And then one night, standing on a high hill and looking down at a crystal stream, Nils saw at last the thing he desired, the thing he had sought all these years, the thing he had longed for without knowing what it was he longed for, the thing his family had wronged so badly, so long ago.
It was a unicorn.
Nils stood as if frozen while he watched it drink from the clear, cold water. Its coat glowed like white fire in the moonlight. Its creamy mane was like the froth on the waves of the northern sea where he had swum with his mermaid love, and its horn was a spiraled lance that seemed carved from the jewels of the earth. The sight of the creature filled him with such terrible longing that he could not speak.
When the unicorn turned from the stream he followed it, much as the girl named Ivy had followed him, though at a greater distance. He did not want it to know he was there. Not yet. Not yet.
It was not hard for Nils to trail the creature, for his heart was so tied to it that even when it was beyond the edge of his vision he could sense it. But Nils was not the only one stalking the unicorn. One afternoon as he came over a ridge and saw, as he knew he would, the unicorn in the green valley below he saw something else, too. Something that filled him with cold terror.
It was a Hunter. Not just a man out hunting for his family. This was one of his own family, a man like his father who had but one mission in life—to find and slay the unicorns.
That was bad enough. Even worse, he had already captured this unicorn. It was an old story, one that Nils knew well. In the clearing stood a maiden. The unicorn had come to her, as a unicorn always will to a maiden in the woods, and she had slipped a golden bridle over his head, putting him in her power. Now she held him while the Hunter approached, spear in hand, ready to strike the final blow.
Nils was too far away to stay the Hunter’s hand.
So he did the only thing he could, the only thing he knew.
He sang.
Taking his harp from his back, he sang the saddest song he knew, using every trick he had learned from goblin, from dragon, from mermaid, every bit of skill he had gathered in the decades since he first touched the harp.
The Hunter hesitated. His hands began to tremble.
Nils started forward. He sang more softly now, intimately, caressing the Hunter’s heart with the pain that had clutched his own for all these years, crafting his song like an arrow to pierce the other, and pouring into its notes all he knew of loss and longing.
The Hunter turned and stared at Nils in wonder. Then he dropped his spear, fell to his knees, and began to sob, releasing a flood of sorrow that had been locked in his heart from the first time his father had beat him as a boy and told him that real men never cry.
Nils walked past the sobbing hunter, past the terrified girl.
“I have been seeking you for a long time,” he said as he slipped the golden bridle from the unicorn’s head.
The silver-eyed creature did not answer, but knelt in a clear invitation. Nils climbed on its back, and they fled through the forest, leaving Hunter and maiden far behind. When they were many miles away the unicorn stopped and Nils slid to the ground.
The unicorn turned to him and Nils, who would have done anything for the beast, suffered anything for it, did not move at all when it stepped toward him, pointed its horn directly at his chest, and pierced the flesh above his heart.
Nils was sure he was about to die. To his astonishment, what happened instead was that the unicorn was able to speak to him.
To his sorrow, its voice was filled with horror.
“Something has happened to you,” it said. “You’ve been touched by something, changed by something. You have—I don’t know what this means—you have a bit of unicorn in you.”
Nils’s shame was so great that his first thought was to turn and run. But he could not leave the presence of the unicorn.
Nor could he stay silent.
So he told the story of what had happened when he was young, and his father had slain the unicorn. As he spoke he began to weep, something he had not done since he was four years old. And he wept even more when the unicorn wept, too—and still harder when it placed its horn across his shoulder and murmured, “Whatever forgiveness you need, I grant.”
In the storm of weeping that followed, Nils shed all the tears that had been locked inside since the moment he had swallowed the unicorn’s flesh, tears for himself, for his mother, even for his father: tears of guilt, tears of rage, tears of loss.
He wept until there was no more silver in his eyes, and they were once again as they had been when he was a boy, as blue as the northern skies. And where each tear fell a flower grew, a little white flower that grows to this day in the northern hills, and which herb women call Heart’s Ease.
When at last he was done with weeping, the unicorn, whose name was Cloudmane, and who was the first female unicorn ever to act as Guardian of Memory, said, “Pluck a hair from my tail.”
Nils blinked. “Why would you want me to do that?”
She nudged him playfully and said, “Because your harp is in need of a string.”
So Nils did as she said. The silver hair was gossamer thin, but stronger than steel, and when he had used it to string his harp, he ran his fingers over it, and heard at last the sound he had been waiting so many years to hear. Then he wept once more, this time for joy.
Nils traveled with Cloudmane for three years, and in that time she taught him the songs of the unicorns, which are the Songs of the Air, and his heart was at peace.
When Cloudmane had taught him the last of the songs she knew, Nils bid her good-bye. Then he climbed to the top of a mountain where he sat himself down. Gazing out at the world, he sang and sang, until at last he could sing no more.
The Guardian of Memory
A Tale from the Unicorn Chronicles
THE banging at the door woke Grimwold, keeper of the Unicorn Chronicles, from his nap.
