by Chrys Cymri
The woman stopped in front of him, bowed. ‘My Lord Unicorn, I bid you welcome to our town and our hearts.’
The Prancer quickly reviewed the Human Greeting ceremonies, taught to him just before leaving the herd. Yes, in this instance it was right for the Human to speak first. ‘Thank you for your welcome, my lady,’ he said quietly, wincing slightly at the effort of forcing foreign words past the ache of his head. ‘I see that the town prospers under your guidance.’
He hoped that that was indeed the case. He had no way of judging whether these people were living well or ill. But she nodded at the traditional response. ‘While you tarry with us, lord, we would ask that you hold the Healing for some among us.’
The Prancer took a deep breath. He had no ritual to guide him here, no set words of polite refusal to utter. I don’t even know if a Painter can help humans, he thought to himself. ‘Why? Has there been a battle?’
‘No battle, lord. There are those among us who have long nursed illnesses far worse than a sword bite.’
That gave him the opening he needed. ‘I must decline, my lady. Battle wounds can be healed without preliminaries, but illnesses can only be approached after the necessary Painting ceremonies. As you can see, I am not yet full grown, and not yet trained in such ceremonies.’
Disappointment clouded her face. But she bowed in acceptance. ‘Perhaps the Lord Unicorn might return to us once he is grown and versed in the necessary formalities.’
He could give her that much. ‘If I am able, I will return one day.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She bowed again. ‘Now, I would ask a different favour of you. I ask for justice for my daughter.’
The Prancer pawed uneasily at the ground. ‘Justice?’
‘You are Unicorn, givers and protectors of the Throne.’ The woman’s voice hardened. ‘I ask you to avenge my daughter. She was attacked a month ago by a traveller through these parts.’
‘Was she hurt?’
‘Hurt?’ The woman’s dark eyes moistened. ‘Aye, she was hurt. She was forced by a man against her will.’
<><><><><><>
The Prancer found Lionth sitting alone in the front room of the inn, finishing his breakfast. ‘Morning, Lord ‘Corn,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Sleep well?’
‘I slept well.’ The Prancer made his way over to the table. ‘Waking was uncomfortable.’
‘Ah, yes. I did see you outside.’ Lionth leaned closer, reaching up a hand to grasp the Prancer’s muzzle. He turned the unicorn’s head from side to side, nodding as he studied the eyes. ‘Too many bowls of ale, young ‘corn. The feeling will pass.’
‘I hope so.’
The human’s loud laughter made the Prancer wince. ‘You won’t die from it. Just refuse a few bowls when offered to you.’
The Prancer nodded shyly. ‘Will such a refusal be insult?’
‘Nay, lad. Though the barkeep will probably still add the undrunk portions to the bill for the King.’ Lionth pushed over a lump of something brown. ‘Have some bread. It will settle the stomach.’
The Prancer gingerly obeyed. The outside crunched against his teeth, and a warm, grainy flavour followed. Bread, he thought, memorising the word. He quite liked bread.
‘You’re still young, aren’t you?’ Lionth asked, studying him closely.
The Prancer swallowed. ‘I have seen six winters. I will be full grown in another three.’
‘Young to be travelling away from the herd, then. Why have you left?’
‘I can only speak that to the King.’
Lionth laughed a second time. ‘Very well, Lord ‘Corn. Keep your secrets to yourself. I would wager you plan to go beyond king and kingdom. Why else do you wear the claw of a dragon around your neck?’
The Prancer sighed. ‘Why do you humans keep asking things of me that I cannot give?’
Lionth stared at him over his tankard, caught in the process of taking a sip of ale. ‘What else has been asked of you?’
‘The Headwoman asked me to hold a Healing. Didn’t she see I’m too young?’
‘I only guessed your age from stories told me by my grandfather.’ Lionth drank, then wiped his chin. ‘Unicorns are only seen rarely in the kingdom, so knowledge has been replaced by legends. Most believe that all unicorns can heal, simply by doing nothing more than touching a human with a horn.’
