[Firebringer 02] - Dark Moon (4 page)

Tek hunkered down, rump to the driving rain. No gryphons had pursued them into the trees. Dagg hunched close, his nearness shielding her. Tek wished it were Jan flanking her as well—but in the confusion of flight, she had lost track of her mate. The pied mare shuddered. Wind and storm were now so furious she could scarcely see the other warriors huddled among the treeboles of the grove.

At last after what seemed an age, the gale spent itself. Black clouds parted, scudded away across the sky. The clean-washed air seemed dazzling, charged. And cold. The brilliant, midafternoon sunlight held no warmth. The first draft of autumn breathed unmistakably across the shore. The pied mare shook her rain-soaked pelt. Dagg trotted off to round up stragglers. Tek headed the other way, eager to discover Jan—but as she nipped and shouldered her scattered fellows back toward the rest, she felt a beat of fear.

“I don’t see him,” she called, glancing anxiously through the half-growns following Dagg. The prince’s shoulder-friend cavaled.

“I’d hoped he was with you.”

Drenched and weary, the battered young warriors milled around them. Tek noted bruises but few gashes, none deep. Most simply seemed badly shaken. Frowning, she lashed her tail. Where was the prince? It should have been he, not she and Dagg, to gather the band.

“Would he have gone scouting?” the dappled half-grown asked.

The pied mare shook her head. Why would Jan search for wingcats on his own when companions would have made the task far safer? The young warriors fidgeted.

“Ho,” she called to them. “Which of you sheltered beside the prince?”

Half-growns shifted, glanced at one another. No one spoke. Tek snorted.

“I say regroup on the beach,” Dagg offered. “Jan’s most likely already there.”

Tek whistled the others into line, unease edging into full-blown worry. She doubted her mate would rush to examine a battlesite when all trace of the fray had surely been obliterated by storm and tide. Trotting briskly to the head of the band, she called back, “Dagg, take rearguard.”

They picked up a few more stragglers among the trees—but the beach lay deserted, half-eaten by storm. The gale-high tide had only partly receded. The pied mare gazed in dismay at the cast-up sea wrack, the carcasses of dead sealife. She spotted a dark shape lying beached upon the shore and froze, her heart beating hard. Then her terror subsided as she recognized it for what it was: a black whale calf, dead. Roughly the same size as a half grown unicorn—but not Jan. Not Jan.

Tek champed her teeth, sent the others off to comb the strand. The unicorns fanned out, calling their prince’s name. She kept several of the keener-eyed on watch, scanning the sky, not daring to trust the gryphons safely gone. When one of the lookouts whistled, Dagg and the others came galloping back to where she and the sentries stood craning heavenward.

“Wingcats?” he panted.

“Nay,” she answered. “Look at the pinions’ length: seabirds, not raptors.”

“Herons!” cried Dagg. “We can enlist their aid in finding Jan.” As the slender forms of the seabirds dropped within range of her voice, Tek hailed them.

“Succor us, O herons! Your allies have need of your airborne eyes.”

Gingerly, awkwardly, the flock alighted, their leader, Tlat, touching down to the damp sand first, followed by her consorts and the rest. Tek noted a number of gangling half-growns among them, uncrested, barely full-fletched. They gazed at the unicorns with round, curious eyes. Beside her, Dagg snorted and sidled impatiently. Tek hissed at him to be still, then whistled the others to keep their hooves firmly planted, lest the flighty windrovers take wing in alarm.

“Ah!” cried the heron queen, bobbing and dancing. “Where is your prince, pied one? Where is the unicorn Jan? First storm of fall has blown, and we have flown our young from the cliffs at last to teach them to forage on their own. Whale meat! Sweet squids! And to show them the unicorns before you must depart. Equinox is past. Fall glides in. You must be off, we know. But where is Jan? I would show him my brood.”

Scarcely able to contain her urgency, Tek forced herself to hear Tlat out and to bow her neck respectfully.

“Your many young are beautiful, Queen Tlat, strong-limbed and finely feathered. May their crests grow brilliant. Would that my mate were here to see them. But he is lost to us. We do not know where he is. We were set upon by gryphons just before the storm. Now we cannot find Jan.”

“Gryphons!” shrieked Tlat, hopping backwards. “Stormriders, yes.”

Her people fluffed and began clapping bills, some dancing in agitation. One young bird started to whoop, and one of Tlat’s mates stalked over and pecked it to silence. Tlat preened, fanning her crest, and looked at Tek one-eyed.

“We saw the cat-eagles, yes! Approaching across the bay—we longed to send you warning, but the wind was already too strong. We dared not leave our cliffs. So they attacked you? War! War! Marauders.”

