Unicorn
I awake to silence.
Around me, the night is still. I can't hear anything, not even a single insect chirp. But still, something is there.
I stir, lifting my head, crawling forward. Pain flashes, and I give a soundless cry. But something draws me out. Something tugs at me, brings me crawling in agony out from under the bush.
The night is still, so still. The moonlight is brighter than ever in my life, and I can clearly see what has caused the night to hold its breath.
It's a unicorn. Standing on the dew-spangled grass before me, a unicorn.
She stands before me, looking at me with huge black eyes. Her horn is a whorled star-gleam. Her hooves are cloven. Her tail lashes, a tuft of white at the end. Her mane is melted pearl. Her coat is whiter than any whiteness of the earth. A unicorn.
She steps closer, and I can smell her now: snow and flowers. Her head arcs down. Her horn descends, sharper than a sword, and despite everything I flinch back. But she doesn't cut me. She taps me gently on the head.
Warmth suffuses me. Golden streams flow through my blood. I can feel my injuries healing, the bruises easing away, torn flesh knitting itself healed, seamlessly, without trauma. Strength rushes through me, and all at once I can stand.
Shakily, I get to my feet. I open my mouth.
I'm not sure what I intend to say, but in any case, nothing comes out. I try to speak, but can make no sound, not even a rasp or a moan.
Tears sting my eyes. I guess not even a unicorn can break a Greenbriar curse.
The unicorn extends her head, touching my hand with her great soft nose. She nods her head, horn slicing within inches of my face, gesturing. Hesitantly, I hold up my hands, palms upward. The horn descends again.
This time the power crackles instead of warms, wreathing around my hands and fingers, sinking into my flesh and bones. Wonderingly, I turn my hands over, looking for changes, but can see nothing. They're the same as ever. But nothing at all the same.
The unicorn whuffs, gaining back my attention. With a great, graceful movement, she lies down, legs folding, and her broad white back gleams before me.
She nods at me, tossing her head invitingly back. Come on then.
I do not hesitate.
Drawing up my ruined skirt, I slide a leg over the unicorn's back. I cling on, bracing my hands against her neck, as she stands, with me mounted. She pauses only an instant before starting forward.
There's no saddle, no reins. But I'm no danger of falling off. For the first time in ten years, I'm in no danger at all.
Behind us, I can hear the sounds of the ball once again, breaking the enchanted silence. I don't look back. There's nothing for me there now.
The walk becomes a trot, then a canter. We slip, silent and unseen, out of the royal gardens and into the woods. The trees make way for the unicorn, branches lifting out of our path, roots seeming to slide away. The unicorn moves like a wind, like a current. Without a sound, we ghost through the woods, the shadows clinging to us, hiding our passage. The unicorn hastens, and the wind flows through my hair. Swift as flight, silent as the stars, we gallop through the trees, and then emerge onto the sea cliffs, where the ocean hurls itself in lacy waves against the rocks, so far below.
Still the unicorn does not slow down. We keep going, to the very edge of the cliff, and then the unicorn leaps off.
I've ridden ragwort steeds that gallop through the air, transporting me across worlds. But the unicorn doesn't run through the sky. Instead, light as thistledown, we drift downward, to the restless surface of the sea.
The wind blows salt into my face. The unicorn runs forward, each hoofbeat a splash on the ocean's surface. Above us, the moon burns. Behind us, King Eldred's island disappears. And still the unicorn gallops on, along the silver road of the sea.
Eventually, a dark mass hulks before us, blocking the stars. The mainland. The unicorn runs steadily forward, and overleaps the combers that roil on the wide beach. Her hooves land in soft sand, but she leaves no prints as she gallops onward, up the beach and into the forests of Faerie.
Not once do I look back.
The unicorn runs all night, tireless and smooth, but eventually the sun begins to rise, lighting the forest by degrees around us, and she slows, coming to a halt by a fallen tree.
Here she indicates that I dismount, and I do, swinging my leg off and clambering onto the log. For the first time, fear tightens my heart—is she going to leave me here?—but she points with her horn to a space beneath the log. Hide there. You will be safe. She looks into my eyes. I will return tonight.
I swallow a little, and nod. Briefly, we touch our foreheads together, sealing the covenant. Then I watch as she fades away, wearing to a shadow, then a wisp, then nothing, in the brightening sunlight.
I clamber off the log and slide into the space beneath. It's surprisingly roomy, and there are only a few harmless insects. Briefly, I wonder about breakfast, but I'm not hungry. I feel like I'll never be hungry again. I close my eyes, and in seconds I'm asleep.
I wake to the baying of hounds.
I startle awake, a soundless cry rising to my lips, at the infernal barking of fey hounds. I shrink, curling up in my hiding place, as they come closer. Unicorns are supposed to be impossible to track—but the unicorn isn't here. My mouth goes dry as my heart thunders and the sounds of the hunt come ever closer.
Now there is the thunder of hooves: not the unicorn's hooves, but those of ordinary horses. And voices.
"Have you found any trace?" It's Madoc's voice, sharp and angry. I curl up even tighter, holding my breath.
"Nothing, my lord," says another voice, one I recognize as Foxfire, commander of his knights. I relax only a little; they're right beside my log. If they decide to look under it, will even the unicorn's magic keep me hidden?
