Black Unicorn (Dragonflight) Read online

  "Go and look at it, if you wish," said the Prince. He was speaking to Tanaquil. Cold as snow, but also a showoff. She went across the room politely and stopped before the frame. "The city offers respect to the sea. And so the cloak is made of the skins of seventeen sharks," he said. "And fringed with the teeth of twenty dolphins." What a pity they could not bite him! Tanaquil glared at the clothes. And saw that at each shoulder, the cloak was fastened to the breastplate by a gleaming, milk-white whorl. Fossils—and of such size and perfection she ached to prize them loose.

  "Nice," said the peeve. It stared where she did, intensely. "Snails."

  "No," said Tanaquil. She pulled the peeve round and went over to a wall of books. The peeve, superior, ignored the fluttering of the clockwork butterflies.

  Zorander stood with his daughter at a table, speaking to her in a low, horribly serious voice. She beamed and twittered at him. Each was plainly disgusted by the personality of the other. Tanaquil felt again a type of sickness—for Lizra, for herself.

  Then Gasb came sidling up. He limped, perhaps from the old break in his leg, but it made him seem more nauseating than ever.

  "Well, well. Princess Tanaquil, of Erm. How remiss. I don't recall Erm. Where is it?"

  "A town of the desert," said Tanaquil.

  "Ah. Now that reminds me, there was once a Princess Yilli of Roadsweeping. Have you heard of her?"

  Tanaquil was soft and slightly witless. "No, I'm ever so afraid not."

  "Just as well, maybe. I'd only suggest you bear in mind, princess, that many things are tolerated, except nuisance."

  The peeve gargled vigorously.

  "Talks, does it?" asked the Counselor.

  "Wurrupy," said the peeve, and chattered its fangs.

  "Naughty little animal," said Gasb. "Perhaps we should skin you for a brown fur muff."

  "We have a saying in Erm," said Tanaquil before she could help herself, "never kick a man who wears iron boots."

  Gasb straightened. "And who's in the boots? You?"

  "Me?" twittered Tanaquil.

  "Gasb," called the Prince. "We'll go now and shoot birds."

  Gasb the vulture went sidling off across the room, eager for more feathers.

  Lizra, pale and pouting, came to Tanaquil. She whispered: "We can go down the terrace stair to the stables on the middle roof. If we dress as grooms we can take a chariot out riding."

  "What did he tell you to do?"

  "Go and pray for the good of the Festival."

  Prince Zorander and Counselor Gasb had left the room.

  The two girls and the peeve remained alone in the sunlit library. The presence of the two men was everywhere still.

  Lizra said, "I haven't asked you—just tell me, do you have a mother?"

  "Yes."

  "You're lucky," said Lizra.

  "Lucky to have left her."

  "Mine left me," said Lizra. "I could kill her for dying."

  Dressed as grooms, Lizra and Tanaquil rode a small plain pony chariot down a ramp, along the edges of the garden, and out into the city. After three or four spectacular streets, they passed into meaner thoroughfares. Tanaquil saw again the sordid huts and shacks, the gaping drains. They came to a section where the city wall was ruinous and low, and went out by an unguarded gateway. Lizra drove the chariot along a road that ran above the beach. Stunted palms grew by the road, and to the right hand the dunes ran out to the ocean. A few houses remained by the road, but they were deserted, their tiles flaked, their roofs fallen in. The city drew away. Despite the sun and the blueness of the water, there was a shadow on the morning.

  Tanaquil could think of nothing to ease Lizra's depression, or her own. They, and the peeve—now used to the chariot's motion—stayed silent.

  Lizra spoke at last.

  "I'm taking you to the spot where the Sacred Beast is supposed to have come out of the sea."

  "Oh . . ." said Tanaquil, ". . . good."

  "Somehow it seemed right you should see it." Lizra flicked the reins and the ponies went more quickly. "I'm going to ask you another question."

  "Yes?"

  "I want you to tell me the truth."

  "If I can."

  "I won't betray you," said Lizra.

  Tanaquil, who had been thinking of the unicorn, tensed and frowned. She had had the difficult feeling from the start that she could trust Lizra, and this had made her extremely wary.

  "What is the question?"

  "Are you a witch?"

  Tanaquil laughed. "No! Good heavens, anything but."

  "My father," said Lizra, "told me that witches often have red hair."

  "Oh, did he?"

  "It's a popular belief here."

  "Well I can assure you, I have about as much magical ability as an orange."

  "That sounds to me," said Lizra astutely, "as if someone tested you, to see." Tanaquil kept quiet. "But what about the peeve?"

  "You mean the trick of making it seem to talk? That's just a conjuring act."

  "No, I mean the fact that it does talk."

