The Mirror Prince

by Malan, Violette

  Max didn’t argue when she pushed him toward the tapestried wall. He’d heard the footsteps, too.

  Lightborn’s orders were very clear. “Follow them,” the Basilisk had said. “Be prepared to take them once the Talismans are found. Until that moment, keep them under your hand, but lightly.” Lightborn knew perfectly well that the Basilisk was once again making sure of him. The Basilisk never let Lightborn forget that he was a traitor, he lost no opportunity to use Lightborn against Dawntreader, to remind him that he had betrayed his friend. Even now, when his treachery was known, it would be Lightborn who would follow the Prince Guardian at a distance, Lightborn who would capture him once the Talismans were found, and Lightborn who would hand him, and the Healer Truthsheart to the Basilisk.

  The Basilisk trusted no one’s loyalty, but asked for proof after proof. Lightborn touched the spot over his heart where the scar from his arrow wound still puckered the skin. What, Lightborn wondered, would the Basilisk use to make him prove his devotion when Dawntreader was dead?

  Lightborn had left his own instructions that if Walks Under the Moon presented herself, she should be brought to him, and not to the Basilisk Prince. No one would see anything unusual in that. Over time, Lightborn had fallen into the habit of giving instructions and orders, in part to remind the Basilisk’s followers that he could, and in part to check that his authority still existed. The Basilisk did not always tell you when you had fallen out of favor, sometimes you found out when it was too late. It paid to be very careful, and to take nothing for granted.

  The last few sunwidths Lightborn had spent talking to certain guards and soldiers. Talking so carefully that many would not even be aware of the real purpose behind their discussions. When Walks Under the Moon was ushered into his salon, Lightborn was ready.

  “I have been thinking,” she said, “and the Basilisk will not give me what I want.”

  “How then can I help you?” he said.

  “I want the Exile dead,” she said. “What if the Basilisk does not kill him? What if they make some pact? I want only my sister, and while the Exile lives, she will never turn away from him.”

  That was very true, Lightborn thought. More true than perhaps anyone but himself would understand. However, Walks Under the Moon refused to see that even without the Prince Guardian, Truthsheart would not necessarily be the person that Moon wanted her sister to be. But would any of them be themselves for long, if the Basilisk bound the Talismans? He indicated the chair to his left. “What do you propose?”

  Max stood frozen with Cassandra’s hand on his arm, his shoulder blades pressed tight against the wall behind them and the tapestry inches from his nose. Was he trembling? He wondered if she could feel anything through the layers of leather on his forearm. She seemed not to be breathing at all, but Max was certain that the Riders who were now standing in the great hall, perhaps right on the figures of Dawntreader and the Basilisk Prince inlaid in the floor, would hear the pounding of his heart, and the rush of air forcing itself through his lungs.

  Would the soldiers notice the hole in the mosaic?

  They seemed to take hours to stroll through the hall. Their murmuring voices faded away as they finally reached the doors on the far side. Cassandra released her grip on his forearm.

  “Which way now?” she whispered as they emerged from behind the tapestry.

  The hall had three exits. The door they’d come through would lead back to the tower or the patio. The set of wide double doors had the look of a ceremonial entrance, but they could see a smaller passage at the far end of the room, through which the three soldiers had gone.

  “Let’s follow the crowd,” he said.

  “They have just left the battle chamber, my lord Prince,” the young Sunward Rider bobbed her head in a short bow. When the Basilisk merely nodded, his gaze fixed on the distance, the young Rider continued. “The Exile now bears two swords.”

  That brought the Basilisk’s eyes to her. For a moment, the dark depths flickered, fascinating her, and the young Rider lowered her own eyes, her courage briefer than she’d hoped. Perhaps it was better not to come to the Basilisk’s attention after all. How could eyes so dark burn so brightly? Her legs felt stiff, but she was afraid to move, to be seen fidgeting under the Basilisk Prince’s eye.

