“It is the Horn that calls the Hunt,” Lightborn said, dragging in air like a diver coming up out of the depths. “Some favorite of the Basilisk’s is here to use it.”
“Run.” Cassandra pointed forward with her sword, and drew the long dagger she had used against the Hound out of the top of her left boot.
Running now, they followed Lightborn the short distance down the rest of the passage, around the corner and down another, identical except for the arched window openings on the left side. Max caught a glimpse of a night sky, a moon, half full, near the horizon, and the sky almost devoid of stars. Surely there had been sunlight coming in the window of their room only moments ago? Max skidded on the smooth tile floor as Lightborn slowed, and lifted his finger to his lips. They were nearing the end of the windowed passage, where it joined another, wider hallway. Lightborn turned toward them, jerked his head up, and pointed to the right. Max nodded, took a firmer grip on his sword, and followed Lightborn around the corner.
They found themselves at one end of an open gallery from which they could see the top of what must be the main staircase of the fortress. The stairs themselves, wide and shallow, were made of some green-gold stone like marble; the staircase was wide enough for five people to stand abreast, and in that space Honor of Souls stood with two guards, all three with swords out. Moon stood behind them, a dagger in each hand. A quick glance told Max that at least nine purple-clad Riders were trying to come at them up the stairs. Honor and her people were helped by the height the stairs gave them, Max saw, and by the fact that their opponents were too crowded together to rush them. But even as Lightborn ran forward, the man to Honor’s right, already bleeding from a wound in his right leg, went down, and Lightborn leaped into the space beside his mother before the successful enemy could flank her.
Max and Cassandra took up positions one to each side of Moon. Pale to the point of fainting, the young Rider gave her sister a stiff smile. Max moved around to Moon’s left, and returned Cassandra’s nod with the best grin he could manage. He hefted the sword in his hand, trying to regain that feeling of oneness he’d had when he’d first picked it up.
He had a moment to feel his skin get cold as his blood retreated from the surface, preparing for injury. He wished he’d had time to put on more than his mail shirt, as he glanced at Cassandra, a blade in each hand, her bag swinging off her left shoulder. Max remembered using that bag as a flail against the Hound, and shrugged off his own saddlebags, but found that without a strap there was no way he could conveniently use them as a bludgeon. He let them drop and pushed them behind him with his foot. As well-packed as they were, they were bulky, and he needed complete range of movement. And if he had to run, well, the stuff in the bags was no use to him unless he lived.
How much time did they have before the Hunt arrived?
Honor of Souls took a step back onto the landing at the top of the staircase, and Cassandra called to her to step out, that she would take over. Before the woman could answer, the sound of running feet made them look toward the left. The Basilisk’s soldiers had found a way around the main stairs after all and were coming at them from the far end of the gallery.
A shadow flickered at the periphery of his vision, and Max was moving even as Cassandra cried out a warning. His quickness meant the blow landed on his gra’if-protected shoulder and not on his head as his assailant intended. Max’s numb right hand almost dropped the sword, but he remembered Cassandra’s instruction just in time and brought up his left hand, instinctively continuing the movement into a sweep that sank his blade into his attacker’s neck, knocking the man to his knees.
Max was staring openmouthed as the man’s life spilled out onto the floor when he was shoved from behind. He flinched, turning to bring his sword to bear, but instead of striking at him, Max’s new assailant grabbed him by his upper arms, dragging him backward away from the fighting. Max fought to dislodge the hands, desperate to prevent his attacker from getting a good hold, while he tried to maintain a grip on his own sword.
Max heard Cassandra call out behind him, but her shout ended in a grunt. Max set his teeth and clung harder to his sword as more gloved hands tried to wrest it from him. Feeling was just tingling back into his right hand, and Max tried not to think of what would have happened if he hadn’t been wearing armor. The hands holding him shifted their bruising grip yet again, and Max, remembering that the edges were sharp as well as the points, planted his feet, shrugged his shoulders and twisted his wrists, thrusting out firmly with his sword. The man trying to take the sword from him sprang back with a cry, holding bleeding fingers. Max immediately threw himself backward, pushing off the floor as hard as he could with his legs. He knocked the unprepared man holding him to the floor, landing on his chest, pushing the air out of him, and rolled himself free.
He looked down, dragging air into his own lungs, and while he hesitated, the man on the floor kicked out and swept Max’s feet out from under him. Max crashed against the stone balustrade of the gallery, banging his abused right arm again and numbing his shoulder. The man on the floor was just rolling to his feet, triumphantly grinning, when Cassandra dashed up and, twisting her double-handed grip sideways, swept off his head with one blow.
Must like that headless look, Max thought.
A slap as an arrow bounced off the stone floor and Cassandra ducked as another whistled past her head. Lightborn killed the man in front of him, kicked the feet out from under the man in front of his mother so that she could cut his throat, and stepped back toward Cassandra and Max.
“Kill as many as you can, and then back the way we came,” he yelled over his shoulder as another of the Basilisk’s Riders swung at him.