  Tanaquil stared at the melancholy, sunny view. The stunted palms rattled in a wind off the sea, and sand spurted from the feet of the ponies. A ruined house leaned to the road. The peeve, glaring through under the chariot rail, announced loudly, "Rats there. Let's go house."

  Lizra said, and her voice now had some of her father's coldness, "People always lie to me, you see. Or simply don't tell me things. Or they tell me things that are meant to worry me, like the red hair business. Even Yilli, you know, when she caught me by the throat with her knife, said, 'It won't hurt!'"

  "Perhaps it wouldn't have," said Tanaquil. "Or perhaps she did like you enough to wish it wouldn't."

  "I hadn't thought of that."

  "Rats," said the peeve plaintively.

  "You don't want rats. You had an enormous breakfast," Tanaquil said. She said to Lizra, "Everything preys on everything else here. And the elegant city has filthy back streets, and beggars who are blind. Yes, I knew a sorceress. She used to tell me about a perfect world where all things were in harmony. And she showed me a sea in a desert. But she spills magic everywhere like soup. And—the peeve got splashed. That's why it talks."

  "My father—" said Lizra, and broke off. "Look there. That's the unicorn place."

  The chariot drew up. The peeve leapt out and sprinted back toward the ruin, leash whipping after, unheeded.

  It became very silent, and the wind was like the silence given a thin, traveling voice. Heat burned from the sky and off the dazzling sea. A line of rocks rose up out of the water, low platforms that became cliffs as they marched inland. Where the beach met the waves, the cliff was hollowed out, a tunnel, an arch—a bridge. The light made its darkness seemed rimmed with iridescent white, as if fire were cutting it from the sky. It was in shape and look so like the rock hill in the desert near the fort that Tanaquil was not amazed at all.

  "Do you want to walk down?"

  "Yes", said Tanaquil. She did not, and that made no difference.

  "Stand," Lizra said to the ponies.

  They left the chariot and started over the dunes of the beach, which scalded their feet like the sands of a desert.

  "The city began here," said Lizra, "hundreds of years ago, but then it moved away." They came down to where the arch of the cliff went up, its roots in the sand. "At high tide," said Lizra, "the sea comes in here. There was a well, but it's turned to salt." They had stopped before the arch, as if before a great crystal door. They might see beyond it to the beach and sky through the cliff. But could not pass.

  "And they say the unicorn came from the sea?" said Tanaquil, but only to interrupt the silence and the silent meowing of the wind.

  "Yes. On a wave. It came out of that archway, and struck the sand with its horn for the well. The rock was called the Sacred Gate. Even now it's supposed to be unlucky to walk through, I mean right through the hole and out the other side."

  They waited on the hot sand, looking at the beach and
sea and sky on the far side of the archway.

  "Do you dare it?" said Tanaquil."

  "People are always going in and out, for the dare. There's a story though of three young men going in who never came out again. And of an old fisher-wife who went in one end and came out the other as a dolphin!"

  They grinned at each other. Then they clasped hands, and ran shrieking instantly in under the rock.

  The violet shade washed over them, like a wave. The sand was cooler, clammy and clinging; it seemed as if it might suddenly give way and drag them down into an abyss—and Tanaquil remembered how she had dug out the white bones and the sand shifted—and then there was a curious, indescribable moment. It was as if she had shut her eyes; more, as if she had fallen asleep for three heartbeats or five. And then they were running out on to the scorch of the beach, and the sun hammered down on them.

  "Did you feel that?"

  "It was strange."

  "But—just for a moment—something."

  "Aah!" cried Lizra, "You've changed into a dolphin."

  They really did laugh then. And suddenly flung their arms round each other. And as suddenly let go, stood away.

  Tanaquil said, "There is a piece of air under the rock that's like running through torn ribbons."

  "I didn't notice that." Lizra said, without coldness or demand, "I think you are a witch. A sort of witch—of some kind. After all, not all witches can be bad. It's just my father. He told me once how he met this dreadful witch in the desert. A demoness, he said." And Tanaquil, in the blaze of the sun, experienced an arch greater, darker, deeper, more mysterious, more terrible than any gate of a unicorn, yawning up to snatch her in. "It was just before he came to rule, just before he married mother. He went hunting in the desert, got lost, separated from his attendants. He came on a sort of castle or fort. There was a red-headed sorceress, and she made him her prisoner for days, before he outwitted her and escaped her clutches. She had snakes in her hair, he said. She was quite mad." Lizra hesitated. "But I wish I could think who you remind me of."

  Tanaquil took a breath down to the soles of her feet.

  "I remind you of yourself, Lizra, just as you remind me of me. And that's quite reasonable. We're sisters."

  They stood on the sand, the other side of the arch.

  "I believe you," said Lizra. "But tell me why."

