The Dragon Throne

by Chrys Cymri

  Fianna turned away and crawled into her bed. Strangely enough, although she couldn’t remember the exact details of her dreams the next morning, they were not about dragons, but unicorns.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Birds erupted into flustered, hurried flight as the colts clattered down the rocks to the stream. Water slapped against their chests, darkening white hide as they plunged aching legs into the chill current. Wind from their passing flung tails sharp against muscled hindquarters and tangled manes around spiralling horns.

  The Prancer raised his head to watch the stream birds settle onto nearby trees. They raised their voices to complain at the colts. He laughed, and reared up to whisk a silver hoof through the singing water. Drops sparkled through the sunlight to burst against the branches. The birds flicked their wings and rose to higher perches.

  ‘Prancer,’ Storm complained, ‘you’re making the water muddy and I’m thirsty.’

  Dropping back down with another splash, the Prancer turned his head to meet Storm’s gaze. ‘Right. Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t mean it.’ Storm lowered his head and watched the water clear. The beginnings of a beard, still little more than wisps of longer hair, brushed against the current. The Prancer felt a pang of envy, wondering when his own beard would begin to grow. He was the last one of his season still clean-chinned.

  Finally Storm was satisfied. He drank noisily. The Prancer took a few sips himself, reluctant to drink his fill. He wanted to run again. The fields just past these woods called to him. His hooves ached to spring through grass, a much more forgiving surface than the bare earth under the trees.

  He nudged Storm with his shoulder. ‘Dare you to run past the woods.’

  The other unicorn shook drops from his beard. ‘Dare you to skip lessons tomorrow.’

  The Prancer sighed. ‘You know I need to practice.’

  ‘Non-Thought’s easy,’ Storm said. He raised his head, stilled. In a moment even the Prancer had to struggle to pick out his form. Storm’s horn took on the blue of the sky, his body the grey-blue of the stream and the mottled brown of the opposite bank. Water eddied around four evenly placed rocks, flashing silver. ‘See?’ With his word, he shimmered back into view.

  ‘Easy for you,’ the Prancer grumbled. ‘I just can’t keep my thinking still that long.’

  Storm shifted uneasily. ‘I asked the Teacher about that. Yesterday.’

  ‘You did?’ The Prancer was caught between annoyance about being talked about when his flanks were turned, and intrigue at what the Teacher might have said. Curiosity, as always, won out. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘You find it hard, because you’re different.’ Storm pointed with his horn. ‘You know.’

  Yes. He knew. The water was swift-flowing past his forelegs, but the Prancer didn’t need a mirrored surface to show him the markings, stark black on his coat of white. Both and neither. The five spots spread across the top of his right hind leg, the mark of the Painter. The jagged sign of lightning on his left shoulder, the mark of the Dancer. No unicorn could be both. And he was neither. ‘I know, I’m different.’

  ‘You’re my friend,’ Storm said suddenly, throwing it out with the diffidence of strong emotion.

  The Prancer looked up the curving stream. Water blended with sunlight in his eyes, merging in a confusion of bright colour. There were so many things he did not understand, even after six years of life. Why the adults treated him with such a mixture of deference and loathing, speaking always politely, their eyes rolling back to show the whites below the pupils. Why the Teacher, when telling the Lesson Stories, would sometimes fall silent, as if shuffling through the words of the ancient tales to discover the point at which she could resume the recitation. Why he carried marks which should appear on two different foals. Why he knew, somehow, that he should have had a sister, born at the same time, from the same dam. Why he knew all these things, when no one had ever told him. And, above all, why no one would ever speak his mother’s name.

  Storm spoke again, awkwardly, ‘And you’re my milk-brother.’

  The Prancer nibbled at a jagged cut along Storm’s shoulder. ‘I think this will scar.’

  ‘Scar, or no scar, I will not let Talltree insult you. He might feel more than my hooves, next time.’

  ‘I think you’re the only one of the herd not frightened to be with me.’

