Shadowlands (9781101597637)

by Malan, Violette

  Wolf noted the use of the human name. He watched with interest as Hawk showed him how the map worked. He would not need it to return to Madrid, of course, since he could Move directly to the crossroads in the Atocha train station, having been there already, but Hawk showed him on the map how to find the fountain of Cibeles from the station.

  “In the fountain you will find a Water Natural, Shower of Stars by name.” The Sunward Rider unrolled the second map. “A Solitary, a Troll, lives here,” his finger tapped the paper, “just to the north of the city, in Segovia, where there is a great aqueduct.”

  “How did a Natural come through a Portal?” Wolf asked, his finger on the map of Madrid.

  “That I cannot tell you. I am not on such terms with her that I might ask such a question. Nor do I know what decided her to remain here.” Hawk emptied his glass and got up to pour himself a refill. He squinted one eye at Wolf before nodding and refilling his glass as well.

  “You will return, then,” Wolf said, not really asking.

  “Oh, yes,” Hawk replaced the bottle as he answered. “I would see the Lands again, and my fellow Warden, and the Exile, now that he is no longer my charge. And who knows?” Here Hawk smiled again, his eyes twinkling under his dark auburn brows. “I might be able to manifest my own dragon, to go night flying along with the High Prince.”

  Wolf found himself smiling back. “Look for the Princes’ court in the Vale of Trere’if.” He sipped his wine and sighed as he lowered the glass.

  “You like the fino? You must take a few bottles with you when you leave Spain. The true fino is not found very far outside of Andalucia.”

  Once back in Madrid, with the image of the map in his head to orient him, Wolf had no trouble finding the fountain of Cibeles. Unfortunately, the fountain itself was in the center of a roundabout, and the traffic swirling through the lanes like water in a whirlpool never stopped, and rarely slowed. A half-familiar movement in the corner of his vision made Wolf look to the left and then to the right, but he saw nothing. On the other hand, no one seemed to be taking any notice of him. The sound of Movement would be covered by the noises of the traffic. Wolf focused once more on the fountain, picked out what looked like the perfect spot and—

  He was standing in the spray in front of the goddess’ chariot, his hand on the rump of a stone lion.

  “Nighthawk sends me,” he called out. At first nothing changed, and he wondered how long it would take for some human to notice him standing here. He had been warned that in this world moving water only concealed the People from others of their kind, not from humans. Just as he was beginning to think he had better Move back to the sidewalk, the spray thickened, obscuring the cars and buses, the crowds of humans, and the buildings, until even the sounds and smells of the outside world faded, and Wolf found himself standing in a cool green room with iridescent walls, sparkling in spots with a sapphire luster. A small woman, sitting cross-legged on what passed for a floor, smiled up at him.

  Wolf looked around him. He appeared to be completely underwater, but he had no trouble breathing, and no difficulty standing on what seemed to be a liquid surface.

  “I am Shower of Stars,” the Water Sprite said. “Sit. You bring a message from Hawk?” Like most Sprites, Shower of Stars was much smaller than a Rider, though fully formed, except for her feet, which were hidden in the water. Her skin was a pearly gray-blue, her long hair slightly paler and rippling of its own accord as though it floated in a current. Her eyes, like those of all Water Sprites, were a brilliant emerald, with no whites. Her clothing, like her hair, was in constant, rippling motion, and Wolf wondered if this was because she was the Natural of a fountain, and not a pond.

  “I am Stormwolf. My mother was Rain at Sunset. The Chimera guides me.”

  “I do not know your mother, though there is water in your ancestry, Wolf of Storms, son of Rain at Sunset. Welcome. What news?”

  The music in the Water Sprite’s abrupt and tinkling manner of speech felt familiar, but Wolf could not quite place why. He took a deep breath and repeated what he had already told Nighthawk. He stumbled a few times, but on the whole found it easier going the second time. The Sprite had fewer questions to ask, but that was likely because she was not personally acquainted with the new High Prince.

  “Go back,” she said in answer to his own final question. “Pleasant to experience once more the full dra’aj of the Lands, the presence of the High Prince.”

