The Cult of Unicorns (Penny White Book 2)

by Chrys Cymri

  Fianna had occasionally heard guests to the castle complain at its size. Since she’d grown up in it, she couldn’t understand how they got lost down the rambling corridors, or wandered into the wrong wings. Her father knew it even better than she did. He had always won their games of hide and seek. Back in the days when they had played games together.

  Her mother’s apartments were on the third level of the north wing. Fianna stopped outside the painted door, automatically checking her clothes, her hair. The seal had only been broken today. The edges of the plaster were rough. She laid a hand on the wood, then pushed it open.

  The dust of a year’s neglect stirred at her entrance. Fianna shut the door behind her, then stood in the gloom, remembering other times. Her mother had never been strong, and had spent much of her time in her rooms. But they had been happy, the three of them. In the evenings, Fianna and her father had often come here for games and tales. A game board still stood by one grey window, the players ready. And a book rested on a bed-side table, next to the chair where her father had often sat, holding the hand of her mother as she laughed at his gentle teasing.

  But last year the winter had been long and harsh. The winds which blew off the dragons’ Sacred Mountains seemed to find their way in through the thick stones of the castle itself. Despite the efforts of the best mages, her mother sank gradually from life. In one of her last, lucid moments, she had pressed into Fianna’s hand the gold and ruby Summoning Ring. Fianna raised a hand and touched the band where it rested against her neck, held fast on a chain of gold.

  ‘Take one last look.’ Her father’s soft voice startled Fianna. She glanced at him, but Stannard was studying the room. ‘Fourteen months have passed since I placed my seal on wet plaster outside this door. But the seasons turn on, and the year is soon over. This is the last time we will see this place as she left it. Tomorrow, all must change. Will you want these rooms?’

  ‘No!’ The violence of her response finally made him look at her. ‘Leave them like this.’

  Her father sighed. He ran a hand through his short cropped hair, and for the first time she realised that the once red head was now chased through with grey. ‘The year of mourning is now past, Fia. These apartments must be opened again, and we must both dress in lighter colours. Life must go on.’

  Fianna felt her hands bunch into small, useless fists. ‘I don’t want to forget her.’

  ‘No, you must not.’ Stannard shook his head. ‘Always remember how you felt, fourteen months ago, and again today. Anyone who dies leaves others behind to mourn. Remember that, when you are Queen, and have to order knights into battle. For every one that dies, more are left with dark clothing and empty rooms.’

  ‘We’re not at war,’ she said stubbornly, kicking at a pattern in the carpet.

  ‘Not at the moment. But one never knows what may come from the Third Kingdom.’ He walked over to the bed and retrieved the book. ‘You should have this. It always was your favourite.’

  Fianna numbly accepted the volume, the cover dry and cracked. The emblem of the royal house was etched into the leather, the dragon’s long neck curved around the title. ‘Will I ever meet a dragon, Father?’

  ‘You might, at your coronation. The Family appeared at mine.’ He moved through the bedchamber, touching the game board, studying a portrait. His next words were soft, as if meant to be heard only by himself. ‘Yes, you are now my heir.’

  ‘But I already was,’ Fianna protested. ‘You said so.’

  ‘Only if no boy were born to your mother.’ He returned to her, touched her briefly on one shoulder. ‘That’s why your aunt wasn’t Queen, though she’s three years older than I am. In any other family, the firstborn inherits. But the Dragon Throne goes to a male, if one exists. Come, Fianna, your mother’s body must be put to the flames. Her spirit has now had time to leave her.’

  Fianna allowed him to take her from the room. She kept the book with her as they descended into the catacombs beneath the castle, pressing the tome against her chest like a shield. With a calm, steady voice, her father spoke the final words over her mother’s casket, his torch spluttering in the damp. Then he dropped the flame onto the oak, and they turned away as the fire began at their backs.

  <><><><><><>

  The rustle of papers and a heavy sigh made Fianna look up from where she sat by the fire, using the light to practice in her copybook. She absently rubbed an cramped hand as she watched her father move to add another log to the flames. ‘So, Fianna, what did you think of that last judgement today?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell that man to shut up?’ she asked. ‘He kept going on and on about how it wasn’t fair that he didn’t have more land, and that you wouldn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘What would you have done?’