‘But that’s wrong!’ the Prancer protested. ‘Only surface wounds can be treated so easily. Deeper wounds and diseases require much preparation. And I can’t provide vengeance.’
‘Vengeance?’ Lionth leaned back in his chair. ‘What else has the Headwoman asked of you?’
‘To bring to justice the man who violated her daughter.’
Lionth nodded. ‘Yes. I had heard about that.’
The Prancer took another bite of bread. Then he discovered that, while he could carry on a conversation in Unicorn while eating, it was virtually impossible to do so in Human. He chewed, swallowed, then continued, ‘The Teacher told us that it’s the choice of a filly or a mare to decide with which stallion to run. Her choice alone, and none can gainsay it. The Headwoman gave me to understand that such is also true with humans.’
‘Yes.’ Lionth twirled the tankard absently between his hands. ‘But what’s taught and what’s followed can often be different. The same must be true amongst unicorns as well as humans.’
Deciding he was too young to answer that, the Prancer said instead, ‘I told her I had other obligations first, to my sire and my milk-brother. What I couldn’t understand was how I was meant to find this man.’
‘Only the pure can touch a unicorn. Maidens, children, and suchlike.’ Lionth chuckled at the Prancer’s stare. ‘Aye, I did touch you. But I know my grandfather was far from pure, and he travelled with a unicorn. Nevertheless, the legend remains. She expected you to be able to track him by a sense of overwhelming impurity.’
The Judgement ceremonies, the Prancer thought. That must be where the idea came from. Just as the Healing came from the Painting rituals. He wondered uneasily if his lessons in Human ritual could be equally as inaccurate. ‘Even if I did find the man, and brought him here for justice, how would that help the wronged woman?’
Lionth shrugged. ‘I understand she walks the fields alone in the evenings, and otherwise never shows her face to the light. Some say part of the blame may lie with her, as she did allow the man to escort her to her door.’
The Prancer’s tail snapped over his back. ‘How does that make her to blame?’
‘I know not. I only repeat as I have heard.’
The Prancer snorted. These humans were more complicated than he had expected.
<><><><><><>
Lionth left the next day, cheerfully telling the Prancer as he saddled his lead horse that he would spread word that a unicorn awaited the King. ‘Give him a month, he’ll be here,’ he had called back, his voice carrying over the thudding hooves of the pack animals.
A month. Time began to rest heavily on the Prancer’s back. Unlike the merchant, the townspeople held him in some form of mystical awe. They bowed when he passed them, and ducked out of reach of even his shadow. Timidly he was asked to cleanse the town wells with his horn, or stride across infertile fields. He tried to bear it all with good grace, though their veneration unsettled him.
The enforced wait was making him restless. He was a unicorn of action. The only noticeable benefit was the progress his Human was making, due to long hours spent talking with humans visiting the inn. After a few tankards of ale, they became less awed by his presence, and more willing to tell tales or swap humorous asides.
When even that paled, he took long walks around the town and nearby small holdings. Late afternoons were his favourite times. The humans were too busy preparing for nightfall to give him much more than a perfunctory bow. The straggly clumps of trees which passed for woods made him long for the depths of the herd forest, and so he usually stalked around the edges of the fields, the hard earth keeping his hooves trim.
; He was into the third week of his stay when he began to realise that someone was following him. Always during his final steps around the town, as he turned back towards the main cluster of buildings, his shadow stretching across fields and road before him. When he heard the soft footsteps, he tried turning, but was never quick enough. His follower always took cover in the woods.
Enough is enough, he decided one evening. As he whirled in place, he saw the usual flash as the human disappeared. The Prancer drew himself up to full height, arching his neck so that his mane rippled in the breeze, his tail fanning across his hindquarters. ‘Whoever marks my hoof prints, I call you to reveal yourself.’
The human emerged slowly, hovering by the tree as she bowed deeply. Yes, a female, the Prancer decided from the long mane of brown hair. He dug a hoof into the ground. ‘Why have you been following me?’
