Moon shrugged again. Cassandra smiled, remembering that shrug from when they were younger. Moon wasn’t going to argue, but she wasn’t convinced. “There is always some elder to tell you how the Lands were better in his youth,” Moon said.
“And that’s put you in your place,” Max said, laughing.
“It is said that the Basilisk has dra’aj enough to manifest his Beast,” Lightborn said, the ease dying out of his voice. “It is said that some have seen it.”
“Dra’aj Fades for all except the Basilisk,” Moon said in a voice that answered all questions.
They continued in silence, Cassandra concentrating on the birdsong, seeing if she could identify it after all this time, until Moon drew rein sharply at the summit of a hill thick with rocks. She looked downslope with a worried face, a crease forming between her perfect brows.
“Look,” she said, as Max and Cassandra drew up next to her.
At first, Cassandra saw nothing amiss, but Lightborn’s quick intake of breath made her look more carefully. At the bottom of a gentle slope, she saw a good-sized plain, long grass feathering back and forth as the wind played. In the middle distance, the dark dolmans of the Jade Ring stood out clearly.
“Well?” she said.
“Where is the forest?” Moon said. “The lake? The inn? We should not be able to see the Ring from this ridge.”
“What color is that grass?” Lightborn said, leaning forward.
Cassandra narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t be sure, given the uncertain light, but there was something besides the color that seemed odd. . . .
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said. “Isn’t the Jade Ring surrounded by the Mara’id? It’s not impossible for Naturals to shift, over time, but . . .” She shook her head.
“Are you sure that’s the Jade Ring?” Max said. “I mean, we’re not, ah . . .”
“No need to be tactful, Max,” Lightborn said. “We are not lost and that is the Jade Ring.”
“I guess this means no beds to sleep in?” Max said.
“And no lake trout for breakfast,” Lightborn added.
“Let us go through the Ring,” Moon said. “We will be too late in the day to approach the Tarn of Souls—the Songs tell it can only be found at dawn—but we can camp on the other side.”
“What are we waiting for?” Max urged his horse down the slope. Cassandra followed more slowly. For some reason she couldn’t take this as easily as Lightborn and Moon did. Perhaps, living here, they were used to finding this kind of change. It was different for Max; everything here was strange to him, what was one more thing? She found it profoundly disturbing that a piece of the Lands she remembered so distinctly should change so much. It was one thing to hear about shiftings and distortions, it was quite another to see a familiar place so completely unfamiliar. Would she know her own home, she wondered, or would Lightstead, too, be changed beyond all recognition?
Max, clearly impatient, was out in front by several lengths by the time Cassandra reached the bottom of the slope. The grass did not grow up the hillside, she noticed, but stopped in a well-delineated edge, as if planted deliberately. It was not as long as she thought either, certainly not as tall as hay, though it did resemble it, rustling in the breeze—
“Max! Stop!”
Max’s horse had stepped into the grass by the time he reined it in. He wheeled it smoothly, though the stiffness of his shoulders showed his impatience at being stopped. Before the turn was complete, the horse whinnied, lifting its feet sharply, almost dancing in its efforts, as if it wanted to lift all four feet off the ground at once. It screamed as first one, then two, then all four hooves became fixed to the ground. Cassandra came close enough to see the sweat break out on the horse’s skin, then the screams rang through her head, as if they were more than sound. She smelled blood. She swung her leg over and leaped from her horse, running to the grass’s edge, drawing her long sword from her back as she ran.
“Max, jump clear!”
Max had already taken his feet out of the stirrups, drawing away from whatever lurked in the grass, and now gathered himself carefully. He jumped for where Cassandra stood on a moss-covered rock, wobbling in the last second as his horse sank horribly beneath him. Cassandra grabbed his arm as it flailed past her and hauled him bodily from the grass, the razorlike blades scratching at his boots.
Cassandra leaned forward as far as she could without overbalancing and swung her sword once, twice—and the Cloud Horse stopped screaming. Lightborn had flung himself from the saddle as soon as the horse began to scream, and now ran toward the still-twitching body. Cassandra stepped into his path, throwing her arms around him to hold him back.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
Lightborn nodded, his face white, tears in his eyes as he looked at what remained of the Cloud Horse that he had raised in his own stables, and fed with his own hands. It seemed the grass wanted only live prey; it had stopped its feeding when the horse died. The silence was heavy with the coppery scent of spilled blood.
“What made you stop me?” Max said, wiping his face off on his sleeve. His hands were shaking, and he had to drag his eyes away from swaying grasses. Were they moving closer?
“Look,” Cassandra said, pointing. “The breeze blows toward us, but the grass moves right to left.”
“I hope we never see what grazes on that.” Max put his arm around Lightborn’s shoulders and drew the Rider away from the edge of the grass.
Cassandra did not move. “I know what happened here,” she said.
The others turned to look at her.
“Didn’t you say the Basilisk Prince was cutting down Woods?” she asked. “And this was Mara’id. The Basilisk has been here, and cut it down.”