  ‘Told him that I decided who had land, so he should just go away and be happy with what he’s got.’

  His light eyes regarded her for a moment. ‘And what gives you the right to say that?’

  ‘Because I’d be Queen.’ He smiled slightly, and Fianna flushed, uncertain. ‘Doesn’t that make me right?’

  ‘A ruler is no better or worse than those he rules.’ Stannard leaned back in his favourite armchair. He lit his pipe for his nightly smoke, a habit Fianna’s mother had tried and failed to break. Fianna had always secretly liked the rich smell of the tobacco mixture her father used. ‘I am King because I sired by the last king, and you will be Queen merely because you were born to my wife. Ability has nothing to do with it. You didn’t become my heir by proving yourself the best suited to rule. Only by pure chance were you born to the royal house rather than to a village farmer. Keep that in mind. I’ve found it helps me maintain a more humble perspective.’

  Fianna frowned, trying to understand what he meant. ‘But why did you let him keep talking?’

  ‘Sometimes, a king has to judge. Other times, he has to remain silent.’ Stannard smiled around his pipe. ‘The man simply wanted me to listen.’

  ‘And if you didn’t want to?’

  ‘What I wanted wasn’t important. There are many times when a ruler’s own personal wishes have to come last.’

  Fianna frowned to herself. I, she decided, would’ve told him to shut up.

  Her father shifted in his seat, retrieving a document. ‘I’ve been reviewing names for a new Castellan.’

  Fianna tensed. ‘That was mother’s job.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed gently. ‘And for the past year, we’ve all been doing our best to keep the household running smoothly. Bernard keeps reminding me of all the extra work he’s done.’ He shared a grimace with her. ‘You’re not yet old enough to take the duties on yourself. My old friend, the Duke of Cassern, has a young daughter raised to the challenges of managing a castle. He’s offered to bring her here. Her name is Marissa. Do you think that would be a good idea?’

  ‘I guess so.’ Fianna stared at the fire. For some reason she suddenly felt cold.

  <><><><><><>

  Early flowers were beginning to respond to the first warmer days of spring. Fianna waited at the castle entrance, at the side of her father, as servants spread blooms across the courtyard. Bernard had told her how important the Duke was, as head of the second house of the Fourth Kingdom, and he’d instructed her to wear royal colours to honour the man. Fianna felt her skin twitch under the new clothes, red tunic a shade lighter than her trousers, gold threads woven through the material. She fully expected the Duke’s family to gawp over her, and tediously list the eligible boys of rank which might be interested in a marriage pact, though her father had always calmly insisted that she would be free to pick her own consort. The only thing which lightened the day was the newly forged coronet holding back her long hair. This was the first time she’d ever worn the gold circlet of her status, and its slight weight made her straighten with pride.

  Two knights rode through the gates first, blue and orange silks flapping against mail. They formally presented their swords hilt first to the King’s guards, th
en took up positions on either side of the entrance. The Duke came in next. Fianna only glanced at the dark bearded man, finding his stallion far more interesting. The dappled grey moved well, eagerly arching his neck as he scented the stables nearby. Few fighters rode whole males, most preferring the more controllable geldings and mares.

  The stallion was reined in a few yards from the entrance to the castle proper. Stannard moved forward, taking hold of the horse’s reins before one of the waiting grooms could dash in. ‘Latham,’ he said warmly. ‘Welcome, old friend.’

  The Duke grunted. He slid to the ground, and the two men clasped forearms, the gesture of equals. Stannard glanced back, and Fianna obediently came to his side. ‘My daughter, the Princess Fianna.’

  Latham bowed. ‘Your Highness. You’ve grown since I last saw you.’

  Fianna wondered why adults so often told her that. Then she repeated the words the Court Recorder had drilled into her. ‘Duke Latham, you honour our house with your presence. We are the stronger for your friendship.’

