by Chrys Cymri
Against his chest jangled two objects, held around his neck by thongs of woven reeds. The first was a reminder of his quest. The dragon had left a claw behind in Storm’s body, and now the silver curve was carried by his milk-brother. The second recalled where he had come from, a whorl of root from his birth-tree. With both his past and his future held close, he could forget both for the pleasure of the present.
Not that I don’t miss you, he thought at Storm. The night before his leaving his sire had come to him. Pacing slowly through the sacred woods, the Dancer had explained quietly that he had always thought to send the Prancer as his emissary to the humans. ‘Every year, the celebrations come harder,’ the stallion had said. ‘Summoning the elements more difficult. I would have sent you with your milk-brother, once you were of age. The rulers of the Third Kingdom are beholden to us. Speak to whoever now sits on the Unicorn Throne about the disappearance of the magic. Ask him or her to send some of their mages to the People, and I will meet with them to discuss the matter further.’
He silently rehearsed his lessons in Human as he adjusted his gait to the flatter land. Yes, Storm would have been a good choice. He had always found it easy to form the strange, rough syllables of the human language. I’ll manage, the Prancer thought confidently. I never did that badly in lessons.
The smells he had always been taught to associate with humans were coming stronger now to his nostrils. The denseness of smoke, the higher scent of freshly-turned earth, even a hint of the sour sweat which must be human itself. As the sun set, the Prancer picked out warm lights in the distance, like fire but contained. It was true then, he thought, settling by a small stream for the night. Humans can control small parts of the sun. He was more eager than ever to meet one for himself, excitement churning his stomachs as he tried to graze.
A soft sound awoke him in the morning. He raised his head, blinking rapidly as he realised that he was no longer alone. Small creatures surrounded him, several bodies thick. Hares and foxes stood fearlessly side by side, birds rested in the antlers of deer. And surrounding them darker beings, skins black and a pair of soft appendages writhing from shoulders. The Prancer eyed them uneasily. After a moment, they disappeared back into the fields, leaving him to wonder what they had wanted of him.
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By late afternoon the Prancer had reached the town. Several dozen buildings straggled down a street of packed earth, and the Prancer slowed his pace to a walk in order to study them more fully. They were formed from square shaped pieces of hard earth, roofed by either wood or dried grass. Colouring had been added to some surfaces, bright blues and reds dimmed by weather and age.
The Prancer halted as he saw his first human. It stood in the entrance to one of the buildings. Long hair streamed down to the middle of its tall body, and fabric flapped against its chest and lower limbs. A female, the Prancer decided tentatively, reviewing what he had been taught about human customs. To his delight, a small version peered around the female, a digit in its mouth. So, it was true. Their young mirrored the adults, even as unicorn young did.
The female ducked back inside the entrance and covered it with a large beam of wood. The Prancer stared after her in regret, thinking of all the questions he would have liked to ask. Then he continued down the road, senses alert for a building with the mingled smells of smoke and grain. He would find humans in such a place, his sire had told him. He was to go inside, speak as he had been taught in lessons, and wait in the town until the Keeper of the Unicorn Throne had come for him. ‘The place will be what they call an “inn,”’ the Dancer had said. ‘And it’s their tradition, that whatever is spoken of in an inn, is soon known throughout the entire kingdom.’
The sound of laughter drew him further along. A board of wood creaked outside a large building. It was a crude representation of a unicorn, the horn too long, the beard missing. But the Prancer saluted it cheerfully. This must be an inn, and obviously his kind were expected here. He trotted up to a large beam of wood set into the earthen sides and, after a moment’s hesitation, pressed it open with his nose.
The inside was dark. There was a mingled scent of smoke and sweat, overlaid with the higher smell of overripe grain. Yes, this must be the place. The Prancer pushed his way in, flicking his tail out of the way of the wood as it shut again behind him. Conversations stopped as he stepped up to the centre of the room, his hooves clacking against the wooden floor. He halted before a raised area, about mid-height to the human standing behind it. As he had learned in his earliest lessons, he said clearly, ‘A bowl of your best ale, and a room for the night, please.’