  “Continue following,” the Basilisk said. “Stop them if they try to leave the Citadel, but otherwise, follow.”

  The Sunward Rider bowed low and left the room. She was several paces away before the stiffness left her legs.

  The short passage led to a small courtyard. Two soldiers were sparring with staffs while several of their comrades watched, yelling out encouragement, or insults, as seemed called for. Only one glanced over at them as they walked through, but she turned back to the combat quickly enough, wincing in sympathy as a particularly heavy blow landed. As they’d thought, the Basilisk’s men must be used to seeing new faces and to not asking where the old ones had gone.

  The passage on the far side of the courtyard was smaller and plainer than the ones they’d come from, the stone walls smooth but undecorated. This part of the Citadel was clearly the area for servants and men-at-arms. The passage led first to an armory with racks of bows, arrows, swords, pikes, and axes in orderly rows. Beyond that was a barracks room, and just beyond the barracks was a larger room clearly used as a dining hall. Soldiers, it appeared, did not eat with their lord in this Citadel. Cassandra thought that was probably all to the good.

  She waited in the open doorway, leaning on the Spear, as Max entered the room and approached the sideboard on the left of the entrance. It bore the customary baskets, platters and bowls, cups, bottles and jugs, which the Basilisk’s soldiers would find always filled with breads, meats, soups, wines, and ale. Max ran his fingertips over the sideboard itself, almost as if he were checking for dust, before coming to a stop in front of a deep, covered ceramic dish.

  “Don’t tell me they’re keeping soup in it,” she said.

  Max laughed without making any sound. But as he looked up to answer her, the light around them changed, turning brighter, warmer, thicker. Max paled, and put his hand to his chest, as if to feel his heart beating. Cassandra stepped forward as he fell to his knees and felt the Spear of War leap once in her hand, as the Prince Guardian sat back on his heels, drawing in a deep breath, smiling. He, too, seemed brighter, warmer, his pale face flushed with color, his green eyes glowing jade.

  The Sun had turned, Cassandra realized. The Banishment was over.

  I am free of my Oath. She smiled. I don’t feel any different.

  A cracking sound made them both turn to the sideboard, where the soup tureen was gone, replaced by a cauldron twice its size, made of greenish-gray stone inlaid with the same bright metal that shone from Spear point and Sword blade. Max took his hand from his heart and placed it on the rim of the Cauldron.

  “This is Sto’in,” he said. “Cauldron of Plenty. The Font of dra’aj for the whole of the Lands, and for all of the People.” He lifted the lid.

  “Well, what do you know?” Max flicked the edge of the Cauldron with a fingernail, and the bowl rang with a note as pure as the finest crystal.

  “Don’t do that again,” Cassandra said. “Someone will hear it.”

  “Too late,” said a familiar voice from over her shoulder.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “MOVE AWAY FROM him, Truthsheart.” Using the Spear as a pivot, Cassandra swung herself around to face the door and stood braced, Porre’in held like a quarterstaff across her body. Not for the first time, she thanked the gods that her reflexes were as well-trained as they were. Her heart was pounding, and her hands were damp on the ash shaft of the Spear. She didn’t know what had startled her more, the sight of her sister with a dagger in her hand, or the fact that Lightborn was standing behind Moon, his sword drawn.

  “Moon, what is this?” she asked, backing toward Max as she spoke.

  “Truthsheart, stop, go no nearer to him. Can you not see? He has bewitched
you, but it is not too late. Come with me now and Lightborn will free us all from his glamour.”

  Cassandra felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Oh, my poor sister, she thought, seeing once again in her memory’s eye the younger Moon pressing her face against her side. This was her own fault. She had neglected Moon, not then, not when she had agreed to be a Warden, but since her return. She had seen—she had been told, in no uncertain terms, how important she was to Moon, but there had been no time. And now there never would be. She had driven Moon to someone who would listen to her, someone who would take her seriously. If she had only looked beyond the surface, Cassandra thought, she could have seen what she now saw very clearly, that Moon’s dra’aj was far from True. Even now there was no time. The Banishment was over, the Talismans were revealed. They had to get them away.

