by Susan Dexter
The unicorn was scared. It was desperate. It might, for all Tristan knew, die from the shock of being held captive.
His fingers ached. They had begun to swell. Working magic was going to be difficult soon, Tristan thought sickly. He squinted at the damage. He’d better free the creature now, while he still could. He put both hands on the horn, ignoring the cloud of sand which quickly surrounded him. He held on tight.
Tristan’s palms tingled. His swollen fingers throbbed. That might only be from trying to close them tightly. The unicorn’s breath came in hot puffs. Its eyes were circled with white, frantic. Its mouth opened wide. It snapped its teeth, but it couldn’t get near enough to bite him.
“Steady,” Tristan told it. He kept his right hand on the horn. He slid the left down to investigate the roots. The glow of the horn gave him some light. Not that he especially needed to see. He could feel the tension at the spot where the horn was caught. He could tell which roots it merely passed under and which were locked fast upon it.
The horn was caught in two places, nearly a hand’s width apart. “Stop struggling,” Tristan ordered the unicorn. “You could snap your horn, I think.” The horn might grow back, but he had no way to know whether it would.
A wonder it hasn’t. Thomas had come close. The cat peered intently at the root. What are you going to do?
“Pry the roots apart.” Tristan worked his knife tip in again, very close to the horn. It was tricky work. Tristan dulled the blade with a whisper of spell, for safety.
Keep your fingers clear this time, Thomas advised.
The cat was right. The roots felt like the jaws of a trap. Tristan looked deep into the unicorn’s eyes, trying to touch its mind. “You need to push,” he told it. “Stop pulling back! Push, so I can spread the roots apart.”
Did the horn under his hands glow more brightly? And if it did, did that mean anything? Tristan spoke a spell to stiffen the knife blade. Being only brass, it would never master the roots without magical help. Iron was stiff and kept a sharp edge—but cold iron was magic’s enemy. It was deadly dangerous for a wizard to mess with. Even Blais left iron alone.
Tristan hoped his spell was strong enough. Once the knife began to bend, it was apt to go soft as butter in a heartbeat, an unfortunate backlash of the spell. The knife would be useless—and he had no other tool for attacking the roots.
Tristan wiped his palms dry. Wrapping his right hand around the knife’s hilt, he rested his left hand on the crest of the unicorn’s neck. Tangling his sore fingers in the long forelock, he pulled down, hard.
The head came forward, and so did the horn. Tristan felt the tension shift, where roots and horn and knife all met. The unicorn suddenly understood about pushing into the trap. It thrust forward with all its strength. Cloven hooves dug into the sand. The white back humped.
Tristan yanked his fist hard to the right. The knife levered at the roots. The roots spread, so slightly that the change could only be felt, not seen.
“Now!” Tristan shouted. He let loose of the forelock and pushed back hard on the unicorn’s head. Sand flew as the silver body surged backward. The horn rasped free of the black roots, like a sword clearing a scabbard. Tristan rolled to one side, landing on his back. He still held his knife. Its blade curved hard sideways. Tristan decided he could mend it. If not with magic, then with a mallet and a flat stone. Whatever it took. Later, when he’d caught his breath.
The unicorn shifted into forward motion. It tore toward the edge of the ground, bounding over Tristan on the way.
Either Tristan’s wards or the black water stopped it. The unicorn veered violently to its left, sending up sheets of sand. Thomas leapt out of its path. Tristan flattened himself against the dead tree.
Three times the unicorn circled the little hill of dry ground. It went to its left, then to its right, then back to the left. It halted. It threw back its head. The dim rusty circle of the moon rode just above the tip of its horn. It cried out sharply.
The unicorn sounded as desperate as it had looked before Tristan released it. He was amazed that his wards bound it to the hillock. How could his little spells affect a creature so full of magic?
Perhaps they did not. There were shapes out there, half invisible in the dark. They hovered over the dark water. Some of them must have had wings, by the drifting way they moved to and fro. While he watched them, Tristan’s stomach twisted uneasily. He wasn’t sure why—they were so dark and moved so quickly, they were never much more than shadows.