The silence was now complete. The Prancer glanced around at the dozen open mouths, worried. Had his Human been that poor? He turned his head, his horn clanging against several glasses hanging from the roof. ‘My sorrow if my speech offends,’ he told the dark haired man behind the barrier. ‘I have but little learning for my age.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ the human stammered. He waved a scrap of cloth at another human nearby. ‘The unicorn bowl, Raffian.’
‘But, Iver,’ said the younger human in a low voice, ‘you know it’s in the stables.’
‘Then clean it up,’ the man growled. He raised the cloth and wiped moisture from his round face with it. ‘We are honoured to have you here, Lord Unicorn.’
The Prancer allowed himself a small sigh of relief. So far he had understood everything the humans had said, even if their accents were far rougher than he’d expected. ‘I am honoured by your welcome.’
‘Yes, right.’ The man coughed. ‘Maybe you’d like something to eat. Some stew, or a pie?’
The Prancer frowned in concentration. The conversation was turning away from the lines he’d practised in lessons. He could no longer rely on memorised responses. The man had mentioned eating. Therefore, the strange words he had spoken next must relate to food. Since he had no idea what ‘stew’ or ‘pie’ might be, it would be better to decline. ‘Thank you, no,’ he said politely. ‘I did graze this morning.’
The human called Raffian returned, panting as he offered a silver bowl to the other man. The unicorn design around the rim was dimmed from years of tarnish, but the inside was newly clean. The second human, Iver, placed it under a long wooden contraption at the other side of the barrier. A dark brown liquid frothed into the bowl. Once it was filled, Iver placed it carefully on the barrier. ‘Or would you like it on the floor?’ the man asked hesitantly.
‘Here is acceptable.’ The Prancer sniffed at the ale, wondering why anyone would wish to use perfectly acceptable grain to make such a concoction. Well, he would have to drink it, regardless of the taste. The Dancer had made it clear that refusing ale when offered would be a discourtesy.
The Prancer lowered his muzzle into the liquid. First swallow confirmed its bitterness, and he wished he could risk touching it with his horn to sweeten the mixture. That too would probably offend his hosts, so he forced himself to empty the bowl.
When he lifted his head again, he found the human’s teeth bared. His first reaction was to retreat, and he had to remind himself that exposing teeth was not a sign of aggression in humans. Somehow he had pleased Iver. ‘You like the ale?’
He had memorised this response. ‘It is the best I have ever tasted.’
‘Did you hear that, lads?’ Iver called to the others in the inn. ‘The Spotted Unicorn’s ale has passed muster by the Lord Unicorn himself. So I’ll have no more grumbling from the likes of you!’
The Prancer sighed as Iver refilled the bowl. Well, he deserved it, considering his half-truth. ‘May I also have a room for the night?’
The bowl clunked onto the barrier. ‘There is room in the stables. Only a few horses there now.’
‘My sire warned me against stables,’ the Prancer said haltingly. ‘He said horses have very limited vocabularies.’
Raffian plucked at Iver’s sleeve. ‘There be the room at back.’
‘Aye, laddie.’ Iver coughed. ‘My lord, I would ask y
ou to note that the privy is outside these walls.’
‘Privy?’ the Prancer repeated, trying his lips around the awkward word.
‘Yes, you know.’ Iver waved his cloth around again, leaving the Prancer to wonder if it were part of some human custom he hadn’t been told about. ‘When the need strikes. Can’t be having mess in the room, can we?’
‘My honourable friend,’ the Prancer said gravely, ‘I fear I do not understand you.’
One of the men at a nearby table laughed. ‘He means, go outside to crap!’
The Prancer turned the words around in his head. Then he dipped his head in an approximation of a human nod. ‘Yes. I will step outside to defecate.’
‘Well, that’s settled, then.’ Iver exposed teeth again. ‘How long will you stay with us, lord?’
The Prancer took another sip of ale, rolling it over his tongue. The flavour was starting to become intriguing. ‘Only until your ruler comes for me.’
‘The King?’ Iver started. ‘You’re expecting him here?’
‘He will come, once he knows I am here.’ He swallowed more ale. Perhaps his first assessment of the drink had been overly harsh.
‘So you might be here some weeks,’ Iver said.
