‘He’s young.’ Melkur spoke without harshness. ‘For all that he is unicorn, and marked with both holy signs.’
The Prancer flicked his ears at their comments. ‘I did feel something, when I first came to the city. But the wrongness went away.’
‘All things can become customary to a being, in time,’ Melkur said. ‘Even evil.’
The Prancer turned his head to meet the man’s light eyes. ‘What evil?’
‘You travelled here with the King.’ Melkur rested his hands across his cane. ‘Did you sense nothing?’
‘I saw what the King’s Champion called magic,’ the Prancer said slowly. ‘But, although I know not what it was, it didn’t feel like magic to me.’
‘Nor does his practice hold a sense of magic to the College,’ Lorin answered. ‘However, four months past, the King sent message to the chief mage that in two days’ time he would cause rain to fall upon the city. We disbelieved him. All our arts forecast no storm for a week. But rain did fall, even as he said, a heavy rain, sour to the taste and painful to the eyes.’
The Prancer turned his head, polished his horn briefly. ‘So, if not magic, what was it?’
‘The King cannot practice magic,’ Melkur announced firmly. ‘He is the only one of the royal blood, in all the years of the College, who was unable to pass through the gate. Most of the blood attempt the passage while they are young, and foolhardy, and think to prove a power to themselves. Anton did not try his hand until his mother lay near dying, and he came midnight to seek the help of the College for her healing. The night watch found him sobbing in failure outside the walls, and when our healers followed him to the castle, they found her far past anything we could offer her. It’s been said that, upon her death, he flew into a rage, insisting that his own arts could have saved her, had he but a little more time.’
The Prancer gave his equivalent of the human nod. ‘So his Champion told me.’
‘Then I tell you something new,’ Lorin said earnestly. ‘Whatever power the King is learning to use, there is nothing of the Land in it. And that is what alarms the College so. For if it is not of the Land, whence does it come?’
<><><><><><>
Anton sat hunched over his desk, occasionally sipping from a glass of wine, the stem pressed between two fingers. His slumped shoulders betrayed his sullen anger at the paperwork spread across the gleaming wood, and alcohol was the only way he knew to make the boring business of kingship more bearable. Only half-drunk could he face the inordinate number of decrees and laws his counsellors felt it necessary for him to review.
At least his brother had chosen his council well. Anton had made no changes upon his sudden, unwelcome succession to the Unicorn Throne. Unable to ignore entirely the demands of duty upon his conscience, he still glanced over everything brought to his desk for his daily working session. Experience had proven his counsellors trustworthy, willing to put more effort into their proposals and reviews so that he could spend the less. And if occasionally a decree favoured one of them, he shrugged and added his signature, considering it light payment for the freedom their dutiful service gave him.
Freedom, he thought sourly. He tipped the remainder of the wine into his mouth, swirled the sweetness around his tongue, then swallowed. By the slant of sunlight through the far window of his office, he decided that it was drawing too late into the afternoon for another glass. He always stopped drinking before nightfall, wanting a clear head for his true work, at night, when the rest of the castle slept. Then he had his true freedom, alone with his studies under the foundations.
He scrawled his Antonious Unicornus under the decree, granting water rights across several manors, then pushed the paper with its heavy seals onto the pile of other completed documents. The next parchment was a petition from one of his dukes, and he let the formal greetings roll over in his mind. Evan Jonnston Evard, Duke of Chessel, Protector of the Montanan Waters, unto Anton Unicornus, Keeper of the Unicorn Throne, King of the Third Kingdom, Protector against Dragons and the Keeper of the Dragon Throne--
Anton yawned, bored already. He flicked fingers through the remainder of the letters and petitions, tempted to scatter them across the floor and walk away. You can’t, he reminded himself grimly. You are King, and until the day you can use the power in its fullness, you must act as you are expected to act.
But the thought of his real work had brought a smile to his face. Yes, the hours of his day might belong to the kingdom. But the night was his alone. He was now able to face each morning alert in mind and body after only one hour of sleep, whereas in the past he had needed seven. That was something no mage magic would have been able to give him.
