Shadowlands (9781101597637)

by Malan, Violette

  “I hope to see a lot more of you from now on,” Elaine said, as she sat back down and picked up a folder.

  “Nuthin’ more likely, darlin’.”

  As he led Poco to his own office—a corner office, just like Valory Martin had said—Nik braced himself for the blast he knew was coming. Poco waited until the door was closed behind them.

  “Are you out of your mind? What were you thinking?” At least Poco was keeping his voice down.

  Nik bit down on the angry retort trying to force its way past his lips. What was he going to say? But this is Elaine? Exceptions should be made for her? He tried to dial down on the emotion. “You don’t tell me what to do, none of you. I don’t answer to any of you. I’m senior—”

  “And what? That means you don’t have to follow the rules the rest of us follow? My god, Nikki, you know better than anyone—” the little man squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath before continuing. “These are your rules, Nikki. You’re the one who came up with them. Do I have to remind you what happened with the ‘Spanish Influenza’?” Poco made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

  Nik’s temper flared again. No, he didn’t have to be reminded of the last time a group of Outsiders had decided access to dra’aj didn’t need to be regulated. Just because spreading around a deadly virus wasn’t directly killing people didn’t make it okay.

  “We agreed, Nikki. When we saw how things were going, we agreed no new ones would get fixed.” Poco’s control just made his anger all the more apparent. “I know she’s your friend, I know you went to law school with her, but—dammit—we all have someone.”

  He couldn’t. He absolutely could not explain why Elaine was different, not just someone he’d known for years, but family. Terribly remote, ten generations away—but still his sister’s child to him. No other Outsider of his age had any living relatives—even someone like Poco, who for all his anger really did understand, wouldn’t have let him make an exception for her.

  “I’ve spoken to the Rider,” was what he did say.

  Poco squeezed his eyes shut, his hands were fists. “And?”

  “And he’s going to help us. They. They’re going to help us.”

  Poco pumped his fist into the air. “Dude, you should have led with that.”

  Nik raised an eyebrow, but refrained from pointing out that Poco hadn’t given him a chance to lead with anything. “I was waiting until I had something concrete in place. We’re still talking over the details.”

  “Okay. Okay. But this could change everything.”

  Nik hoped that was true. He hoped it wasn’t going to be just Alejandro Martín helping them.

  Poco stopped nodding and smiling and looked at him once more with hard eyes. “This is still all going to take time, though, isn’t it? And in the meantime, when will Elaine need a fresh fix? Couple of days?”

  Nik looked away. “About that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Nik took a deep breath. “She can take mine.”

  “Dude! You have lost your mind! How’s that going to help anyone?”

  “I’ve gone on short rations before. Elaine can’t, not at this stage.”

  The short man shook his head. “You let us know. Call me, or Eva or someone. Don’t do this alone.”

  “It’ll be okay. I can wait.”

  The short man shook his head. “You better hope you’re right.” Halfway to the door, Nik stopped him with a question.

  “Wait a second, how did you know?”

  Poco turned back, fixing Nik with his sharp blue eyes. “How did I know? How do you think? Eva told me.” He came back into the room until he was standing close enough to put his hand on Nik’s shoulder. “You think we don’t keep an eye on you? Where would the rest of us be without you?”

  “But if they are now feeding from humans, can we even use one of the People as bait?”

  Nighthawk glanced at Twilight Falls Softly. The Singer was a Starward Rider. She was shorter now than her natural height, but they had made very little change to her coloring, and her alabaster skin and blue-green eyes attracted a fair amount of attention among the Spaniards in the subway car. As for himself, Hawk kept much of the natural Sunward ruddiness, though his hair now looked more copper than auburn, and he’d given himself a few freckles. He’d had plenty of practice looking human after all the time he’d spent as Warden of the Exile.

  “I believe we can,” Hawk said in answer to the Singer’s question. “I believe any of us might make a successful bait. These are addicts. Because they have a source for the substance they need, that means nothing. They will be unable to resist taking more as they find it, and still more.”