She stabbed at a crab digging itself out of the sand near her toes, cracked its shell, then tossed its contents down. More bill-clattering from the flock. Tek fought for composure in the midst of the cacophony.

“We regret you were unable to bring us warning,” she replied, striving to recapture Tlat’s attention. The queen of the seaherons stood turning her head from side to side, eyeing the dead crab first with one eye, then the other. “But we ask your aid now. The herons are our fast allies, and we value the deep friendship between our two peoples.”

“Friendship,” clucked Tlat. “Allies, yes! How may we aid you?”

“Lend us your wings and your eyes,” Tek urged her. “Help us to search for my mate, our prince.”

“Prince’s mate!” the heron queen cried. “Look for your mate—yes. We will! We will help you seek the prince of unicorns!”

With a scream, Tlat unfolded her slim, lengthy wings and fanned the air. The seawind—now no more than a breeze—caught, lifted her. Dipping her long neck to catch up the empty crabshell in her bill, the heron queen rose. Her consorts and children and the rest of her people followed, soaring aloft, shouting, “Find the prince! The prince!”

One of her consorts skimmed near to pluck the crabshell from her bill. It was snatched from his by another bird and passed from beak to beak throughout the flock. Tek stood on the beach, gazing after them, mystified. Another fear had begun to gnaw at her like a biting fly: that Jan perhaps lay wounded among the trees, invisible from the air.

High above, the herons broke and scattered, some skimming up the beach, others down, and many inland, sailing low over the tops of the trees. Shaking herself, Tek whistled her own followers into a similar sweep, desperately hopeful that they would find her young mate soon.

The seaherons spied no trace of Jan that day, nor the next day, nor the next, though they found nearly a dozen gryphons dead in the honeycombs of the Singing Cliffs. Had the remainder carried the prince away? Rising panic held Tek’s heart in its teeth at the thought that she might have become the prince’s mate but for a night, their wedding dance the last joy of him she would ever know. As heron messengers returned each night, Tek found it harder and harder to stave off despair.

On the third day, Dagg ceased to speak, all optimism dashed. Other members of the band remained painfully silent: angry, grieving, stunned. Tek felt all her wild hopes dying. The day ended in storm, not so violent as that of equinox, but bone chill, beating down the seaoats to rot and whipping the foliage from the trees. When the following cold, grey morning dawned, Tek, herself frozen past any feeling but exhaustion, forced herself to speak.

“He is gone,” she told the band. They stood subdued before her, silent. “Surely the gryphons took him. They have killed our prince in open war. We must return to the Vale and bring word of this to the herd.”

Dagg bowed his head. None of the others so much as raised a voice in protest. With a start, Tek realized that they had all despaired days ago. Only she had clung to the stubborn dream that Jan might still live. Outrage filled her at her own foolishness.

When the seaherons came again, Tek bade them farewell, thanked them woodenly for their hospitality, and praised again their lank, gawking children. Pledging to return the following summer, she expressed the unicorns’ unending gratitude for their allies’ diligence in the search. Plumage drooping, crests flattened to the skull, the typically raucous herons only nodded. Tlat even solemnly returned Tek’s bow before soaring away with her flock.

Numb, Tek whistled her own followers into line. They straggled after her from the sandy shore, climbed the downs, traversed the coastal plain, and entered once more into the dark Pan Woods, having failed even to discover and carry back to the Vale their prince’s bones to be laid with proper ceremony upon the altar cliffs beneath the sky.

What will I tell his father? What will I tell the king?
The refrain repeated itself relentlessly inside the pied mare’s skull as she led the band dejectedly homeward. Dagg brought up rearguard. They could not bear to face one another. Tek groaned inwardly, wretched. All the while the image of Korr, dark and brooding, loomed before her.

The rhythm of the waves woke him, their gentle wash against and across him soaking his pelt. He felt the cold sting of air briefly, then another wave. The dark unicorn opened his eyes to find himself lying pressed against wet sand. Another swell sluiced over him. Choking, he rolled to his knees, pitched shakily to his feet.

He stood on a low, flat beach, the sand silver-white. No cliffs or downs flanked the shore, only dunes—and beyond them, dense thickets of trees. The dark unicorn blinked in confusion. He did not recognize the grey sea and white sand. He had come from a place of green waves, golden shore. He remembered a storm.

Weakly, the dark unicorn shook himself, staggered. Beach grit abraded his skin. His withers and back were scored by deep wounds, his limbs and belly patterned with raw, raised welts. His mind felt poisoned, numb. The salt air breathed against his wet coat, chilled him to shivering. The waves foaming placidly against his pasterns and shanks felt soothingly warm.