‘I beg pardon, Lord Unicorn.’ She kept her head bent, not looking at him. ‘I will no longer do so.’
‘Wait,’ he called out, exasperated, as she started to turn away. ‘You haven’t answered my query. Why have you been following me?’
Her hands twisted in her long skirts. ‘Because you’re beautiful, lord.’
The Prancer pulled his head back. Beautiful? He glanced at his silver-white back. While his head was twisted, he took the opportunity to polish his horn against his flank. ‘Well,’ he allowed, looking back at her, ‘yes, I am. But why hide from me?’
‘Because I’m not worthy to look upon you, lord.’
The Prancer’s first reaction was to laugh. This was taking awe too far. But he swallowed his chortle, sensing that the girl had some specific reason for keeping a distance from him. ‘How old are you?’ he asked, feeling as though he’d cast upon unsteady ground.
‘Fifteen years old, lord.’
‘Then we are of an age,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I have passed six winters, which brings me also near to adulthood. That should make us friends.’
‘I would not presume, lord.’
‘Nonsense!’ She winced at his outburst, and the Prancer sighed, wondering what trap his hoof had wandered into. ‘Why not?’
‘I am not pure.’
The Prancer felt understanding click into place. She must be the Headwoman’s daughter. Unjustly attacked, now hiding her face from view of others. ‘Your mother spoke to me.’
‘She said you could do nothing.’
‘I am no Painter, to paint the lines and ease wounds. Nor am I Dancer, to weave the lines of Judgement for the one who wronged you.’
Her teeth caught her lip, and he knew that she heard nothing but rejection in his words. He did want to help her, as a unicorn would any of the People. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘But any unicorn may befriend another,’ he continued awkwardly. ‘I would be your friend. I am called the Prancer, son of the Dancer, lead stallion of the herd. May I have the holding of your name?’
She said softly, ‘I am Marion, daughter of Meredith and Douglass.’
‘Sometimes, Marion of Meredith and Douglass, even friends are unable to speak what must be spoken to one another.’ His tail flicked across his hindquarters, but otherwise he hid his uneasiness. ‘There is a simple game we play as foals. Since we are of an age, will you allow me to show it to you?’
She flicked him a glance, then nodded.
‘You will need to come away from the tree. Come onto the path.’
She obeyed, slowly, unwillingly, still not looking at him.
‘Stay still.’ He lowered his horn and began drawing in the dirt. A line of silver followed the furrow dug by the sharp point, tinged red by the afternoon sun. He felt her nervousness as he paced around, forming a circle which enclosed them both. But he was careful not to come close, not to touch her yet. Even if he were adapting this ceremony on the hoof, he had to take his time, if it were to be a success.
Circle finished, he stood at one end, noting as she moved to the other. ‘First we begin by the exchange of names. I call myself the Prancer, son to the Dancer.’
She said softly, ‘I am Marion, daughter of Meredith and Douglass.’
The Prancer dipped his head encouragingly. ‘Now comes the words of the joining.’ He paused, translating in his head, frustrated by the lack of rhyme in Human. ‘We stand in a circle of light, Marion and Prancer. Inside the circle we are protected, and nothing said here can harm us. Nothing said here can harm us. Repeat that after me. Nothing said here can harm us.’
‘Nothing said here can harm us,’ she recited. Then she gasped. The Prancer watched silver run away from them like a silver sea, suffusing fields, woods, and town with an unnatural hue. Only the earth within the circle was left unchanged, an island above the molten light. ‘What--what’s happened?’
‘Only we can see this,’ he assured her, inwardly relieved. He hadn’t been sure that the circle setting would work with only one unicorn. ‘But no one can enter the circle until we break it. No one can hear what we say. Now, tell me your tale.’
Marion raised her head. Ordinary sunlight shone on her face, silver haloed her from behind. The Prancer realised that he must look equally magical, and put a hoof down on his unease. If it gave her the courage to speak to him, then he must accept it.
