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Authors: Violette Malan

BOOK: The Mirror Prince
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“Oh, god,” she said, her heart thumping. “Moon?” Exhaustion forgotten, Cassandra rose to her feet.
 
The younger woman had stopped in her tracks, staring at Cassandra. The next moment she was in Cassandra’s arms sobbing out the words, “Sister, my sister.”
 
Cassandra held Moon fiercely, breathing in the familiar poppy scent of her hair, having time to marvel that the girl was so much taller than she had been the last time Cassandra had held her in her arms.
 
“Charming as this is, we are under a pressure of time.” Cassandra was sure that she could hear a whisper of real feeling under the rock-hard tone of command in Windwatcher’s voice. “Are we to understand, Lightborn that your expert is of our Warden’s
fara’ip?
”
 
“Indeed, I am Walks Under the Moon,” the young Rider said. She loosened her hug only enough to turn and face the Sunward Rider. “My mother was Clear of Light, and the Manticore guides me. You may say, that my sister being a Warden is what made me an expert.” She inclined her head to Honor of Souls. “You will forgive me, my lady,” she said. “I was told there was a Warden with the Prince, and I hoped, but . . .” She turned back to Cassandra and this time gave her an almost shy smile. Cassandra took her sister by the shoulders and kissed her, once on each cheek, and once on the forehead.
 
“We will talk later,” she said, unable to suppress a smile as she led her sister to the table.
 
Walks Under the Moon took the vacant chair next to Cassandra, sat up straight, and folded her hands primly in front of her.
 
“Lady Honor of Souls has provided me with Singers, and I have spent the last seven turns of Sun, Moon, and Stars searching through the Songs we have of this Cycle and the last, as well as those fragments we know to come from Cycles past, though we do not know how far past. I looked for the true Song of Chants that holds within its Choruses and Verses what we know of all the Chants of the People. I reasoned that if we could learn from it the source of the Chant of Oblivion—”
 
“We could get the Chant ourselves,” Cassandra said, patting her sister on the girl’s folded hands. It had been long, so long she had thought herself forgotten, but it was good to know that when Max—when the Exile was lost to her, she would not be alone. She would have her
fara’ip
again.
 
“Precisely. The Song of Chants is long, and some say as old as the Cycles themselves, and has as many versions as there are Singers,” Moon continued in a voice very like that of an old professor of medicine Cassandra had once heard lecturing. “It has obviously become vulgarized over time, mixed with other Songs, new verses added when the memories of the Singers grew faulty. I needed to compare hundreds of versions to finally unite all the true pieces of the Song. As many as seven Singers have taken the better part of three turns of the Moon to teach me these true Verses.”
 
Cassandra saw Max nodding out of the corner of her eye. Of course, Moon’s words would make sense to him as a historian; even she had seen, over the years she’d spent in the Shadowlands, how even poems that were written down developed variations, and she’d seen how scholars’ research could sort out the true from the false.
 
“Is there a point to this?” Max asked, chin in hand. He looked so much like a professor listening to someone’s research proposal that Cassandra could almost hear the rustle of paper and the coughing of students.
 
“One Chorus of the Song of Chants tells us that, among others, the Chant of Oblivion can be found at the Tarn of Souls. Another Chorus tells that a journey was made to the Tarn four turns of the Moon before the Great War.”
 
Cassandra felt a sudden chill, as if somewhere a door to winter had been opened, and an icy blast had entered the house. “By the Basilisk Prince?”
 
“Is it possible?” There was something perilously close to admiration in Windwatcher’s voice. “Could he have laid his plans so early?”
 
“So I believe,” Moon said, eyes fixed on her folded hands, “though the Song tells no names. If it was the Basilisk, however, he obtained three Chants in all, each of which works on the
dra’aj
in some way. One he used to bespell the
dra’aj
of the Prince Guardian; one is the Chant of Oblivion, which makes one forget the
dra’aj,
and with it oneself; the third one I am not so sure of, it appears to free the
dra’aj
, separating it and allowing it to be . . . harvested.”
 
“What?” Cassandra could see from the elders’ faces that however diffident Moon was, this last possibility was not news to them.
 
Windwatcher and Honor of Souls traded looks, but this time it was Lightborn who spoke. He cleared his throat and shot a glance at Max before turning to Cassandra, his mouth twisted a little to one side in an apologetic smile.
 
He’s embarrassed,
she thought, surprised.
 
“The Basilisk keeps his
fara’ip
close about him.” Lightborn’s eyes finally found something to focus on at the far side of the room.
 
Not embarrassed,
Cassandra realized.
Ashamed.
 
“From time to time, a malady overtakes him. He becomes pale as the moon—he’s a Sunward, did you know that?—and his face is drawn, sweaty. Lately, his hands shake and jerk, and his lips tremble. He seems unable to eat.” Lightborn shook his head and took another breath. “Or uninterested. When this happens, he chooses someone, usually some servant, but not always. Not always,” the Rider cleared his throat. “When the Basilisk returns, alone, he is restored, stronger even, than he had been before. And the other Rider is never seen again.”
 
Drug addict,
Cassandra thought.
No,
dra’aj
addict.
 
“We think this third Chant allows the Basilisk to eat
dra’aj,
” Moon added, when it appeared that Lightborn would not continue. “It has even been said that a Basilisk has been seen in his Citadel.”
 
Cassandra nodded stiffly, torn between horror and awe. Of course, his Guide was a Basilisk, that was the source of his title. If he were indeed eating
dra’aj,
it
could
be possible, she supposed, for him to become strong enough for his Guidebeast to manifest.
 
Max knew from the pallor of their faces, the way Lightborn tore apart the napkin he held in his hands, that this was bad, but it made no sense to him. “What is it? What does this mean?”
 
