“You like to ask questions,” she whispered, almost as if she spoke to herself alone. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you like to answer them as well? Let us play Three Questions. If you win, I will give you the Chants that will free you. If I win, you will give me your soul.”
Max hesitated, searching the faces of his companions for what his response should be.
“You may consult your advisers,” the Lady of Souls said, with a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “If you would play the Game, place your right hand on the water’s surface.” The Lady of Souls turned and walked back to the middle of the Tarn. This time, she appeared to be walking down a staircase, submerging step by step until she had once more disappeared below the flawless expanse of water.
Max turned to Cassandra and grasped her by the upper arms. “Idiot! What if she’d taken you seriously?” He trembled with reaction, and could barely stop himself from shaking her in his anger.
“I spoke seriously,” Cassandra said, making no move to free herself. Her smoky eyes flashed at his until his hands finally relaxed and fell from her arms.
“It is the Oath which spoke.” Moon put her arm around Cassandra’s shoulders. “She is your Warden, she must come to your aid. What?” she added in response to the look that Max felt pass over his face. “Surely you knew this.”
“Yeah, I knew it,” Max said. But he managed to keep forgetting it. He rubbed his face with his hands as he stepped away from the sisters.
“He is not the Prince,” Cassandra said, turning to Moon, “yet he gives up his very self, all and everything he believes is real, to help us. Why should any of us do less?” She turned back to Max. Now her eyes were the gray of storms. “You agreed to this on my urging. Oath or no Oath, did you think I could do less than I asked of you?”
That doesn’t mean it isn’t the Oath, Max thought, but he nodded acceptance of her words. He wanted to believe her. Time was running out for them, and, god knew, he wanted something from Max Ravenhill’s life to be real.
“Oaths or no Oaths, one of us must pay the Lady of Souls, or Max must play the Game . . .” Lightborn broke off as Cassandra shook her head.
“He cannot possibly win.”
“No one pays.” Max didn’t say what he knew they were all thinking. They only had half a Sunturn—not quite three days, until the Talismans appeared and the Basilisk used the Chant of Binding.
“Cassandra is right,” Lightborn said. “If you play the Game and lose, where will we be?”
“Exactly where you are now.” Max looked at him. “I won’t be dead, exactly. At least if the Lady of Souls was telling the truth?” He glanced at Cassandra and she nodded, looking away from him as she did so. “So I’ll still be alive, and the Talismans will appear on time.” Max took a deep breath. “And you people will have three days or so to work out a new solution. No one goes into the Lake for me, are we straight on that?” He turned to Cassandra. She was the closest thing to human in this place, and certainly the only one who would understand. “Don’t you see? This is how the Basilisk Prince got the Chants in the first place, he must have paid her price. I can’t do that. If I were willing to do something like that, give up someone, even someone willing . . . use their soul . . .”
Max fell silent, sure of what he wanted to say but unsure of how to say it without sounding like a fool. Finally, Cassandra nodded.
“Then there would be no difference between you,” she said. “The end does not justify the means.”
Moon watched them, her face impassive as she clung once more to her sister’s arm, as if ready to drag her away from danger.
Lightborn looked at him with narrowed eyes, puzzled and a little afraid. “There must be another way.”
“If there is,” Cassandra said, “I doubt we have time to think of it.”
“What shall we do, my Prince?”
Max took a deep breath. “Tell me about the Game.”
CRACK!
Windwatcher rolled out of bed and was on his feet, sword in hand, before he saw that it was no enemy who had Moved into his bedroom, but Honor of Souls.
“My lady,” he stammered, tossing down his sword and picking up the robe that lay on the chair nearest the bed. He was suddenly aware that he had slept in nothing more than his gra’if mail shirt. “How is it . . . ? Your pardon, my lady, but I do not remember that we, that is—surely I could not forget—”
Honor of Souls threw back her head and laughed, though Windwatcher could easily see the tears glistening in her eyes. “Rest easy, my lord, rest easy. You have not forgotten some former intimacy. I am much older than you, and this room was not always your bedchamber. I am not insulted. On the contrary, I thank you. I have need to be amused.”
“What has happened?” he pushed a chair forward and led her to it. “Blood on the Snow sent word that the Hunt found Griffinhome empty, but when no one heard from you . . .”
“We fled,” Honor said, sitting down in the backless chair Windwatcher used when he put on his boots. “Eight others and myself.” She looked at him, her brows drawn low over her eyes, the lines of exhaustion in her face. “The single Hound sent after the Guardian, we had killed that one. Truthsheart showed us how. But this,” she shook her head, “this was no single Hound, but the Hunt itself.”
“It will follow you.” Windwatcher was relieved to hear no fear in his voice, no reproach. He picked up his sword once more. What had Sword of Truth said? Keep striking, no matter what form it took. It was past time for him to fight.
“I think not,” she said. “The Natural who lived in my courtyard fountain Moved us, in the way that Water Sprites can. It was,” she drew in a deep breath, “interesting. She said that the Hunt cannot follow.”
