Summer of the Unicorn

by Kay Hooper

  The Book of Fables and Myths. Tynan looked down at it, frowning. Why had their ancestors brought so much of their legends with them, and none of their history? And why was he nagged by the feeling that the supporters of the PRA would immediately turn away from their group if they knew the answer to that puzzle? He shook the question away. He knew only too well there was no answer to be found.

  And there was another question he must concern himself with now. Which man would be the next King of Rubicon? There had to be some way of choosing, or of allowing the two princes to somehow make the choice between themselves. His hand moved slowly over the smooth glass of the case as he stared at the book. Mythology and fable, stories and legends. Heroes and quests….

  —

  Elena looked up from her sewing as her son entered her bedroom. She was a small, thin woman with a pale, heart-shaped face and expressionless blue eyes. She was neatly dressed in plain colors, with no frills or ruffles, and her hair was sedately plaited and wound round her head in a coronet. Boran had often wondered if she wore her own hair in the manner of the crown she could never have.

  “The Council’s stalling, Mother,” he said, impatience in his tone. “Nobody wants to crown their next king.”

  Softly, Elena said, “They must make a decision soon.”

  “Yes, but when?” He paced restlessly, frowning.

  She watched him for a moment, her hands still in her lap, then said, “You are the rightful King.”

  He laughed shortly. “Unfortunately, there’s no proof of that. Tynan, damn his soul, favors Hunter, but he isn’t willing to accept the burden of the decision. He’s up to something.”

  “Beware of him.”

  “Tynan? He’s an old fool.”

  “No. Hunter. Beware of him.”

  Boran stopped pacing and stared at his mother. “Of Hunter? Mother, he could no more harm me than he could harm Caprice.”

  Elena’s eyes were distant, unfocused. “There’s a strength in him, a power. He could be…will be…your deadliest enemy. Beware of him.”

  Moving silently, Boran stood before his mother and studied her with an intent gaze. “What have you seen?”

  She looked up, and the distant look vanished. “A beautiful valley,” she said calmly. “A woman. A myth.”

  “What?” He knew his mother sometimes glimpsed a distant future, but it was a secret shared only by the two of them. Still, he had known her to be right too often to disregard her words.

  “Beware of Hunter.”

  —

  “Ohhh…” She held his head to her breast, her body writhing uncontrollably, a little sigh of pleasure escaping her when she felt his teeth toying with a hard nipple. His tongue brushed the captured bud, rasping, and his hand slid down over her quivering belly to stroke the crinkly hair covering her mound. Her legs parted eagerly and her hips lifted, moving in a smooth, practiced rhythm to his touch.

  She reached for his body, her hand skilled, but he laughed softly and pinned her wrists to the pillow above her head. He tormented her breasts and stroked the wet softness between her legs until she could only plead gaspingly, her body bucking with less rhythm now and growing, desperate need.

  Only when she had become a wild thing did he roll over and cover her body with his, slipping between her legs and thrusting deep within her in the same movement. His rhythm was smooth and powerful, and the slick union of their bodies more heated with every stroke, until she arched beneath him and cried out in the strained, sobbing voice of release.

  He didn’t allow her the slow slide into limp peace, but continued thrusting in a quickening rhythm which soon had her writhing again. If she had been not a courtesan but a lady of the Court, with the long nails of fashion, she would have torn his back; as it was, her short nails left faint marks in his bronze skin as she raked it wildly. And when finally he buried himself in her with a groan, she had no voice left to cry out her own pleasure and could only sound her release in a shuddering gasp.

  Ennea caught her breath at last and smiled, wreathing her arms up around his neck. “It’s my role to pleasure you,” she murmured.

  “You have.” He returned her smile, dropping a light kiss on the warm, rosy skin of her breast.

  Since she was an experienced and skilled courtesan, Ennea knew that she had. She also knew that Prince Hunter was unusually preoccupied. “Sire—”

  “Not when we’re alone, Ennea. I told you that.”

  “It isn’t proper.”