Chapter Twelve
BLOOD ON THE SNOW swept into He’erid like the biting crystals of the Frozen Desert from which he took his name, leading his Wild Riders on a charge through the Trees. Some few of the Basilisk’s spawn stood their ground, but most fled before the charge, dropping their axes and weapons as they ran. The Trees spread their branches and heaved their roots to better impair the hunted, and aid the hunters.
As he rode through a grove of younger Trees, Blood made careful note of the one or two of the Basilisk’s Riders who did not run, but lay themselves prone upon the ground, their faces buried in the sweet grass that grew between the Trees, their hands locked behind their heads in surrender, and in protection against the flying hooves of the Wild Horses. There had always been those among the Basilisk’s Riders—though fewer it seemed, as his grip tightened—who would willingly switch allegiance, for whom these assignments, away from the Basilisk’s court, were opportunities to change their colors without risking either dra’aj or throats.
Or so they thought. Blood on the Snow was too old, his Guidebeast too wily, to be caught by so simple a stratagem.
Blood had seen that for some the defection was genuine, whether it stemmed from a change of heart or simple fear, and these the Natural of the Trees would take, and keep safe. But he had also seen that, for some, the surrender was a pretense. Of these pretenders, there were a few who waited to see if the Wild Riders carried the day; they intended to become traitors and spies for the Basilisk. And if the Wild Riders were driven off, they would betray those of their comrades who had been too quick to lay down their weapons. Blood on the Snow did not concern himself with such as these; he left them to the Wood.
Such things were the legacy of the Great War, which, for the Wild Riders, had never ended.
As he Rode, as his gra’if blade rose and fell, a soft joy hummed in Blood’s heart, a joy quieter and more gentle than that which usually came with battle against the Basilisk. Like all Wild Riders, he rejoiced in the return of the Prince Guardian, to know that once more they would play their part in the turning of the Cycle. But this Prince was of his own blood, second in his fara’ip after his lost beloved, and Blood’s whole body sang, muscle and bone, to know that his son was safe. It did not ma
tter that the boy did not know him, Blood told himself; that would come. His Warden took him to meet Saha’in, Lady of the Tarn of Souls, and difficult as that meeting might be, all would yet be well.
Or they would all be dead and beyond caring.
His dra’aj felt the loss of the Troll Hearth of the Wind, but his Wild heart beat content. The Troll had died the way Blood himself expected and hoped to die. Fighting the Prince Guardian’s enemies. Truthsheart, she who was Sword of Truth, her message was even now on its way, passing through the network of Wild Riders, Naturals, and Solitaries who opposed the Basilisk, reaching everywhere some member of the Troll’s own fara’ip might be.
The day’s chase was swift, and once the hunted were slain or captured, He’erid, the Natural of the Trees, appeared. She took the form of a Rider woman, tall, pale mottled green, slender and delicate as willow whips. Even seated on his horse, Blood was able to look her directly in the eyes without lowering his own.
“I greet you, Brother.” Her voice was the leaves shivering in the wind. “And I thank you for your aid.”
“It is nothing, Sister. Can you Walk to safety?”
“Alas, no.” The Natural lowered her head like a branch weighed heavy with snow. “I am but young in the ways of my People, and many Cycles must turn before He’erid will walk far.”
Blood nodded and signaled to one of his men. “Star at Midnight, choose a squad to remain here with He’erid.”
“And if we are needed?” the young Starward Rider asked, even as he came forward to obey.
“The wind will take any message I send,” He’erid said. “So long as thou art here, Star at Midnight, the wind will speak for thee as well. Blood on the Snow has only to step into any fara’ip of Trees and thou shalt hear his message.”
Blood nodded at the small group of purple-clad Riders on foot under the Trees. “Help my sister with the captured ones,” he said, smiling. “And do not fear, I will send for you when it is time.”
As a courtesy, Blood on the Snow and his Wild Pack Rode to the edge of He’erid before Moving. As they approached the ending of the trees, they were followed by the sound of hooves, and Star at Midnight overtook them.
“My lord,” he called as he came within earshot. “My lord, there is news!”
Blood pulled up his horse and waited as his Pack gathered around him and the messenger.
“My lord, Solitaries have come. The Hunt is in Griffinhome.”
Blood shut his eyes and drew in air. So much loss. When he could trust his voice, he spoke again. “And the Lady Honor of Souls?”
“The Solitaries tell us that the fortress was empty when the Hunt arrived,” Star at Midnight said, “but the Lands on which it stood . . .”
Blood nodded very slowly. He hoped his old friend was safe—and that it was not her scent the Hunt was following. “Thank He’erid for giving us this message. Ask her to be so good as to make sure that Windwatcher receives it as well, and tell him to bring his Riders to the place we have spoken of.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Cassandra woke to see Moon’s silhouette outlined against the star-filled sky. Her muscles ached, and there was a dull pain under her left collar bone that she knew was the residue of Lightborn’s wound. She was sorely tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep. When she had this kind of feeling at home—and she was surprised to find that she missed her Toronto apartment, now that it would never be home to her again—she would have spent the day in front of the fire with books, newspapers, or maybe watching movies. Instead, she had to get up and take her turn at watch.
