The Mirror Prince

by Malan, Violette

  “Sitting pretty, you think?” His voice was a husky caress. “You should have said yes, spawn of Solitaries. You should have fallen over yourself and thanked him for the opportunity to say yes, while you had the chance. Then he might have been kind, he might have been quick. You don’t deserve his kindness, and you won’t get it.” Suddenly, before Max could prepare for it, the Rider had crossed the room and planted his fist squarely just below Max’s rib cage. His gra’if mail shirt hardened instantly, deadening the blow. Max found that he was just able to make his lungs draw in air.

  “Does this mean no breakfast?” he gasped.

  The Rider cursed, backhanding Max across the face with his closed fist.

  “Your Solitary’s tricks won’t help you here,” the Rider said, spitting out his words. He snapped a set of dull metal manacles to Max’s wrists as Max struggled, unable to turn away in the angle of the chaise longue. “You won’t rule here, not when we’re through with you. I’m to take you to a place where you can ‘rest’ and ‘consider. ’ ” Max didn’t like the Rider’s smile.

  The Moonward Rider dragged Max from the chaise, across the floor, and into the doorway before he could even think to fight back. He was on his back, stretched out at full arm’s length, the entire weight of his body pulling against the cuffs digging into his wrists. He tried to hook his heels around the doorframe, but the dark Rider merely kicked at his head and groin until he stopped.

  And SLAM! they were in another corridor, this one much darker and colder.

  Here there were no wood floors, but cold gray flagstones perfectly fitted so they seemed smooth as marble. The dark Rider kicked open a door and dragged Max through.

  As soon as the door was open, Max’s nose was assaulted with a horrible, acrid smell, like a sewer burning. His eyes began to smart and he coughed roughly, his nose wrinkling. The Rider pulled him almost upright, and before Max could get his feet properly under him, the chain that bound his wrists was shackled to the wall. The room was dark, and at first Max couldn’t see what was causing the smell, even though the slack in the chain gave him plenty of room to twist around. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the dim light entering through slits in the stone walls high over his head. Here the stone was the same carefully fitted smooth gray rock as the floor, veined, Max now saw, like marble, unremarkable except for a wide blotch where something obscured the reflection of the light. He twisted around the other way, squinted to get a better look, and whirled back around to face the still open doorway, gagging, stomach trying to climb up out of his throat. It couldn’t be. His mind tried to reject what his eyes had seen, but it wouldn’t.

  Against his will, his head dragged him around again and his eyes forced him to look at what was stuck on the wall. He could tell that it had once been alive—Max prayed to whatever gods were listening that it wasn’t still alive—but the only thing he could be sure of was the front half of a skateboard sticking out to one side of—he gagged and turned away, dragging in great shuddering breaths until his stomach sank back into place and stayed there. He looked back at the dark Rider, but the soldier wasn’t looking at the thing on the wall. His pale eyes were fixed on Max himself.

  “We only need you until the Banishment ends,” the Rider said, his voice as matter-of-fact as the weather-man’s announcing a clear morning with seasonal temperatures. “After that,” he paused and jerked his head toward the abomination on the wall. “Consider it while you ‘rest.’ ”

  Anger and disgust choked him, and without thinking Max swept the Moonward Rider’s feet out from under him with the same move that had been used on him back in Honor of Souls’ upper hall. Once he was down, Max smashed him in the forehead with the manacles around his wrists and wrapped the slack of the chains around the Rider’s throat.

  Max probably wouldn’t have done what he did next if it hadn’t been for the skateboard.

  Cassandra poured warm water over the back of her neck and set the jug down on the stone hearth. She squeezed the excess water out of her hair and straightened, tossing it back off her face, feeling it drip on her back.

  “I tell you, my lady, we must flee,” an older Starward Rider was saying. He wore the green-and-gold leathers of a senior man-at-arms. “If we go to the Shadowlands, we can close the Portals from that side. We know where the Prince Guardian has been taken, and,” the man took a hesitant breath before continuing, “the Lands are already lost to us.”

  Moon handed Cassandra a towel, and she lost what else the Rider said in the rustle of cloth as she dried her hair. They had made it into the Signed Room inches in front of their enemies, and held the door while Honor of Souls activated the Signs. It was the safest room in Griffinhome now that it was Signed from the inside, and Cassandra was not the only one taking advantage of the quiet moment to wash off blood. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. One or two spots were never going to dry. There had been only one Hound, and she believed she had killed it, but at the very least, their enemies were on the other side of the door.

  “We cannot remain here, that’s certain,” Lightborn said. “They may have achieved their purpose when they took the Prince, but the Basilisk will not leave us be. Not for long.”

  “I agree.” Cassandra handed the towel to a waiting servant and reached both hands behind her head to braid her hair. “But I don’t think it’s time for the Shadowlands quite yet. Pick another place, and I will bring the Prince.”

  “If you can do this, then all may yet be saved,” Honor of Souls said, exhaustion showing in her beautiful liquid voice. “Will your Oath guide you?”

