[Firebringer 02] - Dark Moon (7 page)

The firekeepers’ settlement sprawled along one bend of a broad, cliffed bay, rank upon rank of their timber dwellings crowding the slopes above. Tai-shan stood gazing in astonishment as the caveshell angled toward land. A crisp, clean breeze slapped at the billowing windwing. Other caveshells glided by, their own windwings whitely belled.

The
daïcha
stood alongside him, her green falseskins fluttering, the silvery crescent upon her breast flashing in the late afternoon sun. A throng of two-foots milled upon the nearing beachhead. As the caveshell ground ashore, they surged and shouted. Laughing, the
daïcha
lifted one graceful, hairless forelimb and gestured in greeting.

Tai-shan heard gasps, cries of wonder and alarm as he leapt to join the
daïcha
on the strand. Half the spectators seemed ready to flee at the sight of him—the rest shouldering forward for a better view. A company of two-foots pressed back the jostling crowd, using long, straight staves tipped with glinting skystuff. Each such male wore a burnished head-covering, also of skystuff, topped with a purple plume. Beyond them, the throng waved and cheered.

“Greetings!” the dark unicorn called to them in his own tongue. “Greetings to you, noble two-foots!”

The
daïcha
cried out a long phrase ending in “Tai-shan.” The crowd took up the word, chanting his name as the
daïcha
led him up a stony path between the tall wooden dwellings. Green-plumed two-foots armed with skewers, not staves, escorted their green-clad leader and her companions along the rising path. The dark unicorn walked alongside. Solid ground felt strange beneath his hooves after so many days at sea. More two-foots—held back by the purple-plumes—crowded the narrow way.

“Tai-shan! Tai-shan!” roared the crowd.

The tumult grew deafening. Two-foots leaning from openings high in their timber dwellings’ walls flung brilliant seedpods, withered flowers, and shavings of aromatic spicewood onto hard, flat cobbles of the path. Through the shower of offerings, the dark unicorn gazed in amazement at the vast settlement. Fire burned everywhere, glowing in blackened hollows of skystuff, crackling upon treelimbs set in niches, and dancing in hanging boxes of semitransparent shell.

The sun sank lower, edging toward dusk. The petal-strewn path, he saw, climbed toward a magnificent dwelling that crested the slope. A barrier of timber surrounded the place. As they neared, green-plumes rushed forward to shove at a pair of heavy wooden panels mounted in the timber wall. These pivoted inward, creating an entryway. Sun slipped below horizon’s edge. The air grew dark and chill. As the
daïcha
led him through the entryway, the dark unicorn glanced back at her people’s immense settlement spilling the shadowed hillside below, the whole slope ablaze with little flickers of captured fire.

The commotion of the crowd abruptly muted as the huge wooden panels boomed shut. Tai-shan found himself in an open, cobbled space lit by burning brands. Around him, the
daïcha’s
train milled expectantly until an ornate panel in the nearest dwelling swung open and a male two-foot strode out, accompanied by more of the purple-plumes. He appeared young and vigorous, darkly bearded and attired in falseskins of deep violet and gold. A circlet of skystuff gleamed among the black curls crowning his head.

“Emwe! Emwe, im chon,” the
daïcha
cried gladly.

She and her fellows dropped to the ground. Startled, the dark unicorn cavaled—then stilled his hooves as he remembered that the two-foots used this crumpled posture to show homage. This purple-clad male—the
chon
–must be the settlement’s ruler, he concluded in surprise. Who, then, must the
daïcha
be—his sister? His mate? Facing the two-foot ruler, Tai-shan dipped his long neck in a bow.

The
chon
clapped the undersides of his forepaws together, and the crouching two-foots raised their heads. Baring his teeth, he beckoned to the
daïcha,
who hurried to him. He enfolded her in his forelimbs for along moment. When he released her, she turned, talking to him excitedly and gesturing toward Tai-shan. The others eyes widened as he took note of the dark unicorn for the first time. Tai-shan tossed the forelock out of his eyes, and the other exclaimed in astonishment at the sight of his moon-marked brow.

“Dai’chon!” he whispered.

Gently, the
daïcha
corrected him: “Tai-shan.”

