Dark Moon

“Moonbrow,” Ryhe

Jan nodded abruptly and turned. “Aye, Ryhe

He started off across the sand, and with a relieved sigh, the coppery mare fell in beside him. Glancing back, Jan glimpsed the tercel sagging as though only anger had kept him upright to challenge Jan. Once more the young prince champed his heart tight against pity. Marauding wingcats deserved none! Quickening his trot, he led Ryhe

For the better part of the morning, Jan showed the coppery mare the beaches along which he and his fellows had galloped that half year past, the cliffs under which they had sparred, the sparse coastal woodlands in which they had foraged and bedded and sought shelter against mild summer storms. He described for her his people’s alliance with the dust-blue herons and spoke of how he and Tek had courted and pledged. Ryhe

“Why do you sorrow?” he asked, puzzled.

The coppery mare tossed her head. “I think on the day, not long distant now, when we shall join your herdmates in the Vale.”

Jan frowned, moving to stand in front of her. “I thought you welcomed the prospect!”

The coppery mare refused to meet his gaze. “I do,” she murmured, “and yet I dread it. What will become of me among thy people, Moonbrow? Will I ever dance court in this sacred glade?”

Jan cocked his head, trying to see her better. “Ryhe

His companion sighed again, as though swallowing down some hard little pricking pain. “Who among your people would want me?” she said heavily. “Hornless—crippled. Useless. Imperfect.”

The dark prince fell back a step at her quiet vehemence. “You must set no store by Queen Tlat’s thoughtless words….”

“Even though they be true?” Ryhe

The dark unicorn stared at her, astonished. He shook his head vigorously. The halter of silvery skystuff clinked and chinged. “Nay, Ryhe

The breeze off the golden strand stirred the trees surrounding the glade. Ryhe

“The sea-unicorns told me—and Jah-lila herself once told me a thing which leads me to hope our rescuer’s tale may be true—that my mate’s dam was once hornless as you are, born in your City of Fire, but fled and, joining our company, became a unicorn.”

The coppery mare’s gaze changed, intensified, grew full of such wild longing suddenly that he found it difficult to meet.

“Surely this is but an old mare’s tale thou hast spun to keep my spirit up,” she breathed. “My own dam used to do the same, but I pray thee to have done. I am no filly to be made docile so.”

Again Jan snorted, shaking his head. “I pledge to you, Ryhe

He saw the coppery mare flinch, shuddering. “And if not?”

“If not,” the dark prince told her, “then you will be no less welcome among us, admired for your bravery, your counsel, your beauty.” The silver halter jingled as he spoke. He made himself say the words: “A horn upon the brow—it is not the world, Ryhe

The coppery mare turned away suddenly. He followed her. “Moonbrow,” she breathed, “I fear this above all else: that rejoining old friends in the Vale, thou wilt forget me.”

“Ryhe

The coppery mare turned again to face him. The breeze sighed through the trees. “Thy mate will reclaim thee,” she said bluntly, “and thy duties as prince. I am not thy mate—”

Jan shook his head. “Nay.”

“Among daya,” she offered, “a stallion may have many mates.”

Again the dark prince shook his head. “But not among unicorns.”

She gazed at him, lost. “In the City,” she whispered, “I was called thy mate, if only from courtesy. What am I now to thee—what can I be—if not thy mate?”

Her voice was tight, her tone desperate. He moved to stand next to her. “My shoulder-friend,” he answered her, “she to whom I owe my freedom and my life. Those among the unicorns who love me, Ryhe

“I shall never love any as I love thee, Moonbrow!” she cried.

He nuzzled her, very gently. “Nor I you, Ryhe

The pain so plain upon her features all at once subsided. She whickered low, and champed him lightly once, a comrade’s nip, no more. “Well enough then, my shoulder-friend.”

He shrugged against her laughing, relieved. Sun overhead was climbing toward noon. He shook himself, snorting.

“So tell me, Ryhe

The mare beside him shuddered. “Leave him,” she answered. “Leave him to his fate.”

Jan sidled uneasily. “By rights, I ought to kill him,” he murmured, “as a sworn enemy of the unicorns.”

He heard Ryhe

The dark unicorn nodded. “Aye. And skewering a crippled foe scarce seems honorable—yet simply leaving him to starve smacks hardly more noble….”

“He frightens me,” Ryhe

“Yet?”

“I pity him,” she finished, glancing at him, “hobbled by his broken wing as surely as a firekeeper’s tether once hobbled me. Captive of the herons—and now of us—as truly as once we two were captives in the City of Fire.”

Jan stamped, frustrated, lashing his tail. He longed now only to quit the Summer shore and begin the last, short leg of the journey inland toward the Vale. Yet the gryphon’s fate stymied him.

Great Alma, guide me, he petitioned silently. Tell me what to do.

The air around him hung utterly quiet, silence broken only by the whisper of breeze, the soft sigh of Ryhe

“We’ll feed him until I can decide, Ryhe

He and Ryhe

A dead skate, newly cast up by the tide, rounded their haul into a fair-sized catch by the second hour past noon. Jan set about devising a means to transport their gryphon’s food to him. The two-foots, he recalled, carried all ma