Shadows with teeth. One snapped at Thomas, sitting close by the water. The cat swatted reflexively at the shapes as they passed temptingly near. Fortunately, the wards seemed to be holding. The flash of teeth could be seen, but that was all.
“Don’t break the circle!” Tristan warned the cat urgently.
I’m not a fool. The tip of Thomas’ tail flicked impatiently.
“I don’t think they can do more than tease us. But it’s better if they don’t get in,” Tristan added nervously.
Thomas yawned, showing all his teeth. It might be a fair fight, if it came to that.
With a shuddering sigh, the unicorn sank to the ground. The proud head stayed up for a moment. It stared at the shadows.
Tristan watched it. It seemed willing to accept him, so long as he didn’t approach it. Maybe it understood that his wards held the bog-haunts at bay. Maybe it was grateful. Certainly it was exhausted. It bent its neck and rested its muzzle upon one foreleg. The dark eyes closed.
Tristan felt his own eyelids drooping. He dragged them open. There were but one or two hours remaining till dawn, judging by the stars. All seemed well with the wards. Resting should be safe.
Tristan was so worn out, the sand under him felt almost soft. He wrapped his cloak around him. He lay down. The bog-haunts chittered angrily, but their voices soon faded. In a dozen heartbeats they were no more than the croaking of frogs, the whisper of the night wind through the reeds.
Turn About
When Tristan opened his eyes, the air was bright silver. He blinked. A dense mist had risen. He could see no farther in sunlight than he had in the darkness.
A pale circle overhead showed where the sun stood. Already it was too high to give Tristan a true bearing. Not that he could see a horizon anyway. He couldn’t see anything more than a dozen paces away.
In daylight, the unicorn was the color of pearls. Damp had sprinkled a royal ransom of diamonds upon its mane. The long forelock draped lank on either side of the softly shining horn. Its white eyelashes were so long that they curled up at the tips.
Teardrop nostrils rounded, sniffing curiously at the crumbs of oatcake Tristan offered. Lips softer than silk velvet accepted his gift.
Thomas snorted at such a pathetic breakfast. Plaintively, he inquired as to whether he might break the wards and try his luck at fishing.
“We’re going,” Tristan told him. “The wards will break anyway. But maybe you should stay close. You don’t want to get lost.”
We’re already lost. Any reason I should starve as well? And away Thomas stalked.
Chewing at the end of his first finger, Tristan watched a heron winging overhead with dreamlike slowness. Herons nested in trees. Big trees. Was the bird going to or from its rookery? Surely so early, it would be on its way to a favorite fishing spot.
If he could retrace the heron’s course, that should bring him out of the bog. Once the sun burned the mist off, he’d be able to see farther. He would be glad of that. Having the world end for all appearances a dozen paces away was unsettling.
The unicorn watched as Tristan gathered up the bee skep. “You’d better come too,” he told the creature. “You can’t stay here.” There seemed to be neither food nor clean water anywhere near. The liquid in the root-locked pool was inky black even under the sun.
Tristan took off his belt and buckled it around the unicorn’s neck for a collar. His hank of fishing line made a fragile leash. Tristan tugged gently at it, whispering a spell to the linen
cord. The unicorn splashed into the water after him, its steps absurdly high. It did not trust the bog.
The air warmed. Insects awoke. Tristan slapped at something biting his cheek. Not far off, a green-eyed fly droned. It went past, then circled back, plainly hoping for a meal. The dragonflies which would happily hunt such bloodsuckers were still prisoners to a chilly armor of dewdrops. Until the sun grew stronger, they could not take to the air. Tristan said his repelling incantation once more. It kept perhaps one insect in ten from discovering the unprotected parts of his skin.
Thomas bounced from tussock to reed-clump. Without warning, he bounded high into the air. Tristan suspected he had spotted a careless bird.
The cat landed out of sight, with a loud splash. He reappeared with a spotted frog in his jaws. The dangling legs kicked twice, then went still.
Want some? Thomas asked around his mouthful.