Turning, he gazed cross the calm, grey expanse: no longer storm-tossed, the sky above pearly with a thin overcast of cloud. The wind shouldered against him insistently, full of salt and particles. He faced away from the sea, climbed laboriously higher onto the beach. His hooves sank deep into the soft, dry sand. He set his rump to the wind’s relentless, gentle gusts and bowed his head. The sting-welts ached. His shoulders ached. Heat burned in him, guttering against the cold.

“Fever,” he muttered.

Feebly, he slapped the draggle of wet mane from his eyes and gazed at the trees beyond the dunes. Trees would shelter him, provide forage. Maybe water. The gummy, salt taste of his own tongue constricted his gorge.

“Water,” he told himself dully. “Find water.”

Aye,
a soft voice answered now.
Get out of the wind and cold. Find shelter. You’ve drifted a long time.

The dark unicorn blinked. No speaker met his eye. The wind swept beach lay empty, deserted. Strange. The words had seemed to come from within. Feverchills danced along his ribs and limbs. Still muddled, he shook his head.

“Water first,” he croaked. “Then…find the others.”

He remembered companions vaguely: unicorns like himself. What were their names and whence had they come? Somehow he knew the golden, cliff-lined strand he recalled was not their home. Yet neither was this flat expanse of silvery shore.

Find the fire,
the inner voice said clearly.

Glimmers of warmth and tremors of cold gusted through him. The dark unicorn shook his head.

“Fire?” he muttered.

He had forgotten his own name. Small grey-and-white seabirds wheeled overhead: dark hooded, with darting pinions. The strange voice commanding him sounded half like the sighing of shore wind and half like their high, piping calls.

Behold.

The dark unicorn started, stared as a brilliant red streak arched burning across the sky in the far, far distance. A dark wisp of vapor or dust blossomed up leagues upon leagues away, beyond horizon’s western edge. Long seconds afterwards, a faint concussion reached him: the earth trembled.

Head west,
the inner voice instructed him.
Along the shore.

The dark unicorn staggered, nearly fell. Standing took almost more effort than he could muster. “What is my name?”

West,
the voice reiterated.
When you have found my fire, you will once more know yourself.

The voice faded, faint as a gull’s trill on the wind. The dark unicorn blinked dizzily. Shelter, food, and water—he must find them soon, or he would die. Painfully, he dragged his hooves across the low, white dunes, heading westward toward the distant, tangled trees.

The sky spanned clear, the air crisp with the breath of fall. Tek shook her head. Had they been but three days crossing the Pan Woods, returning from the Summer Sea? It felt like dozens. Solemn half-growns straggled around her as they emerged from the trees onto the Vale’s grassy lower slopes. Tek beheld the waiting herd below: mares and stallions, fillies and foals milling expectantly. Her heart froze as she spotted Korr, the king; his mate, Ses; and their yearling filly, Lell: princess of the unicorns now. The pied mare shivered, glad Dagg had come forward to walk alongside her.

“What has happened?” thundered Korr as they reached the bottom of the slope. “We awaited your return days since! Why do you, healer’s daughter, head the band instead of Jan? Where is my son?”

Heartsick, she met Korr’s gaze.

“Jan is not among us,” she answered. “Gryphons took him. He is slain.”

The dark stallion’s eyes widened. Around him, the whole herd started, shying. Tek heard shrill whinnies of astonishment. Before her, the king reared, snorting wildly.

“Gryphons?” he demanded. “On the Summer shore?”

Tek nodded and listened, mute, while Dagg recounted the wingcats’ attack, unicorns and herons searching, finding only dead gryphons among the cliffs.

“They’ve killed our prince,” he concluded, voice hard. “It’s war. When spring returns, we must strike back.”

“Aye, vengeance! War!”

The whole herd took up the cry, whinnying and stamping in a frenzy of mourning. Korr tossed his head, pawing the air and smiting the ground. Ses wept softly. Lell looked frightened, anxious to suckle, but her mother fidgeted, too distracted to stand still. Withdrawn into herself, Tek scarcely heeded the clamor until all at once, Korr spun on her.

“So, healer’s daughter,” he demanded furiously, “how is it you alone keep silent? All around you mourn and rage against the gryphons’ treachery, yet you stand there cold.”

The pied mare stared at him.

“I have been three days weeping in the Pan Woods, king—as have all the band—and three days before that searching the Summer shore. I’ve wept me dry. I’ve no more tears to spill. My mate is dead! What more would you have of me?”

She found herself shouting by the end of it. She wished that she might shout until she dropped. The king drew himself up short, eyes white-rimmed suddenly.

“Your…mate?” he whispered.

Baffled, Tek nodded. “Aye.”

