Summer of the Unicorn Page 9

  He could not.

  Granted, they were mystical, magical creatures, myths come to life. But they were just animals. Flesh and blood. Oddities of nature perhaps, like camels, giraffes, elephants, and a hundred other curious animals. Man had made unicorns something else, something special in his eyes. Man had woven stories into legends.

  And if they died?

  The question floated gently into his mind, demanding an answer. And Hunter shoved it violently away, because he refused to believe that in proving their reality he would be destroying them. “I don’t want to hurt them,” he said, hearing the words with a sense of surprise, for he had not meant to speak aloud.

  Siri placed a food-laden plate before him and, oddly, smiled. A sad smile. “I know.”

  He looked at her. “But you still believe I’ll destroy them?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Why?”

  She sat down on the raised stone hearth, her own plate resting on her knees. For a long moment she was silent, weighing the arguments which sprang immediately to her mind. She was strongly aware that convincing Hunter would take time, knowing that obsessions were difficult, if not impossible, to uproot. And it had come to her only moments before that by being fiercely argumentative, she was only reinforcing his own firm beliefs. Her best chance of success lay in calm reason, and accepting that did much to soothe Siri’s strained nerves.

  One step at a time.

  The Summer would be over soon.

  She would impose her will on the cards’ prophecy, and on this treacherous awakening of her body.

  The Unicorns would—would—be safe.

  One step at a time.

  “You plan to tell people about the Unicorns?” she asked neutrally.

  Hunter stirred uneasily. But he had asked, after all. “Yes.”

  Siri nodded. She stared down at her plate, then lifted her clear gaze to meet his. And strove to ignore the faint, hot tremor that spread through her body whenever she looked at him now. “If you tell people, they’ll come to see for themselves. They’ll build a road over The Reaper or blast a tunnel through it. Someone will realize there’s wealth to be made, and build a gate to collect it from the visitors. And people will come and stare—even if they do no worse—and marvel. And the Unicorns will be in a cage, one with the appearance of freedom, but a cage nonetheless. And Unicorns cannot live in captivity. So they’ll die.”

  “They can be protected,” he objected.

  “They are protected,” she said softly.

  Hunter looked down at his food and began to eat, unable to meet the unwavering certainty in her gaze. “This is good,” he murmured, changing the subject quite deliberately.

  Siri inclined her head slightly in thanks, eating her own food with sober attention.

  An absent realization rose in Hunter’s mind as he ate. “You’re a vegetarian,” he noted.

  “Of course.” She hesitated, then added, “Unicorns aren’t the only creatures in the valley, but all live in peace here.”

  “Carnivores?” he queried suddenly. She nodded.

  “Then it can’t be very peaceful. Carnivores kill to survive.”

  “Not here.”

  Hunter stared at her. “Then how do they live?”

  Siri met his eyes with an odd, bemused surprise, because the question had never occurred to her. And uneasiness stirred inside her. She had never wondered about that. Why? And why did the question disturb her now? “They survive.”

  “How?” he pressed.

  “They’re cared for.”

  “By whom? You?”

  She put her plate to one side, frowning a little. “I watch over them,” she said slowly. “I signal them to hide when the Huntmen come. But they feed at night.”

  “Then how can you be sure they don’t kill for food?”

  “You don’t understand.” Siri struggled for words to explain a way of life she had always taken for granted. She felt unsettled, disturbed. “The number of creatures in the valley is—controlled. I’d know if any were missing. Babies are born in the Spring and they live here throughout the Summer. In the Fall, they’re…taken. Only the mated pairs remain in the Winter.”

  “Taken? You mean killed?”

  “No, no!” She gestured slightly. “They’re taken…to other worlds. So that their numbers will increase.”

  “Who takes them?” Hunter asked blankly.

  She frowned at him. “Does that matter?”

  He pushed his plate away, surprised by such passive acceptance from her. “I think so.”

  Siri looked at him, puzzled. “Why?”

