by Tracy Fobes
She blew a calming melody and asked him what had sent him into the boughs, her thoughts on the difficult discussion ahead of them. How would her friend react to the duke’s ultimatum?
Sionnach’s revelation, however, quickly diverted her from thoughts of the cage that the duke wanted to put him in. He yipped to her that the unicorn had arrived.
Sarah clutched a sapling to steady herself. Her vision became more acute somehow, focusing in on Sionnach as if he were a lighthouse in the middle of a fog bank. Her fingers gripping bark, she asked the fox if he could take her to the unicorn.
Sionnach jumped in a circle, answering yes. When she pressed him for details about the unicorn’s health, though, he simply demanded she come and see for herself, then raced off into the forest.
Sarah followed, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The sky, which had done nothing but rain on them for the last few weeks, had cleared the previous day, ushering in bright sunshine and warm breezes. Lily of the valley, honeysuckle, and wild damask roses bloomed in that gentler weather, splashing the trees and mulch with color and releasing their delicate fragrances into the air.
She chased the fox over thick beds of moss that squished underfoot and around overturned tree stumps. After a time, the forest opened onto a series of fields. Sionnach urged her through each field, heedless of the grass dragging at her skirt. They managed to cross three fields before a stitch built in her side and forced her to slow down. She estimated that they’d been racing through the woods and fields for almost half an hour.
Barely able to find enough air to play her panflute, she pressed a hand against her side and questioned him on the remaining distance between them and the unicorn. When Sionnach revealed, with an impatient wag of his tail, that they had another mile or so to go, Sarah wanted to flop onto the grass and die.
Rather, she grit her teeth and pressed onward. The fox led her around a dovecote made of white stone and topped by a slate roof, and up a grassy hill until she stood so high she could see all of Inveraray laid out before her, on the bay. There, she and Sionnach paused. The sound of rushing water made her thirsty. She noticed a fast-moving brook several feet away.
Winded, she spun around and studied the view from every direction. The farmer’s fields sprawled to the west, and a tenant’s croft belched smoke into the sky far east of them. North, of course, lay the castle. She realized she didn’t know what lay south. She and Colin had never ridden in this direction.
Almost as if sensing her disorientation, Sionnach explained that they were now walking far beyond Blackhill, a hillock so named for its thick, rich soil. As he trotted to the edge of a cliff, he added that they’d moved beyond even Water’s Edge. Only the knowledge that the unicorn lay just ahead kept her going forward.
Trembling, she picked her way between rocks and boulders and stopped at the cliff’s edge. Far below, mist billowed outward like a curtain, hiding the land at the bottom. The sound of rushing water had grown louder. Sarah noticed that the little brook at the top of the hill spilled over the cliff somewhere nearby.
But the fox had disappeared.
Suddenly, red flashed against green. Sionnach stood on a little path about ten feet down the cliff face.
She peered over the edge of the cliff again. The unicorn was down there? Without warning, she felt dizzy. Almost sick. Her heart began to pound in her chest. Eyes widening, she backed away and begged Sionnach to lead the unicorn up to her.
The fox refused, saying the beast was too big, and too ill. Barking encouragingly, he insisted she follow him.
“I can’t,” she muttered in human language.
Again, he offered her another encouraging yip.
Sarah took a deep breath. Her friend was right. If she wanted to see the unicorn, she would have to follow him. She put one foot on the small path that traversed the cliff face. It was so narrow that she doubted a goat could find his way down without slipping. She faltered.
Sionnach glanced around at her and, seeing her hesitation, demanded she come.
She put her other foot on the path and, slowly, inched her way along until the cliff ledge stood even with her waist. Her heart was beating even harder than before. In her mind, she heard a man’s deep-throated cry.
Her fingers hooked, she clutched a root that was sticking out of the ground. Mist enfolded her in its clammy embrace, mingling with the cold sweat that had broken out on her brow. Closing her eyes, she recalled bouncing around. Jostling. A little girl’s hand holding hers.