  Storm snorted. ‘I can remember when you couldn’t even stand up without my dam’s help. Besides, the Dancer isn’t scared of you.’

  The Prancer splashed water with a hoof, not wanting to think about his sire. He’d had enough of reflections for awhile. ‘Dare you to miss the Judgement.’

  Storm’s nostrils flared at the reckless idea. ‘Dare you to gallop back to the Dancing Ground.’

  So, that was his answer. The Prancer stared up at the trees, top branches waving in a high breeze. He had to attend the Judgement, they both knew that. As ever, Storm kept him out of trouble. ‘All right.’ And he twisted in the water, throwing himself around and back up the bank. Storm, less agile, was splattered with water and then mud as the Prancer reached the woods ahead of him.

  By the time they came near the Dancing Ground, Storm’s longer strides had pulled him into the lead. He cut across the Prancer, forcing him to slow to a more decorous trot. The Prancer didn’t need Storm’s warning glance as the trail widened, marking the entrance to the holy place. The Teacher’s lessons grated in his mind. The Ground should always be entered with humility and dignity, in recognition of the power which ran between tree and stone, between Dancer and the four elements on which he called for strength and inspiration.

  They were the last of the herd to arrive. The Dancer’s dark eyes met the Prancer’s briefly, and he knew that his father would have words with him later. Bending his neck to feign meekness, he followed Storm to their place, alongside the other foals of their season. They completed the circle of silvery-white unicorns, standing still and tall within the larger circle of oaks. Long branches stretched over their heads, spring leaves touched occasionally by a silver horn.

  The Dancer waited until all attention was turned on him. Then he took his place in the centre. Sunlight filtered through the tight-knit branches, gleaming on his jet black coat. The Prancer blinked. The white lightning mark on the left shoulder almost seemed to twist in the light. He shifted, restless, and Storm’s tail slapped against his hindquarters in warning.

  The Teacher had recently taught the Prancer’s season the ritual of Judgement. She had not tried to hide from them the element missing in recent rituals. The earth captured by the circle of unicorns was bare but for a pair of boulders, and a pair of rowan trees. The Dancer should stand between the rocks and, facing him, the Painter should be flanked by the trees. But the herd had no Painter. The last one had died six years ago. So the Dancer stood alone in the centre, his angry gaze and arched neck denying anyone the right to challenge his place there.

  ‘We are all come to the Dancing Ground, the place of Judgement,’ he said, his deep voice spreading easily around the circle of one hundred and twenty unicorns. ‘She who is to tread the lines, stand forth and speak the name you hold now.’

  A young mare, her first foal watched over by another nearby, took a step forward. ‘I have come, Lord Dancer. My name is Rathlin.’

  The Dancer continued, ‘Do you submit yourself freely to Judgement?’

  Rathlin trembled for a moment. Then she said, her voice steady, ‘I willingly choose to walk the lines.’

  The Dancer backed away, black mane tumbling over his eyes as he tossed his head. He halted between the rocks, his horn almost reaching as far as their tall shapes. The Prancer held his breath, all thoughts of avoiding the ritual gone. Although this would be the first Judgement he had attended, he felt as if the events to follow were familiar, as if he’d seen them before. Even without the Teacher’s telling, he knew that the Painter should be withdrawing at this point, taking her place outside the square of trees and rocks, centred in her prepared d
rawings.

  The silver horn, stark against the black forehead, was raised to the sky. The stallion struck the ground once as he silently called upon the powers of the air to aid him. Next, he lowered the bright tip to the ground, darkening the spirals as he took in the power of earth. From a small pool in the rock to his left he touched the strength of water, washing his horn clean. With a shower of sparks he scraped silver along the right stone, taking in the opposing power of fire.

  Balanced upon four hooves, between the four elements, muscles shifting under glossy coat, the Dancer strode forward to the two rowan trees. At a precise point just before their slender trunks, he shifted to the left, and circled the tree before starting back to the stones. Once there, he again stepped to his left, and strode around the rock before walking between them, back to the trees.