  Hunter answered with a question. “Doesn’t it bother you not to know where the animals are taken, and who takes them?”

  “No.” But it did bother her, for the first time. No one had ever asked questions of her, or of her life in the valley, and it had never occurred to her to question what was. “No more than it bothers me that the Unicorns are taken each Fall. I know they’re cared for, and will return.” She made her voice firm, certain. Yet now she wondered.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  Frustrated, Hunter ran his fingers through his hair. For such a clearly intelligent woman, Siri had peculiar blind spots. Because she had grown up here in this secluded valley? He wondered, then, if her birthright as Keeper quite simply precluded questions; was her seemingly passive acceptance as natural to her as his curiosity was to him? “Are they taken by someone on this planet?” he asked, wondering if she was truly alone but for the animals.

  “Of course not,” she scoffed.

  “Then who?” he snapped.

  Still unsettled, Siri felt the rise of her own temper. But she concentrated, asking a mental question and bothered because she had never asked it before. The answer rose in her mind, easing her anxiety. “In ancient times they were called the Guardians,” she explained, relieved to have an explanation for him. She searched mentally through these new memories, looking for more information. “They sought to…to maintain a proper balance. When your race and others all but destroyed some creatures, the Guardians stepped in to prevent extinction.” She felt triumphant.

  There were answers.

  A little puzzled by her inwardly turned gaze and the curiously stiff way she spoke, as if by rote, he ventured cautiously, “You mean no creature that ever lived in myth or reality is extinct?”

  “Of course not.”

  Hunter found this answer almost impossible to believe. He had certainly come across supposedly extinct animals thriving on planets other than those that had seen their creation, but he had merely supposed it to be the result of parallel evolution on similar planets. That was, after all, a scientifically sound explanation.

  But myths? He had found none on hundreds of worlds, disappointed time and again by failure. He had found beauty here and there, enough so that his disillusionment had not been total, but no myth had stood before him to prove that the beauty of dreams still lived.

  Until he had found this valley. And unicorns.

  But there were other myths. “Pegasus,” he said suddenly.

  She had no difficulty in following his thoughts. “No.”

  “No? You mean winged horses really don’t exist?”

  “I don’t know,” she said reasonably. “They don’t exist here. I’m sure they exist somewhere, though. They’re too beautiful not to.”

  He ignored the opinion, reflecting with a sense of relief that at least there was one creature still relegated to myth and legend. His own emotions should have told him something then, but Hunter was not yet ready to examine his deepest dreams. His attention was caught suddenly as Siri stared past him at the open door; she spoke even as he swiftly turned his head.

  “Rayne.”

  A tiny white muzzle, one ear, one black eye, a minute golden horn; Rayne was peering around the rough doorjamb with a curiosity stronger than her fear of Hunter.

  “Rayne,” Siri said again softly. And then, to Hunt
er, “Don’t try to touch her when she comes in.”

  One step, then another. Rayne kept her bright, wary eyes on Hunter as she cautiously moved toward Siri and the piece of bread her mistress held out in invitation. She stretched out her small face, nostrils quivering, then took the last few steps in an awkward, long-legged trot. The bread was snatched by gleaming little teeth and an itching forehead was rubbed furiously against Siri’s shoulder.

  Hunter stared, enchanted. A glimpse of a horn seen through pain-clouded eyes; a shadowy glimpse of horned mischief; neither had prepared him for the reality seen in daylight and sanity.

  They were real. Real. Until that moment, he had not fully believed.

  “My God,” he said quietly.

  Rayne whirled, the rat-a-tat of her hooves loud in the stillness of the cabin as she shot through the doorway.

  “She isn’t accustomed to the sound of a man’s voice,” Siri explained.

  Before Hunter could respond, another sound filled the air. It held him spellbound in its very uniqueness, and chills of awe chased one another down his spine. Windowpanes rattled as the sound sliced and tore its way through the cabin. Echoing, reverberating, it tangled among the trees outside and rose in a crescendo that was as eerie as it was powerful.