  With a little shock Wolf realized that if Shower of Stars had experienced the full dra’aj of the Lands before, it meant that she had lived through more than one Cycle. He frowned. There was something about that thought which also eluded him, something that felt important, but nothing more followed, and he had other, more pressing concerns.

  “If I may ask,” he said. “How is it that you plan to pass through the Portal?”

  “You tell the High Prince. She sends a Rider to bring me. Someone with strong water connections—stronger than your own, Stormwolf.”

  Wolf nodded. “I believe there is such a one, a Singer who has fara’ip with the Water Sprite, Tear of the Dragon.”

  “A Singer, who has the history of the People in her care? Ideal. More so if she has fara’ip with one of my kind already.”

  “Nighthawk gave me your name,” Wolf said now. “And that of the Troll, Mountain Crag. Are there any others that you know of to whom I might pass the news I have been given?”

  The Sprite’s emerald eyes narrowed in thought, but she ended by shaking her head.

  “Once I knew of more.” She shrugged, causing clothing and hair to ripple even more. “But I have been long in my fountain. Ask Graycloud. He knows.”

  “I have his name also,” Wolf said. “I thank you. May I, uh…” He gestured at the walls. How was he to leave?

  Shower of Stars’ laughter was the tinkling of water from her fountain. “You may Move from here, Rider, since I will allow it.”

  A moment later, and Wolf was standing once more on the sidewalk. He was not surprised to find that his clothing was quite dry.

  The Troll, Mountain Crag, was even more matter-of-fact about Wolf’s news than the Natural had been. Following Hawk’s directions, Wolf had found the Solitary in a pleasant bar, dark and crowded, within sight of a great two-tiered aqueduct that towered over the mountain town of Segovia. The Solitary had made himself look like a bull of a man, short, thick across the shoulders, with a massive head covered with thick graying hair, gray-pupiled eyes under shaggy eyebrows, and hands like hams. He seemed a working man, and Wolf was not surprised to gather from the talk around them, that “call me Jenaro” was a mason who was well-established and well-known in the region.

  “Good news, I would suppose, for them as cares about it,” the Troll said, tossing back the small glass of beer in front of him and signaling to the barman for another. A miniature loaf of bread and a plate of sizzling sausages roughly the size and shape of the Troll’s fingers, though much redder in color, appeared in front of them. “A new High Prince, a Dragonborn at that. I’m glad to know of it.” He popped a sausage whole into his mouth and followed it with a piece of bread torn from the small loaf. “Though, in answer to your question, Younger Brother, I don’t think I’ll return to the Lands. I came here before the Basilisk ever thought to raise his war banners, before the Banishment of the Guardian Prince. That these events have passed to the old Cycle mean less to me than they might to others.” A broad grin disclosed a mouthful of squared-off teeth. He gestured out the bar’s open doorway at the massive blocks of the aqueduct. “And besides, where else will I have so magnificent a bridge?”

  The old Troll’s eyes narrowed at Wolf’s question about others, just as the Water Sprite’s had done.

  “To the west, across the great water,” he said. “That’s where Graycloud has gone, that’s where you’ll find him.” He grinned again, and Wolf steeled himself not to back away as a shadow of the Troll’s real shape seemed to pass in an instant over his human form. “A Sunwar
d Rider, if you care about such things. He’s been the longest tenant here, if I may speak in those terms, having lived in the Shadowlands longer than any of us. There was one of my kind in China, many years ago, but we’ve lost touch. Alejandro can tell you of others there may be.”

  Wolf tossed back his glass of fino. Nighthawk was right; he’d have to procure a bottle or two before he left.

  (Flicker) Flat. Black and white. Smell of fear sweat, exhilaration. Layer upon layer of greasy meat and pastry, tobacco and other burning grasses, alcohol, perfumes, burnt sugar. And here, in the hidden recesses of the upper stories of the building, the dust of ages. Sound of pigeons cooing, flapping of wings, pittering of rodent feet. (Flicker) Louder, nearing, claws on concrete, paws, footsteps, claws. (Flicker) The smells recede somewhat into the three-dimensional background. Color.