Cassandra wet her lips before answering him. “No one has enough
dra’aj
for their Guidebeast to manifest. No one. Not in our time. If the Basilisk Prince can do this—”
 
“There are some who swear,” Lightborn said, through stiff lips, “that they have seen it. That the Basilisk drinks the
dra’aj
of others, there is no doubt.”
 
The silence was heavy enough to feel.
 
“So he’s a kind of, what? Vampire?” Max asked, his brow furrowed.
 
“I think it may be worse than that,” Cassandra said. “I’ve seen this type of behavior among humans,” she glanced at Max again, “we both have. The sweats, the shaking, the loss of appetite. He’s addicted now, dependent on eating
dra’aj
.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “He’ll go on needing more and more, just to feel normal.”
 
“And this is the Rider who would be our High Prince.” Windwatcher’s voice was heavy.
 
And there it was. The part of Max that was the history professor rubbed its hands in academic satisfaction. This is what made for interesting study. But most of him felt hollow and cold. Political ambition and savvy wedded with instability, perhaps even insanity. An Alexander would have been bad enough, but a Hitler?
 
“We must go ourselves to the Tarn of Souls,” Moon was saying, leaning forward, “taking the Prince Guardian with us, and obtain there the Chant that will free him.”
 
“Is this possible?” Cassandra asked.
 
“How can we know, until we have the Chant?” Moon said. “The Basilisk learned how to use it; we may do the same.”
 
“I do not see an alternative,” Lightborn said dryly in his light voice.
 
“Where is the Tarn?” Windwatcher asked.
 
“We cannot Move there,” Moon said. “The Songs tell of no one except the Basilisk Prince who has actually been there. But there are many Songs that tell of the Tarn of Souls, and how one might find it, who wishes to speak to the Lady there. We would have to Ride, but we should be able to find the Tarn before the next turning of the Moon.”
 
“A small company of Riders,” Honor suggested. “Large enough to defend against those Solitaries and Naturals who may seek to attack us, but small enough that we may hope to pass unnoticed by the Basilisk’s men.”
 
“Best if
we
do not Ride then,” Windwatcher said to Honor. “I have been summoned to court, to witness the dedication of the Basilisk’s Garden, as I am sure you have as well?” Honor of Souls agreed with a grimace of distaste. “Then I will think which of my Riders will not be missed.”
 
“I will Ride.” Lightborn looked around the table. “The Basilisk will not think to see me for some days, knowing that I visit my home.”
 
“See you be sure of that,” Windwatcher growled.
 
Lightborn’s face hardened, and for a moment he looked as if he might speak, but the touch of his mother’s fingertips resting lightly on his hand kept him silent.
 
“It does not matter which of us is willing, unless the Prince will go.” Lightborn finally said, turning to Max.
 
A shock ran through Max as everyone at the table turned to look at him.
 
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” he said, raising his hands palms outward. There was a tightening in his chest as it was brought home to him where all this talk was leading. He’d let himself get distracted by the political puzzle, lost in thinking about these lives and their problems in a haze of academic abstraction. He’d forgotten that they were actually talking about him. About
his
going to this Tarn, about this Chant being used on
him.
He knew what his answer had to be.
 
“I can’t do this.”
 
“Max—”
 
“No!” Max flung away Cassandra’s reaching hand. He couldn’t believe this. Here they had been talking about him, deciding about his life, as if he weren’t even in the room. As if they didn’t realize what they were asking him to do.
 
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. If you had even a clue what you were asking, you wouldn’t.” He pushed back his chair and stood, looking from Lightborn to Windwatcher and back. Would either of them try to stop him? He looked back at Cassandra. Would she? “You’re asking me to . . . to . . .” Fists clenched, shoulders hunched against the raised voices behind him, Max pushed past the guards in the doorway.
 
Chapter Seven
 
CASSANDRA WAS HALFWAY to the door when Lightborn grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.
 
“What was done to him, there in the Shadowlands? That coward’s answer is not the Prince’s.”
 
Muscles twitching with tension, Cassandra very slowly lifted her hand from the hilt of her shorter sword and held it open, fingers spread. She had seized it out of reflex, and she had to be certain everyone saw her letting it go. Lightborn, his face strained and pale, took a step back from her, though he rested his hand on his own sword seemingly by accident as he moved away.
 
Cassandra waited for him to draw, released a deep breath when he did not. “Better you should ask the Basilisk what was done before we had him, or perhaps I should say what
else
was done. This is nothing of ours. He is no coward, but he is not the Prince you knew.”
 
Honor of Souls and Windwatcher were both on their feet, both in their own way maneuvering to stand between her and Lightborn. Only Moon, her hand to her mouth, had not moved from her seat at the table.
 
“Come, we must have peace,” Honor of Souls said, holding out a hand to each of them. “If we fight among ourselves, the Basilisk will win. Lightborn, that you would even pretend to draw on a Rider bearing
gra’if
shows you lack the sense your Guidebeast gave you. Truthsheart, for the love I bore your mother, take your seat again, I beseech you. Let us finish our council, and when we have a plan, that will be time to speak again with the Prince Guardian.”
 
Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut against a stab of headache. She wished she could simply Move Max back to Toronto, away from all these people, give him back his life as Ravenhill, the life he wanted. But even if these people would let her do it, she knew the Basilisk would not. He would hunt Max down until he found him. What was it Max had said? In order to save his life, he had to become someone else? Well, it looked like he was right. They were out of options. They had to keep the Talismans from the Basilisk Prince. They couldn’t leave the Lands, and all the People in it—Rider, Solitary, and Natural—in the hands of an uncontrolled addict. She saw that clearly—but would he see it the same way?

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