The
chon
called out a sharp command. Purple-plumes hurried to snatch firebrands from wall niches and hold them near. Tai-shan stood in a ring of fire. The
chon
strode forward and circled the dark unicorn, peering at him in obvious fascination. He exchanged animated comments with the
daïcha,
who stood back, watching anxiously. Disconcerted, Tai-shan pivoted to remain facing his host.

Emwe. Emwe, im chon.
He struggled to repeat the
daïcha’s
greeting, but as before, the unpronounceable words came out whistIed, garbled: “Am-wa. Umuwa m’shan….”

The two-foot ignored his words, staring pointedly at the dark unicorn’s cloven hooves. Tai-shan cavaled uneasily. Without warning, the
chon
stepped forward to lay one forepaw against his chest. The other he ran swiftly along the dark unicorn’s back to the croup. Tai-shan jerked away with a startled snort. The other’s peremptory manner astonished him. Only the
daïcha
had dared to touch him before—and he realized now it was her touch alone that he welcomed. His skin twitched.

Clucking, the other made to approach him again, but the dark unicorn dodged, shaking his head vigorously. The
chon
halted, eyes keenly narrowed suddenly, lips pressed tight. Then with a barking sound that might have been laughter, he stepped back from the ring of fire to rejoin the
daïcha.
She seemed relieved. Once again, he embraced her, speaking warmly to her. She smiled and nodded. Abruptly, he turned to quit the yard, and his purple-plumes, still bearing their torches, accompanied him through the great shelter’s paneled entryway.

The
daïcha
beckoned her female companions and her green-plumes to her as she led Tai-shan across the darkened yard to another, smaller building. The lighted interior felt luxuriously warm, the tang of fire pervading the air, and the musty, sweetish scent of vast quantities of dried forage. The young stallion sneezed, unused to such a savor of abundance so late in the season. His nostrils flared suddenly. He halted dead.

“Unicorns!” he exclaimed. The musk, spicy scent of his own kind hung all around. “Unicorns!”

Only silence answered. Not so much as a slap of mane or a stamp replied. Nevertheless, a rush of euphoria filled the young stallion’s breast. Surely these must be the lost companions he had sought so long.

“Where are you? Show yourselves!”

Once again, only silence. The
daïcha
was urging him onward. Eagerly, he followed, hoping she might lead him to his fellows, though his memory of them and of his former life remained dim. They proceeded down an aisle between two rows of wooden compartments—all empty, though the scent of unicorns remained strong. Oddly, he scented mostly mares—here and there, a whiff of filly or foal—but no mature males, none even old enough to be called half-grown.

The
daïcha
halted before the last compartment, one far roomier than the rest. A two-foot in green falseskins had just finished raking out the old, yellow grass thickly carpeting the floor. A companion stood throwing down heaps of fresh. The dark unicorn breathed deep, finding at last the scent he had missed. Though this space, too, stood unoccupied, it had lately housed a stallion, young and vigorous and in full prime.

The
daïcha
swung open the compartment’s front panel, and the dark unicorn entered. Forage and water were brought to him. Tai-shan ate greedily: berries and fodder, nutmeats broken from the shell, all crushed, blended together somehow, and steaming. Afterwards, the
daïcha
drew a bristly clump of spines through his coat. They felt like a thousand tiny birds’ claws scrabbling, scratching away the grit and seasalt and old, sloughed skin.

The dark unicorn sighed deeply, sank down at last and closed his eyes. Softly bedded and sumptuously feasted, solicitously groomed and well sheltered against the cold, he let his thoughts drift back to his last glimpse of the firekeepers’ dark dwellings spilling the slopes below, illuminated by spots of flame like a hillside strewn with burning stars. He had never known such luxury. On the morrow, he would seek out the other unicorns that abode here and learn from them of this strange and marvelous haven to which he had come.

Snow fell in gusts, bitterly cold. Tek stood on the valley floor while around her jostled most of the unicorns from the south west quarter of the Vale. The pied mare shivered, even in her thick winter coat, dense now as a marten’s pelt. They had come upon no more windfalls like the tuckfruit—days ago, and like her fellows, she had no layer of fat to keep out the cold. Sa brushed against her. Dagg appeared out of the press and halted along her other side.

“What do you think the king intends?” he asked her softly.