  Still, she had to try.

  “There is no glamour,” she began.

  “There is!” Moon took a step closer. “He does not care about you, he never did. All he cares for are his Talismans. Leave him and come with me.”

  “I cannot.” Cassandra backed away until she was at Max’s side. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that he had sheathed Tai’na and drawn his own sword. She understood his hesitation to use the Talisman as a true weapon, staining it with the blood of the very People it should serve; she felt just as reluctant to use the Spear she held in her own hands. But if ever there was a time to use weapons that could not be defeated, this was it.

  “If you cannot free yourself, then his death will free you. Move away, my sister.”

  “I won’t let you kill him.” Cassandra took another step back, but shifted her hands on the Spear, picking out the best spot to hit Moon, to knock her out without killing her.

  “Do you not see what he has done to you?” Moon stamped her foot. “He uses you, he would let you die for him. I have waited my whole life for you to return to me, and now,” Moon held out her hands, seemingly unaware that she still held the dagger, “now I will not let you slip through my fingers. His glamour stops you from loving me again.”

  “My sister, my own, you have my love. You’ve always had it. You’re my sister. Nothing and no one can take that away.” Cassandra waited, but her sister’s face did not change; it was set, jaw jutted forward in stubbornness. Moon did not believe her, Cassandra saw, and she never would. Cassandra took a step closer to Moon and Lightborn, her heart heavy with what she must do now. If she could keep their attention focused on her, then Max could still escape. She would have to live with what she’d done to Moon, but she would not let Max, and the Lands along with him, pay for her neglect of her sister.

  “There is only one way you can be free of him, and I will give you this gift.”

  “It is no gift. If you try to hurt him, I will kill you myself.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” Moon looked to Max, spitting out her words. “Is this what you wanted? Not only will she die for you, but she would kill me, her own sister, her only fara’ip. The Basilisk was right! You are no Guardian, Prince of Death! Everything you touch is poisoned and destroyed. Give me back my sister!”

  Moon threw herself at Max, dagger raised, but even as Cassandra raised the Spear to club her sister down, Moon’s words cut through her mind, dripping misery as they went. The Basilisk was right? Oh, god, it was Moon who had betrayed them to the Basilisk, Moon who had told the Basilisk where they were, who had brought the Hunt to Honor of Souls’ home. Not Lightborn, but Moon.

  And it was Lightborn now who lunged for Moon, tackling her, knocking her off her feet and rolling over until she was twisting in his arms. Cassandra took another step back and began to circle them as they struggled on the floor. If she could get a blow in . . .

  Lightborn cried out, and the coppery smell of blood filled the air. He rolled free, pushing away from Moon, his left arm clutched in his right hand. Moon staggered back to her feet, white-faced and pale as her namesake, blood marking the edge of her dagger.

  “Go!” Lightborn said to Max. “Quickly.”

  Cassandra threw herself between Max and her sister, but Moon ran, not toward Max as Cassandra expected, but back, toward the door.

  “Guards!” she called.

  They must have been waiting in the passage.

  The first guard brushed Moon aside as if she had been no more than a curtain. He ran straight for Cassandra, but just as she changed her grip on the Spear to sweep his legs from under him, he spun around and hacked at the man coming behind him. At this several of the other guards also turned on their fellows, not, as far as Cassandra could see, in a true attempt to kill them, but as if to drive them from the room. Cassandra glanced aside at Lightborn. He was on his feet again, blood darkening the sleeve of his left arm and dripping from his fingers to the floor. His sword was raised in his right hand, and he stood his ground to the left of where Max stood before the Cauldron.

  “Heads up,” she called, and threw the Spear. It embedded itself in the wall a handspan from Max’s head and he nodded at her, smiling. Best that he have all the Talismans within his own reach.