"She can't have gotten far." There's the sound of leather as Madoc slaps a glove impatiently against his open palm. "Damn it, not even the hounds have picked up a scent!"
"My lord," Foxfire says hesitantly, "what if she went Ironside?"
"On her own?" Madoc laughs harshly. "Hardly. But if she had help, we'll soon know."
"Or one of your enemies—"
"Then we'll know even sooner," he says with quiet menace. "And their heads will rot from my rooftops if I find that any of them have taken her. Come, let's keep looking."
I keep absolutely still as they thunder away, and the sounds of the hunt grow dim. Only when they've faded away altogether and the birds tentatively start singing again do I relax, falling back into sleep.
Nightfall, and the silent, speaking presence of the unicorn draws me out of sleep.
I crawl out from under the log, smiling to see her standing in the forest glade, as beautiful and powerful as I remember. Hello, I start to say, but of course I can't. Instead, we touch foreheads again in greeting. Climbing onto the log, I mount once more.
We don't wait for anything, not even food or drink, but I am neither hungry nor thirsty. I feel like I could ride forever as we dash onward, pushing deeper into Faerie, the night a streaming whirlwind around us.
Dawn comes, and the unicorn drops me off at the mouth of a cave, high in a range of mountains. We have traveled a stupendous distance, much further than a normal faerie horse could go in a single night. But where's the surprise in that?
I sleep in the cave, and the next evening I wake to the unicorn's arrival. We travel on.
Every night it is the same. I awake from a dreamless sleep to touch foreheads with the unicorn, mount her back, and we gallop off. The unicorn overleaps rivers, canters across lakes, weaves among trees. We even go underground, crossing the mountains through the dwarven tunnels, the unicorn's glow lighting the darkness, but we meet no dwarf, no faerie of any kind, at any point in our journey. Only animals see us, white deer with golden antlers looking up at our passage, the gleaming eyes of lions, salmon gaping at us from rivers.
I eat nothing, drink nothing. I don't need to eat or drink. By day, my sleep is deeper than the ocean, and dreamless as death.
Across grassy plains we gallop, through forests, our way lit by the moon and stars and the unicorn's own light. Overhead, the lunar sphere wanes, curved slices shaved off night by night. That's my only clock, the only indication that time is passing. But even so, I can't keep track. Time and distance mean nothing in the presence of the unicorn.
We go on, and on. The journey may never end.
Until, one half-moon night, it does.
I'm surprised when the unicorn slows down; it's nowhere near dawn, and she's never faltered before. But slow down she does, deep in a forest of huge, ancient trees.
I look around curiously. The trees here are truly vast, blocking out the faint light of the moon and stars. At first I can't see anything else special about this forest. But then I spot a faint, wavering light, shining through a tangle of briars that—I squint—surround and overwhelm the base of an enormous old tree.
Then I hear noises: the fretful sounds of a baby squalling, and a faerie woman's voice, trying to soothe it.
The unicorn slows to a halt. She tosses her head. Time to dismount.
Reluctantly, I swing over my leg and slide off. Tears prick my eyes as I turn to face the unicorn for what I know will be the final time. She rescued me, helped me escape; now it's time for us to part. This is fair, but still my heart is heavy at this farewell.
The unicorn lowers her head, and we touch foreheads one last time. We exchange one wordless, speaking glance. Then the unicorn gestures at the tree surrounded by briars, through which the lamplight gleams and the infant's cries sound. Go on.
I nod, and, stepping back, give my deepest curtsy to the unicorn, head bowed.
She lowers her head, horn arcing lethally down in her own bow. Then, slowly, she turns away.
I watch, tears blurring my eyes, as she trots away, disappearing into the forests of Faerie. I watch and watch, until she's utterly gone and I'm left alone.
Slowly, I turn back to the faerie's house. I hesitate; but the unicorn did say I should seek entrance. And, now that she's gone, I'm vulnerable once more. The forests of Faerie are no place to be out alone at night in.
Warily, I approach. The baby's wails grow louder. There's no entrance through the briar-tangle—but then, in a rustle of leaves and a wash of rose-scent, the briars part before me, and I see a little round-topped door set in the trunk of the tree.
I knock, loudly and firmly, three times.
There's a pause in the baby's yelling, and I hear the mother's voice calling, surprised and frightened. "Who's there?"
I try to call out, but of course I can't. I can only knock once more.
There's the sound of shifting inside, and footsteps. Then the door opens, and I see a hob woman, small and brown, dressed in silk woven from bark and leaves, holding a screeching infant in the crook of her arms.
At once, I know exactly what to do.
I reach out. The hob woman yells and steps back, but I'm too quick for her, reaching into the doorway to lay my hands on the child.
Power charges from my hands through the sickly faerie infant in a flash of white light. For an instant, I have an insight into how the magic is working: how it is flowing through the tiny body, born weak and sickly as so many faeries are. It strengthens weak, failing organs, bolsters the system, blows on the baby's waning flame of life, until all weakness is gone and health spreads over the child like balm.
And the baby stops crying, blinking in pleasant surprise as his pain and weakness abate. He coos and wriggles in his mother's arms, already looking stronger, larger, healthier.
The hob gapes at her son. Then she gapes at me. I shrug, holding my hands out helplessly.
"Perhaps you'd better come in," she says faintly, and steps back to let me over the threshold into her house.