Max scrambled to his feet. Now that the first rush of excitement had passed, he found that he settled automatically into a routine of thrust and parry. He relaxed, letting his sword hand move, and he felt an unexpected detachment settle over him, at once distancing him from the fighting and narrowing his focus to the Rider in front of him. He was aware of Cassandra, behind him to his left, and how she moved like a dancer; he saw the flicker of Moon’s dagger. Then he realized that the woman he fought now was no more trying to kill him than the guy who had grabbed him from behind, and that realization made him falter.
Before he could recover from his hesitation, Moon stumbled, falling with almost her full weight against Max’s lowered sword arm. He took a step backward, but trod heavily onto his own saddlebags. In the moment it took him to lose his balance completely and fall, he had time to feel really stupid.
Max hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. A weight, someone heavier than Moon he thought, as he fought to inhale, fell on top of him, and hands once more clutched at his arms. Max heard Cassandra’s voice and struggled to turn toward the sound when—
SLAM!
Chapter Nine
MAX DREAMS THAT a dog licks his face. It’s more than a little unpleasant, the tongue is rougher, and much hotter than he would have expected. And talk about dog breath! Gagh! This dog must have been eating rotten meat. How can I be dreaming, he thinks, when I’m not asleep. Passed out, maybe. Too many Moves, beating him with images—a stone-walled room, the stones covered with moss and dripping water; the middle of a snowstorm, sleet cutting at his face; a wooded hillside, leaves just on the point of turning; a dripping rain forest unbearably hot, smelling of dying vegetation; a sun-drenched beach at low tide, and three times a grassy lawn circled with huge standing stones—like sitting too close to the screen in an action movie. Too many CRACKS! and SLAMS! taking his breath away as he passed from place to place, until his lungs and his brain just shut off. Do you dream when you’re passed out? The dog goes on licking his face. Max wonders why he couldn’t dream of Cassandra instead of this Hound—
“Rest, there is nothing for you to fear now.” The voice was musical, soothing; the hand that had been stroking his face withdrew.
Max blinked and looked around him. He was lying on a long chaise piled with cushi
ons in a large, circular, wood-paneled room. The linen-fold paneling was warmly golden, reflecting the light from the room’s round windows. What he could see of the floor was covered with a scattering of small rugs, each complexly patterned. From the slant of the sunlight, it was late afternoon. He felt an unfamiliar ache in his right wrist and forearm and the stiffening of muscles that undoubtedly was the result of using a sword. He wondered how long he’d been asleep.
“Dawntreader.”
Max turned toward the beautiful voice.
There was no doubt in his mind that this was the Basilisk Prince. Once, as a young man, he’d met Trudeau, when he’d been Prime Minister for several years, and this man had that same quality of power and arrogance. He moved with the awareness that he was the most important person in the room, and he would always move that way, no matter what room he was in. The Basilisk was a Sunward Rider, Max had been told, and this man had the same red-gold, sun-touched look that Windwatcher had. A long face, too thin, with a prominent nose slightly hooked, wide mouth, full lips. But, like all of the Riders Max had seen, beautiful.
“You are safe now, my brother, you are home again.” His eyes dancing, the Basilisk took hold of Max’s right hand in his left and laid the back of his own right hand against Max’s cheek. The palm of that hand, and part of the fingers, were covered by a silky bandage. Max realized that the Basilisk was not sitting on a chair, but right on the edge of the chaise that Max himself was lying on.
The odd thing was, Max thought later, he really did feel safe at that moment. Warm and drowsy and content. The only uncomfortable note was the heat in the man’s hands. As if the Basilisk was burning with fever. Max had to school himself not to pull away.
“All alone in that Land of Shadow, how did you stand it?” The voice was resonant and warm, with an underlying note of deepness. If he wanted to, Max thought, the Basilisk could raise his voice and make the windows vibrate.
“It’s not such a bad place, when you get used to it.” That came out growly, and Max cleared his throat. He did his best to push the remnants of the dream from his mind, but they were stubborn. From the way the Basilisk Prince was talking, it seemed as if he didn’t know about the amnesia.
“You were always the bravest of us. That is what no one else remembers.”
“What about what I don’t remember?”
The Basilisk Prince nodded, as if he’d been expecting that. He knows all right, Max thought.
“I swear to you, I will make all things right.” The Basilisk patted Max on the shoulder. And again, almost against his will, Max felt comforted.
“I cannot know what your captors have told you, though I can guess.” The Basilisk shrugged, a rueful smile on his lips. “Hear me now, my brother. I need nothing from you. Nothing. This is the truth. Rather, tell me, Dawntreader, tell me what can I do for you.”
Max frowned, trying to concentrate. He hadn’t thought of Lightborn and Honor of Souls as his captors, but it was true that none of them had asked what he wanted. And they hadn’t exactly rushed to give him options. He didn’t mean Cassandra. Cassandra was different; she already knew what he wanted, and she had said that she would get him out if that’s what he decided, but still . . .