  Twilight nodded, peering around at the subway car with intense interest. She’d heard much from the two Princes about the Shadowlands, but Hawk knew that tales, even for a Singer, did little to prepare you for the place.

  She leaned toward him. “I was not aware I would actually feel that we are still in the same area, the same place.”

  Hawk nodded. “It is strange at first, particularly if you don’t know what causes the feeling. You can walk for months—I have done it—and never leave the one, solid place that is the Shadowlands. In the Lands, ‘here’ has, for Riders at least, a specific and singular meaning; in the Shadowlands ‘here’ is relative.

  “The question in my mind,” Hawk continued when he could see the Singer had finished storing away his words, “is how the Basilisk Prince kept the Hunt from feeding on his followers in the first place.”

  “That would be the Horn,” Twilight said. “You’ve forgotten,” she leaned in toward him to speak over the noise of the subway as it passed around a curve. “The Basilisk had the Horn, and the Horn controls the Hunt. Apparently in more ways than simply calling them.”

  The train pulled into a station and Hawk shifted Twilight over to allow a group of humans access to the doors. The Singer coughed and Hawk covered a smile by turning his head. Nothing could prepare one of the People for what the Shadowlands smelled like, the sweat of the bodies, the fumes of the automobiles—or the food cooking for that matter.

  “Is this a common method of travel?” Twilight cleared her throat. “I am sure I have heard both the Princes speak of horses.”

  “Many human cities have subways,” Hawk said. “And the High Prince instructed me to use human transportation where time allowed. As for horses…” Knowing the needs of Singers, Nighthawk launched into an explanation, beginning early in the history of humankind, though not quite so far back as the actual domestication of the beasts.

  Twilight paid close attention, not faltering once through the elements of human history, technological development, population pressures, and the like. It had been many years since Hawk had dealt with a Singer, but he remembered that they preferred to be told everything one knew on any subject. Twilight held up a finger, as Hawk uttered a particular phrase.

  “Did you say ‘air planes’?” she asked. “Are you saying that humans can fly?” Her interest was understandable, only Riders with the right kind of Guidebeasts—dragons, say, or griffins or rocs—could fly.

  “It is not the humans who fly, exactly,” Hawk began again, and was soon deep into questions of cross-sections of wings, lift, and aerodynamics.

  “Fascinating,” Twilight said. “Though truly I can see that it would be difficult to put such knowledge into a Song.” She looked around once more. “This is not a plane, unfortunately, but traveling through the earth like a Troll has its interest as well.” She leaned in again, lowering her voice even further. “Not the least of which is being able to closely observe humans themselves. I was unprepared to see so many different Wards.”

  Hawk shook his head. “Human coloration has nothing to do with Wards, humans are grouped in other ways. You can see for yourself that human coloring is highly mixed. Not only can you find in a single human the red hair of Sunwards, the pale complexion of Moonwards, and the blue eyes of Starwards, but there are also some with
complexions of brown and yellow—in all manner of shades—that do not exist among Riders.”

  “It is true that this close to them, humans seem very different from one another. Except for the smell.”

  Hawk smiled again. “I assure you that after a few days you simply stop noticing it.” He took her lightly by the elbow and steered her closer to the exit. “Come. Let us return to the task at hand. We must not forget that any Rider we meet with, with the exception of Alejandro and Wolf, must be treated with caution, as possibly a follower of the Basilisk.”

  “Or a Hound,” Twilight pointed out.

  “Or a Hound,” Hawk agreed. “As inconceivable as that seems.”

  Twilight frowned, the corners of her mouth showing how troubled she was by the idea. “Surely, any Rider who avoids us will be a follower of the Basilisk,” she suggested.

  “Not necessarily.” As the train entered the “Banco de España” station, Hawk positioned them in front of the doors. “Any who has lived here hidden might also, if they do not know us.”

  “Your task is more complicated than I thought.” Twilight followed as Hawk led her up a series of staircases, slowing to examine the escalators more closely. “It seems obvious that the same traps or lures could not be used for both the Hunt and the Basilisk Warriors,” she said when her examination was complete. “Unless, of course, the two have allied once again. What is this rock?” she added, touching the pavement as they came up the stairs.