A knock sounded on his door. His steward stepped inside, expression carefully neutral as he noted the piles on the desk, measuring the completed portion against the unsigned. ‘Lord Unicorn the Prancer, Your Majesty.’
Anton bent his head. ‘All welcome to the Lord Unicorn,’ he said, the formality coming with the ease of years of tuition.
The Prancer lowered his head to walk through the doorway. Despite himself, Anton felt his heart lifting at the sight of the unicorn. The coat of white shone as if with a light of its own, sleeker than even the finest stallion in the King’s stables. The silver horn twisted sharp and steep from the fine forehead, making the curve of neck and the dish of the face even more elegant. Silver hooves, muffled by the carpets across the wooden floor, stood trim and straight, and overall the Prancer’s confirmation would have made any breeder weep with joy.
Then the Prancer spoke, as sovereign to subject, and Anton was reminded that tradition gave the unicorn such a right. ‘I come to take my leave of you.’
Anton rose, clenching fists behind his back. ‘You have graced my court,’ he said, glad for formality behind which he could hide his anger. ‘May I offer you escort to the forests of Lord the Dancer, your sire?’
‘I thank you, but I’m not yet returning there.’ The Prancer’s tail swept over his legs. ‘I must press onward, through the kingdom.’
‘Whence are you bound?’
‘I know not.’ The unicorn hesitated, then confided, ‘I have two duties. The first comes from my sire. What do you know of magic?’
Anton gave him a careful shrug, biting back the temptation to tell the beast exactly what magic really was. Not yet. This was not yet the time. ‘Some. Not much.’
‘The magic is dying, and the Land with it.’ The Prancer lowered his head, bringing their eyes more on a level. ‘My sire feels this, your mages have confirmed it. I seek answers. Have I your blessing to travel freely across the kingdom?’
‘You have it.’ Traditional request and answer. No unicorn need ask, but courtesy demanded it, nevertheless. ‘And the second duty?’
‘I seek a dragon,’ the Prancer said grimly. ‘Until I find him, I cannot return to the forest.’
‘Luck to your search,’ Anton replied. ‘And my greetings to your sire.’
‘I shall take them to him, one day.’ The Prancer dipped his head, then turned and strode from the room.
Anton lowered himself back into his chair. ‘Their magic is dying,’ he repeated softly, wonderingly, to himself. ‘It’s working. It’s really working.’ Then a wide grin split his face, and he leaned back in the chair, laughing. ‘Their magic is dying!’
Then, just as suddenly, he sobered again. He quickly finished the work lying on his desk, then called his steward. As the man cleared the bundle, Anton poured himself a double-shot of his favourite brandy. He would forgo his customary trip into the catacombs tonight. He had plans to make, now, with the unicorn’s revelation to hand. The passing of what the unicorn called ‘magic’ would warp the Four Kingdoms, and he must be ready to do battle for the Third.
Perhaps even for the Fourth, he found himself thinking, alone again, and a map of the Land under his fingers. What’s the name of their new Queen? Fianna, not that much younger than myself. If she can be convinced that the world must be claimed for humans alone, as had
always been meant...
Anton took a sip of brandy, pulled out a map of the Fourth Kingdom, and began to study the possible sites of mineral deposits.
<><><><><><>
The Prancer paused outside the city, glancing back at the shining towers over his shoulder. Then he kicked away in a ground-eating trot, his steps lifting more easily as he placed miles between himself and Primus.
The mages had been able to give him little more information after his drink at the fountain. The woman he searched for was not in the city. That much they had been able to ascertain. Whether she held some answer to his task, they were uncertain. But Melkur had sensed that more understanding would come from the journey ahead of him.
The sun was warm on his withers, and the grass, now far from the city, was green and sweet. The Prancer was glad to put distance between himself and the wrongness he had once again felt within the castle, his senses reawakened by his visit to the College. He was happy to be continuing his journey, and he threw out his chest as his hooves flashed over the ground.