  White teeth flashed under the thick moustache. ‘Well spoken, my lady.’ He turned his head. ‘May I present my own daughter, the Lady Marissa.’

  His daughter had dismounted a short distance away while they spoke. Now she walked up to them, her flowing dress a bright green which went well with her brown hair. She must’ve changed in the city, Fianna decided, noting the lack of mud on the silk. Stopping beside the Duke, she dropped into a quick curtsy. ‘Your Majesty, Your Highness, I’m proud to place myself at your service. I hope that I will please you in my efforts.’

  ‘You have come highly recommended,’ Stannard said warmly. Fianna glanced up at him, startled by a new note in his voice. ‘I’m sure you will do well. Otherwise, I’m certain we could use more assistance in the kennels.’

  ‘Come now, sir,’ Marissa said, smiling, ‘surely I have a sweeter nature than that?’

  Stannard stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed, the first genuine laugh Fianna had heard from him since her mother’s death. She shifted restlessly, not understanding the joke. ‘She’s certainly worthy of you, Latham. Come, let’s go inside, and discuss your duties over a glass of wine.’

  <><><><><><>

  The change began slowly. Happy in her duties in stables and kennels, and new experiences gained in the practice yard with dagger and spear, Fianna didn’t take much notice when Marissa began to use the King’s first name. She was nursing bruises and pride from a fall from a warhorse the first time the Castellan called her father by his family nickname, Stan, and plans for recapturing the respect of her fellow pages seemed far more important.

  Summer came, and Marissa spread her interests. She ventured into the kennels one day, the wide skirts she favoured out of place in the warm, doggy environment. Fianna glanced up, annoyed. The kennelmistress was allowing her to assist with a whelping bitch, and the first puppy was yet to emerge. It was the kennelmistress who spoke to the woman. ‘Castellan, how may we serve you?’

  Marissa twitched her skirts back from the whelping box. ‘I came to speak to Fia.’

  ‘Fianna,’ she told Marissa. Only her father used that nickname. ‘I’m busy right now.’

  ‘I’m sure Ellenor can manage on her own.’

  Fianna saw the quiet plea in the kennelmistress’s eyes. As Castellan, Marissa outranked Ellenor. Rising reluctantly to her feet, Fianna asked her, ‘Next time?’

  ‘Next time,’ Ellenor promised, then leaned forward again.

  The sounds of a working castle surrounded them as Fianna followed Marissa across the courtyard. Pages were practising in the training yard, wood thwacking against wood as training swords crossed. In the horse ring beyond them, a stallion was being put through his paces, circling his handler at the end of a lounge line. From beyond the walls came the sound of arrow tips driving into straw, and laughs as the archers sought to best one another.

  Then they were inside the castle. Servants moved quietly through the hall, cleaning tiles, restocking firewood. The rich smell of freshly waxed wood tickled Fianna’s nose, and she put a finger against her nostrils to prevent a sneeze.

  Marissa led her into the Castellan’s office, a small room on the ground level of the castle. Changes had been made since Fianna’s mother had occupied it. Gone were the family portraits and paintings of the hawks bred by her own family. Maps of the Fourth Kingdom hung in their stead, and an etching of the Sacred Mountains.

  Fianna dropped into a chair opposite the large desk. No one could sit before a member of the royal family did, so her father had told her it was only polite for a sovereign to take a seat as soon as possible. Marissa, hampered by her skirts, lowered herself more gently, patting the folds into place around her. ‘You don’t mind me calling you by your first name, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Fianna shrugged. ‘The other pages do.’

  She was rewarded by a quick frown at such a familiarity. ‘I wanted to ask you about your duties. We see so little of you in the castle.’

  ‘I attend my father whenever I should,’ Fianna said slowly, wondering what the woman was getting at. ‘And I see him every evening for my lessons.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better for you to be assigned to castle duties?’ Marissa gave her what was obviously meant to be a winning smile. ‘I mean, it can’t be nice to clean out stables and walk dogs--’

  ‘Lady Castellan, I asked to be assigned to those tasks.’ Fianna stood. ‘If that’s all you wanted me for, I’ll go now.’