“No, thank you,” Tristan answered faintly. His belly gave a kick rather like the dying frog’s. Raw fish was a notion he might have considered. Raw frog was decidedly not. Tristan had no idea what the difference was, but it was very clear that there was one.
Suit yourself. Thomas crunched loudly, swallowed, and forged ahead once more. Looking for seconds.
Tristan tried not to imagine how a frog might taste. He concentrated on choosing a route through the bog. If he watched only his feet, he’d surely circle. That would have them back at the drowned tree within an hour. Yet if he didn’t watch where he was going, he might stray into real trouble. Deep water was only inconvenient. Quicksand or bottomless mud would be deadly. He needed to keep a sharp eye out. It was difficult. The sunstruck mist was so bright, Tristan found he wanted to shut his eyes.
Underfoot, the mud seemed firmer. Tristan felt encouraged. Surely he was near some edge of the bog! A great excitement rose up in him, a singing that started in his heart and spread outward.
He was aware of the unicorn with every step. True, he had leashed it, but the line hung slack. The unicorn followed at his heels like a trained dog, of its own will. When Tristan halted, it rested its dainty muzzle upon his shoulder. It nibbled curiously at his hair, sniffed the backs of his ears, the nape of his neck. Its whiskers tickled his skin.
The affection astonished Tristan. It wasn’t gratitude. Gratitude would have run off, the instant he’d freed the creature’s horn from the tree. Instead, the unicorn had chosen to stay by him. Chosen him.
Tristan did not need his wizard’s training to feel the magic within the unicorn. It gave off enchantment as the sun showered light and warmth, as flowers wafted out sweet scent. Now that he thought about it, the unicorn might be the reason his ward-spells had suddenly become so effective. Tristan had only said the insect-charm once. Nothing had bitten him afterward. That spell never worked so well. Never. He knew that unicorn’s horn was powerful magic—how much stronger was a whole, living unicorn?
And this unicorn was his. Blais would not make him send it away. A unicorn was not a cat. A unicorn was an entirely different matter. And its magic would be the making of him as a wizard. Tristan could hardly breathe, just thinking of what might come to pass.
The mist burned away at last. Overhead, the sky was suddenly blue. The bogwater was still silver, but the grasses rising out of it and the moss and scum floating on it showed many shades of green. Thomas appeared, no longer hidden and certainly not camouflaged. The cat was soaked. He shook his fur, leaving it all spikes. He looked well-fed. He looked smug.
Tristan felt a pang. It wasn’t Thomas’ fault that he was what he was. So far he’d been the loyalest sort of companion in a difficult situation. No one could ask for a truer friend. Before Thomas, Tristan had never had a friend. It was wrong to send Thomas away, to swap the unicorn for the cat and think no more about it.
But…a unicorn! The most fleeting glimpse of one was a miracle. Most folk never saw one in a whole lifetime. The spell for summoning a unicorn in Blais’ grimoire ran for twelve pages—and even so the results were not guaranteed. Yet here was this unicorn, close enough for Tristan to touch, touching him of its own accord. Tristan reached out to it. It seemed to enjoy the feel of his hands. He stroked along the line of the white jaw, then under it. Their cow loved to be scratched there.
Likewise the unicorn. It shut its almond eyes with pleasure. It tilted its head. It pressed against his fingers to encourage Tristan to continue. Tristan took the hint. His fingers ran over silk velvet, but warm and living. The bone beneath was a carving meant to be explored by touch. Every stroke invited another.
Just how big is this swamp, anyway? Thomas stood against Tristan’s leg. His mouth was half open, as if he had just meowed for a saucer of cream.
Tristan blinked, trying to hear the question as it floated by him. He’d had little sleep. There was still mist inside his head, where the sun couldn’t get at it. “I’m not sure,” he answered at last. “It’s on Blais’ maps. I wasn’t planning to come here. I didn’t really look.” Tristan frowned. “It varies with the rainfall, I suppose. And there’s a river somewhere, I think.” He felt more weary by the moment. If he could sit down, if he could shut his eyes for just one little minute…
So you’re saying we’re lost?