Three days later, a fierce mid-summer storm had swung in over the Land, and the Prancer was miserable. The ground, hardened by long days of sun, refused the rain passage, and fields had been turned into fetlock high lakes. The Prancer lowered his head to the wind, letting his horn break its force across his body. One hoof at a time, he pushed forward, cold water splashing against chilled skin, his mane hanging sullenly against his neck and dripping additional water into his eyes.
The downpour was dampening scent as well. Despite his efforts, he could not find a town nearby. The thought of a house, warmth, companionship, perhaps even an ale, seemed almost overpowering.
Why did I ever decide to travel? he wondered, thoughts as slow and ponderous as his steps. There was no need for it. I could have remained with the herd, learning from the Teacher, even now being teased by the fillies as they come of age. I should not be alone. Unicorns were not meant to be alone.
He stopped then, closing his eyes to the storm. Unicorns were not meant to be alone. His breath stilled in his throat. Now, in the dark and wet, not caught up by the wonder of adventure, he realised how much he missed the herd. From birth he had been a part of them. The days of carefree play and dutiful studies with other foals, guarded affectionately by the elders of the People of the Trees. The warm nights, his body near to many other bodies, the sound of easy and contented breathing in the quiet. The winds pulling smells of young grass and new flowers, or crisp leaves or fresh snow, to tickle down whisker-rimmed nostrils and sweeten his dreams. And, better yet, the nights he did not sleep, but sought guidance from the tree of his birth…
The Prancer lifted his head, eyes still closed, ears flat against skull. With a sense beyond sight or hearing he felt something call to him from the rain-drenched darkness. A voice unfamiliar yet known to him, reminding him of another he knew well. He allowed his hooves to be guided in the direction of the summons. The rain was taken from his shoulders, and he knew himself to be standing in a grove of trees.
The one who had called stood straight and strong on his right. A rowan, brother to the tree his mother had selected before his birth, informing the small sapling in the sacred grove that it would be entrusted with his afterbirth, the one which had delivered him safely into the world and then died so that he might live.
The tree took his weight without groaning, waited as he calmed himself. Then, as he had been trained, the Prancer rested his horn against the rough bark. He willed his mind through the touch, into the tree, into its roots, seeking for the roots of his own tree, far away in the forests of the People.
The sensation had been described, but until now he had never felt it for himself. The willingness of tree after tree, rowan and oak and birch and elder, to respond to the petition of the rowan and to pass his calling through the intricate twining of their roots under and through the Land. Over the gaps of fields, skirting around the heavy pools of water, singing in the density of forests, his mind was carried over the distance for the sake of the love between himself and the rowan closer to him than any other.
Then he was again with the tree which was part of him, its roots nourished from its infancy with a part of himself. They had grown up together, the sapling taking into itself the greater wisdom held by his afterbirth, the two blending into one. All this he had been told. Now he knew it for himself.
Messages came from the rowan, left by those who had visited the tree in the hopes that the Prancer might make contact. The loving, healing presence of his milk-mother, who had recently run with the stallion of her choosing and who dared to hope that she might already be pregnant. A brief, strong impression of his sire, wishing him strength for the continuance of his journey. Several colts and fillies of his season, dutifully rehearsing their greetings before the tree at the Teacher’s instruction. The Prancer found himself able to smile at the last, knowing that they too, one day, would come to realise the truth of what they had been taught.
In return, he left a brief message for them all, that he was well, and part way through the Third Kingdom. When they next came to the tree, the rowan would pass on the impressions he had left, maintaining contact between the People and the furthest flung of their members.
Finally, legs beginning to tremble despite the rowan’s borrowed strength, the Prancer returned to his physical self. He was unused to the practice of magic, and the long communion had drained his reserves. Trusting to the trees to keep watch over him, he slid to the ground, not caring that the ground was damp under his skin as he dropped into a deep, peaceful sleep.