“And Griffinhome?” Windwatcher put down his sword again and sat on the edge of the bed.
The lady shook her head. “It is no more.”
Windwatcher gritted his teeth. It pained him to see her this way, but he knew it was no more than he would likely be feeling himself, very soon, if the Basilisk was not dealt with once and for all. The only thing he could offer his friend was action. He hoped it was enough.
“Blood on the Snow has need of us,” he told her. “He has asked us to help him make his stand.”
Honor of Souls sat up straighter, the vacant look gone from her eyes, though the sorrow remained.
“Then let us go.”
Chapter Thirteen
CASSANDRA FORCED HER EYES to look away from the sight of Max kneeling alone at the edge of the Tarn, his right hand extended to the surface of the water. There was nothing she could do to help him now. Whatever the outcome of the Game of Three Questions, her part in this was over. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sense of loss.
When she opened them, she found Lightborn looking at her, his blue eyes like pale sapphires in the morning light.
“I did not think to see you so detached,” he said, a wrinkle forming between his platinum brows.
Cassandra blinked, surprised; detached was the very last thing she felt. But then, nothing was easier than the appearance of calm. You only had to be very, very still. And of course she would seem detached; that was what stillness looked like.
“It’s a human thing,” she said. “They learn how to stand apart, watch, and wait.” Riders rarely stood apart, literally or figuratively, though she hadn’t noticed this until she was in the Shadowlands, among humans. As Travelers—what humans used to call Trouping Faerie, Riders were usually with their fara’ip. The custom of the troop, the fara’ip, had grown so strong that for many among the Riders it had gained the force of instinct.
It was not the practice among Riders to seek solitude, she knew, quite the contrary. Those who did so were the very great, and the mad. Part of the age-old distrust of the Prince Guardian that Windwatcher had spoken of, Cassandra now realized, was the subconscious incomprehension, bordering on fear, brought about by the Prince’s solitary—in both senses of the word—upbringing. The fear of the unknown, and for many, the unknowa
ble.
Life among humans had changed her, she thought. The stillness that Lightborn found so incomprehensible was born of the ability to be alone, to be inside herself, whole and complete, even while in the middle of a crowded city. She had learned this from humans, who couldn’t know each other’s dra’aj and who were always alone.
She looked back to the edge of the Tarn, where Max stood with the Lady of Souls. Would this be something that he also would bring with him from the Shadowlands, she wondered. Or was it something he’d always had? Had it been, in fact, what had set him apart from other Riders, what the old Guardian had seen when she chose Dawntreader to be her successor? Had the Prince Guardian always been among the great, or the mad, as many suspected?
“Good-bye, Max,” she breathed.
Moon watched Truthsheart watch the Exile and gritted her teeth. This would be the last time—surely it must be the last time, that her sister would look at the Exile that way. Moon snorted, wrinkling her nose. Look at him there, calling the Lady of Souls to come to him. And what was worse, the Lady would come. Oh, she’d come when Moon called, too, but then she wouldn’t talk to Moon. Oh, no, not good enough, not while the Exile was here. No one was good enough while the Exile was here.
Moon shivered, remembering the Lady’s eyes on her, and for a moment, she felt again the measuring, the weighing, and the cold shock that followed the Lady’s dismissal of her. She covered her mouth with her hand as the flood of uncertainty that had rushed over her chilled her once more. The Lady’s glance had seemed to weigh Moon’s soul and find it wanting, setting it aside as if the Lady saw no value in it. What had Moon done, the Lady’s glance had said, that the Lady should deal with her? And what had she done? Moon wondered. If she looked at her life the way she had looked at the Basilisk’s, the way she looked at the Exile’s—if she examined her own life, what would she see?
She dropped her hand, clenched her fists. No. She would not think that way. She was saving her sister, there was nothing more important than that—even if no one else understood. So the Lady of Souls thought her of no account? So the Lady would choose others over her? Well, it would not be the first time.
But it would be the last, Moon vowed, clenching her fists. Never again would Walks Under the Moon take second place. Never again. Even Truthsheart, even the sister who loved her, taught her, held her, Sang to her—
No. She would not think that way. She had always had first place in her sister’s heart until the Exile and his followers came. Moon looked at Lightborn and almost spat. Another one who thought the Moon, Stars, and Sun turned around him. She would show them all just how important a piece she was in this game of Guidebeasts. She would show all of them.
Even Truthsheart.
Max lifted his hand from the water, and once again the sleek head of the Natural of the Tarn broke the mirrored surface, this time only inches from the shore, as if the Lady had been waiting for him. This time the waters lifted under her, forming a throne in which she sat composed, her face as expressionless as the water itself. Her head turned for a moment toward Cassandra and the others, where they stood halfway up the hill, before her pupilless eyes returned to rest on Max.