  ‘You need to learn other skills,’ Marissa continued, rising as well. ‘And it would be good to see you in something other than trousers.’

  Fianna felt anger rise in her, fought against it. Her father had taken her to task before about her temper. ‘You, my lady, are not my mother. Only my sire outranks me, and unless he says otherwise, I will continue in my chosen duties.’

  She returned to the kennels in time to see the last three pups born. The seventh was weak and small, and the kennelmistress was not surprised when it died in Fianna’s hands. ‘Oft occurs to the runt,’ she said dismissively, more interested in examining the healthy pups.

  Fianna stared down at the limp body which barely covered her palm. A moment ago, it had been breathing, albeit weakly. Now its spirit was gone, after only seconds of life. ‘What do we do with it?’

  ‘Place it with the usual refuse.’

  Something inside Fianna protested at such a dismissal. ‘I take my leave of you,’ she told the woman formally.

  Inside her locker she found an old shirt, red and gold. Wrapping the body carefully in the folds, she approached the stable hand on duty for the use of a horse. He saddled up a mare for her, and agreed to give word to any searching for her that she had ridden into the city. She paid little attention when one of the guards on duty mounted and followed after her. Such precautions had followed her throughout her life.

  The guard pulled closer to her as they left the castle, and Fianna smiled at his caution. She had visited both of the other two cities of the Fourth Kingdom, and found them ordinary and boring. In Secondus, magic literally ran down the twisting streets. Parts of the city were known to disappear for days at a time, only to emerge at another sector within the walls. Maps were meaningless, and many a traveller had found a journey which should only have taken minutes expanding to fill a day as he followed the ever changing paths. No one knew the reason for the unpredictability. Some thought it came from the siting of the Mages’ College at the foot of the castle, others that it was an ancient protection against invasion. The only ones immune to the magic were those of the royal household, for whom the streets always remained fixed.

  Fianna thought she felt an awareness when she entered the city proper, just below imagination but not quite concrete enough to call reality. As if Secondus recognised her as one its special ones. As she usually did, she issued a mental welcome, pleased at her special treatment.

  Some of the citizens she rode past recognised her. But as she wasn’t wearing the colours of he
r house, they merely nodded acknowledgements and let her continue on her private business. Fianna rode without pausing, though smells from the food stalls by one market made her stomach rumble. At the city gates the guards saluted her as she passed outside.

  Warm days had hardened the springtime mud to hard earth outside the walls. Fianna carefully directed the mare around the wide gashes of cart wheels, then sent her into a canter up into the nearby hills. She buried the pup under one of the large trees. The first to die in my service? she thought, lowering the wrapped body into the small hole. She glanced up at the guard, but he was politely staring off in the distance. Nobody had ever died in her presence before, but she had the uncomfortable feeling that this puppy was not to be the only one during her reign.

  She stayed outside the city longer than she had planned. Despite the lateness of the evening, she still stopped her horse beside the Sign. ‘What do you think?’ she asked the guard beside her. ‘Will it speak today?’

  Two cylinders of rolled metal, thicker and sturdier than anything the kingdom’s smiths could forge, rose from a slight hill. Several horses could ride between them at once. The pillars supported the massive Sign, holding it a hundred feet above their heads. Welcome to Secondus was spelled out in golden letters, bright against the red background.

  ‘I’ve never heard it make a sound, Your Highness,’ the guard said.

  ‘Neither have I.’ Fianna looked up with longing. ‘My sire says it stopped speaking during his father’s reign. And, before that, it even used to sing.’

  ‘Sing?’

  ‘A tune in praise of Secondus.’ Fianna kneed her horse between the supports, but the only sound was a breeze wisping weeds against the metal. Once again she wondered who had built the Sign, and why.

  They continued back to the city. As she rode back up to the castle, the white towers tinged red by the setting sun, Fianna recalled that she was due to meet her father early this evening. Gritting her teeth against the urge to gallop her horse over the hard cobblestones, she instead counted the twists in the road up to the castle gates.