The knights of old, under Perrin, would not have done so. Eldan’s friends, cronies, henchmen—were not the same.
The kingdom was not the same. And Rian’s heart ached too, a physical echo of weariness and the soreness in that right shoulder from the Northern campaign and the grief of having lost his king and oldest friend, while seeing what that king’s petulant powerful son had become upon the throne.
He had not wanted to ride out into the forest, today. He did not want to aid in the capture of a wild magical being, a spirit of forests and woods, lilac and moonlight, deep pools and healing powers, serene and calm. The legends said the unicorn’s horn could soothe illness, mend wounds, preserve the enchanted forest depths, or even grant immortality. If one could get one’s hands upon that horn.
Eldan had demanded all the knights participate. And he did have a reason, beyond the merely selfish; that was true, too. Rian had sighed, saddled Hazelnut—his oldest and most placid mare—and trailed at the back of the hunt as they all set out.
He dismounted now, and dropped the reins—Hazel knew to stay, with the signal—and felt the forty-three years of his knees complain, taking weight. He gazed around a clearing, an enchanted woodland scatter of red berries, a burst of pale blue flowers like night-dyed lace. Hopelessly, he tried, “I won’t hurt you. You have my word.”
Silence answered, of course. Though it did so loudly.
“We do need your help.”
The bushes and flowers and berries did not seem impressed by this plea.
“Please,” Rian said. “We do need you. The well at Morningside—the village—”
“Is bad. Yes.” The voice chimed like crystal bluebells. Rian turned.
The unicorn had flowing silver hair, a moonbeam coat, shining hooves, a twisting dangerous spiral of horn; the unicorn flickered, shapeshifting, a four-legged forest dweller and simultaneously a tall man with ancient sapphire eyes and a shimmer upon his brow: elegant, naked, silver-haired, spellbinding.
Rian’s breath caught.
“I know about your well,” the unicorn said, sliding into the more human form, speaking. He even came closer; and Rian could never have looked away, caught by the magic in a way he’d never known he could be caught.
He whispered, “You know—”
“Your king poisoned it.”
Protest, instinctive: “He wouldn’t—”
“To lure me out. I can feel it. The poison, and the intent. Ican’t leave it that way. I’ll clean it.”
“You…” Rian stopped. In the unicorn’s eyes, he understood the vast and terrible clarity: Eldanhadpoisoned the well, had poisoned the world, and this unicorn would answer, knowingly. Choosing to heal.
He touched his sleeve. Unpinned the king’s insignia. Let it fall.
He said, “I’ll protect you.” That was clear and terrible, too. And he knew himself in that moment more sharply than he ever had.
The unicorn got visibly surprised. “You’re a knight of the realm.”
“I am,” Rian said. “Of therealm. Of the kingdom, and the villages, and their wells.” And forests and unicorns, he thought, though he did not say it. Your knight. In service to you. You and your heart and your beauty, like nothing I’ve ever known and everything I know now, after forty-three years, that I would open up my heart to follow.
He thought, then, that perhaps he did not need to say the words; because the unicorn had begun smiling, as if having heard each one, and now held out a hand. The touch of his fingers sent cool sparkles along Rian’s skin, kisses of starshine. Even as a man, he possessed delicate curling traces of silken silvery hair along forearms, calves, chest, and also—a recognition which made Rian’s body throb with a younger man’s pulse of springtime—at the base of a thick luscious prick, heavy and long, unabashed about the nudity.
The unicorn said quietly, “My name is Amaranth, so you can stop thinking of me as simply the unicorn, if you don’t mind.”
“You can read thoughts.”
“I can guess that you’re wondering what to call me. What’s your name?”
“Rian. Of—not Caer Morgen. Not anymore.” He’d nearly saidSir Rian; he was not sure he was that any longer, at least not in the same way. Not a title bestowed by a king. Not a home at Court.
“Rian.” Amaranth glanced over at the shouts in the distance, at the placid presence of Rian’s own mare. His hand had lingered on Rian’s arm, as if also drawn there, as if astonished by something like the same emotion Rian felt; the grip now tightened a fraction. “You know what you’re choosing.”
“I know.” He did. Hand atop Amaranth’s, a vow. Holding them together.
“I’ll go in the other shape,” Amaranth said, “and you’ve got your horse, and we can make good time.”