  He chuckled. “Neither are you.”

  Ennea accepted the compliment with a soft laugh, then rose on an elbow to gaze down at him as he moved to her side. “Proper enough to obey a command from my prince, at any rate. Hunter, what troubles you? The decision of the Council?”

  He lay on his back, frowning. His big bronze body was gleaming from their exertions but, as usual, he was barely out of breath. Ennea found herself wondering, as she often had, if there was a woman on Rubicon who could lose him his constant, detached coolness. A skilled lover, Hunter both gave and found pleasure in his bedmates, yet he remained always somewhat remote, distant. Other courtesans had noticed and commented on it in their secluded quarters; Ennea knew very well that Hunter had never lost himself in passion as his bedmates invariably did.

  He was kind and never hurtful, often voicing a sincere appreciation of female beauty and sexual skill. And the most beautiful courtesans and Court ladies had lain with him with a great deal of pleasure. A man of strong appetites, he rarely slept alone and never demeaned either a courtesan or a high-born lady by talking of his conquests afterward.

  And he had not, unlike Boran, acquired a reputation for being volatile, difficult to please, or prone to abandon Court parties to dally behind any convenient bush or in an empty room with some woman who had caught his eye. Hunter was Hunter, always respectful and cool and kind and detached. He ignited the fires of passion in his bed, and was never burned himself.

  “The Council?” Ennea repeated when the silence had lengthened.

  Hunter stretched languidly, still frowning a little. “The Council won’t decide,” he said finally. “They’ll find some means of determining between the two of us, but they won’t decide. We will. Somehow, Boran and I will decide.”

  “A test of skill?”

  “Perhaps.”

  As intelligent as any courtesan, Ennea knew when to allow a subject to drop. She leaned over him, smiling, allowing her hair to brush against his hard, flat stomach. “It’s my turn to please you, my prince,” she murmured, and bent her head, her skilled fingers and lips bringing him quickly erect.

  He locked his fingers in her hair gently, moving to her pleasuring touch. But she saw that even in the throes of passion, his body burning, his green eyes remained cool.

  —

  Boran rolled off the woman onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling with a preoccupied frown. “Send Terese to me,” he ordered absently, hardly out of breath.

  The woman he had left knew better than to waste a moment in catching her own. Trembling, aware of the soreness between her legs, she slid quickly from the bed and gathered up her torn clothes, hurrying from the room without pausing to dress. The guard at the door of Boran’s bedroom glanced at her, but said nothing.

  Caltha didn’t cry, but only because this had not been her first visit to Boran. She hurried through the wide and deserted halls of the palace until she came at last to the wing reserved for the courtesans employed to keep the princes and Council sexually satisfied. The guard there quickly opened the door for her, and like his comrade, not a flicker of emotion showed on his face.

  In the community room of the courtesans’ pavilion, Caltha threw down her torn garments and swore with soft bitterness. “He’s in one of his moods,” she announced to the dozen or so women gathered in the room. “And he wants you, Terese.”

  Terese, a dark, buxom woman barely out of her teens, looked frozen for a moment. Then she moaned, “Not again!”

  Caltha, stepping into the
hot bath already prepared for her, spared the other a warning look. “I’ll bet you won’t be the last tonight; he’s as horny as he is foul-tempered.”

  Fearfully Terese asked, “Is he feeling cruel?”

  Resting her head back on the lip of the bathtub, Caltha grimaced. “For him, no. Compared to the Council and, God knows, Hunter, he’s brutal. And he’s in the mood to feel like royalty, if you please. Yes, Your Highness. No, Your Highness.” Caltha sighed tiredly. “I think I’ll accept Conrad’s offer; there are worse things than being the wife of a soldier.”

  Terese, being helped into a gossamer robe by two other women, was already tense and afraid. “If you tell Boran you’ve lain with Conrad, he’ll have you thrown out of the palace and Conrad demoted.”

  “I’m not so foolish. I’ll tell Prince Hunter; he’ll give me a dowry and wish me well.”