  Hunter stared at Siri as the sound died away. “What—?”

  She was still gazing toward the doorway. “His trumpeting used to shake the whole cabin,” she murmured, as if to herself. “But not anymore.” Because a man killed his son. She could feel hostility rise in her and welcomed it; she couldn’t allow herself to relax with this man because he was a man…and dangerous. She looked at him, and when she explained, her voice was tight. “That was Cloud. He was disturbed when Rayne went out so fast.”

  “You mean he used to—uh—trumpet louder than that?” Hunter asked incredulously.

  Siri nodded. “He’s old,” she said abruptly, and there was pain and bitterness in the tightness of her voice now. “He…he won’t be back next Summer.”

  Hunter was puzzled by the abrupt hostility in her eyes but decided to ignore it. She always seemed to become angry and defensive when discussing her unicorns. It was, he supposed, a natural reaction. After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet. “I have to see them. Together. All of them.”

  “You’re not strong enough to make it outside,” she said emotionlessly.

  “I can, if you’ll help me.” He looked at her, not too proud to ask for her help but very aware that she had little reason to give it to him.

  Siri returned the look. “I helped you once before today,” she reminded him flatly, and both of them, for different—and similar—reasons, tried not to think of what had occurred after the helping.

  He hesitated. “That won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “I wish I could believe,” she said, “that a promise means the same thing to you as it does to me.”

  Hunter took a deep breath. If only compromise would keep him in the valley, he was willing. For now. “I promise, Siri, that I will never again take advantage of your helping me. My word of honor.” He had to regain his strength. Quickly.

  Siri’s instincts told her that Hunter meant what he promised, but those same instincts warned her the less touching between them the better for her peace of mind and her future. But she had her anger and bitterness, and that was a shield of sorts. She took a deep breath in her turn, focused a mental question and sent it winging to Cloud. The immediate and firm answer surprised her.

  “Odd,” she murmured. “Cloud agrees.”

  Hunter looked bewildered. “Agrees?”

  “That you should see the herd.”

  “You asked him?”

  “Of course. He leads the herd. It’s his decision.”

  “How did you ask him?”

  Siri stared at him. His questions, his ceaseless questions! “I just asked him,” she snapped.

  “But you didn’t say anything.”

  So that was it. She had forgotten that most beings outside the valley were not telepathic. Or—had she ever known? She felt unsettled again. “Mind-touch,” she said stiffly. “It’s how I talk to Cloud.”

  “Only Cloud?” Hunter wondered why he was even asking; he still didn’t believe in psi.

  “Only Cloud.” Siri rose to her feet and stared down at him. “And before you ask—no, I don’t know why it’s only Cloud. I never thought to ask him that.”

  “You accept a great deal on faith, don’t you?” he murmured as she came around the table and offered a shoulder and arm for support.

  She didn’t answer.

  They moved out of the cabin slowly, with Siri supporting a good half of Hunter’s weight; she didn’t complain and seemed under no strain at all. As for Hunter, he set his mind firmly on unicorns and blanked out the feeling of deceptively delicate bones beneath his hand.

  But that was almost impossible. Her arm was strong and supple around his waist, and he was burningly conscious of her breast pressed to his rib cage. Only the promise he was determined to keep prevented him from crushing her against him. He couldn’t take advantage of her help.

  The sunlight was nearly blinding after the dimness of the cabin, and he couldn’t see much of anything for a few moments. Siri eased him down onto a rough wooden bench beneath a towering tree, releasing him almost immediately and stepping back to watch his reaction. Hunter neither moved nor spoke for long minutes.

  They stood grouped in a little half circle between the cabin and the tiny lake, ten pairs of dark eyes watching him with varying degrees of wariness. Cloud and Rayne were the only ones Hunter recognized, the foal because he had seen her clearly and the stallion because great age was apparent in the length of his beard and horn. Enchanted, Hunter identified two more stallions—both young—and five mares, one of which looked considerably older than the others and one which looked very young.

