The Mirror Prince (27 page)
Authors: Violette Malan
“I do not know you.” The man’s voice was a whisper of rough silk, as if it had been very melodious once, and he had strained it by screaming. Looking at the man’s face, Max could well believe it. “I am Blood on the Snow,” the man said, looking between Moon and Cassandra. “I was once Raven of the Law, and the Simurgh guides me.”
Moon drew in her breath in a small gasp, and Cassandra sat up straighter.
“I am the Warden Sword of Truth,” she said, “and the Dragon guides me. My companions are—”
“Dawntreader.” The tall man urged his horse closer, close enough that Max could see the gray of his eyes even in the uncertain light of the auroras. Cassandra did not answer. His Cloud Horse shifted under him as Max involuntarily tightened his knees.
“We have a man dying here,” Max said, trying to keep his voice even. “If you’re not going to kill us right away, you might let us look after him.”
Blood on the Snow rode his horse right up to Max, until their knees were almost touching. The old man gripped Max’s upper arm, his hand warm and hard even through the layers of metal and sleeve. There was a bedraggled bit of blue cloth tied above his left elbow, still showing metallic threads in the weave. It was the only color about him. Max looked up into the old man’s ash-gray eyes, and the impulse to pull away died before the light he saw in them. As he watched, however, the light dimmed, and the very slight smile on the old man’s face faded as he let his hand fall back to his saddle horn.
“Your cousin will take some time to die yet,” Blood on the Snow said of Lightborn, before turning to face Cassandra.
“He does not know me,” he said to her.
“He knows no one,” Cassandra said. “His memory has been taken from him. We take him to the Tarn of Souls, where the Songs tell we may restore him.”
Blood on the Snow nodded slowly, his shaggy hair floating around his face even though there was no wind.
“I had heard that this Ring is one of the stations of that Road,” Blood said. “Though if the Carnelian Ring is on your route, take warning that you must travel around it. The Land has shaken there, and the Stones are fallen and broken.” One of the other Riders behind him made a murmur of sound, too low for Max’s ears to pick up the individual words.
The old man lifted his hand in acknowledgment. “Take heed of this also. We Rode here to use this Ring ourselves and found in it a company of men, dressed in the colors of the Basilisk. We watched them, and they did not Ride, but stayed hidden in the Ring, plainly waiting to surprise the next ones who used it. We have no love for the things of the Basilisk, we Wild Ones, and so we took the company and killed them. It is hardly coincidence, I think, that you and the Exile were the next to appear.”
“We thank you for your warning, and for the help you may have given us against our enemies,” Cassandra said. “Will you not come with us to the Tarn? We would benefit from your wise counsel.”
Max looked at her, surprised. Just who
was
this guy?
was
this guy?
Blood on the Snow took his time to answer. “I cannot leave my people,” he said finally. He looked searchingly at Max, his face once again stern and unyielding, before turning back to Cassandra. “It is good that the Guardian has returned. When he is himself again, tell him he can call upon me, and all who are mine. He will know how to find me.”
I’m right here,
Max thought,
you can tell me yourself.
But with a sudden sinking of his stomach, he knew why the old man had spoken as he did. The Prince Guardian might not remember the things that Max Ravenhill knew.
Max thought,
you can tell me yourself.
But with a sudden sinking of his stomach, he knew why the old man had spoken as he did. The Prince Guardian might not remember the things that Max Ravenhill knew.
“I will do so, my lord,” Cassandra said.
The old Rider nodded again, his eyes focused inward, before looking up at Cassandra once more. “What of the other Wardens?”
“The Moonward, Stormbringer, is taken by the Hunt,” Cassandra said. “The Sunward, Nighthawk . . . I cannot say. He sent warning to me, and was not seen again.”
Blood on the Snow sat so still that even his Cloud Horse seemed not to move. “The Nightflying Hawk is of my
fara’ip
. I will trust that he still lives, until I hear otherwise.”
fara’ip
. I will trust that he still lives, until I hear otherwise.”