  Foxblood could understand, pretty well, what his Pack mates said to him when they were in other shapes, but the whole Hunt found it easier to think and speak to each other when in Rider form. The great scaled lion that approached Fox now, way too fast for the concrete floor, scrabbled to a stop only just in time.

  “Control yourself,” he told it, waiting as patiently as he could for Claw to turn back into a Rider.

  “Easier said than done, as you should know better than most.” He must have just taken human dra’aj; nothing else could have made him so cocky. Foxblood took a step toward the other Hound.

  “Though you’re right, you’re right, as usual,” Claw said, cringing, his shape flickering into that of an actual dog for a second. They all knew who was Pack Leader here. “We should control ourselves, absolutely. And we will, for sure. Once we have plenty of the new dra’aj.” A line of saliva trickled from Claw’s mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Like you said.”

  “Tell me,” Fox said, stopping himself just as he was reaching for the other’s throat.

  Claw ducked his head again, and pretended he only meant to look around him, sniffing. As if he didn’t know as well as Fox did that except for the others guarding the stairwells, they were alone.

  “Stump’s missing.”

  Fox’s hand went involuntarily to the cell phone in his pocket—another thing, like the pocket itself, that only existed when he was in Rider form. A great way to keep in touch with the rest of the Pack, since they couldn’t Move.

  “Who reported it?”

  “Badger. She reported in on time, says she hasn’t heard from him.”

  Fox frowned. There’d been a Five of the Pack in the place called Europe. Did this mean there were only four now? Impossible that a human could have killed Stump. Far more likely he was in a dra’aj-induced stupor and had simply lost track of time. Possible, but not as likely, that some Rider had got him. Fox considered who to send. He had two Fives of the Pack here with him, but it was still tricky, very tricky, for them to move like humans did. No. He’d have to rely on those already in place.

  “Tell Badger it’s her job to find out what’s happened, not just report it.” Fox deliberately waited until Claw had ducked his head and was turning to leave, before he reminded his Pack mate that they had other business.

  “What about the girl?”

  “Lost her again.” This time the other Hound did cringe away, and even lifted his arm, partly to bare his belly in submission, and partly to block a blow to the head. Fox’s hands (paws) formed fists (hooves), but he held back.

  “How?” His throat quivered with the need to howl.

  “The scentless ones, they got in the way, drew her off, and muddied the scent.”

  Fox rubbed at his lip again. “So why don’t these humans Fade once we’ve fed on their dra’aj?” He looked at Claw. “Catch one, bring it here. And tell Badger that when she’s learned what she can, she’s to gather her Five and come to us here. And, Claw—”

  A commotion at the entrance made Fox curl his lip back from his teeth. He was gesturing at Claw to deal with it when the two from the bottom of the stairs appeared with a Rider between them. Neither of them had been able to hang on to their own form, and even Claw flickered as he backed away. The Rider was Sunward, and his dra’aj shone from him like the sun through clouds. No wonder the others hadn’t been able to control themselves. The surprise was that they hadn’t simply drained the stupid Sunward fool before he got to the top of the stairs. Fox ground his teeth together, gripped the armrests of his chair, and held his shape.

  The strange Rider approached, and inclined his head. “I am Longshadow,” he said. “My mother was Lightstorm, and the Simurg guides me.”

  Fox blinked, and his mouth fell open in a grin. This Starward one thought he was a Rider! For a moment the blood pounding in his ears blocked out all other sounds. In an instant Fox saw his advantage and took it.

  “From the Lands, huh?” he said. “The Basilisk sent you back to collect his doggies? What if they’re my doggies now?” He hadn’t returned the courtesy of giving his own name and Guidebeast, and Fox wondered what the Starward would do about it.

  “You will not have heard, then.” If Longshadow was offended, he hid it well. “The Basilisk has Faded. The Lands have a High Prince, and the Cycle is turned.”

  Fox pulled his lip back. Well. That was news indeed. “And those with him?” He wouldn’t ask straight out about his brother; Riders didn’t seem to be able to distinguish one member of the Hunt from another. But he had to know what had happened.

  “Some are Faded as well. Some follow the new Prince.”

  “And those who don’t?”