Naturally, this made the old dwarf even more crotchety than usual, and he grumbled mightily as he headed down the long, wood-paneled tunnel that led to the outside world.
The banging continued.
“I’m coming!” he shouted as he stumped along. “I’m coming!”
The banging went on, unabated. He could tell from the sound that it was made by a hoof.
“Bang, bang, bang,” he muttered. “Dratted nuisance anyway.” When he finally reached the door he yanked it open and snarled, “Well, what do you want?”
The unicorn standing outside looked slightly startled. Speaking respectfully, he said, “It is time for the changing of the guard. The queen sent us to escort you to the ceremony.”
“Well there’s no need to kick the door down! I was just getting my things ready. Come in while I finish.” He glanced past the unicorn and sighed. Four others stood waiting behind the one he had been speaking to.
“You can all come in,” he grumbled.
Quietly, on hooves that could cross a field of flowers without bending a stem, the glory of unicorns entered Grimwold’s underground home. They passed through the door like a sudden surge of moonlight, manes and tails shimmering, horns like spears made of pearl and ice.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Grimwold.
Padding back through the lantern-lit tunnel, past the paintings of unicorns and mermaids and humans who had played a part in Luster’s history, the dwarf made his way through the story room to the Chronicles themselves. Going to one of the oldest of the wooden racks, he selected the proper scroll—though it was hardly necessary, since he knew the story he had to tell by heart.
He stopped in his living quarters long enough to grab a fresh robe and splash some water on his face, then returned to the waiting unicorns.
“You’re Dreamhorn,” he said, looking at the leader. “Son of Ayla Forestfriend. Am I right?”
Dreamhorn nodded. “You keep very good track of us.”
“Have to,” muttered Grimwold. “Queen insists. Well, what are we waiting for? If I
have to do this, I have to. Let’s get going.”
Dreamhorn looked toward the others and nodded. They turned and went back through the door, which Grimwold had not bothered to close earlier.
The little man was the last to leave. He pulled the door shut behind him, sighed, then climbed onto Dreamhorn’s back. Riding a unicorn was supposed to be a great honor. Grimwold, however, preferred to walk and rode now only because he was too old to travel the entire distance to the gathering place on foot—a fact that annoyed him no end.
Grimwold and the unicorns journeyed peacefully, with no sign of the delvers that were the unicorns’ main enemy in Luster. Autumn was on the land, the forest was rich with the blues and silvers of the season. The wind moved occasionally through the fallen leaves, stirring and rustling them. The unicorns’ cloven silver hooves made no sound at all.
At the end of the third day they reached the gathering place, a large grotto where a high waterfall tumbled into a silver pool. Not all the unicorns of Luster were required to attend the ceremony; even this place could not hold that many. But there would be a good number of them—including all who might be chosen to become the new Guardian of Memory.
Though they reached the grotto two days before the ceremony was scheduled to take place, Arabella Skydancer, Queen of the Unicorns, was there to greet them.
Grimwold closed his eyes for just a moment when he spotted the queen. It hurt him to see how thin his old friend had become. Not thin in the sense of gaunt or bony. Arabella’s thinness was that of one who was fading away. Though he would not want to admit it out loud, Grimwold knew he would miss her when she left this world behind.
The queen bowed her head in greeting when she saw him enter the grotto. Grimwold returned the gesture, fighting down a surge of emotion as he remembered all they been through together over the years, the dangers they had faced, the boons she had granted him in return for his service.
“The time has come again,” she said softly, when he was standing close by her side.
“As it always does,” said Grimwold. “All too swiftly.”
“Not too swiftly for the current Guardian,” said the queen, sounding amused.
Grimwold nodded. Though it had been twenty-five years since the last changing of the guard, he remembered the ceremony vividly, and the sorrow that had followed when Night Eyes was chosen. Manda Seafoam, his mother, had been nearly inconsolable. But then, someone always mourned when the new Guardian was chosen.
“You have been well?” asked the Queen, interrupting his thoughts.
“Well enough.”
“And busy?”
“Too busy. If your subjects would stop having adventures for a year or two, I might be able to catch up on my work. As it is, Arabella, I fear I shall never be current.”
The queen laughed, a sound like water on smooth stones, like wind passing through daisies. Grimwold had been making the same complaint for over two hundred years.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
Grimwold snorted, which is not considered an appropriate response to a queen. Arabella pretended not to hear.
The time until the ceremony passed rapidly—more rapidly than Grimwold would have liked, since several unicorns came to him with stories that needed to be told and recorded. He slept at night on a bed of ferns they had prepared for him. It was comfortable enough, but he preferred his cave. The sky above him was too big, and it made him nervous.
He was woken the first morning by a unicorn standing at the foot of his bed. She made no sound, simply stared at him. But the old dwarf felt her presence, even in his sleep. Opening one eye he glared at the unicorn and growled, “Leave me alone.”
“I have to speak to you!”
With an exasperated sigh, Grimwold sat up. “About what? Not a story, I hope. I don’t take stories this early in the morning. Lots of others ahead of you, anyway.”
The unicorn shook her head. “I want you to tell me how I can be chosen as the next Guardian.”