  Cassandra didn’t answer. She had no answer. She knew that it was stupid to go tearing off, throwing open every door and turning over every rock, screaming Max’s name. Stupid and a waste of time. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to do it. Or that she had a better idea.

  “If you do find him, you can at least give him his gra’if.” Lightborn put his hand on Max’s saddlebags, sitting on the long table near the wall. Cassandra hadn’t seen it, but the pale Rider must have picked them up as they were running to safety.

  As she listened to the others turning over suggestions for safe places to meet, Cassandra unbuckled the bags and thrust both hands inside, feeling calm spread over her like warm water in a bath. The demands of her Oath still tore at her, but touching Max’s gra’if was almost as good as touching Max. Absently, she named each piece as she counted them, broke off, and began to count them again with more attention, panic rising like acid in her throat, until she saw again in her memory’s eye the way he had twisted his torque around his throat while they were still in the bedchamber, and relaxed. It was all right; Max’s torque was not missing.

  She’d had hers stolen from her once, she remembered, lifting her hand to her neck to touch it, brushing her fingertips against the fine scales. It was in the early days of the Banishment, when she and the other Wardens had been traveling with a small group of horsemen across the plains of what was now Mongolia. They hadn’t always worn all their gra’if in those days, it was too noticeable. One visitor from another band of horsemen had noticed her torque, somehow, and had ridden off with it. She’d been able to find it, though, and deal with the thief, too. She had Moved to it. She had heard that, back when the dra’aj was strong, the great ones of old, like the Prince Guardian himself, perhaps, could call their gra’if to them. It was logical, in the human sense. After all, gra’if was made from a Rider’s own blood; why shouldn’t it have the properties of Riders? Why wouldn’t it be able to Move? But Max Ravenhill couldn’t call his gra’if to him, she thought, even if it occurred to him to try.

  She picked up Max’s Phoenix helm, ran the tips of her fingers over the fine metal feathers, stroked the beak of the Fire Bird. It was part of Max. It would want to be reunited with him. It wasn’t able to Move on its own, but suppose she Moved it? Given the chance, wouldn’t it take her straight to him?

  “Just a minute,” she said, interrupting the discussion that still was being waged ar
ound her. “I have an idea.” She watched the faces change, hope growing in some, dying in others, as she outlined her theory.

  “This is madness. You will kill yourself, and for what? The Basilisk has the Prince, and our part in this Song is over,” Walks Under the Moon spoke into the silence that fell when Cassandra finished, her voice trembling.

  “Not necessarily,” said Lightborn from his perch on the edge of the long table. “We have until the Banishment ends to make the attempt. The Basilisk must keep him alive until then, if he is not already dead.”

  “He’s not dead,” Cassandra said, her hands still smoothing the warm feathers of the Phoenix helm. “His gra’if would feel different if he were.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Moon said, shaking her head. “What if you had to . . . wear it?”

  What, indeed? She’d be very surprised if wearing it wasn’t exactly what she had to do. Cassandra had never heard of any Rider wearing the gra’if of another. It would be like wearing someone else’s skin. She wanted to take Moon in her arms, soothe away her fears as she had done when her sister was still a child, but it was hard to offer comfort when she felt the same fear herself. “If anyone has a better idea, let me hear it.”

  “Let me at least come with you,” Lightborn suggested. “My knowledge of the Basilisk’s Citadel may be of some use.”

  She acknowledged his offer with a sharp nod. “Very well.”

  Crossing back to the table, Cassandra put Max’s helm to one side, and repacked the other pieces in the saddlebags—gauntlets, greaves, even the sword Max had dropped when he was taken. Cassandra closed the bag again and hesitated, her hand still on them.

  “We should take his gra’if with us,” Lightborn said, coming up on her left side, “and all your own weapons as well. What if we are unable to return for them?”

  That was good advice. Honor of Souls would have to unSign the room for the short time—Cassandra hoped very short—that it would take them to Move, and Sign it again once they’d left.

  “Check outside while the room is open,” Cassandra said to Honor, “if you can do it without endangering yourselves. You’ll have to Move from here eventually. Wait,” she added as another thought occurred to her. “Do any of your people bear gra’if ?” Honor nodded and gestured as a young Sunward guard moved forward, drawing a gra’if blade as she came.

  “Should there be another Hound,” Cassandra said to the young guard, “it will be for you to kill it. Listen carefully.”

  “Moon,” Lightborn called out as Cassandra completed her instructions to the now white-faced guard. “Can you Move to the stables and wait for us there?” He turned to Cassandra. “She’ll be safe enough there. They won’t be expecting us to Ride. If we find the Prince Guardian, we will need Moon to guide us to the Lake of Souls.”

  “I will wait until you come,” Moon said, patting her sister on the shoulder. “With or without the Exile, come to me there.”

  Cassandra nodded, pulling Moon into a tight hug before handing Lightborn Max’s swords and dumping the contents of her shoulder bag out on the table. The easiest way to carry everything, she’d learned long ago, was to wear it. And where they were going, she might be glad that she had. Her greaves she was already wearing, strapped to her shins, and she checked to make sure that they didn’t interfere with the daggers in her boot tops. Because she wore her mail shirt next to the skin, instead of over her clothing like a cuirass, she had to attach the jointed tassets, and the pauldron and vambraces to her leather harness so that her abdomen and upper thighs, and her shoulders and upper arms were now covered with light, finely scaled armor. She checked that her throwing daggers were in place in her gauntlets, and pulled them on. The last thing she put on was her torque.