  “Some of us have given dra’aj oaths.” He cleared his throat. “Some of us have gone too far down the Basilisk Prince’s path to follow the High Prince now.” The Starward Rider rubbed at his lower lip. For the first time, Fox saw the tremble in his hands, the sweat on his brow. Saw, and smelled it for what it was.

  The Basilisk’s path, is that what they were calling it? Fox smiled, and even Claw flickered into his Rider form long enough to bark out a short laugh. That was a path they knew all about. That path brought you to the Hunt. If Stump was really lost, then Badger would need someone new to complete her Five.

  “We don’t care about Princes here,” Fox said aloud. “But we can get you what you need.”

  The Sunward licked his lips, his eyes flicking from side to side as he tried to watch the Hounds around him. Finally he nodded.

  “Claw.” Fox crooked his finger at his Hound. “Take our new Pack mate and show him where he can feed. Feed yourselves while you’re at it. Claw!” The three Hounds stopped their circling of the Rider at the whip in Fox’s voice. “I’ll want to see our friend Longshadow later, so make sure you look after him. And make sure you look after those little jobs I’ve given you, before you eat your dinners.”

  He waited until they were all at the top of the stairs before he stopped them again. “And, Claw? Find the girl. Follow her, but don’t get caught. She smells like Rider, and I need to know where she fits in this Hunt.”

  Claw scampered away, changing into a dog, a dragon-shaped wingless thing, and back to a Rider before reaching the doorway.

  Fox relaxed enough to let his Rider form change, and melted back into the shadows of the concrete cavern to think. As soon as Longshadow had completely turned, Fox could question him about Stormwolf. He had to find out what had happened to his brother. Had he Faded with the Basilisk, or would Fox have to fight him now for the leadership of the Pack?

  On the other hand, the Horn was obviously gone—lost or broken—and there might be other potential Hounds among the abandoned followers of the Basilisk. Maybe even another Five. Maybe more. And as for those who weren’t changing, they might still be allies—as long as they didn’t have the Horn.

  Hounds or allies, Fox could increase his numbers. A must if the plan that was forming in his mind was going to work. He’d need a way to persuade this new High Prince that coming after them would be too costly. That it would be easier to just let the Hunt keep the Shadowlands for themselves.

&n
bsp; What was this human girl? If the old Rider valued her as much as it looked, maybe he could use her to make the Riders listen.

  Wolf stepped through the crossroads into a quiet darkness smelling of cooling metal, of diesel exhaust, of cold stone, of cleaning fluids. There were no sounds, no people, and precious few lights to be seen, and yet this was the right crossroads, this was Union Station in Toronto. What could it mean? In both Rome and Madrid the train stations that sat on the crossroads had been full of light and sound and humans.

  All he saw in the semidarkness was a large empty room, numbered exits and entrances, silent escalators waiting to take absent people to the other levels. Wolf shut his eyes and shook his head before opening them again. There was no hidden message here, no unexplained tragedy. It was simply that the station was closed. Like so many things, paranoia was a useful servant, and a poor master.

  Wolf set out into the concourse, away from the crossroads and the Portal, so tempting, from which he imagined he could smell the air of the Lands. He had no excuse to go through. Nighthawk, the old Warden, would carry word to the High Prince that Wolf followed the trail she had set him, and that the Water Sprite, Shower of Stars, had requested aid to return to the Lands; he would carry word even about the Hound. All of which left Wolf free to come to Toronto.

  He followed the instructions the High Prince had given him and walked through the arrivals concourse toward the closest exit doors. As he walked, Wolf caught the scent of the guardians of the place. One such guard he avoided simply by stepping into the nearest shadow, and used the time it took for the guard to pass on his round to fix his mental image of the place, lest he should he require it again.

  Unfortunately, as he neared the glass doors of the exit three men in uniform, holding cups from which came the hot, bitter smell of coffee, barred his way. One man was taking bites from a pastry that even from Wolf’s hiding place in the shadows smelled sickly sweet. Another had an apple in the pocket of his uniform jacket.

  “Nirmal should go home if he’s just going to sit in the locker room staring at the walls,” Pastry was saying.