“We’re not lost!” Tristan snapped. Why did the cat insist on pestering him? The unicorn didn’t do that.
And we aren’t walking in circles either?
Would a unicorn be less…argumentative? Tristan felt instantly ashamed of the thought. Also, he had a nagging suspicion that the cat might be right. He looked around deliberately, well beyond his next step.
By now, they really ought to have come out of the bog. They had not. There was pale sky overhead, half the world. The lower half was more varied. Mud, water, reeds and head-high grass waving in the wind. But no trees, and no dry ground.
Tristan’s legs ached with walking. The notion of rest was a dream. He’d need to do it standing, for one thing. There was no even halfway dry spot anywhere in sight.
His stomach ached too. Tristan thought almost wistfully of Thomas’ frog. Were the bog’s waters deep enough for fish?
The sun stood directly over his head. It would drop in front of him, all through the long hours of the second half of the day. He could steer by that, Tristan decided. He began to walk once again. Standing still wasn’t any use.
If he had circled, he might be retracing ground he’d already crossed. It should be the final time, at least. Once he’d come out onto solid earth, Tristan decided he would sit down for a bit. Make tea and porridge.
A low humming came from the bee skep. It felt like Thomas’ purr, against his shoulder. After a bit, Tristan began to imagine that he could make sense of the buzzing, though he hadn’t taken a taste of honey to help the spell along.
The bees were restless. They had cause for concern. Where was the proper home Tristan had promised them? Where were the many flowers? The bees felt the sun’s heat upon their container, but they could not see the sun’s bright face. They missed it. A day of rainy weather made bees cross. This long blind trek was worse still. They didn’t like it.
Tristan thought of opening the linen sack. If he put a little honey in, the bees could feed. They might be hungry by now. Food would reassure them.
But a few bees were sure to slip past him, anxious and impatient, maybe confused. And they’d be lost, separated from their swarm and their queen. They’d die, unable to find either their old home or the new.
Or else they’d fly about questioning him. The mosquitoes were trial enough. Thanks to his spell, they weren’t biting, but they hung about him in clouds. Tristan sneezed and thought he snorted out a couple of insects. Tiny gnats stunted about him too, and got in his eyes. Bees would be just too much to put up with.
The unicorn tossed its head. Tristan didn’t see anything actually bite it, but the whine of wings near its ears plainly annoyed it. It gave the air a fierce slash or two with its horn, like a swordsman testing his weapon.
Trees, Thomas said. He wa
s on Tristan’s shoulder once more. Dry ground was scarcely even a memory.
Tristan lifted his head. He squinted. The sun had been in his eyes for the past hour. All he saw was a red glare. Blurry shapes might or might not be real objects.
Thomas stood tall. Then he scrambled to the top of Tristan’s head, the highest vantage he could reach. Tristan was too startled to stop him. He just stumbled to a halt.
“What is it?” he asked, gritting his teeth.
Thomas turned about slowly, mindful of his balance. Better than digging his claws in, Tristan decided. And clever of the cat, taking advantage of his human height to check out all the directions. He ought to have sent Thomas up one of the drowned trees before, to see what could be seen. “What?” Tristan repeated impatiently.
You aren’t going to like this, Thomas said. He sounded unhappy himself.
Moonshine
Deerlike hoofprints. The marks of boots. His own boots. Tristan understood what Thomas had guessed already. The bare trees were the very same drowned wrecks he’d put at his back that morning.
Tristan slumped to the soggy ground. He rested his head against his knees. He was well used to walking, but the recognition sucked the last strength from his legs.
At least he wasn’t lost. Not anymore. Tristan opened his eyes and stared bleakly at the last red edge of the sun. Even without a map, he knew exactly where he was. Trouble was, he didn’t know how to leave the place for more than a few hours.
Tristan’s head buzzed with weariness. Or was that the bees? By now they must be cross indeed. Swarming bees might not sting, but Tristan was glad all the same for the thickness of the linen sack. His captives might soon choose to leave their prison of straw. The sack would prevent escapes…and arguments.