“My son?” cried Korr, voice rising. “My son—your mate?”

“Aye!” Tek flung back at him, angry and confused. “We danced the courting dance and pledged—”

Only then did she realize Dagg had begun his recounting on equinox morn, never mentioned who had paired with whom the night before. The king continued to stare at Tek, his breathing hoarse.

“You?” he choked. “You beguiled my son?”

“He chose me,” Tek answered. “And I him.”

Abruptly, she remembered the preceding spring: Korr’s odd but unmistakable disapproval whenever he had glimpsed the two of them in each other’s company.

“Seducer!” screamed the king, bolting toward her through the press of unicorns. “Cursed mare. Daughter of a renegade!”

Tek shied, crying out in astonishment. She had to scramble back to avoid Korr’s hooves as Dagg and his father, Tas, lunged to turn the huge stallion. Korr shouldered into Dagg, nearly knocking him to the ground. Tas, as tall as Korr, if leaner, threw his full weight against the king’s side and forced him to a halt.

Other unicorns crowded forward: her own father, Teki, as well as the king’s mate, Ses, and Dagg’s young dam, Leerah. The healer’s daughter looked on in consternation with the rest of the herd as the king, still shouting, strove to plunge past those who boxed him in.

“Temptress! Betrayer! Because of
you
my son is dead!”

“What are you saying?” Tek gasped. “I loved your son!”

“Liar! Outlaw’s get. Four summers unpaired, you lay in wait to destroy him!”

The pied mare shook her head in dismay as the king fought on, struggling to reach her, the look in his dark eyes murderous.

Not even Ses could still him.

“Alma will wreak her revenge—”

“Enough! Enough of this, my son.”

Startled, the king whirled, and the uproar around him abruptly ceased. Those blocking his path fell back a pace as Sa, the old king’s widow, emerged from the crowd.

“What means this frenzy?” Dark grey with a milky mane, she faced him, her expression full of pain and dismay. “You revile your slain heir’s widow as if
she
were your foe.”

The grey mare’s son stood panting. His dam waited. “Speak,” she said. “Why do you fly at one who has done you no injury?”

Panting still, Korr turned on Tek. Clearly he longed to fall on her even yet. Alert, watching him, the pied mare held her ground.

“No injury?” he growled. “You left my son to die upon the shore.”

The king gazed with open hatred at the healer’s daughter. “You should have stayed with him! Died with him—died
for
him. You were his…his mate!”

He choked on the word, as though it tasted filthy in his mouth. Fury sparked in Tek. She felt her eyes sting, her ribs lock tight. She had thought she had no tears left to shed.

“My son, you shame me.”
Once more she heard the grey mare’s fierce rebuke. “You shame yourself and the office you hold. Tek is blameless in Jan’s death. Have done, I say.”

Swiftly, pointedly, she turned away. The king’s jaw dropped. The herd milled in astonished silence. Abruptly, Korr wheeled and bolted across the Vale. Unicorns scattered from his path, then stared after him, stunned. Tas glanced at Ses, but the king’s mate shook her head.

“Let him go,” she murmured. “Only time can cool him.”

Tek shuddered. She felt the pressure of Dagg’s shoulder solidly beside hers and leaned against it gratefully.

“Pay him no heed.” The dappled warrior spoke gently. “Our news came too suddenly. He’s mad for grief.”

“Come, child”—the late king’s widow turned to her—“my granddaughter now by Law. You are spent from tears and journeying. Rest in my grotto, until the dance.”

Trembling, Tek closed her eyes at the thought of Jan’s funeral train to be danced at dusk: a great slow procession used only for those of the prince’s line. The mourners, all smutched from rolling in the dust and hoarse from wailing, would call out, “He is dead! He is dead! He of the ancient line of Halla, dead!”

“He was my prince,” she muttered as she stumbled after Sa through the crowd toward the grey mare’s cave. “And faithfully I fulfilled his command—to get the others to the trees.” Her father, Teki, nuzzled her. Dagg flanked her other side. Tek swallowed hard. “Now Korr despises me.”

“Not so!” Dagg insisted. “How could he?”

They had reached the far slope of the Vale and started to climb. Sa glanced back as though to assure herself that they followed. The crowd behind them had begun to pull apart, the sound of their lamentations floating upward on the still morning air, making the pied mare shiver. The dappled warrior snorted.

“Korr’s always favored you highly. Truth, many’s the time he’s treated you better even than his own son!“

The healer chafed her gently, reassuringly. “The king will relent.”

But Tek shook her head, heaved a great sigh, painful against the crushing tightness of her breast. “Nay. Never. I
should
have stayed on the beach with Jan. I wish I had died instead of him.”