Max found that he believed the Basilisk. The Rider’s voice, his intonations, his face—all held the same quality of credibility, of veracity, that Cassandra’s held. Max wanted to help the people here, sure, of course he did. But of course he should weigh all the sides, consider all the possibilities. And really, more than anything else . . .
“I want to be Max Ravenhill,” he said, the words out before he was aware he’d meant to speak them. The same instinct that told him the Basilisk spoke the truth prompted him to do the same.
The Basilisk nodded, squeezing Max on the shoulder as he stood up.
“I can do that,” he said, still nodding. “I can let you have your human life again, once you’ve helped me . . . but I hope you will not ask it of me.” He looked around for a moment, moved a glass that sat on a small leather-covered table and stood frowning down at it. “The People need Dawntreader and what he knows, I know you understand this. But I also,” his eyes lifted to look past where Max lay on the chaise lounge at the round windows, “I miss my friend. No one understands me the way you—the way he did.”
Again, the quality of truth was heavy about him. For a moment Max saw the burden of the Basilisk’s loneliness, the same that could sometimes be seen in the faces of children who had lost a parent, whose childhood is lost also; children who realize they now face unimaginable responsibility. A loneliness tinged with despair.
“I hear we weren’t always in such harmony.” Max was careful to keep his voice neutral.
The Basilisk bit his lip and nodded again. “Perhaps.” He looked back at Max. “But you and I, we are the only ones who can know what passed between us. And I am not in the least afraid to have you restored. In fact, I seek it. We will come to an accord, I am certain.”
“You Banished me.”
“And saved your life doing so. There were many who sought your death, and you would have died had there not been this alternative.”
It was possible, Max nodded, considering. There was nothing in what the man said that actually contradicted what Cassandra had told him.
“What about my memory?”
The Basilisk shrugged, as if at a small thing. “I am offering to restore it. That is more than the others can do for you. And if, as you say, you prefer to be the human person you are now . . . once I have the Talismans, I can offer you that as well.”
The Basilisk’s face was open and serene, his eyes a warm topaz in the late afternoon light. This would be so easy, Max thought. Let him have what he wants, and then I get what I want. He wouldn’t even have to do anything, just let what was going to happen . . . happen. And then he’d be himself again.
“Whatever the others may say,” the Basilisk’s soft voice continued when Max did not speak, “the War was not caused by any enmity between us, and when you are restored, you will know this. We disagreed, yes, but left to ourselves, we would have come to terms. We both had enemies, and these others created war between us.” He stood and walked to the window, continuing to speak to Max as he looked out through the arches. “You saw clearly all along,” he said, “I know that now. I was misled. I allowed my pride to keep us apart. All of this,” he swept his arm toward the world outside the windows, “I prepare for the High Prince, whoever that might be. I wish—I hope, that it might be me.” He turned back to face Max, his eyes now hazel, clear, and direct. “But our first concern must be the People, and the Lands. Why should we wait? Let me end your Banishment now! Let me restore you, and together we will find the Talismans. They must be allowed to do their good offices, or all will be lost. Will you help me?”
Max squeezed his eyes tightly shut. It could have been a misunderstanding; human history was full of wars started over stupider things. Cassandra and her friends could be wrong . . . couldn’t they? After all, Cassandra hadn’t even been here, she only knew what she’d been told, and while Honor of Souls and her allies seemed very plausible, well, so did this man. The changes that were happening to the Lands could be just the Cycle ending. And as for what the Basilisk had been accused of, again, the years Max had spent studying taught him that sometimes rulers did things that seemed pointless or even cruel to those who didn’t have access to the whole picture.
It was the Talismans that were important, everyone agreed on that. You could help him find his Talismans and go back to being Max Ravenhill. It was really very simple, when you thought about it. All he had to do was wait, and then go home. Home to his books, and his classes, and his students.
And Cassandra, would she come home with him?
“You smell like a Hound,” he said in a hoarse whisper. Strange. He hadn’t even been aware he was going to say that.
“I’ve given you too much to think about.” The Basilisk turned until he had his back to the window. With the l
ight behind him, Max couldn’t see the man’s face. Couldn’t tell whether the Basilisk had heard him.
“Rest now. Nothing need be decided until the Sun turns. A fitting time for Dawntreader to return, if that is what you decide. In the meantime, rest, think, consider. I will have food brought to you.” The musical voice was wistful, and before Max could move, the Basilisk Prince had bent over him and kissed him softly on the forehead.
Max watched the Basilisk leave and then lay back, shutting his eyes, feeling the tremor of reaction set in. The man had sounded sincere, but that was easy, wasn’t it? Anyone could sound sincere, if he really wanted to. Hell, Max did it himself all the time. Besides, it was possible that he could be a monster and still miss his friend. Could smile and smile and be a villain.
Max didn’t realize, until he heard the quiet shuffling sounds, that the Basilisk had not left him alone in the room. He turned over to face the door again and found another Rider standing there, this one pale and dark-haired like Max himself, leaning with his back against the closed door. The Rider was white-faced and breathing hard, his lips compressed into a thin line. As soon as he saw Max looking at him, he spoke.
The Mirror Prince Page 17