The healer’s daughter shook her head. It was the first assembly Korr had called since the courting band had returned from the Sea, weeks past. Around them, the herd milled expectantly, huddled for warmth. Tek caught snatches of conversation, speculation. She spotted runners standing ready to carry the king’s word to the far reaches of the Vale. Seasoned warriors all, she noted, especially chosen by the king. Beside her, the pied mare heard Dagg snort.

“Were Jan among us still,” he muttered, “those runners would include half-growns as well.”

She nodded. “True.”
Jan might have traveled to the far reaches of the Vale himself to spread the news,
she mused.

Faintly, the healer’s daughter smiled, remembering. Her young mate, the prince, had been fearless of change: ever one to break with precedent when precedent failed to serve. The newer warriors had all adored him—though old traditionalists, she knew, had greeted Jan’s innovations with consternation. And none so markedly as Korr. Bitterly, she sighed. How different the king was from his son!

A sudden stirring swept the crowd as, through the diffuse grey of falling snow, Korr’s massy, storm-dark form appeared. His mate and Dagg’s father, Tas, flanked the king. Her own sire, Teki, brought up the rear. The crowd parted as the procession neared, and with a shock, Tek spotted Lell pressed close to her mother’s flank.

The flame-colored mare moved slowly, shielding her filly with tender care. Alongside walked Leerah, Tas’s mate, lending her shoulder, too, against the biting wind. The amber filly stumbled, racked with cold. The king never so much as glanced behind. Tek gazed at Korr, angry and aghast—for his daughter’s presence could only be by king’s command. Ses would never willingly expose her tiny nursling to such weather. The brow of the king’s mate was furrowed, her jaw set.

The pied mare sidled uneasily. Abruptly, she realized she should have melted back into the crowd at the king’s approach: too late now to do so unseen. She stood her ground, and Korr passed directly before her, spoke not a word, merely leveled at her his ferocious stare. Tek’s heart clenched. Grimly, she lifted her chin, refused to flinch beneath the dark stallion’s gaze. In a bound, he mounted the council rise and turned, looming above them like a thunderhead.

“Unicorns!” he called. “Children-of-the-moon! Since I learned the harsh news of my son’s death, you have seen me but little. I was deep in grief, struggling to fathom why Alma should claim my son, your prince, bereaving us all.”

Korr’s fine, deep voice penetrated even the muffle of wind and snow. Glancing about her, Tek glimpsed a thin young mare shushing a companion, an old stallion pricking his ears. Long starved for the sight of their king, the unicorns quieted, listened attentively.

“My son was a fine warleader, was he not?” continued Korr. “A bit rash and hotheaded, to be sure—but quick in wit and great in heart, a courageous warrior! You loved him well.”

A cry of agreement went up. The healer’s daughter watched a cluster of spindly half-growns a few paces off, snorting and stamping in assent. Beyond them, a gaunt pair of elders nodded. A rush of gratification welled up in her. They
had
loved Jan—even the older warriors whom the young prince’s reformations had so often confounded. The king raised his head.

“Aye, you loved him. As did I. But what of Alma?” The great stallion’s tone abruptly darkened. “How must Alma have felt to see my son’s wildness, all his princely verve and quickness of mind—though never ill-meant—used but to bend her Law and flout her will and tempt us, her best beloved, along untried paths, kicking aside her time-honored practice as though it were worthless nothing?”

Tek felt a frown furrow her brow. What was this talk of Alma and the Law in the selfsame breath? “Alma does not make the Law,” she murmured. “The Council of Elders makes the Law and always has—”

“Could such have been the will of Alma,” the king inquired, still facing the herd from the rocky rise, “to see her anointed prince, my son, flagrantly leading her children astray?”

Tek snorted, baffled. Was the prince of a sudden to be deemed the anointed of Alma?

“Only the prophets are anointed of Alma—” Dagg started beneath his breath, but the king’s words cut him off.

“No!” Korr thundered, his voice rebounding from the far hillside. “Such blasphemy could
not
have been the goddess’s will. And so she swept away my son—as she will sweep away all who fail her trust.”