The Prancer’s tail flicked. ‘I will need lodging until that time, yes.’
‘We will be pleased to have you,’ Raffian said smoothly. He looked up at the taller man. ‘Won’t we, Iver? Methinks the King will be pleased to settle the costs of ale and lodging.’
Iver’s face cleared. ‘And we will be proud to have provided for a Lord Unicorn.’
‘I will be riding back to Primus in a few days’ time,’ said the seated man who had spoken earlier. ‘What’s your name, ‘corn, so that I may hand it on to the King?’
The Prancer hesitated. The name he had assumed after birth was an uneasy compromise between the two symbols he bore on his coat. It had taken him some time, even with the assistance of the Teacher, to establish a Human equivalent. ‘The name I presently carry is the Prancer.’
‘Prancer, eh?’ The man rose, hooking thumbs through a wide belt. The clothes he wore were a bright contrast to the natural browns and greys of the others in the inn. The Prancer admired the shifting sheens of the crimson tunic, clashing against a green undershirt. ‘Do you play poker?’
‘Poker,’ the Prancer repeated, racing through his mind for information about that human custom. ‘A game of skill and chance. Would it be like chess? I like chess.’
‘Something like chess.’ The man pulled his chair to one side, waving the Prancer to the space freed at the table. ‘Come, Lord ‘Corn, join us. I will lend you hands and counsel.’
‘Aye,’ said another at the table, ‘and who will give him credit?’
‘No doubt the King will also favour us in this,’ the first man said smoothly. ‘My name be Lionth, merchant and message carrier. Hiding from fields and wives are Grimby, Alisan, and Menbrik.’
The one called Grimby shrugged. ‘My wife tends the books better in my absence. Or so she says.’
The Prancer took his position at the table end, filing the conversation away for analysis later. There was much going on here he didn’t understand. Iver brought a refilled bowl to the table, placing it near him. Taking a long draught of ale, the Prancer’s ear flicked as Lionth began to explain the rules of the game to him. Something about pictures of queens and kings, numbers of diamonds and spades. The Prancer nodded despite his confusion. Chess was so much easier to follow.
‘I will partner the ‘corn,’ said Lionth. ‘If all of you be agreed?’
Menbrik, a burly man with a thick beard the Prancer envied, grunted assent. ‘I wager the King’s coin is a better shade than yours, merchant.’
The thin pieces of wood-substance were dealt, picture side down. Lionth picked up five from the table, held them up for the Prancer to see. ‘Watch, Lord ‘Corn. Three.’ He pulled three cards, placed them onto the table. A different three were handed to him. Others around the table traded varying numbers of cards.
For awhile Lionth played without referring to him. The Prancer began to see a pattern in the cards given away, the collections which helped one man win the counters from others on the table. It was like a herd ceremony, with steps to follow and responses to be learned. And, like in a ceremony, the others gave signs as to what they held in their hands. Menbrik’s eyes narrowed slightly when he had a strong collection. Grimby held the cards fractionally closer to his chest when he didn’t like what he possessed. Alisan’s sweat dampened the air when he was suddenly hopeful.
And it wasn’t always the one who held the best collection who won. Like in the Battle Dance, bluffing was all important. The Prancer drank from yet another bowl of ale, then cast an eye across the cards Lionth now held. Three of the pictures called ‘kings.’ He watched with approval as Lionth placed the other two cards down. Unfortunately, those he received in return added no strength to the hand.
The men began to place counters onto the table. The Prancer watched closely as the betting progressed. When five counters were required to remain in the game, Lionth started to place his collection down. ‘No,’ the Prancer told him. He blinked, wondering why his voice had come out louder than he had intended.
Lionth shrugged, smiled at his companions. ‘Lord ‘Corn bids me to remain in the play, and who am I to gainsay him? Much as I doubt his wisdom.’
The Prancer glanced at him. He was more certain that his ground was solid under hoof. The others were unconfident of their own hands. ‘Meet, and raise by three.’
Alisan cast his cards onto the table. ‘I have no wish to throw my money away.’
Grimby moved his collection away from his chest, glanced at them, then at the table. ‘I meet, and raise one.’
