil—had need of the same quiet seclusion. This had made them closer than others with whom they shared fara’ip.
Cassandra’s head tilted back as her eyes narrowed in thought.
“They do tell alcoholics not to put themselves in drinking situations,” Max pointed out.
Cassandra looked more troubled. “You’re saying it might be the same for him? His addiction is gone, but I’ve sent him right back to the same neighborhood, the same gang? Perhaps the same situation in which he became addicted in the first place?”
“He did seem like the perfect person to find stray People in the Shadowlands, but…” Max slowly shook his head. “Maybe you need to send someone else.”
Cassandra leaned forward, her hands clasped together. “Hawk, I must make use of you for this. You say the Water Sprite in Madrid wishes to return? Very well, you will go, and take the Singer, Twilight Falls Softly, with you, she has a water connection. Then you will find Wolf, and bid him return.” She turned her head to catch Moon’s eye. “In the meantime, Moon, you will look for the Horn. Let us do what little we can.”
Moon hopped up from the hearthstone. “Of course, but I wonder if first—”
The other three were on their feet in an instant, hands on their swords. Cassandra took a step to the right, putting Moon behind her. The unheard-of interruption was no menace, however, but Windwatcher pushing his way into the room, his square Sunward face almost white. When he saw Moon, his color paled to ashes.
“Are you hurt?” Cassandra went to him immediately. “Is there some injury?”
But something in the older Rider’s face, something in particular in the way he looked at her, told Moon that Windwatcher was not the one.
“No,” she said, but so qui
etly no one heard her. She touched Lightborn’s broach, pinned now to her collar. A moment ago, the tiny griffin had moved under her fingers, as it had done since Lightborn had given it to her. Now, for the first time, it lay still. “No.” This time she was loud enough that they all turned to look at her. She heard Windwatcher’s murmur, Max’s cry of pain, and her sister’s liquid chocolate voice responding to them both. Her hands shook as she released the clasp on the broach and held it in her palm. She stroked the griffin with the tip of her finger, but it was cold, nothing more than jewels and darkmetal in her hand.
“Would not stop fighting.” It was as if someone else heard Windwatcher’s voice. “We had to kill them both in the end.”
Good. Moon felt her knees hit the floor. She felt her sister’s arms wrap warmth around her. “No,” she said. “Let me feel it. I must feel it all.”
“I’m not Healing your feelings, my dearest.” Cassandra’s voice was farther and farther away. “I’m—oh, Christ! Moon! You should have told me.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” A voice above her head.
“Nothing now, but there will be when the baby comes.”
“Baby? What are you talking about?”
Moon knew. Without the support of Lightborn’s dra’aj, the child, when it came, would take all of hers. Without Lightborn’s dra’aj, she would die.
So be it.
“Cassandra, you have to do something.” That was Max. No one knew better than he did what would happen if Moon gave birth without the child’s father there. That was how Max’s own mother had died, something for which his father had never forgiven himself.
“Quiet, please.” Cassandra pushed her sister’s hair back from her face and concentrated until she could feel the Lands the way she had in Trere’if’s clearing. Please let it not be too late. Lightborn was Faded, but his dra’aj, if she acted quickly enough, might still be—she narrowed her focus even more, until she could see each individual life thread. There! Like a stitch unraveling, there was the thread that had been Lightborn, already Fading, dispersing into the dra’aj of the Lands. Not sure if she could, but knowing she had to try, Cassandra reached out and caught that thread of dra’aj and pulled at it, drawing it away from the Lands, coiling it around her own while she looked for and found the thread that was her sister, already showing a branching. The branching that would kill her without Lightborn’s dra’aj to support it. Cassandra took Lightborn’s thread and wrapped it around, twisting all three together until even she could not be sure where one started and the other stopped, and then she released them. She hoped it would be enough.
“Cassandra?” Max said again.
This time she opened her eyes.
“What did you do?” he asked. “Will she be all right?” His face fell. “The baby?”
“No.” Cassandra nodded her thanks as Max helped her to her feet. “I think I found enough.”
“Enough of what? I don’t get it.”
“Enough of Lightborn’s dra’aj.” Max still looked puzzled. “Enough so that both mother and child will live.”
(flicker) and the world changed. Became shadows and light. Grays and whites. Sharp edges and the lure of movement. (flicker) Color again, but now no perspective, everything flat. Longshadow looked through the other eye, but it made no difference. Still flat. Both eyes open meant two images, not quite superimposed. (flicker) Lost height and color, but, oh, the smells. Richer, so much richer.
The other two were beside him, unchanging, not flickering and one squatted now and patted him on the head. One of the prey, a small one, pointed. “Doggy,” it said.
(flicker) Longshadow was bigger, and the eyes and mouth on the small prey widened, until he bit it on the arm, and sucked the dra’aj out of it, young and hot and juicy, and the prey sat back again, uninterested. He scampered to catch up with his Pack mates. (flicker) Taller, color again, perspective, the rounded arms, and shoulders, and legs and necks. Grabbing and clutching as he trotted through.
Longshadow didn’t get his share, stupid to trust the others who ran before him, not waiting, taking before he could get to more than five or six additional prey.