  “Oh, I hope he’s made King!” one of the others said, and there were several voices of agreement.

  Caltha shrugged. “Don’t count on it. Boran’s ruthless, and he wants the crown. He’ll get it somehow.”

  Terese smoothed her long, dark hair and glanced nervously into a mirror. “How do I look?”

  “Better than you will in a little while,” Caltha said and sighed.

  Terese squared her shoulders and left the community room, making her way with the quickness of fear down the long hallways. She was admitted instantly into Boran’s chamber and moved gracefully across the room to the bed. “Your Highness?”

  He lay sprawled on his back, naked, and looked at her broodingly. “Another whore,” he muttered.

  Terese almost winced, biting back a retort. But it was difficult for her to hold herself silent. Courtesans were a respected guild, highly educated and trained, and most retired young with wealthy husbands. By the Council members and other men of power seeking their services, they were valued and treated well. From Prince Hunter, they received nothing but kindness and respect. From Boran, they received whatever he was in the mood to give them, usually roughness and insults, if nothing worse.

  Coldly Boran said, “If you come to me once more wearing a robe my guard can see through, I’ll purchase your services for my soldiers. All my soldiers.”

  “Yes, Sire,” she whispered. Yesterday, he had made the same threat if she didn’t wear the gossamer robe. He was as ambivalent as the two sides of his face were different: the right side angelic, the left hideously disfigured.

  Boran’s voice was abruptly gentle. “Did my guard leer at you, Terese? Did he reach down to fondle himself when he saw you walking toward him? Did you pause a moment or so out in the hall to pleasure him?”

  “No, Sire.” She was trembling, hating him because he caused it and because he saw it. Until recently, Boran had not been cruel to his bedmates. Rough, certainly, but while King Jason had lived, he had shown no sadistic tendencies. Only since the death of their king had Boran shown such arrogant contempt for the women he called to his bed. She wondered if he would revert to his former brusqueness if he were made King or if he would become only worse. And what if he weren’t made King?

  “Take off the robe.”

  She unfastened the ties and allowed the garment to fall away, standing naked before him. Boran’s gaze roamed insolently over her body, lingering at her breasts and the mound of her womanhood with that strange intensity that could arouse even as it repelled, and Terese felt her breath grow short and slick heat dampen her sex. And thank God or the devil, she thought, for that; at least she would be somewhat prepared for him.

  Boran sat up on the bed, and he was smiling. He beckoned commandingly and, when she stood beside the bed, leaned toward her to take one nipple into his mouth. She cried out sharply when he bit down but remained standing stiffly. Boran released the nipple and chuckled softly.

  “On the bed, whore.”

  Shaking, Terese climbed into the bed and, at his deliberately crude gesture, parted her legs. She lay on her back, wishing silently that she could feel as proud of her calling with this man as with all others. He made her feel like a lifeless female body designed only to host his swollen member and drain it of its seed. Uninterested in the pleasuring of trained courtesans, Boran merely used their bodies.

  He was between her legs, thrusting into her body roughly while she forced her muscles to relax. Terese had once attempted to respond to him physically, her lithe body moving skillfully with his, but he had struck her face brutally and commanded her to be still. So she lay now beneath him, arms and legs spread wide, trying not to tense at what would come.

  He was well endowed, huge in fact, and he enjoyed knowing that no woman had ever taken him completely without pain. During these first moments he thrust only a part of his throbbing length into her; only when his excitement peaked did he lunge fully into her body. And her cry of pain triggered his release.

  He rolled away from her, preoccupied once again. “Send Dacia to me,” he ordered absently.

  Shaking and supremely grateful she had gotten off so lightly this time, Terese slid from the bed.