  As before, the Prancer felt his perception widen. Following in the Dancer’s footsteps, as if unwoven from his being, stretched a blue line of light. As he continued to prance around the tree and stone on his right, the line tightened, steadied in the air.

  The Dancer completed the first cycle. Without pause he began the second revolution, laying a second band of light alongside the first. Where the lines crossed his hooves sparked, forcing him to pick up his feet. The energies began to glow, warming the clearing. The Prancer had to force himself to stay in his place, squinting against the brightness. He glanced at those standing near him, their eyes open, their breathing untroubled. Did they not feel the energy called forth by the Dancer?

  Four times the Dancer stepped between stones and trees. Each time the steady increase in power forced him to raise his hooves higher and higher, his prance becoming exaggerated. The crossings grew taller, so that he leapt over each, black tail flicking over black back. The Dancer was earning his title and his name.

  The lines complete, he returned to the centre. His coat was overlaid with a sheen of bright blue, reflecting the energy swirling around him. ‘Rathlin,’ he called. ‘Walk the lines.’

  The mare shuffled forward, moving around the Dancer to follow the path he had taken. The lines parted before her, reformed after her tail. Again the Prancer felt the sense of wrongness. The Painter should have followed the Dancer’s lead, adding from her own being to augment his power.

  Sweat was forming on the Dancer’s flanks, blue-white against black. The Prancer felt the strength it took to keep the lines flowing around rock and tree. Part of the energy was building up within Rathlin, sensitising her to the Dancer. Preparing her for Judgement.

  The mare completed her single circle. The Prancer moved closer to Storm, taking comfort in his friend’s nearness. Was he the only one who could sense it? he wondered. Did none of the rest of them know how wrong this was, the Dancer without the Painter? Judgement without mercy?

  Rathlin spoke the ceremonial words. ‘I have trod the lines.’

  ‘And what have they shown you?’ asked the Dancer.

  ‘I have been overly harsh with my foal.’ Her voice was very quiet, ashamed. ‘I have not forgiven the actions of the young.’

  The Prancer felt the assent in the gathered herd. They all knew that Rathlin had been found rearing over the colt, sharp hooves aimed at the fragile body, as she screamed her rage at finding him in the process of fouling their sleeping place.

  Now should be the time for the Painter to lower her horn to the mare. But there was no Painter, only the Dancer. The Prancer felt a sudden sickness in his second stomach. As if he himself had walked the lines, he knew why Rathlin had attacked her foal. She was very young to motherhood, choosing to run with a stallion before her time. She had not expected to become a dam so soon. With time, and the patient help of a more experienced mare, she would overcome her anger and resentment.

  He was suddenly aware that his father’s deep eyes were on him. As if he were waiting for the Prancer to join him in the circle. But I’m not a Painter, he thought, his knees trembling. Painters are always mares.

  The Dancer returned his gaze to Rathlin. She stood still as he lowered his head, touching her shoulder with his horn. Power arched over her body, encapsulating her momentarily in blue. Then she lifted her head, the trees echoing with her swift cry of pain.

  ‘Rathlin, mare of the herd,’ the Dancer said sternly, cutting across the noise. ‘You are unable to control your temper around your foal. For his safety, his care will be entrusted to another. Nor shall any stallion run with you for three seasons. So are you judged.’

  He stepped back. The lines fluttered, then died. The herd’s lead mare broke the circle first, touching Rathlin’s back with her muzzle in sympathy before brushing past her to take the foal away. A second mare came to Rathlin, nudging her from the Ground. In twos and threes, the rest of the herd departed, even Storm leaving the Prancer’s side. Soon only he and the Dancer remained.

  The Dancer’s head hung down, horn nearly touching the ground. His legs were braced as he took deep, shuddering breaths. With yet another flash of insight, the Prancer knew that his father carried alone the burden meant to be shared by two.