  Cassandra drew her sword, stepped lightly around the soldier with his back to her, and cut down the man in front of him with two swift slashes at his hamstrings. The Rider she’d helped nodded his thanks as he turned to the next enemy. Cassandra, untroubled by the worry of telling friend from foe, simply struck back at anyone who attacked her. She worked her way around the room, trying to get closer to where Max and Lightborn stood, their backs against the sideboard. Like her, Lightborn did not hesitate to kill the attackers, he must know which of these guardsmen were his own followers. But was this a trick? Would he appear to save them only to betray them?

  And where was Moon? Cassandra thought she saw a flash of red color in the doorway, but focused her efforts on killing the Rider in front of her, sweeping his sword to the side, the palm of her hand against the flat of his blade, and thrust forward with her own. The Rider moved his left arm as if to copy her parry, and her blade went through his forearm. She wished she could believe that Moon had simply run away. But she knew, sickened, that was too much to hope for. Moon had gone for help. Could Cassandra do anything else wrong?

  Apparently she could. She had forgotten she was not carrying her gra’if blade, and when her opponent twisted aside in the last moment to keep her sword point from entering his chest, his foot slipping in a pool of blood on the floor, she did not bother to compensate, and her darkmetal blade jammed, wedging in the bones of the man’s elbow and pulling her forward as the Rider went down. She let go of her sword before she could be pulled off her feet, just as a blast of cold air struck her, pushing the breath from her lungs and replacing it with the smell of old blood and rot. She put out a hand to steady herself, grabbing the sleeve of a nearby soldier without thought as to whether he was friend or foe. She heard Lightborn call out a warning, but before she could react, another wave of coldness passed through her, bringing with it a sound so low it shivered in her bones. Now she remembered, they had heard this, felt this, in Griffinhome. The Hunt, she thought, someone calls the Hunt.

  She turned back toward the sideboard, but Max and Lightborn were no longer there. They were farther along the wall now, Max with the Cauldron in one arm, the Spear in his other hand, and Lightborn defending them both. Before she could take more than a step toward them, a net was thrown over her, weighted edges pulling her down. Her knife was already in her hand, but cutting through was going to take more time than she had.

  “Max!” she called. “Max!” Through the openings in the net she could see him take two steps toward her, hefting the Spear in his left hand. That wasn’t what she wanted. “Go!” she yelled. “The Hunt comes. Go!” As he hesitated, drawn back by Lightborn’s hand on his arm, Cassandra gave him what she hoped was a confident smile. She tapped the torque at her throat, hoping he could see what she was doing under the net.

  “I still live!” she cried out, and had the satisfaction of seeing Max’s acknowledging grin before—
/>   SLAM!

  At the Wild Rider’s camp, Lightborn was quiet a long time when he was told about his home, long enough that Max started to feel a reluctant concern. But he couldn’t let Lightborn’s obvious shock and sorrow distract him from the explanations he needed. The Wild Riders had seated the wounded Griffin Lord on a rock, well-padded with saddlecloths, while their Healer—a Dragonborn Sunward, Max noticed—bound up Lightborn’s wounded arm, apparently without the dra’aj to Heal him outright. Max needed to hear what Lightborn had to say, needed to know whether he could trust him again. Now, above all, he needed this distraction, when his whole body shivered with the necessity of going to Cassandra immediately, though he knew it was the wrong thing to do, though he told himself that if they had wanted her dead, they would not have used the net.

  Finally, Lightborn nodded, opening his eyes and taking a deep breath that was almost a sob. “I am happy I did not know this when I was with the Basilisk, just now. Not even my powers of dissembling could have saved me. But his,” Lightborn shook his head, lower lip between his teeth, “his are greater than I would have thought possible. Was he so sure of me, then?” He looked up at Windwatcher. “No,” he said, in answer to the older Rider’s question, “I did not know where my mother hid. We often thought it best that there were things I did not know.”