by Chrys Cymri
Quietly, carefully, the unicorn picked his way down the wet streets. Fianna held the reins slack, trusting to his superior night vision in the dim light. The light rain continued relentlessly, soaking through cloak and coat to shirt and skin. She gritted her teeth, wishing she’d had time to find a waxed overcoat.
The Prancer halted, pulled at the reins. Fianna straightened. Blinking her eyes free of water, she looked up to find the city walls looming over their heads. She slid to the ground, wincing as life came back into her cold legs. ‘Gate,’ she murmured. The Prancer gave her a nudge with his nose, and then she saw the faint light spilling from a small arrow slit. ‘Wait here.’
As she trudged across the slippery road, Fianna tucked strands of hair back under her hood. She thought it unlikely that the guards would recognise her. Just in case, she scooped some mud from the ground, adding grime to her features.
The door was opened reluctantly to her knock. A grizzled veteran glared unwillingly into the night. ‘Aye?’
‘Messenger,’ Fianna said gruffly. ‘Open the gate.’
‘In this weather?’
‘Aye.’ Fianna winced. ‘‘Ready slipped from me horse once.’
‘Can see that.’ His manner perceptibly thawed. He turned his head. ‘Van, open the side gate for the youngster. Going far?’
Fianna studied him for a moment. Deciding to chance her luck, she asked, ‘Did ye let a group of knights out this eve?’
‘From the Fourth Kingdom? Aye, that we did.’
She nodded. ‘The King brought them here in honour, and they did betray that welcome. I now go to give word to his knights outside. They are to recapture the group.’
The guard nodded. ‘That won’t be difficult. They were going but slowly. One of their number was fair wounded.’
Pealla, Fianna thought, but swallowed against the sudden fear jumping in her chest. ‘Thank ye for your help.’
‘No problem, lass.’ He stepped back, then returned. A weather skin was thrust into her arms. ‘Speed ye for the King, but he would not thank ye to grow acold in doing it.’
Fianna gratefully threw the waxed cloak over her own. Then, with a quick salute, she strode back to the Prancer. She mounted him even as the smaller gate slid open. Without waiting for her signal, the unicorn strode through, lowering his head to pass through the low exit. As soon as his hooves touched bare earth outside, he broke into a gallop.
Wrapping the reins around her hands, Fianna bent low over his neck, raising her weight from his back. His gait was smoother than any horse she had ever ridden, effortlessly carrying them into the dark night. She decided that she could do little more than trust to his judgement and hang on tightly to wet mane and slick saddle.
Sudden voices made her straighten, her back creaking from hours of remaining in one position. Her hands tightened on the reins, and the Prancer shook his head with annoyance. A moment later, he halted. Swords emerged from the rain, and a swift challenge, ‘Who comes here?’
Fianna felt her shoulders sag with relief. She threw back the hood of her rain cloak, revealing her red hair in the faint light of pre-dawn. ‘Fianna, Queen of the Fourth Kingdom and Keeper of the Dragon Throne.’ She looped the reins over the saddle, and slid to the ground. Arwan helpfully stepped forward to help her balance on stiff legs. ‘What’s the state of the wounded?’
‘Three of our knights are dead,’ he answered grimly, leading her to the rough camp. ‘And one is near death.’
The catch in his voice gave her the identity of the fourth knight. ‘Take me to the Colonel.’
Pealla lay stretched across a cloak, her face a pale contrast to her blood soaked tunic. A rough bandage had been wrapped around her stomach, and Fianna winced at the wound she could imagine underneath. A cut which the Colonel herself had taught to pages and squires, not immediately fatal but easier to inflict than an instant killing blow. And ultimately served the purpose just as well. Jeremy gave her a stiff smile as Fianna joined him at the knight’s side. ‘Colonel?’
The woman stirred. Her eyes opened, focussed on her, then over Fianna’s shoulder. ‘Your Majesty, you should first see to your beast.’
‘I am nod a beasd,’ the Prancer said around the bit.
‘Others can do that for me,’ Fianna said, as several hands quickly stripped the unicorn of saddle and bridle. ‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’
‘Little, Your Majesty.’ Then Pealla rose slightly. ‘Except let me die in your service. Will you take my oath?’
Fianna swallowed against a sudden thickness in her throat. ‘You already gave it to me as Duchess of Kaliburn.’
‘I would give it as your knight.’ Pealla slipped cold hands between Fianna’s. ‘I, Pealla, Colonel of the Queen’s army, do become your liege woman of life and limb, and of earthly worship. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk, in the service of the Dragon Throne.’
Fianna allowed the woman to kiss her hand. She watched the head drop back, blond hair spilling across the makeshift pillow. For a moment, she stared at the knight, numbed at the thought of losing her now, when she had only come to realise how much the Colonel had to offer.
‘No.’ She rose to her feet, angry, decisive. Anton’s betrayal was not going to lose her this one. The Prancer lifted his head from a bowl of water as she strode up to him. ‘You must heal her.’