  Silence made her look up. One by one, everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing to look at her.

  “Your pardon, Truthsheart,” Lightborn said, almost whispering. “It has been many years since we have seen so much gra’if.”

  “It is easy to see you are Dragonborn, my dear,” said Honor of Souls, coming to Cassandra with her hands outstretched. “What other could sustain all this?”

  “I have known others to bear more,” Cassandra said, turning away from the light in Honor’s eyes. To Lightborn she added, “Are you ready?”

  She tied her Dragon helm to the front of her harness and helped Lightborn balance the saddlebags loaded with Max’s gra’if over his right shoulder. As she took up her position, ready to Move, she wondered whether she was going about this the right way. Other than the time she’d Moved to her stolen torque, and that was like looking for a part of yourself, she always Moved to somewhere , never to something. Could she do it when it wasn’t a part of herself she was Moving to? But if she could Move herself to where her own gra’if was, and people could Move their gra’if to them . . . Shaking her head, she picked up the Phoenix helm and nodded to Honor of Souls. She could chase her thoughts around in circles all day, or she could . . .

  . . . concentrate on Max, blocking first her awareness of her sister, Moon’s low voice still murmuring her protests. Then Lightborn’s hands on her shoulders. She subtracted the carpet under her feet, the darkwood and stone flooring, the smell of the applewood fire in Honor’s Signed Room. The fireplace, the Signs, and the hangings that covered them. Added Max as she’d last seen him, dressed in his flame colors, his gra’if mail showing through the opening of his shirt, the curved Phoenix torque around his throat. His jade-green eyes blazing, his long face framed with raven hair dusted with silver. She added the feel of his mouth under hers as she breathed dra’aj into him, the touch of his lips on the hollow of her throat. She lifted his Phoenix helm and fitted it onto her head.

  In an instant she was in the heart of an inferno, her skin stung by flames. She felt herself fall to her knees, though she couldn’t have said what surface was under her. She struggled not to breathe, feeling the flames lick at her mouth, her nostrils. Her lungs strained, and she knew that soon she was going to open her mouth and suck in the fire, that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. Vaguely, she wondered where Lightborn was, whether his hands were still gripping her shoulders. This was the Phoenix nest, she realized, the heart of Max’s Guidebeast. Where else would his gra’if bring her? Would it know that she was trying to help? Or would it burn her for her presumption in donning Max’s gra’if? Suddenly, the burning torment faded, and Cassandra wondered if her nerve endings were gone, seared away. The flames continued to caress her, light as feathers now. She felt the heat, and the kiss of the flames, but they were not consuming her. Something inside her awoke and began to sing, the notes flickering in time with the fire, which now was strangely welcoming. Nothing to lose, she thought. She forced her muscles to relax, opened herself to the flames, breathing deeply until the heat filled her. She exhaled—WHAM!

  “Max. Max can you hear me?”

  It was Cassandra’s dark chocolate voice.

  “Is he injured?” Another voice. Familiar, but . . .

  “No. It’s as if he doesn’t want to wake up. He hears me, but—”

  “What does a guy have to do to get some sleep around here?”

  The rusty croak of his own voice forced Max’s eyes open. He blinked, but this time he wasn’t dreaming, it really was Cassandra. Lightborn’s concerned face hung over her shoulder. Max smiled and started to stand up, winced as his shoulder muscles complained.

  “What happened here?” Lightborn toed the dead soldier’s body where it lay as far from Max as he’d been able to push it.

  “He pissed me off,” Max said. He’d had time, before exhaustion had claimed him, to face the fact that he’d killed a man—not in self-defense, not in the heat of a fight, but in a rage of disgust and fear. Max swallowed. It was lucky his stomach was empty. He was hoping that after a while, the fact that the man was going to kill him would feel less like a rationalization and more like a good reason.

  “Why hasn’t he Faded?” Cassandra said.

  Lightbo
rn shook his head, still looking down at the dead Rider. “Dra’aj works strangely at times, here in the Citadel.”

  “Who placed these manacles on you?” Cassandra was running her fingers lightly over the metal around Max’s wrists and the point where the chains joined the wall.

  “He did,” Max said, indicating the dead guard with a tilt of his head. “He hasn’t got the key on him, I already looked.”

  Cassandra and Lightborn were looking at each other in a way that Max didn’t like. “What?”

  Lightborn bit his bottom lip. “There is no key,” he said. “These are darkmetal, keyed to the guard himself.”

  “They open and close when he wants them to,” Cassandra added when Max looked at her, eyebrows raised. She continued examining the ring bolt that attached the chain to the wall. She glanced at Lightborn and shook her head. Max looked from one ivory-pale face to the other.

  “You mean I killed the only person who can get me out of them?”

  The way they wouldn’t look at him was answer enough.