  He realized that he was equating these creatures with horses and guessing at age as he would have with a horse, but instinct warned him not to get into a discussion with Siri about the ages of unicorns. He didn’t think he’d believe her answers.

  He put his questions aside for the moment and just concentrated on looking his fill. They were beautiful creatures! All had snowy white coats except for one breathtaking mare of an ivory color; she moved with ponderous grace, her swollen belly evidence of an approaching foal. Another slightly younger mare—he didn’t doubt his guess, though he knew he was still judging their ages by comparison to horses—was also clearly in foal, the young stallion at her side anxious to the point of absurdity.

  The other young stallion looked arrogant and impatient; he was obviously the raw and untried crown prince. At his side stood a young mare that looked as if she were prancing even standing still; she was trouble on the hoof, Hunter decided firmly.

  Unconsciously, he went on assigning personalities to the creatures.

  The youngest mare save Rayne remained close beside the oldest mare, her delicate face timid and frightened, her eyes nervous. The old mare was dignified and watchful, and clearly protective of what was obviously her daughter. And Rayne’s mother kept a gentle eye on her lively foal, seemingly content with the alien man’s presence because Cloud had agreed to it.

  Cloud. He was taller by a hand than either of the younger stallions, his snowy beard reaching to his knees and his golden horn half again longer than any in the herd. His dark eyes were old and wise, the intelligence contained there a near-tangible thing. He returned the man’s steady gaze, his own filled with calm, with acceptance. Hunter realized dimly that here was a noble creature for whom life held no surprises. Cloud would always instinctively, innately…understand.

  Hunter was only vaguely aware of Siri’s soft voice beside him.

  “What do you see?”

  “A…family,” he murmured, and listened as she continued to speak quietly.

  “The ivory mare is Maya; she carries Cloud’s foal. Probably his last offspring. The anxious stallion is Crom; his mate is
Teen. Crom should lead the herd after Cloud, but he isn’t a Leader. Storm, the arrogant one, will lead next, if he can ever learn to manage his mate Fancy. Heart is the timid filly. Beside her is Shree, Heart and Storm’s mother. And Dawn is Rayne’s mother.”

  Hunter stirred for the first time, tearing his gaze from the herd to look at Siri. “Odd. As soon as you named them, I could pick them out.”

  “What’s odd about that?”

  He gestured helplessly. “With a word or two, you gave them—individuality.”

  Siri looked at him steadily.

  “No.” Hunter shook his head. “One animal is pretty much like another, and I refuse to believe—” He broke off. He could not deny that only moments before he had recognized the distinction of personality of each unicorn. He turned to look back at the herd and froze, finding himself staring at a tiny white muzzle only inches away. Rayne had crept up in silence and now stood perfectly still, her small body quivering as instinct urged her to run and curiosity compelled her to remain. She stretched her neck cautiously, nostrils flaring as she absorbed the man’s scent. Velvety lips tested the texture of rough cloth and then lifted higher as she chewed meditatively on a mouthful of shaggy black hair, long lashes blinking over bright dark eyes.

  “Hello, baby,” Hunter said softly.

  Rayne took a step backward, her mouth still working after tasting his hair, her dark eyes watching him. She snorted softly and shook her head, pawing the ground with impatient little digs.

  Holding his breath, Hunter slowly lifted a hand and stretched it toward the tiny golden horn. He touched the satiny fur of her forehead, scratching gently until the foal relaxed, and then touched the minute horn. And, curiously shocked, he felt the blood pulsing beneath his fingers. He drew back and stared at the foal and at her living horn. She returned his stare, her own humanly quizzical, then turned and trotted back to her mother.

  “The horn…there was a pulse,” Hunter muttered.

  “When a Unicorn dies,” Siri said quietly, “only the horn remains. The body falls into dust. But the horn lives on as if all the energy of the body were drawn into it after death. And it glows for a very long time.”

  Hunter turned his head to look at her almost blindly. “Magic?” he asked, hearing the harshness of his voice.