  —

  Tynan sat alone in the Book Room long into the night, carefully turning the pages of each precious volume. He read quickly but thoroughly, renewing his memory of the stories, his agile mind gradually forming a possible solution to his problem. Not an ideal solution, but a workable one. If he could only find…

  —

  “Your attention, please.” As Speaker, it was Tynan’s duty to make the announcement to the Court and Council gathered in the tremendous Throne Room of the palace. He stood to the left of the empty throne, the other members of the Council behind him; the two princes flanked the throne, standing quietly, their gaze fixed intently on him. Tynan squared his shoulders and in a quiet but compelling voice addressed the members of the Court who were also gazing fixedly at him.

  “The passing of our dear king has left Rubicon with more than grief to bear. His death left the throne empty, and left two princes equally qualified and able to wear his crown. You all know the reasons behind our dilemma; it is unnecessary to state them here and now. Suffice it to say that the Council cannot, in good conscience, choose between these men. And yet, only one may rule.”

  Tynan glanced at the princes, then returned his gaze to the waiting crowd. “We are a people who believe in legend and myth, as our ancestors taught us to believe. Though few in this room have ever seen the Books, all know the stories. And in those stories, time and again, the nobility of a man has been tested and proven by a Quest. It seems only fitting that now, with our world torn and our throne empty, we should turn to those stories for a solution to our desperate problem.”

  “Good, isn’t he?” Boran murmured to Hunter.

  Hunter glanced at his half brother and smiled a little. “They elected him Speaker.”

  Tynan paused a moment, not entirely for effect; he braced himself for the reaction. “Our king must be above other men. Stronger. Wiser. Compassionate without weakness. Decisive without ruthlessness. He must be the best possible man he can be.

  “And so, the Council of Elders has on this day unanimously agreed that our king must be chosen by means of a Quest.” He turned to face the princes. “Two one-man ships are being prepared in the spaceport. They are identical in every way, stocked and armed equally. Each of you will board his ship and leave Rubicon in three days. You will both search for the same thing. The first of you to return to Rubicon with the object of the Quest will be our next king.”

  A ripple went through the Throne Room that was visible as well as audible, approval on some faces, disapproval on others, and a question on all.

  “I agree,” Hunter said quietly.

  Boran nodded. “And I.”

  They glanced at each other, the measuring, wary glances of men who are suddenly looking ahead to a bitter rivalry. And it was Hunter who asked the question.

  “What do we search for?”

  Tynan smiled. “A unicorn. The first of you who returns to Rubicon with proof that unicorns do—or
do not—exist will rule this planet.”

  Styx

  Chapter 1

  The sleek young stallion fought valiantly, with sharp hooves and strong teeth, his powerful hind legs lashing out again and again. Loath to give away the hiding place of the herd, he never once glanced toward the wide end of the valley and the cave opening hidden by brush.

  Cannily evading the thrusts of the man’s long knife, the stallion pinned his ears flat against his noble head and screamed his rage, dark eyes burning with a new and terrible ferocity. He lunged again, tearing flesh from the man’s arm and tasting blood for the first time in his life.

  The man shrieked in pain, clapping a hand to his arm and dodging frantically as needle-sharp hooves seemingly came from nowhere to send the knife flying. Triumphant, the stallion aimed a last and deadly kick, then whirled to confront the second enemy struggling to hold the slender woman who was fighting to escape him.

  The woman was writhing within the big man’s cruel embrace, the serene beauty of her face marred by fear. But not for herself. She saw the young stallion charging toward them, and her velvety dark eyes were wild with terror and despair.

  “No, Sasha!” she cried desperately.

  But the stallion charged on, blindly intent on protecting the woman and destroying the enemy. So unheeding was he in his rage that he never saw the man’s arm draw back suddenly and snap forward with vicious force.

  And he never saw the long hunter’s knife that buried itself in his snowy white breast.

  “Sasha!” The woman’s whisper was a breath of pure anguish. She was too far away to reach the creature in time, and the certainty of that knowledge tore at her. She slumped within the powerful arms gripping her, only the strength of an enemy holding her up.

  Through tear-flooded eyes, she saw her beloved friend fall heavily to his knees and then on his side, crimson staining his pure white coat. She dimly heard the man’s harsh laugh and dropped to her own knees as he released her.