A cry built in her throat.
More images assaulted her.
A doll flapping around, as if caught in a terrible wind. Two women screaming. Her free hand hurt. She opened her fist and discovered an emerald ring.
Mother, help me.
A groaning noise filled her ears. Sarah realized she was the one making it. She forced her eyes open. Her entire body shook. But her hand was empty. She wasn’t holding an emerald ring.
The accident!
These were memories of the carriage accident. Powerful ones. Slowly she let go of the root she’d been clutching. She lifted her face to the sun and felt its warmth, listened to the water tumbling over the edge of the cliff and allowed its roar to wash her mind clean, touched the silken softness of the clothes she wore.
Slowly, the panic faded.
Sionnach stood about ten feet ahead, his dark eyes watching her without blinking. She saw the concern in his gaze and summoned a nod.
He yipped again, telling her how proud he was of her, then continued on down the path.
Stiffening her spine with resolve, she carefully picked her way after him, the mist swallowing her up and making it difficult to see more than five feet ahead. When at last her feet touched the bottom, she felt Sionnach rub up against her legs.
They stood at the base of a waterfall, in a grotto of sorts. Ivy and ferns grew up around gray stone that stuck out at odd angles and stretched upward on three sides. The fourth side opened onto more woods.
She reached down to scratch the fox behind the ears and wondered how the devil she was going to climb back up. At the same time, Sionnach pointed his nose toward a niche near the waterfall. There, hidden in the mist and surrounded by vines and exposed tree roots, lay a small horse.
Sarah grew absolutely still. Hungrily her gaze roamed across the white beast. He was so beautiful, her heart ached just to see him. His coat was pure white and shining. Tiny droplets of moisture clung to his white mane, giving it a silver cast. A small ivory horn grew from the middle of his forehead.
Pure of heart, and yet so vulnerable, she thought, her throat tight. She heard a soft sighing in her mind, and like a dream suddenly recalled, she real-ized he was whispering her name, just as he had whispered to her all of those years ago, when she’d nearly died. Indeed, he’d always been with her; she just hadn’t recognized his presence.
His head, she saw, was bent downward, touching the mosses and ferns beneath him. His eyes were closed. A mystical aura of calm surrounded him.
An image of him running through the water, his hooves splashing droplets everywhere, formed in her mind. He’d saved her from the water, she remembered. Now she owed him her life.
Sarah took a step toward him.
He didn’t stir.
He didn’t even twitch an eyelid.
Dismay brought a frown to her lips. Only the sickest animals behaved this way. She pulled her panflute from her reticule, lifted it to her lips, and played a greeting.
The unicorn shifted a little on his legs, which he’d folded beneath his body, but otherwise he paid her no attention.
She took another step toward him, her song becoming more intense. Pleading.
This time, the unicorn lifted its head and opened his eyes a fraction. They were as blue as the summer sky. Still, he remained motionless and uninterested.
She held a hand out toward him in a placating gesture and inched forward. Silently she cursed herself for not thinking to bring something for him to ea
t. With her free hand, she lifted her panflute to her lips and asked him if he liked apples.
By now, she’d drawn close enough to look into his eyes, and when she did she recoiled at what she saw there. Dull, lifeless, they contained a grievous pain that had evidently broken his spirit.
Urgency laced her music. The unicorn was dying. Fast. She asked him where he hurt.
When he didn’t respond, she inched forward until she stood next to him. Frustration and worry replaced her excitement. This was the first animal she’d ever met who didn’t understand her. Her gift wouldn’t help her at all.
Her hand trembling, she reached forward and touched his withers. He was soft, like kitten’s fur. He didn’t seem overly thin. Even so, she ached for him. What was wrong?
Her touch growing bolder, she ran her fingers along his legs, checking for broken bones. She examined his ribs, felt his heart, and even pressed her head against his chest to listen to him breathing. She heard nothing untoward. He even smelled good, she thought. Like freshly scythed grass.
