The Mirror Prince

“Malan’s fantasy debut straddles two worlds, each detailed in vibrant colors and images. Believable characters and graceful storytelling make this a good addition to most fantasy collections.”—
Library Journal

“Blending the timeless enchantment of a Patricia A. McKillip fantasy and the epic narrative splendor of a Tad Williams work, Canadian author Violette Malan’s debut novel is nothing short of superb.
The Mirror Prince
is—like the Newford saga by fellow Canuck Charles de Lint—a kind of urban fantasy, taking place simultaneously in the Shadowlands of Earth and the magical realm of Faerie. The book’s surprising—and utterly satisfying—conclusion is well worth the buildup. Fantasy fans should brace themselves: the world is about to discover Violette Malan.”

—
The Barnes & Noble Review

“Violette Malan’s debut novel is everything a fantasy novel should be. There is adventure, there is romance, there is magic, there is danger and loss, love and sacrifice. There is lovely writing, and again, the promise of more to come.”—
The Washington Times

“Elves get yet another remake in this fantasy first novel . . . it’s a good read.”—
Locus

VIOLETTE MALAN’S
Spectacular Novels
Now Available from DAW Books:

THE MIRROR PRINCE
THE SLEEPING GOD

eISBN : 978-1-436-29903-9

DAW Book Collectors No. 1368.

DAW Books are distributed by the Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

First Paperback Printing, July 2007

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.

.S.A.

http://us.penguingroup.com

For Paul

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank Joshua Bilmes, for asking questions until he was satisfied, thus making sure that I was satisfied as well, and Sheila Gilbert for welcoming me into the family. Tanya Huff and Fiona Patton, for setting such good examples, and for their support and friendship; Bill and Carol Mackillop for employing me when I needed money; special thanks to Sandra Beswetherick and Therese Greenwood for reading various versions of the manuscript; Steven Price for his support and advice, and his dad Charles Price for information about subways; David Ingham for his suggestions about apostrophes. Finally, my brother Oscar Malan for telling me, many years ago, to read
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.
He was right.

Prologue

Seattle

MALCOLM JONES TURNED his battered old Mercedes into his driveway and pulled up as close to Jenny’s Camry as he could get. It took him a couple of tries to get the emergency brake to engage, and he reminded himself—out loud this time, so he wouldn’t forget—to get the boys in the garage to look at it when he took the car in on Friday.

Malcolm swung open the heavy car door, the chill, damp air almost a relief after the heat of the interior. He climbed out and reached back in for his briefcase, bending over to pick up his hat from where it had rolled off the front seat into the foot well on the far side of the stick shift. Suddenly he smelled oranges.

“Stormbringer,” someone said.

Malcolm stood up, striking his head on the roof of the car. He backed out, hands holding tightly to the crown of his head, trying not to hiss, trying to puff his breath out to ease the pain, as they had told Jenny to do when she was in labor.

He squinted. The man next to the car was tall, as tall as Malcolm himself, though thicker through the shoulders, and with the ruddy skin, sun-bronzed hair, and soft hazel eyes of a friendly Viking.

“Where is the Exile, Stormbringer?”

“What are you talking about?” Malcolm glanced at his front doorway—just how close was it?—and saw that the house was dark. A cold hand squeezed his heart.

“Do not know, will not say,” sang a liquid voice.

Malcolm whirled around. There was another tall man on the far side of the car. This one was dark, but with a Celt’s fine-boned features, fair skin, and blue eyes. He smelled of freshly mown hay. He glanced up at the dark windows of the upper story and smiled.

Malcolm dodged around the man in front of him and ran toward the house. He expected them to stop him, and when they didn’t, the chill holding his heart squeezed a little tighter.

Jenny was not in the living room. Only a third man, this one as fair as straw, holding Jenny’s cell phone, punching in the buttons, holding it up to his ear and then smiling. The whole room smelled of hyacinths.

“Where’s my wife?” He spoke matter-of-factly, as if he were asking one of the twins.

“So it is true,” the fair man said. “They have
dra’aj
enough for that, the Shadowfolk. That will be useful to us, by and by.”

“The woman and the children are upstairs,” Oranges said to Malcolm. The man who smelled like mown hay closed the door to the street behind him and stood next to Oranges, blocking the front hallway. This time, as Malcolm tried to get around them to go upstairs, they stopped him, Mown Hay and Hyacinth, pulling his hands away from the railing, twisting his arms behind his back, their delicate, long-fingered hands as hard and as cold as talons. He would have bruises in the morning, if he lived. Oranges stood in front of him now, peering with cold interest into his face.

“We don’t care about them,” Oranges said. “Tell us where the Exile is.”

“Let me see my family,” Malcolm said. His whole body strained upward. If they had been human, he would have shrugged them off like old clothes, but he was not stronger than three of his own kind. Still, he tried to see some movement of shadows in the upstairs hallway. To hear some sound that would make the icy grip in his chest go away. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Let me see them.”

“Later, perhaps.”

A smile came and went on Hyacinth’s face, and Malcolm’s heart grew still. Too late, he thought, remembering Mown Hay’s smile outside, and the way his eyes had strayed up to the second floor. To the bedroom windows. Too late. No point now in trying to shield Jenny and the twins. No point in pretending that these people had made a mistake, that he was not what he was. That they were not what they were.

No point in buying time while he decided whether his Oath was worth the lives of his family. He could see it in Hyacinth’s face. That decision had been made for him.

“We do not want you, Stormbringer. We want the Exile.”

Malcolm shook his head. Their timing was badly off. Tragically off. It had been six years at least since the Exile had graduated from Seattle University, where Malcolm was a professor of history. “Why? Why now? The Banishment is close to ending—”

Malcolm gasped as the one who smelled of oranges took a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back hard enough to snap his neck, if he had been human. “Because our Prince has need of him now, that’s why.”

“You cannot . . .” But Malcolm could see from their faces that they thought they could. He shook his head, slowly at first until he found he could not stop. He
Moved, Traveling
away from the house that no longer held anything of value to him. Away from the life that was no longer his.

But when he opened his eyes, he had not gone anywhere. He was still in his front hall. They still held him fast, their long-fingered hands still bruising his arms.

“What are you trying, Stormbringer?” Oranges shook him a little. “Why not tell us? Your Oath is to protect him from humans during the Banishment.” Oranges leaned in close. “Do we look like humans to you?”

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