The dark stallion wheeled, stamping, tossing his head, full of fury now. The healer’s daughter watched him, astonished. She heard Sa beside her champ her teeth. Beyond Dagg, a young warrior mare—ribs showing—was standing stock-still despite the cold. Beside her, a couple of half-starved colts poised motionless, as though caught by a wyvern’s glare. Her own limbs felt stiff. Hastily, Tek shook herself. All around her the herd stood frozen as if mesmerized. “First Alma sent her gryphons,” ranted the king, “but we paid no heed. Then she seized our prince, my son. Now she has sent this harsh winter to chastise us! “The pied mare listened dumbstruck, appalled.

“Jan was a brave prince, my own get, and I loved him,” the dark stallion cried, “but he was wrong! In his pride, he defied Alma. In destroying him, the goddess speaks clear warning: we must turn back! We must return to the old ways and the true worship of Alma. Only if we once more devote ourselves unswervingly to her will can spring return and again bestow upon us her blessings.”

Beside her, she felt Dagg snorting in disgust, glimpsed the troubled look on Sa’s face deepen into dismay.

“Old ways—which ones?” she heard the grey mare breathe. “And true worship—what on earth can my son mean? Is now even the weather to be ascribed to Alma?”

Nearby, an old mare, clearly exhausted and perilously thin, swayed as though any moment her limbs might give way. Tek lashed her tail furiously, scarcely able to contain herself.

“Uppermost in our minds ought to be not who among us worships most fervently,” she hissed, “but how many fillies and foals will see this killing winter through!”

Yet save for a few stamps and uncertain glances among the crowd, most still remained attentive to the king. She caught sight of one haggard stallion murmuring accord. The shivering mare beside him nodded. About the foot of the rise, the seasoned warriors who were to act as the king’s runners cavaled restlessly, snorting and tossing their heads in agreement.

The pied mare half shied. Truly alarmed now, she searched the faces of those flanking Korr upon the rise. With relief, she noted again the fierce, if unvoiced, disapproval of Ses, and her heart went out to Lell, cold and miserable, shuddering against her mother’s side. Behind them, Tek saw her own father, Teki, standing silent, his expression profoundly saddened. Tas, however, stood nodding calmly, as did his mate. Tek felt another surge of indignation. Were the pair of them so blind in their loyalty to the king that they actually supported this folly?

“In following my son,” Korr proclaimed, “we have all become Ringbreakers and renegades. But no more! Thus I say to you in the name of my daughter, the princess Lell, that from this day forward, any who breach Alma’s sacred Law shall be banned.”

A ripple passed through the crowd. Tek saw warriors, half growns starting as though abruptly awakened.

“Banned?” Sa beside her gasped.

“But banishment in winter means death!” Dagg exclaimed.

The king’s dam shook her head, one cloven forehoof striking at the frozen ground, her tone quietly outraged. “The herd has
never
imposed exile, regardless of the crime, between first snowfall and spring. What ‘old tradition’ is this?”

At the foot of the rise, the king’s warriors circled. Tek suddenly froze. Korr no longer surveyed the entire assembly. His stare now fixed squarely on her.

“Be it known,” he thundered, “Alma tolerates not even the slightest infraction. Tread with caution, I charge you all—or be cast from the herd!”

Tek felt Sa’s astonished start, Dagg’s indrawn breath, and held herself rigid, refusing to quail. Though he had spoken no word directly to her, had not even called her by name, Korr’s meaning could not but be evident to all: let the healer’s daughter stumble in even the tiniest regard, and he would find a way—any excuse, or no excuse—to banish her. The crowd shifted, murmuring.

Tek felt her fury spark. Did the dark stallion truly believe fanatical devotion to Alma had power to alter weather, grow forage beneath the snow, and avert gryphon raids in spring? How neat it all was! Korr had but to declare himself the mouthpiece of Alma, and displeasing him became defiance of the goddess herself. Now he would have them all believe that the Law—indeed, even custom—was fixed immutably by the goddess’s behest. And was “tradition” to be anything the king now said it was, even if he had just this moment invented it? Angrily, she eyed the band of seasoned warriors who, at the king’s nod, had begun to ascend the rise.

“Behold my newly appointed Companions,” he cried to the herd. “They are Alma’s eyes and ears among you now!”