Seated, she seemed both more and less human. The effect of her immense height was softened, but she seemed all the larger, more imposing. Water still beaded on her thick skin, white as a drowning victim, showing a faint green in the shadows beneath her chin and breasts. Her fingers were long and delicate; her feet, as well as the base of her thronelike chair, were under the surface of the water, which had returned to its glassy smoothness.
Three sets of questions, Moon had told him, each in three parts. Nine questions altogether. At the end of which he’d either walk away someone else, or . . . What would it feel like if the Lady took him for not answering properly? Would his soul become another drop in the cool peacefulness of the Tarn? For a moment Max understood the call of such serenity. Just give it all up, lie down, and sleep, rest. Nothing more needed from him, no one after him. Just the cool, calm stillness.
Max shivered in the sudden chill. Answer with the truth, Cassandra had said to him. The truth is always safest. But would he know the truth?
Max cleared his throat. “I’m ready.”
“What have you decided, Phoenixborn?” The Natural’s voice was still and cold as a stream in winter, her mouth showed pointed teeth. “What do you want of me?”
Once more, Max felt the lure of the water’s stillness, but he shook away the distraction. He knew what he wanted. The same thing he’d always wanted. I want to go home, he thought. I want for none of this ever to have happened. The longing for Max Ravenhill, his own apartment, his own life, his books, his crowded office, his students, even his committee meetings, closed his throat and stung his eyes. In that moment he knew that if he gave her this answer, truthfully as Cassandra had advised, the Lady of Souls could somehow make it so.
A movement, a noise, made him aware of the people behind him, and he drew in a harsh breath. He saw that the Lady’s question was like the wish a genie offers you. There were always strings attached, consequences you couldn’t foresee. Except he knew what the Lady’s price would be, for that as for any other gift. He would see it in Cassandra’s face every time she looked at him. And he would see it in his own face. Souls.
And that he couldn’t live with. Take what you want, and pay for it. That’s what the old proverb said. So if you found you couldn’t pay the price, would that mean that you didn’t really want it?
It took a conscious act of will to loosen the muscles of his throat enough to speak. “I will play the Game,” he said.
The Lady closed her eyes and leaned back in her watery chair, her long fingers dancing on the arms.
“Hear the first question,” she said, and her voice took on the cadences of recitation.
“What sees the edge of the blade?” she asked, and paused until Max nodded.
“What are the final words spoken?
“What seals all bargains?”
Okay, Max squeezed his eyes shut. One at a time, think about this. What sees the edge of the blade? Knife blade, sword blade, blade of grass? What? “You don’t look at the blade,” Cassandra had said, “you look at the opponent.” But it isn’t the blade, Max thought, it’s the edge of the blade. What sees the edge? The guy sharpening the knife. The butcher. The animal being killed. The wound? There were too many answers, and all of them felt right. “Trust your instincts,” Cassandra had said. Their lives unnumbered Cycles long, no Natural would trouble to deliberately trick you as Solitaries would; no Natural cared enough, not even this one. But they would let you trick yourself. Of the answers he’d thought of, the one that felt the most likely was the last, the wound. Except the wound couldn’t see, in the usual sense, so what if he looked at the question metaphorically? What had edges? The landscape around here, for one thing. It had nothing but edges. It was easy to tell where one thing ended and the next thing began. He pushed his hair back out of his face. He wished he had one of Cassandra’s hair clips. His hair seemed to be growing more quickly than usual, it was brushing his shoulders already. He dragged his thoughts back to the questions. It wasn’t always so easy to tell where the edges of things were. To tell the difference between things not apparently different. The two sides of the coin of discerning, one of his old professors used to say, are wit and judgment. Wit sees the similarities in things not apparently similar, while judgment—
“Judgment,” he said. “The first answer is judgment.”
“Yes,” the Lady of Souls said. “What are your explanations?”
Sweat broke out all over his body and Max shivered in the sudden chill. Explanations? Plural? “Judgment” answered all three questions? So it really was the Game of Three Questions, even though nine questions were asked. Why hadn’t Moon or one of the others told him this? What if he couldn’t explain how “judgment” was the answer to each question? What else didn’t he know? He drew in a deep steadying breath and flexed his
hands. For a second his mind went blank. What were the other questions? Now that he had the answer, would he be able to think of the explanations?
Start talking, he thought, moving the mouth oils the brain.
“Judgment sees the edge of the blade, because it sees the fine distinctions between things that seem not to have any differences, so it can see the exact point where one thing ends and another begins.” The Lady said nothing and Max swallowed. “Judgment is the words spoken if something is being contested, like in a court.” The last one was bargains, what about bargains? Bargaining is like a contest. “A bargain is concluded when both parties feel they’ve gotten the best they can out of it, when it is their judgment that further bargaining won’t change anything.”
The Lady sat, eyes closed, for long enough that Max felt the sweat trickle down his back. What would happen if she didn’t agree with his explanations? How much warning would he have? At least he was ready for the other questions now. She was looking for abstractions, so all he had to do was find the right one for each set of questions.
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