‘I thought he did love me,’ she said tightly. ‘He had ten years beyond my fifteen, and he had travelled many times across the Third Kingdom. So many tales he could tell. I felt honoured that he had chosen me to speak to, a girl who had not yet cut her hair.’
Inside the circle, more than words were formed by the one speaking. The Prancer glanced at the silver rippling by his left hoof. A man sat beside Marion inside the inn, laughing loudly at his own jokes. And the Prancer sensed her longing to prove herself, to be more than just the Headwoman’s daughter. He felt a sudden kinship with her. One day, he would step past the hooves of his sire, proud as a stallion in his own right. Perhaps.
‘On his last evening in our town, he offered to escort me back to my mother’s home.’ Her tone became bitter. ‘I should never have accepted. All eve he had spoken words with two meanings, in riddles I struggled to understand. Yet I agreed to go with him.’
Was this the source of her shame? The Prancer searched his memory for any information regarding human mating customs, and came up empty except for his brief discussion with Lionth. Perhaps he could use that ignorance. ‘In the herd, a filly always chooses the stallion with whom she wishes to run. Until she makes this choice, she can’t be touched by any male. Is it different among humans?’
‘No.’ She rubbed back unshed tears.
‘And the significance of long hair?’
‘I’m not yet a woman.’
‘Would all men recognise this symbol?’ he continued.
‘Yes.’ Marion blinked rapidly. ‘Yes, he would have known it.’
‘Then you were innocent of his intentions.’
She studied her hands. The Prancer forced himself to be patient, give her time to reflect on his words. ‘I--yes. I was.’
‘Then you are pure in heart.’
‘But not in body, lord.’
Now he allowed himself an amused snort, close enough to human laughter to bring her head up, confused. ‘Unicorns are only interested in the heart.’ He stepped forward, slowly, majestically, arching his neck so that the silver light reflecting from the surrounding lake shimmered along his mane, danced across his muscles. She shrank back, until her heels touched the edge of the circle, forcing her to halt. The Prancer stopped before her, looked down into her brown eyes. Then he lowered his head, pressing his cheek against hers.
He felt the quick intake of breath, and a part of him wondered what she had expected to happen. Then she reached up, circling her arms around his neck as she turned her face into the long mane. Tension eased from her shoulders. Humans, the Prancer decided, are perhaps not that different than unicorns after all. Not at heart.
<><><><><><>
As Lionth had predicted, the fourth week brought the news that the King was riding to meet
his unicorn emissary. To the Prancer’s pleasure, it was Lionth himself who had returned to tell him. ‘Aye, and he won’t be thanking you for the need to travel this time of year,’ the merchant said, settling back with a tankard of ale.
The Prancer, taking a sip from the one bowl he allowed himself each evening, raised his head. ‘Why?’
‘Listen to the weather, lad.’ The Prancer’s ears flicked at the heavy noise of rain pounding against on rooftops. ‘The smallholders have been praying for it, but it will turn the roads to mud. All the way from here to Primus.’
The Prancer winced, not looking forward to miles of slogging through mud on the trip to the capital city. ‘The poor horses will need to make the journey twice.’
‘Horses?’ Lionth laughed. ‘The King will have little care for them. His own comfort will be hard come by. A far change from his castle and his studies.’
‘Studies?’ the Prancer repeated, intrigued. ‘Does he have a Teacher?’
‘Who knows what his teacher may be.’ Lionth leaned closer, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. ‘It’s said that the King dabbles in sorcery. That on his journey here he has oft retired to his tent alone, and a strange, unnatural light shines against the walls.’
Magic. The Prancer dipped his head, pleased. His father had been right to send him to see the King. ‘How many more days before he comes here?’
‘Another three.’ Lionth relaxed back in his chair, studying the Prancer thoughtfully. ‘What is your rank, lad?’
The Prancer turned the unfamiliar word over in his mind. ‘Define “rank.”’