The unicorn froze. Water dripped from his nose, shone bright along his whiskers as the first rays of sun broke across the plain. ‘What?’
‘You’re a unicorn.’ Fianna’s plea came out as a growl. ‘You bear the sign of the Painter. Heal her.’
The Prancer shook himself like a dog. Dimly, Fianna noted that the rain had stopped. ‘I am both and neither. I don’t know how to heal--’
‘At my coronation,’ Fianna cut in, ‘you told me that a Painter’s powers come to him when he needs them. The Land gives them when the moment comes. The moment is now, Prancer.’ She took a deep breath, steadying herself. ‘Please.’
The unicorn shuddered. Then he bent his head to her. Without a word, he wheeled and trotted away, heading towards a group of trees standing near a small pond. Fianna clenched her fists, willing herself to trust him.
<><><><><><>
The Prancer pulled to a halt, glad for the small woods. He needed to be away from the humans for a moment, hidden from the pain and need twisting their faces. How alike we are, he reflected, unicorns and humans. I felt the same when Storm was dying.
Fianna had asked him to heal. No, more than that, she had begged him. He knew what that had cost her. And Pealla had been good to him, accepting him long before any of the other knights in Secondus. He did want to help her. But how? Both and neither. The bitter thought rolled through his stomachs. Both and neither. One where two should have been born, sired by the black soul of my father.
He was grimy from the night’s gallop through mud and rain. The pond was little better, so he lowered his horn to the surface. The water cleared, settled by the simplest of unicorn magics. With a sigh, the Prancer stepped into the water to clean himself.
One of the trees nearby was a rowan. He dipped his horn in homage. Then he looked closer. The bark, he realised, was whorled, patterns swirling up and down the thick trunk. His snort set up ripples across the water. Here too, patterns, fragmenting and reforming as the small waves of his bathing slapped the banks. And the grasses, pounded by a night’s rain, wove an intricate maze. The clouds above, breaking under the warmth of the sun, scattered in new designs across the blue. Everything, the Prancer thought, struggling to put his growing understanding into words, everything has a pattern, a wholeness. One just has to be able to look, to be able to see it. Know the pattern of the whole, and if it has been damaged, the pattern can be restored.
He broke from the water and shook himself dry. He felt the Land throb under his hooves as he strode back to the huddle of humans. They backed away at his approach, leaving the injured one lying alone. He lowered his head to
her, took a deep breath of her scent, sweat and blood mingled with pain. His sigh dried the tears on her cheeks. Then he stepped back. ‘Bring her to the pond.’
The humans hurried to obey, their arms cradling the dying woman as they followed him to the water. She was placed on the bare soil by the bank. The Prancer circled her once, his hooves marking the enclosure of his power. Then he lowered his horn to the Land.
The earth responded to his touch. The Prancer closed his eyes, but still sensed the patterns being wrought through him. Colour followed his horn as he drew it across the soil, swirls of yellow and green, red and purple, blue and violet. The ground was transformed under his hooves, ordinary earth becoming light, glowing. Whorls of silver and gold crossed over the colours, weaving ever more intricate patterns.
The Prancer felt sweat break out across flanks. His breaths came shorter and shorter as he wrestled with the power he was calling from earth, air, water, fire. The elements flowed through his hooves, combined in his horn, struggled against the confines of his circle. But the boundary held, forcing the energy inward, towards the woman lying at the centre, her skin greying, her own breathing laboured.
Then the pattern was complete, the image of the woman whole in his mind. The Prancer paused, took a deep breath. Then he opened his eyes and reared, calling to the Land as he juddered back to earth. The tip of his horn touched the woman’s face, pierced the skin.
He felt the power stored in his paintings respond, thrust back through his legs, emerge from his horn. For a moment, he thought he would be torn apart by the strength of his calling, and he braced his hooves against the current tearing through his body. Then he felt a blast of responding energy. The woman’s pattern had been restored. He stepped back as the humans slowly dared to come close, to touch her and convince themselves that the wound was gone, the heart pounding strongly again.
The Prancer lowered himself to the ground, drained. Am I Painter? he wondered. Am I Dancer? ‘And what now?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Now,’ Fianna said grimly, ‘we return to Secondus, and prepare for war.’
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The story continues in The Unicorn Throne
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About the Author
Priest by day, writer at odd times of the day and night, I live with a small green parrot called Xander because the upkeep for a dragon is beyond my current budget. Plus I’m responsible for making good any flame damage to church property. I love ‘Doctor Who’, landscape photography, single malt whisky, and my job, in no particular order. When I’m not looking after a small parish church in the Midlands (England) I like to go on far flung adventures to places like Peru, New Zealand, and the Arctic.