“Wait, my lord. I may yet have other news,” Cassandra said as Blood on the Snow turned his horse away. “Do you have, as Nighthawk has, acquaintance among the Solitaries? I have news to give the
fara’ip
of the Last Born Troll, Hearth of the Wind.”
fara’ip
of the Last Born Troll, Hearth of the Wind.”
Once more the older man paused before answering, his gray eyes turned cold as iron. “I am myself of that
fara’ip
.”
fara’ip
.”
Cassandra nodded, as if hearing something she’d expected. “As am I,” she said. “His final words to me were to name me his sister.”
“Oh, my dear sister, do you say his
final
words?” The old Rider’s voice was a faded whisper on the night air. “Is the Last Born truly gone?”
final
words?” The old Rider’s voice was a faded whisper on the night air. “Is the Last Born truly gone?”
Max could see the gray eyes were tightly shut, the hand that held the delicate reins trembling.
“My lord.” Cassandra edged her horse closer to Blood on the Snow, her hand stretched toward him. She stopped as the old Rider straightened, the cold gray eyes opening once more.
“Our brother was the Last Born, do you understand?” Blood said. “Not the Last Born Troll, but the Last of the Solitaries born in this Cycle. The youngest of all, and the hope of all. Now there will be no more young ones among the Solitaries unless the High Prince comes, and the Cycle turns.”
“My lord,” Cassandra’s voice was as hollow as the emptiness in Max’s chest. “We did not know.”
Blood on the Snow inclined his head once. “How did our brother die?”
Cassandra hesitated long enough that Max knew she was seeing the same image that had flashed before his eyes. The image of the Troll’s remains on the wall of the Basilisk’s dungeon cell.
“Fighting his Prince’s enemies,” Cassandra said.
Max found himself nodding. Not just fighting, he thought. Winning.
“As he would have wished,” Blood said. “One day I trust that we will have leisure enough for you to tell me more.”
“As you say, my lord.” Cassandra bowed her head.
Blood on the Snow and his followers saluted them with their spears before spinning their horses around in unison like dancers in a perfectly choreographed ballet and galloping off, gathering speed. They never reached the outside of the circle; the aurora flashed and they were gone.
Max found he was holding his breath. Watching a dozen horsemen ride into nothing was a little more startling than doing it himself.
“Who was that guy?” was all that he said aloud.
Moon seemed about to speak, but she hesitated, looking at her sister. Cassandra had moved her horse next to Max’s and was feeling for the pulse in the side of Lightborn’s neck.
“Your father,” she said, without looking up.
Max stared into the empty space where Blood on the Snow and his Wild Riders had been. His father? His
real
father, he supposed he should say. He didn’t know much about his human father—and the few memories they had given him hadn’t inclined him to learn more. Obviously, Dawntreader, the Prince, had felt differently. The way Blood on the Snow had ridden right up to him, had taken hold of his arm, it looked as though they had been on good terms, the father and the son. Max wished Cassandra had said something in time, wished he had spoken to the older man while he had the chance. Blood had seemed like the kind of man Max would have liked to know.
real
father, he supposed he should say. He didn’t know much about his human father—and the few memories they had given him hadn’t inclined him to learn more. Obviously, Dawntreader, the Prince, had felt differently. The way Blood on the Snow had ridden right up to him, had taken hold of his arm, it looked as though they had been on good terms, the father and the son. Max wished Cassandra had said something in time, wished he had spoken to the older man while he had the chance. Blood had seemed like the kind of man Max would have liked to know.
But what would be the point? Max pressed his lips together. Soon it wouldn’t matter what Max Ravenhill knew. It wasn’t much consolation that the Prince had had a life, people who cared about him.
“He still lives,” Cassandra was saying to Moon, “but he is sunk very low. We must get out of the Ring if I’m to help him.”
“There’s no time!” Moon looked at Lightborn and back at her sister. “We must away quickly. They will look for the Riders the Wild Ones killed. We must be gone from here before they come.”
Cassandra hesitated, lower lip between her teeth. She looked up at Max. He knew what was going through her mind. They should run while they could, and yet—the image of the Troll’s death was too fresh—letting Lightborn die when they might have saved him . . . Okay, he thought, he might as well make some decisions while he still could.
“Save him,” he said.
“You’re sure?”