Grimwold blinked in astonishment. “Have you been drinking moonbeams? No one wants that job. Do you have any idea how appalling it is?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”
The unicorn started to answer, but Grimwold raised his hand. “Wait, let me see if I can figure it out. Never saw you before, but I know that flow of mane. The horn—yes, the horn would be . . . Turn around!”
The unicorn did as asked, making a full circle for the dwarf.
Grimwold snorted in triumph. “You’re Cloudmane, daughter of Streamstrider. The queen is your grandmother.”
The unicorn’s large eyes widened in astonishment. “How did you do that?”
“It’s my job to keep track of you unicorns—even young and foolish ones like you. Now, why in the world do you want to be chosen Guardian? Oh, never mind. It doesn’t make any difference anyway, you silly thing. Only stallions take that job. It’s not for mares—and a good thing, too, dangerous, thankless task that it is. It’s more than those fools you creatures are doing it for deserve. Let them get on without you, that’s my stand on the matter. But the queen insists it has to be done. Says it’s important. Says something in them will die without you.” He narrowed his eyes. “So why is it you want the job? Out to prove something? Running away? Some young stallion break your heart?”
Cloudmane’s nostrils flared, and her enormous blue eyes flashed with a fire and a strength that surprised the old dwarf. “My reasons are my own,” she snapped, her mane bristling. “I ask only for some advice.”
“Then I’ll give you some. And I hope you’ll take it. Forget the whole idea. The job of Guardian is not for you—not for any unicorn in its right mind. It’s not a job you volunteer for, it’s a job you take only because you have no choice.”
“We’ll see about that,” muttered Cloudmane. Spinning on her silver hooves she trotted away, seafoam tail whisking angrily behind her. She made not a sound as she crossed the carpet of dried leaves that covered the forest floor.
Grimwold closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. The rising sun was too bright, the conversation too upsetting. And he missed the comforts of his familiar caves. Feeling even crankier than usual, he rose and went to the stream to get a drink and wash his face.
The unicorns arrived in ones and twos at first—mostly those who had traveled the farthest and wanted to make sure to be there on time. As the day wore on they appeared in larger groups. Some of the groups were simply those who had met along the way and decided to finish the journey together. Others were made up of unicorns who had been traveling together for some time, usually those out on border patrol. Late in the afternoon a group of a dozen young stallions arrived, laughing and boisterous, and so full of loud energy and mock battles that at one point the queen herself had to call them down.
And all through the day as the unicorns arrived Grimwold fretted about his conversation with Cloudmane, and wondered if he should speak of it to the queen. But Arabella was busy with her duties. Between preparing for the ceremony and greeting old and honored friends, she had little enough time for him to bother her with nonsense from a young mare—nonsense that, in the end, would come to nothing anyway.
Many of the arriving unicorns made it a point to seek out Grimwold. Some came to tell him that they had new adventures for him to record in the Chronicles. Others wanted simply to greet him and to inquire after his health, a kindness that pleased the old dwarf in spite of himself.
He kept an eye out for Cloudmane, but did not see her again.
Aside from Grimwold, only a handful of two-legs were invited to the ceremony. One was a girl named Ivy, who had the queen’s blessing. Another was a painter named Master Chang, a handsome man with almond eyes and long, dark hair who sometimes made pictures of important events in Luster, pictures that were stored with Grimwold in the Cavern of the Chronicles. A third was Madame Leonetti, an old woman who wore a dark blue robe and gazed out at the world from beneath its hood with eyes so sharp and bright
it seemed they could start a fire of their own accord.
Ivy came to stand beside Grimwold as he was watching the unicorns gather. She fussed with her red hair for a moment—the wind kept trying to rearrange it—then asked shyly, “Did you finish my story?”
Grimwold, who was no taller than the girl, gave her a sad look. “I have finished writing down what happened to you so far. But it will be many years before your story is finished.” Many long, hard years, he wanted to add but bit back the words.
Ivy nodded. “May I stand with you for a while?”
“It would be my pleasure,” replied Grimwold. He was starting to feel nervous about the ceremony and his part in it, and was glad of a distraction.
After a while the dwarf and the girl climbed a narrow path that led to the top of the cliff over which the waterfall flowed. Evening passed softly into full night. Still standing together, high above the ceremonial ground, they continued to watch the unicorns gather.
It was like watching moonlight collect in a bowl, save that it seemed there were as many shades and tones of whiteness as there were stars burning in the vast, clear sky above them.
“Never this many at home,” said Ivy, looking upward.
“Unicorns, or stars?” asked Grimwold.
“No unicorns at home at all,” said Ivy sadly.
Grimwold snorted. “That’s not quite true, my girl. What do you think this ceremony is about, after all?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned to her in surprise. “No one has told you?”
“The queen said I would find out in good time.”
Grimwold hesitated, then said, “This may be as good a time as any.”
“Are you going to tell me a story?” Ivy asked eagerly.
“Might as well. Have to tell it down there in a little while. Good warm-up to tell it to you now.”
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