  “Concrete,” Hawk said. “It is manufactured. ‘Man-made’ they call such things here.”

  “Truthsheart says they have no magic.” Twilight’s fingers lingered on the pavement. She ignored the muttering of people who had to move to get around her.

  “But as I have been explaining, they have something else, called technology, and engineering. With these, they accomplish many of the same results that we do using magic.”

  “Then how do you know it is not magic, just one that we cannot understand?” Twilight grinned to show that she jested.

  “Because there is no dra’aj involved, just ingenuity.”

  They had reached street level, and though it was still only June, heat rose up from the pavement, as hot and dry as though they were in a desert place. They were now on the south side of the Plaza de Cibeles, and the Singer stood still, looking around her, recording everything she saw and heard, humming under her breath the tune that would from now on accompany the telling of this tale. The flood of pedestrians broke around them, some smiling amiably, and some glancing at them with irritation until they saw the look on Hawk’s face, whereupon they went about their business. Hawk’s sword was disguised as an umbrella, but he’d had centuries to learn how to look armed and dangerous in any circumstances.

  “There is the fountain of Shower of Stars.” Hawk pointed to the center of the traffic circle, where crowned Cibeles sat in her chariot drawn by lions. “An example of what we’ve been discussing. The water’s movement is caused by pumps and valves, not by magic.”

  “And yet it conceals what lies within it from our eyes,” Twilight said. “So the nature of the water, and its function, is not affected by this ‘engineering.’”

  “But the moving water will not hide us from humans,” Hawk said. “So we cannot be long. What is it?” The Singer had been frowning, but was now smiling again.

  “I was wondering how it was that the fountain did appear to hide Shower of Stars from humans.” Twilight gestured at the people around them. Many were taking photographs, it was true, but it was obvious that they saw nothing untoward in the fountain. “But of course she is a Water Natural, and has the same nature as the water itself, and while in it, can take any form she chooses, seen or unseen.” The Singer hooked her arm through Hawk’s. “She also is unaffected by the engineering.”

  “Are we ready, then?” Hawk said. Twilight nodded, and they Moved, finding themselves standing in a cool green room with iridescent walls, sparkling in spots with a diamond luster.

  Hawk cleared his throat. “Stars? Shower of Stars, it is Diego Rascón. It is Nighthawk come to see you, with a friend from the Lands.”

  Nothing. Just the sound of water all around them. Twilight put her hand on Hawk’s arm. “Let me try,” she said. “Shower of Stars, I am Twilight Falls Softly, and the Hydra guides me. I am fara’ip of the Water Sprite, Tear of the Dragon. I am here to help you return to the Lands.”

  Still nothing. Twilight pursed her lips. She gestured and Hawk drew back. She took several deep breaths and began to Sing, strong, heavy notes that became deeper as her throat lengthened and grew. Hawk raised a trembling hand to his mouth. Twilight was becoming her Guidebeast. It had been longer than anyone now alive could remember since such a thing was commonplace, and Hawk watched in awed fascination as Twilight became an ivory-colored water snake, spiky-finned, and with three heads. Hydra. One head turned its blue-green eyes on Hawk, while the other two began tasting the waters around them with their tongues.

  It might almost be easier, Hawk reflected, to make the transformation yourself, than to watch as someone else did it. He hoped he would soon have the chance to find out.

  When Twilight returned to her Rider shape, it was with a frown on her face.

  “This water is empty,” she said. “The Natural is gone.” She looked around her, lips parted, fear in her eyes. “A part of her dra’aj is bound to the place, and remains, but this heart of the fountain will collapse as soon as the memory of her Fades.” Twilight turned to Hawk. “We must Move, or be revealed.”

  “And I know where we must go.” Hawk reached for her hand. “Quickly, we must find the Troll.”

  “Hold! Identify yourself!”

  This made the fourth time Wolf had been asked to give his name and Guidebeast since coming through the Portal in Beijing. The first three times it had been Wild Riders who had stopped him, but these two, stepping out from the Trees that formed the perimeter of the High Prince’s camp, were wearing the red, black, and silver that were her colors.