Gazing about, Tek noted alarm on the spare, hungry faces of many. One older mare looked badly shaken, the lean young half-grown beside her merely puzzled. The pied mare shivered. Yet one stallion she had noticed nodding earlier still evidenced rapt attention. A convert, she realized uneasily. A bitter taste came into her mouth. On the rise, the king’s warriors arranged themselves in a double phalanx. Sa snorted indignantly.

“ ‘Companions,’ indeed!” she mused beneath her breath. “More nearly a personal guard. What does my son intend them to protect him from—the truth?”

Tek shook her head. No king or queen in all the history of the unicorns had ever appointed—or needed—a personal guard. As by prearrangement, the king’s Companions started to stamp and cheer. Still none among the herd spoke out. Colts shrank against their mothers. Half-growns found their mates. Dawning throughout the crowd Tek glimpsed expression of anger, betrayal, and fear. Flanking the king, his guards whinnied and shouted enthusiastically, but few others joined them. How many, she wondered, while unwilling to risk voicing questions or protests aloud, nevertheless harbored grave doubts? How many had begun to share her own suspicions? The pied mare shivered uncontrollably.

“The king,” she whispered, so soft she herself scarcely heard, “is well and truly mad.”

“You have heard my will,” the dark stallion cried, “which is Alma’s. Remember it!”

Tek watched him vault from the rocky rise. The herd shrank back from him. Korr seemed imbued by a cold and desperate energy. His train followed more cautiously, picking their way down the icy, slippery stones. Trotting briskly, the king headed back through the ever-thickening snowfall toward his grotto across the Vale. His Companions remained behind on the council rise, necks arched, chests thrown forward, legs stiff. Slowly, as though stunned, the assembled unicorns began to disperse.

“He hasn’t any food to give us,” she heard Sa beside her murmur, “so he has fed us lies! Some of us have even swallowed them, and now feel full and well-fed, though in truth we are famished still.” She eyed the king’s guard upon the rise with open contempt. “When no food can be found to fill an aching belly, a scrap or two of arrogance contents some very well.”

Fidgeting, Dagg stood gazing after the king’s retreating train. “I can’t believe my sire and dam approve this,” he burst out. “I can’t believe anyone could!”

One of the Companions on the rise turned to gaze at Dagg. Tek hurriedly shushed him, but fuming still, the dappled halfgrown ignored her.

“And your father, Tek!” he cried. “The healer raised not a word of protest, though plainly he did not agree.”

A second Companion had joined the first, their heads together, now conferring.

“Has our king lost all reason—?”

“Peace; hold your tongue, you young foal!” Sa ordered suddenly, sharply.

Tek turned, startled. Beside her, Dagg fell silent, stared in confusion at the grey mare. She had spoken far louder than necessary. Above them, the two warriors watched. Abruptly, the grey mare wheeled.

“Come with me,” she commanded crisply, “both of you. I’ve a word to say regarding how fitly to comport yourselves in your loyalty to our king.”

Astonished, Tek followed as the king’s dam trotted away from the rise through the throng of dispersing unicorns. Dagg fell into step at her side, his expression baffled. As soon as they were out of earshot of the king’s Companions, Sa halted, turned.

“Pray forgive my shortness, Dagg,” she told him gently. “That was for show, to save my son’s pack-wolves the pleasure of correcting you. Take heed, for the wind has changed, and if you cannot scent it yet, you will.”

Dagg champed his teeth. “Aye, the wind
has
changed,” he managed gruffly. “It stinks.”

“Hist, lower your voice!” the grey mare cautioned, dropping her own to the merest whisper. “We dare not speak freely anymore—for some, no doubt, will seek favors from my son by reporting dissent.”

“Since when was dissent a crime among the unicorns?” Dagg hissed angrily, though taking care now that his voice did not carry. “Since when was speaking one’s mind to be feared?”

“Since
now,”
Tek spat. The vehemence in her words plainly surprised him. “It’s one of Korr’s new ‘old traditions.’
‘Alma’s will’!”

She snorted, shaking her head. Her breath steamed, rising like dragons’ breath. She shifted, wincing, for her swollen belly pained her. She heard Dagg’s beside her growl. Shuddering, she longed for the wind-sheltered warmth of the grotto she shared with Sa—but she knew they had all best use what scant daylight remained to forage, else they would shiver the cold night through, unable to sleep for hunger. The grey mare nodded.