One looked at him with what seemed like awareness in its eyes, like a Rider, like she knew what he was and was not afraid. Longshadow lowered his eyes, suddenly overcome with a feeling that made him want to hide. Not fear, something else. Something that wanted to become anger. This one he caught by the throat and shook until more than her dra’aj was taken from her.
He dropped her, belatedly realizing she was the last, the others had finished the humans in the subway car.
“Here’s the station,” Briar said.
(flicker) Longshadow checked his appearance, and nodded, satisfied, as the train pulled into the station. His suit looked nice, as nice as those of the others. Here, in this place, no one would look twice at them.
I actually had two voice mails. The first was the HR guy from the Institute who’d called to tell me they’d given my name to two other places. The second was one of those two places calling to see when I could come see them. I couldn’t help smiling. It’s one thing to be told you’ve been recommended to someone, it’s another to have that someone call you so quickly. I made a note of the number, wondering whether I should call back right away, or let it wait a day or two. Was it possible to look too eager?
I’d almost forgotten what a great job I’d done at the Christie Institute yesterday. Everything that had happened since then had pushed it right out of my head. But Alejandro and I had gone to a lot of trouble to set up my new life—and here was proof that I’d be able to have one, even if it couldn’t start right away.
So it was with a different frame of mind that I let Alejandro reopen our conversation while I set the table. It was almost four o’clock, only a little bit later than we would have been eating in Spain. Alejandro poured the wine and made sure I could reach the bread before he spoke.
“What more can you tell me, then, of this Moonward Rider?” Once again, I could hear that slight overlay of distaste in Alejandro’s voice. “Why did the Outsiders believe him to be a Hound?”
“Couldn’t say.” I lifted my wineglass to my lips, shaking my head as I sipped and then swallowed. Lying to Alejandro wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought. Though, technically, I could answer without lying. It wasn’t my fault the Outsiders had their tenses mixed up. Wolf wasn’t a Hound now; he’d only been one before. I wondered if Alejandro would define this as a lie circumstantial.
“Though I can say they’re wrong. Oh, come on.” Alejandro had given me a polite look. My temper threatened to flare again—why wouldn’t he believe me? Was this what all liars felt? “I can’t be mistaken about that.”
“Perhaps not—”
“Perhaps not? I thought we’d settled that argument.” That’s right, distract him.
“¡Dios mio! Have you never heard of a figure of speech?” He pointed at me with his spoon. “As I was about to say, perhaps not. However, he could still be in league with the Hunt.”
I shook my head. “You know what? Never mind. Let’s just eat.”
After we’d spooned gazpacho for a while in silence, Alejandro cleared his throat. When I looked up, eyebrows raised, he passed me the bowl of croutons. “May I ask?” he said, when my mouth was full.
I gave him a slow nod, and swallowed.
“The Moonward one says that Nighthawk sent him. Why would Hawk not come himself? Or telephone to me? Unless he was not able to.” Alejandro stood, picking up his bowl and reaching for mine. The way he said “Moonward” reminded me that both Alejandro and Nighthawk were Sunward Riders.
“No,” I said. “I read nothing like that.” But Stormwolf had killed someone, I had read that much. I debated whether to keep this, too, from Alejandro. “I’m not saying he hasn’t killed—and recently—but not Hawk. In fact…” I waited. Something else, an image only half-formed…but nothing more came, and I shrugged. “He feels very badly about it,” I said finally. “Ab
out the killing that he’s done.”
“That is true of all of us who have killed. Something you would not know, my dear.” Alejandro put plates of chicken stewed in white wine down in front of us, but before sitting down, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pressed two numbers.
“Maybe I would.” He looked at me, the phone still at his ear. “Some of the things I learned when I was with the Collector—learned and reported—could have resulted in someone’s death.” I’d thought about that a lot, before Alejandro came.
He gave me a look of understanding that had absolutely no pity in it. He held the phone to his ear. His eyebrows drew together and his lips twisted to one side. He checked his display.
“How strange. There is no response. None. As if Hawk’s mobile does not exist.”
“Still doesn’t mean Wolf hurt him.”
Alejandro pressed his lips together before answering. “It is not the first time I have called. The Moonward may be truthful in all he says, and still be a danger to us.” He put his mobile away and sat down.
“No, he isn’t.” I speared a piece of chicken with my fork, swept sauce onto it with my knife and lifted it to my mouth.
Alejandro looked at me without speaking, but I knew that he was still thinking, Perhaps.
Something else had been nagging at me. Maybe it was a low way to change the subject, but I had to grab what straws I could. “What Nik said is true, isn’t it? Riders did bring the Hunt here.” I knew the answer, but the day’s earlier argument made me want to see what Alejandro would say. For a minute he just looked at me, blinking, and then he gave the smallest of nods. He picked up his knife and fork.
“It is more complicated than that, and I must admit, it did not occur to me that the Hunt would be interested in humans. Humans have dra’aj, that we know, or we could not breed—forgive me, that can be such an ugly word.”
“But you knew about Outsiders?”
“Certainly. But only as I have already told you, humans who feed upon others. They are a relatively new phenomenon, and rare, appearing perhaps only in the last five or six hundred years.” Only a Rider would think of half a millennia as “relatively new,” I thought. “As I said, in all the years that I have been in this world, I have met only one before Mr. Polihronidis.” He drew down his brows in thought. Alejandro should know, I thought. He’d been here longer, probably, than any other Rider.
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