  Though there could be no more than two or three score People in this clearing among the Trees, the place had the bustling air of an armed encampment of hundreds. There were Wild Riders eschewing tents to sit by fires burning in the open air; there were two lesser pavilions, one in the green and gold of Honor of Souls; there was also a Troll and, closer to the horse lines, an Ogre. All were armed, many of the Riders with visible gra’if.

  Wolf found himself looking for familiar faces. Any familiar face would do, but Walks Under the Moon, the High Prince’s sister—she he could approach and be sure of his welcome. Several Wild Riders nodded to him, and Wolf nodded back, but he did not know any of them well enough even to put a name to them.

  He snorted, the impatience that lay under all his thoughts rising for a moment to the surface. However hard it was to be alone, he could not easily change his circumstances. Best he remember that, and keep his mind on his task.

  He forced his pace to slow as he neared the High Prince’s pavilion, its silver roof, red walls, and black banners gleaming like dragon scales in the bright sun. Part of him wanted to rush forward, brushing aside anyone who would stand in his way, and throw himself at the feet of his Prince. It had been simple when she was just Truthsheart, and she had taken him in her arms and Healed him. Now that she was High Prince, he shared her with everyone who made up her fara’ip, and somehow this made him feel more distanced from her.

  “You have some purpose here?” This was a Starward Rider, dressed in blue and purple, who wore his ash-blond hair hanging loose down his back. He had a sword at his right hip, and an archer’s arm guard on his right arm, but bore no gra’if.

  “I would speak with the High Prince.”

  “You would?” The Rider looked Wolf up and down, clearly unimpressed with the dusty boots, wide-brimmed hat, khaki trousers, and cotton shirt suitable for travel in the Tasmanian winter. Wolf stifled the urge to brush himself off.

  “Many wish to approach the High Prince. Indeed, who would not?
” But the Starward Rider did not step aside. Nor did he ask Wolf for his name.

  Wolf was debating whether to turn away—was what he had learned from Swift River Current really as significant as he thought?—or to insist on his rights, when a Wild Rider in battered leathers with gra’if showing at his throat, came out of the entrance, and greeted him before he could speak.

  “Stormwolf. Have you been here long?” The sideways glance Wings of Cloud gave the Starward Rider almost made Wolf smile. “This Rider was with us on Ma’at, the Stone of Virtue, and fought by the side of the Guardian,” Wings said, addressing the Starward guard. “He is always welcome to the Princes.”

  The Starward Rider’s inclined head was almost a bow, considerably more courteous than his behavior thus far, but he still did not offer his own name and Guidebeast. Wolf lifted his brows and barely nodded in return. He should not let such things annoy him, he thought, as he allowed Wings of Cloud to draw him into the pavilion.

  “Supercilious ass,” the Moonward Rider said as soon as they were out of earshot of the man at the entrance. “One of those who overvalue ceremony, and thinks himself favored because he is a Starward, like the High Prince. Making him stupid as well as pompous.” The corridor they entered seemed somehow to be walled in darkwood paneling.

  “Friends have turned to enemies for smaller things before. I know a Song—” Wolf frowned. Where had that thought come from? “But what of you? Are you well?” It struck him suddenly that Wings had lost a brother at the battle on the Stone, a twin. That was hard, very hard. A brother’s loss was something that Wolf understood very well, though caution held him back from sharing this with Wings.

  “I survive.” The Moonward’s voice flattened slightly. “Some days are harder than others, but the High Prince keeps me too busy to brood.” He turned to Wolf, but his ready smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Do you think she does this on purpose?”

  “She is a great Healer.” The Wild Rider was not the only one the High Prince was keeping busy, Wolf realized. Could she be treating him with the same prescription of hard work that she was using on Wings of Cloud? For the life of him, Wolf could not remember whether Wings knew his own history, knew he had once been a Hound. He told himself it was not cowardice, but caution that kept him from referring to it. “I think we must assume that whatever she does, she does with purpose.”