They had Moved past the carnivorous grass right into the Jade Ring, and from there in rapid succession to the Tourmaline and into the Hyacinth, where they were now camped in a shallow depression among the rocks, waiting for the sun to rise so they could approach the Tarn of Souls.
Cassandra rolled to a sitting position and stretched her arms up over her head, rotating her shoulders, and reached for her insteps with both hands. She held the position for a long slow count, until her muscles finally felt loose, before reaching for her boots. There was blood on the soles, she noticed as she pulled them on. They’d been far too slow to figure out what the grass was, and slower still to see any danger. That would have to stop.
As disturbing as the idea of change was, it was much more disturbing to think that it had come about through a deliberate act. Both Lightborn and Moon had disagreed with her suggestion that the cutting down of Mara’id had created the carnivorous grass. And yet she somehow knew she was right about the grass’ origin. As the Troll Diggory had said, she knew Truth when she heard it, even from her own mouth. The twinge of sadness and nostalgia she’d felt when she first realized the Mara’id Forest was gone had been her warning. If only she’d listened instead of wasting time feeling sorry for herself and what she didn’t have. What she’d felt was lack of health, lack of . . . trueness was the only real word. She’d felt the same kind of distortion in the very ill humans she’d Healed over the years in the Shadowlands, especially plague victims, and, more recently, those with HIV. And there was also a special feel to the beaten and the poisoned. She had never associated her revulsion at tainted water and polluted soil with that same lack of trueness, but it was the same, she now realized. When she had looked at the carnivorous grass, she had felt the injury to the Lands the same way she could feel it in a body.
Cassandra stood and settled her sword at her hip before drawing on her gauntlets and lifting her helm over her head, feeling it mold and form itself around her face. She had considered simply sleeping in all of her gra’if. She’d done it before, but only when there was no one to keep watch and the need for sleep had demanded it of her. Even so, after the grass, it had taken real discipline to remove the protection the gra’if gave her. She stepped silently around the banked fire, careful not to disturb either of the sleeping men. It would be Lightborn’s turn to watch in a couple of hours, even though she’d tried to persuade him to let her and Moon divide the night between them. He had lost a great deal of blood, and she would have preferred Lightborn to rest after so much Riding, but he’d pointed out that Max wouldn’t be able to take a turn, and that short as the night was, three to keep watch would give everyone more sleep.
As if he felt her gaze come to rest on him, Max’s eyes opened. He frowned, likely wondering what had woken him up, and then his focus narrowed, and his eyes fixed on Cassandra. He smiled, closed his eyes again, and fell back into sleep.
Cassandra felt her heart turn over and she looked away, pushing her feelings back to where she had tried to keep them tightly locked since she’d seen Max Ravenhill at that cocktail party and felt again all that she had always felt on seeing him. What she now knew she would continue to feel when even Max was gone.
She sighed. Time to concentrate on something she could do.
Moon looked up at her as she sat down. Cassandra put her arm around her sister and hugged her, finding some relief from her feelings in the gesture. At first, Cassandra had felt nothing but joy at holding her sister once more in her arms, but she was finding it hard to think of this serious young woman who rarely smiled as the little girl who used to sit on her lap, begging for Songs and a ride on a Cloud Horse. That child had grown up in a strange world, and Cassandra would have to get to know her all over again. If events allowed.
“Do you think he will save us all?” Moon said. No need to ask her who she meant, Cassandra thought, glancing back over her shoulder at Max.
“Isn’t that why we’re here?” she said finally, more to herself than to Moon.
“We none of us know what the Prince Guardian will want done,” Moon said. “Unless Lightborn knows and does not tell. He is the only one of us who knew the Prince. Who knew both Princes, when they were but Riders.”
Both women looked at the sprawled heap of clothing that was Lightborn.
“We all assume that the Exile will fight the Basilisk Prince as he did before.” Moon’s words came as if from a gr
eat distance and lured Cassandra back from the circling of her own thoughts. “But do we really know what he thinks, or what he wants, now that he has been in Exile all this time?”
Cassandra looked at her sister’s profile, dark against the starlit sky. “Did we ever know?”
“His concerns are his own, his reasons his own. So it is with all Guardians. So the Songs tell us.” Moon shrugged, and then turned to Cassandra, laying both her hands on Cassandra’s arm. “This is all the world I have known,” she said. “Has anyone thought of that, I wonder? I do not remember the great and golden world that was before the Great War. I doubt very much that anyone does.”
“There were problems even then,” Cassandra allowed, “or the War would not have happened. There would have been no reason for anyone to seek a High Prince.”
“You see? So what will happen when the Banishment ends and the Guardian is restored? If he refuses to give the Talismans to the Basilisk, we will only have war again.”
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