Sionnach yipped from a small boulder on which he’d perched, asking her why the white beast didn’t talk.
She explained to the fox that she didn’t know why the beast remained mute, or what the cause of his sickness might be. Then, frowning, she dragged her fingers through the unicorn’s mane, pulling out the knots. Once his mane felt smooth and silky, she ran her fingers around his ears, then touched his nose, still searching for something unusual.
The moment she touched his horn, however, a strange warmth snaked up her arm, along with a tingly feeling. She flinched and yanked her hand back to her side.
Sionnach barked excitedly, wondering what had happened.
Her attention fixed on the unicorn, Sarah touched the horn again. The warmth flowed up her arm and began to tingle. This time she held on. Slowly, an image unfolded in her mind. She had the idea that it wasn’t her own thought — no, someone was putting it there. The unicorn was putting it there.
It spoke in pictures, she realized.
She closed her eyes.
The picture grew brighter. She saw a unicorn. Frolicking through a meadow. Another joined the first, this one smaller, more delicate. Daisies swayed in their wake. Pollen floated on fading rays of sunshine, turning everything golden. She sensed deep, abiding happiness. She smiled. The smaller unicorn, she knew, was his mate.
A man was there, too. He had deep-set eyes, chest-nut-colored hair, and a long, flowing beard. His hair poked out from beneath a golden helmet he was wearing. A golden breastplate protected his chest, and a plaid hung around his shoulders. He held a claymore in his hand. The sword looked sharp and heavy enough to cut a tree in half with a single swing.
He dazzled the eye. A warrior, she thought. From long ago. Or perhaps even a king.
Something made of silver sparkled on his shoulder. It held the tartan wrapped around him in place. She focused more closely, and saw that the silver object was a circlet fastened to the plaid. A blue lion decorated the circlet.
Suddenly, a group of men sporting silver breastplates and carrying nets joined the golden man. The golden man, clearly their leader, directed the others toward the unicorns. In a circle, they fanned out, surrounding the two unicorns. The male unicorn bucked and threw his hooves up, trying to scare them away, but he was too small. They laughed at him and closed ranks.
Without warning, the silver men let their nets fly, and the daintier unicorn became trapped within their folds.
Sarah swallowed against the tight knot in her throat.
The male unicorn, still free, skittered away into the woods and watched from afar as the silver men hauled the daintier unicorn away.
Confusion swirled in Sarah’s mind like fog. She sensed fear, betrayal, and abandonment. Then loneliness.
The image faded.
She released his horn. Each of his emotions she’d felt as if they were her own. In fact, they were her own, to some extent. How many nights had she lain awake in bed, lonely, thinking that she couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched or hugged her in a loving manner? Tears gathered in her eyes. “You’re very old, to have these memories. And she’s been gone for a long time now, hasn’t she?”
Head bowed, the unicorn shuddered.
“You’ve been looking for her ever since.” One by one, the tears slipped down her cheek. “And you can’t find her. So you don’t want to live anymore.”
The unicorn closed its eyes.
She sat down on a boulder. Every part of her body felt cold. “I’m afraid you’ve made a terrible mistake. You’ve come to me for help, but I can’t mend broken hearts.”
Utterly still and motionless, the unicorn almost seemed made of marble.
“He’s going to die, Sionnach,” she whispered in human language to the little fox, who’d crept to her side. “And I can’t do a thing about it.”
12
S ionnach said little on their way back to Inveraray Castle. His eyes were so sad. Sarah felt as though lead had weighted her limbs. What could she do to help? The female unicorn had been captured and taken away so long ago — hundreds of years, perhaps. The people who had taken her were naught but dust now.
As they passed the Maltlands, however, she broke the silence. Already full of grief, her heart pained her even more over what she had to tell Sionnach. She pulled her panflute from her reticule and began to play, reluctantly explaining the duke’s objections to Sionnach’s hunting, and his determination that the fox stay out of the castle and off estate grounds.