Something in the way Cassandra asked the question told him he’d said the right thing. He nudged his horse toward the perimeter of the Ring. “You told me I was here to save people. Start with this one.”
Once beyond the Ring of stones, Max found he had been holding Lightborn for so long that lowering the man into Cassandra’s outstretched arms was almost more than his stiffened muscles could manage. Good thing it hadn’t come to a fight after all, he thought. He dismounted slowly, carefully, stood holding his horse’s bridle, the light webbing as cold in his hand as if it were made of metal. Moon, her objections put aside, was helping Cassandra ease Lightborn to the ground.
They hadn’t ridden far, just enough to be out of the circle of stones that marked the Turquoise Ring. The dolmens still towered over them, black against the star-filled sky. The auroras had fallen dark now that there was no one in the Ring to activate them, but the stars were bright enough to read by, if Max’d had anything to read. He looked up, expecting to see the full moon, but there were only the stars, more than he had ever seen. He had never been much of a stargazer, but even for him it was disorienting not to see any of the well-known constellations overhead.
He looked down just in time to see Cassandra grasp what was left of the shaft of the arrow that transfixed Lightborn firmly in her right hand and, bracing him against her knee, draw it out with one smooth, steady pull. Blood gushed from the wound, and Cassandra placed her palm against it. With Moon to balance her, Cassandra shifted until she was sitting with Lightborn in her arms, his head on her shoulder, one hand on the entry wound, the other on the exit hole in his chest. Max found his fingers straying to his left side; he remembered what came next, and wondered whether he would be able to watch.
Walks Under the Moon had never seen a Healer at work before; that it was Truthsheart who Healed only served to make it more interesting. Healers appeared only among the Dragonborn, and so were rare among Riders, who usually had to go to some Solitary, or even a Natural, for those few injuries and illnesses that their own
dra’aj
could not cope with—not that any did so openly now. And in these times there were very few people left with enough
dra’aj
to help others. That was one of the things the Basilisk Prince had told her he would change, when he became the High Prince, one of the ways they would all be turning back to the golden days the Songs told of.
dra’aj
could not cope with—not that any did so openly now. And in these times there were very few people left with enough
dra’aj
to help others. That was one of the things the Basilisk Prince had told her he would change, when he became the High Prince, one of the ways they would all be turning back to the golden days the Songs told of.
Moon frowned. Truthsheart had enough
dra’aj
for Healing, even without the help of the Basilisk. If her sister had never gone away, perhaps their father might have been saved, though there was no way to know whether his malady would have responded to Healing. One more question that would never be answered, thanks to the Exile.
dra’aj
for Healing, even without the help of the Basilisk. If her sister had never gone away, perhaps their father might have been saved, though there was no way to know whether his malady would have responded to Healing. One more question that would never be answered, thanks to the Exile.
Who did not look altogether content himself, watching Truthsheart with Lightborn in her arms. Good, Moon thought, this was all his fault. If there were any way to make him even less content . . .
“This may not be the best action for us to take,” she said, and waited for the Exile to drag his eyes away from Truthsheart’s Healing. “Someone betrayed us. Can we be sure it was not Lightborn? We could be bringing the source of our betrayal with us.”
The Exile shrugged. “Then we’ll have to. I’m not starting out by doing something that I couldn’t live with.”
Moon turned away, fighting to keep her face from showing her distaste. This person had none of the Prince Guardian’s memories, she reminded herself. There was irony but no hypocrisy in his saying that there were actions he could not live with. She must try not to be unfair.
“Besides, if this Basilisk guy is as smart as you make him out to be, he had ambushes set up at every Ring along the Road in case we showed up. That’s what I would have done.”
With a cold certainty, Moon believed him. The Guardian was more like the Basilisk Prince than anyone suspected, she thought, strings from the same harp, leaves from the same tree. Each determined to get their own way, each sure of his own correctness and the other’s error. Each willing to destroy everyone around him to gain his ends. After all, she realized, hugging herself, even now he was endangering everything, their whole plan, merely in order to satisfy his own image of himself. Max Ravenhill was no more than a thin veneer on the Exile. It was still his fault her sister had to go away, leaving her with their mad father.
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