<><><><><><>
The village was small, even by the standards of others he had seen. The Prancer limped into the middle of the huddle of buildings near sunset. A few rays of sun struggled through the heavy clouds, the storm merely resting between bouts, still long from over. He was bedraggled, muddy, and hoofsore, and he was embarrassed that anyone should see him in such a state. But he needed shelter until the weather cleared.
Curious townsfolk came from their small homes, awed to be visited by a unicorn, hardly seeming to notice that his coat was more grey than white from dirt. One man separated himself from the rest. ‘Welcome, Lord Unicorn. What can we offer you?’
‘Shelter,’ the Prancer said briefly. ‘Until the storm has passed.’
‘Glad would we be to offer you what we can,’ the man said hesitantly. ‘But we have nothing worthy of one such as you.’
‘A clean stable, a helping of hay, is all I ask for.’ The Prancer saw relief battle with honour. None of the houses appeared large enough to comfortably add a unicorn to their occupants, but did they dare place a Lord Unicorn amongst horses and cattle? ‘And perhaps a bowl of ale.’
The last brought a smile to their faces. ‘Aye, that can we give you.’ The man straightened. ‘If you would follow me, lord, we’ll see to your comfort.’
A stable was set back from the houses, the wood-sided building long and low. The Prancer ducked his head to pass through the double doors, and halted in relief on the straw-lined floor inside. Humble it might be, but the place smelled clean, and the quiet noises of cows and horses shifting in their stalls were welcome after days of nothing but the screeching of wind.
A second man ducked past them, carrying a long, pronged pitchfork. He opened an empty box stall, and began to pull fresh straw from the eaves above to line the earth.
The Prancer nodded, both with weariness and approval. The first man coughed, awkwardly, and the Prancer turned his head back to look at him. Objects unfamiliar to the Prancer were held in his hands, both containing bristles which smelled of horse. ‘My lord,’ the man said slowly, ‘I know that I’m unworthy to touch one such as you, but I would not send the lowest of my beasts to their beds in the state the storm has left you. So, how can I leave you with the mud of your journey thick on your back?’
The Prancer lowered his head, bringing their eyes level. ‘What do you ask of me?’
‘If I may, I will show you.’ The m
an moved carefully to his side. At the first touch of the bristles against his flanks, the Prancer was unable to control a side-step. Then he stilled himself, beginning to comprehend the man’s intent.
The thick bristles pulled against his coat, digging at the mud and tangles left by the rain and fields. The Prancer closed his eyes, finding himself enjoying the sensation of skin being cleaned by swift, sure strokes. The human knew his task well. When a clump threatened to tear away hair as well as mud, he used the other tool to gently break up the mat.
And yet, the Prancer slowly became aware, the man was still uncomfortable to be so near a unicorn, the almost mythical protectors of the Kingdom. The Prancer could sense the man blocking the thought from his mind, pretending instead that he was doing no more than tending to a far-travelled horse. Humans have always been reluctant to touch me, the Prancer thought, as if the barest press of skin against skin might harm either them or me. He sighed deep in his throat, once again missing the closeness of the herd. If only humans could be comfortable around him. Perhaps then he would feel less lonely.
A few final brushes, and even his mane and tail were clean, free-flowing. The Prancer opened his eyes, looking down with interest at the clumps of dried mud surrounding him. The man quietly replaced combs with a broom, then swept the dirt to one side. He pulled a large hook from his pocket. ‘Did I see you limp, my lord?’
The Prancer lifted his left forefoot, remembering. ‘I picked up a stone, and I’ve not summoned the energy to remove it.’
‘Then permit me the honour.’ The man moved closer. ‘If you will hold it higher, my lord?’
The Prancer obeyed, and turned his head to watch. The man cupped his hoof in one large palm, turning it towards him. The piece of flint, caught next to the frog, was beginning to cut into the dark flesh. The man placed the tip of the hook under the stone. Then, with one quick movement, it was flicked free. The Prancer lowered his leg, grateful. Humans had more uses than he had realised. ‘Thank you.’
The Dragon Throne Page 17