Menbrik’s eyes were wide. He licked his lips, then downed his hand. The Prancer suddenly had to fight a strange urge to laugh. The air was warm, and his head was beginning to swim. He told Lionth, ‘Meet, and raise by six.’
Grimby paled noticeably. He studied the Prancer closely, then Lionth. With a grunt, he flung his cards across the table. ‘How am I to read a unicorn?’
‘How, indeed,’ Lionth agreed, collecting the counters together. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
At the bar, Iver cleared his throat loudly. ‘My lords and ladies, the evening draws on. Have you no homes to return to?’
The Prancer watched, puzzled, as tankards were emptied, chairs were scraped back, and the humans began to file from the room. Was this a part of a larger ceremony? He started to take a step to follow them, but was halted by Lionth’s arm and a sudden wave of dizziness. ‘Peace, ‘corn,’ said the man quietly. ‘You lodge here for the night, even as I do. Do you not recall?’
‘I think so,’ the Prancer said. Through his growing haze, something was suddenly clear. ‘You knew I could help you win. How?’
Lionth chuckled. ‘My family have been merchants and gamblers for generations. My grandfather raised me on tales of his wanderings with one of your own ancestors. They cleared wallet after wallet in games of poker. Could I interest you in a similar partnership?’
At least the buzzing haze was making Human easier to speak. ‘I already have a duty.’
‘Oh, yes, to meet the King.’
‘And to fight a dragon.’ He jerked away, finding Iver watching him. ‘Could you please show me to my room?’
‘This way, Lord Unicorn.’ The Prancer found himself reflecting, as he ducked under the doorway, that his sire would never have fit through the small openings in these structures.
To his relief, Iver only stayed long enough to light a lantern. The small flame revealed four bare walls, a chest, and a bed. The Prancer eyed the mattress, knowing its use from tales told by the Teacher. It was too small for him, but took up too much of the floor for him to lie down on the boards. The room spinning gently around him, he lowered his head and cocked one foot, resigning himself to sleeping on the hoof.
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Sunlight cr
ept slowly through the window, lighting the wooden floor, a silver hoof, the beginning of feathered hair on the fetlock. Warmth trickled up the golden light, touching chest, muzzle, horn. An ear twitched, and the Prancer was suddenly awake. He opened his eyes, and the light dazzled a painful path into his throbbing head.
His first stomach made a sudden lurch. The Prancer staggered to the narrow door by the window. The lock sprang open at a touch from his horn, and he squeezed his way outside. Ignoring the inquisitive snorts from horses in the nearby corral, he stumbled to a small thicket. There he was promptly sick, a small part of him deciding that he hadn’t felt so ill since accidentally eating redroot several seasons ago.
Finally finished, he leaned against a tree, taking quick breaths. Water, he decided weakly, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. Need water. The horses backed away as he walked up to the corral, sliding his head through gaps in the fence to touch his horn to the watering trough inside. Silver shimmered from the horn, streamed across the water. The surface scum burst into brief flame and then was gone, leaving behind liquid so clear that the worn wood of the bottom of the trough was visible. The Prancer lowered his muzzle, and drank long and deep.
The horses had moved closer as he soothed his stomach with water. The Prancer raised his head, drops falling from his chin. Could I really be related to these creatures? he wondered. Perhaps there was an outward similarity. They did have four hooves and manes. But he was nearly their height, though they were adults and he was far from full grown. His muscles were thicker, his head more finely shaped. And none of them had beards, or hair above their dark hooves.
They were also obviously awed by him. The Prancer snorted. He slipped his head back through the wooden slats. The water had eased his throat, and he felt almost recovered. He turned and started back to the inn, allowing the horses to sample the sweet water he had left behind.
‘My Lord Unicorn.’
The Prancer halted. The walk across the hard ground had started his head throbbing again. He turned and watched a woman approach. She wore an interesting mixture of clothes. The usual greys and browns of field clothes, plain and unadorned, over which fluttered a rich cloak of silvers and blacks. The Prancer noted uneasily that the silver markings were the five close spots of a Painter, even as his would look in a few more years if his coat did decide to transition from the white of herd members to either the steel grey of Painters or to the black worn by Dancers alone.