The fox slowed. He turned his head toward Sarah. She didn’t detect any surprise in his face. He already knew.
Her heart aching, she told him how much she loved him, for his wildness, thievery, and cunning as well as his loyalty and counsel. She loved everything that he was, and accepted those parts of his personality that demanded he root around in cook’s henhouse. He was only behaving in a way nature had intended him to. But the duke’s household, they didn’t understand him like she did, and she needed to make him realize this.
He averted his face and asked her what she wished him to do.
Lips in a grim line, she suggested he return to Beannach.
He told her quite promptly that under no circumstances — none whatsoever — would he leave her; then he questioned if the duke had suggested any other alternatives.
She frowned, feeling more tears coming on. The day had been terrible, all around. Her voice husky, she relayed the duke’s bargain: that Sionnach go to live in one of the barns in the Maltlands, where he could roam at will and hunt all of the mice he liked, as long as he didn’t leave the barn.
The fox became very still.
She sighed and touched the fur behind his ears. When he didn’t move away, she petted him, telling him all the while that she would return him to Beannach or, barring that, he could go live in the wild, free. She could not bear to think of him caged in a barn.
Trembling beneath her touch, he informed her that he would stay in the duke’s barn, then spun away toward the brush edging the lane and trotted away.
She hurried to catch up with him, not understanding. Furiously she played on her flute, demanding that he tell her why he was giving up his freedom.
His reply was simple: she needed him, and if he left now, she might die like the unicorn.
The notion that he would sacrifice himself to insure her happiness infuriated her. She yelled at him first, telling him she wouldn’t be the reason for his unhappiness, then begged him not to do this thing for her.
Sionnach remained obstinate. He wouldn’t leave her, not yet. Rather, he would go to the barn. Picking up his pace, he vanished into the brush.
His disappearance felt like desertion. Her tears flowed even faster. Why did he insist on staying? Didn’t he know that the barn, no matter how fine, would be naught but a golden cage?
Another two weeks passed, during which Colin’s determination to remain a gentleman toward Sarah had crumbled utterly. He knew their deepen
ing relationship would soon lead to intimacy, and he’d come to the point where he could no longer convince himself to resist. Even thoughts of the duke’s threats had little effect on him anymore. Fantasies of Sarah filled his mind both day and night. The ache of wanting and needing her burned like fire in his loins. The only question that remained for him was: when would he hold her in his arms?
He sat before a walnut writing cabinet, facing a blank piece of parchment and holding a quill in his hand. He ran a hand through his hair, then pushed back from the cabinet in frustration. He couldn’t seem to come up with a single line of poetry that made any sense.
Behind him, in the drawing room, the rest of the duke’s family gathered in a scene of cozy comfort. The duke, ensconced in a Queen Anne wing chair, had his nose in a book. His two dogs, Cheltnum and Townsend, lay comfortably at his feet, close to a small fire which glowed in the hearth and provided just enough warmth to banish another chill day full of rain. Mrs. Fitzbottom and Sarah were lounging on a settee by the window. They’d pulled a mahogany reading stand in front of them and were going over menus for the card party, which was only two weeks away.
Colin stared at the parchment beneath his quill. A recent memory of Sarah, her lips curved in a smile, formed in his mind. They’d taken to walking the duke’s dogs lately and laughing over their antics, their heads together like two thieves planning a heist. They talked, and rode, and visited the duke’s tenants, her simplicity and gentle manner reminding him of another time, when he hadn’t the hard, brittle finish he’d gained in London. To his surprise, he’d discovered they shared several interests despite their disparate backgrounds, such as a love of poetry and folk songs.
She was quick and clever and had learned a tremendous amount over the last month. He was pleased with her, and terribly proud of her. She had blossomed, and never was it more so apparent than today, when she’d presented herself in the drawing room. Dressed in violet and wrapped in a crocheted shawl, her hair black and shining and eyes a deep purplish-blue, she was so beautiful that his throat tightened when he saw her, and he reminded himself that until she debuted in society, she was his.