Discover other titles by Chrys Cymri
The Unicorn Throne
The Judas Disciple
Dragons Can Only Rust
Dragon Reforged
The Temptation of Dragons (Penny White 1)
The Cult of Unicorns (Penny White 2)
The Marriage of Gryphons (Penny White 3)
The Vengeance of Snails (Penny White 4)
Connect with Me:
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My website: http://chryscymri.com/
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The Temptation of Dragons
Chapter One
‘Vicar arrested for drunk driving’ is not the sort of headline my bishop wants to read about his priests. So I slowed down my Ford as I saw the flashing lights of the police car ahead. An accident. I hunched low over the steering wheel, hoping to hide the tell tale sign of the dog collar around my neck. My wine-sweetened breath wafted back into my face, reminding me of the reason I must not stop to offer any assistance. I was pretty certain that I was not over the drink drive limit, but possibly very close.
I risked a guilty glance as I passed the accident site. The black Mercedes had come to rest on the hard shoulder, right up against the traffic barrier. The front was caved in, although I couldn’t see what had caused the damage. No other car was nearby, and as far as I could see none of the trees had wandered across the dual carriageway. Two people stood near the police. Neither looked injured. I let out a sigh of relief.
I pulled back into the slow lane. A moment’s inattention made me drift onto the hard shoulder. The car’s front wheels and rear wheels bumped over an obstruction which shuddered and crunched. My throat closed and my heart pounded fast and quick in my chest. I slammed to stop, pulled up the hand brake and ripped my keys from the ignition. The car lurched against the clutch. I stumbled out and hurried back, terrified that I’d run over some animal or, please God Almighty no, a human.
My foot tripped against something solid. I staggered, and my hand slapped against scaly hide. Hide? The shape solidified under and around me. A tail. I was touching the base of a tail. I looked back at the webbed red tip, the scales, the thin spines. Then I lifted my eyes to see a thick body, two legs splayed back towards me, long leathery wings flung away from the road and over the traffic barrier. I forced myself to walk towards the front legs. My mind kept trying to reject the word forcing itself into my consciousness. Dragon. I was looking at a dragon.
For some reason a sense of disappointment crawled over me. The dragon was smaller than any I’d ever held in my imagination, about twice the size of a large horse. From the amount of blood that was pooling around the heaving chest, it was dying. The blood was only a shade darker than the bright red scales.
I stopped beside the narrow head. One large eye opened and looked up at me. Even in the dying light of a summer’s evening I could see that it was reptilian, the narrow pupil black against a wide iris of shimmering green. For a moment I saw myself mirrored on the clear surface, dark hair askew around my frowning face. The jaws cracked open, and a blue tongue slithered from the rows of small sharp teeth. ‘Father?’
I swallowed against my automatic correction. This was not the time to discuss the best way to address a female priest. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m dying.’
‘I could call an ambulance…’ I stopped. Had someone slipped something into my wine? Was I really thinking of arranging medical care for a dragon?
‘No time.’ His voice was fading. ‘Father, will you hear my confession? And give me the last rites?’
‘I’ll get my bag,’ I said. My legs felt rubbery as I stumbled back to the car. What if, I wondered, I were hallucinating a dragon, and it really was a human lying on the ground? The briefcase I use for hospital visiting sat on the back seat. I carried it back to the dragon, then knelt beside the fluttering nostrils. Best to do this properly. I placed the purple stole around my neck, then lifted out the order of service. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Dominic is my religious name in the Order of Saint Thomas. But my hatch name was Endre.’
‘Brother Dominic, our friend Endre,’ I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, ‘the Bible reminds us that “Whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s” and “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” Let’s share together the prayer our Lord taught us. Our Father, who art in heaven…’
The dragon joined in, quietly but firmly, a Welsh lilt to his voice. When they had finished, he added, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have
mercy on me, a sinner. I’ve not been a very good monk, and you know I’ve found celibacy difficult. I particularly repent about Miranda. But for all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve left undone, have mercy on me, a sinner.’
I lowered my free hand onto the dragon’s snout. The scales were warm, and smooth, utterly unlike the skin of a snake. ‘God, the Father of mercies, has reconciled the world to himself through the death and resurrection of his Son, Jesus Christ, not counting our trespasses against us, but sending his Holy Spirit to shed abroad his love among us. By the ministry of reconciliation entrusted by Christ to his Church, receive his pardon and peace to stand before him in his strength alone, this day and evermore. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the dragon echoed.
Breath was beginning to rattle in his throat. I flipped through my book to the appropriate page. I reached into the briefcase, and opened the small container of oil, and smeared some just below his horns. Then I read out, ‘“Into your hands, O merciful Saviour, we commend your servant Dominic. Acknowledge, we pray, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Enfold him in the arms of your mercy, in the blessed rest of everlasting peace and in the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.”’
‘Amen.’
‘Now, Lord, you let your servant go in peace—‘
The dragon’s voice cut across mine. With a sudden last burst of strength he sent ringing tones into the air. ‘Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace...’