  ‘You wanted to come into the circle.’ The deep voice was muted by weariness. ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Words bunched together in the Prancer’s throat. Most frightening of all, he felt some truth push its way to the surface, knowledge he wasn’t ready to face. Soil churned under his hooves and he turned and then cantered away from the circle.

  Storm was waiting for him, a discreet distance from the Ground. The Prancer paused beside him, hooves tearing impatiently at the moss. ‘Dare you to steal an apple from the herd tree.’

  ‘Prancer, I’m not sure--’

  But he was gone, leaving Storm’s words behind. His ears flicked back, catching the heavy sigh of the older colt. Then muffled hooves started after him, and the Prancer laughed. Life was full of green leaves and sunshine and friends, dares to make and apples to steal. He lengthened his strides, leaving the Ground and a tired stallion far behind.

  <><><><><><>

  The next morning dawned with a brisk edge to the air. The Prancer raised his head from grazing, nostrils fluttering as he sampled the mingled crispness of grass and stronger scent of the herd. From further away came the smoke of the humans, cold after the several days travel from their city to unicorn lands. The Prancer chewed thoughtfully, wondering what humans actually looked like. How could a creature balance on two limbs?

  Storm, beside him as always, swallowed noisily. ‘Prancer.’

  The Prancer pulled his thoughts away from distant places. Storm was standing tall, his tail lifted and neck arched. ‘You have something to tell me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Storm took a deep breath. ‘I spent several hours at my birth-tree, last night. A new name has come to me. I wanted you to be the first to know it, before I give it to the Dancer to announce.’

  A new name. Storm would be the first of their season to come into his second name, the first chosen by himself. ‘I will be honoured to hear it.’

  ‘I will be called Ansel.’

  The Prancer blinked, wondering why the name sounded familiar. A legend he couldn’t quite place... ‘And when will you give it to the Dancer?’

  ‘Soon.’ Storm shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m still getting used to it.’

  A high whistle floated across the meadow. The Teacher was calling their season to their lessons. ‘What is it today?’ the Prancer grumbled.

  ‘You know what it is. Non-Thought.’ Storm tossed his head. ‘Dare’s still on.’

  The Prancer thought about last week’s lesson, the long hours of concentration. ‘First one to the river gets the apples!’ he told Storm, flicking his tail as he turned to run.

  Then he pulled up short, Storm bumping and tripping over him. Standing above them was the Dancer, his eyes dark, tail slapping over his haunches. Storm quickly backed away, nostrils widening as he took in the heavy scent of anger.

  ‘Go, Storm,’ said the Dancer. ‘Go to your lessons. I want to talk to my son.’

  With a quick sn
ort of reassurance to the Prancer, Storm obeyed. The Prancer swallowed, feeling very small next to the stallion. ‘I should go to lessons too.’

  ‘You seemed little interested a moment ago.’

  The Prancer looked down, pawing at the dirt. ‘I guess not.’

  His father strode away. After a moment’s hesitation the Prancer followed. ‘All foals miss lessons,’ the deep voice continued. ‘Especially as they grow older. Soon you’ll be a young stallion, ready to run with the fillies of your season. And to learn from me.’

  ‘Learn what?’ the Prancer asked, dreading the answer.

  ‘The role for which you have been marked from birth.’ The black tail flicked in front of the Prancer as they reached a rise in the ground. ‘I expect one of your season will soon give me a second name to announce. I noted Storm by his birth-tree last night.’

  ‘He’s almost ready,’ the Prancer admitted.

  ‘And when will you be?’

  The Prancer halted at the top of the hill. His father continued down the slope several strides before stopping and turning back to meet his eyes. Earth gave the Prancer precious inches of height, lending him strength. ‘You shouldn’t do it. You shouldn’t have Judgements without a Painter.’

  A wind blew through the moment of silence, lifting dark mane from the Dancer’s bright horn. He asked quietly, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s wrong. There was no understanding of why she did what she did.’

  ‘And if Judgement had not been held,’ the Dancer said, ‘she might have injured or killed her foal at the next outburst of temper.’