  "My mother," said Tanaquil. She felt tears, and dire amusement, and hard anger. "She's the red-haired sorceress. She doesn't have snakes in her hair. Actually, she's rather beautiful. She said she renounced my father, but obviously he simply discarded her. It explains why she went on so much about this city, and at the same time refused to show me the city properly, or let me near the city. How ever did she make him see her? Even for a minute? They're like fire and frozen stone. Of course, he knew nothing about me. And I—well, I expect I hoped for something one day. When I found him. My father. Lizra, I'm sorry, I don't like him. He's nothing to me."

  "He wouldn't want to be," said Lizra. "I know. It wouldn't, doesn't matter, to him. You'd only be another unnecessary daughter."

  9

  Tanaquil and Lizra sat on the seashell bed and studied the monstrous green-and-golden thing that balanced on a frame before them. It was twilight. Palace servants would soon come to light the lamps. Light would make the dress much worse. It had its seven layers of stiff gilt lace in flounces down the skirt. The underskirt was cloth-of-gold, stitched into stiff pleats. The bodice was a mail coat of golden scales over lime silk. The lime sleeves were skin-tight and banded with golden circlets set with emeralds. A collar of gilt lace and malachites stood up behind the dress, with a train of green silk and medallions. There was a golden diadem with emerald stars. Just to look at the outfit made Tanaquil too hot, and gave her a headache.

  "How will you move?" she asked. "How will you breathe?"

  "I shan't," said Lizra, resigned. "Last year was quite bad, but not so bad as this. I'll have to wear it. There's no choice. And the Festival's tomorrow. Oh well, the sooner here, the sooner over. You'll come with me, will you?"

  "Of course. What," Tanaquil added, "will I have to wear?"

  "Just something flashy, and some jewels."

  They sat and watched the dress, and the servants knocked and came in, and the lamps were lit, and the dress roared bright like a green tiger.

  They had not, earlier, talked of the Festival. They had gone back through the arch—shrieking, running—and spent the day riding along the beach or sitting under palm trees eating the food Lizra had had put in the chariot. The peeve emerged from the ruin ratless, and darted about, and once or twice it dashed at the sea aggressively, each time thinking better of it and scuttling back. In the afternoon they made a sand castle. It was a tremendous architecture, all their adult skills brought to bear on it. When the sun westered, waves began to steal up along the beach. They knew the castle would be destroyed before night fell, and drove away so as not to see.

  They had spoken to each other of their childhoods, of their adventures and boredoms. They had managed, both, to say very little of the Prince and the sorceress. Probably Lizra kept certain secrets. Tanaquil did not mention the unicorn. It was not that she thought Lizra would disbelieve her. For the first time, Tanaquil had met someone who fully accepted her ideas, credited her experience, did not try to placate or compress her spirit. Rather, it was because Lizra would not challenge or dismiss the unicorn that Tanaquil did not tell her. The unicorn was chaos and unsafety, capricious, almost humorous, and terrible. It had rescued, and played jokes. But the horn was sharper than a sword. Its eyes were fire. And she had conjured it, sorceress or not. It's mine, for good or ill. When would it appear again? The pre-cast reflection of it seemed to be here in this room. At what unsuitable, ridiculous, or deadly dangerous moment?

  Later they went down to the dinner, to almost exactly the same scene as on the previous night. Gasb wore a raven hat. The Prince wore his dead skins. Neither looked at Lizra or Tanaquil. But Tanaquil looked at the Prince and tried to convince herself that this was her father. The harder she tried to take it in, the more uncomfortable she became, the more irritated.

  Lizra and she ate very little, although the peeve made a hearty meal. Tonight Lady Orchid's marmoset had not been brought to dine. They returned to Lizra's room long before midnight, and sat at her silver table playing Scorpions and Ladders, Ships and Chariots, or merely going on with their earlier talk—what they had done at five, and ten, and thirteen, and I did that too, or I never did that. The peeve had made a lair under Tanaquil's bed, and retired early. Squinting in as it slept, by the light of a candle, they saw a pair of silver scissors stolen from Lizra's room, and a small glass bottle, a string of pearls, and two or three other objects she did not recognize. "Whoever do they belong to? It must get out through your window at night."

  Finally they heard the midnight bell. Lizra said, offhandedly, "Salute the Sacred Beast."

  They parted with strange unexpressed feelings, each as if the other one might vanish in the night, Tanaquil thought. Tanaquil could not sleep. She began to have doubts. Should she not have told Lizra that they were sisters? What obligation did it put upon them? It had seemed wonderful one minute, and awkward the next. The peeve slunk up onto the bed with one of Lizra's jade pawns from the Ships and Chariots, which it laid under Tanaquil's chin. It had brought her a present. She thanked it warmly, and slept after all, with her head against its side.

  The Festival Procession of Prince Zorander zigzagged through the city like a jewelled snake.

  It was the second hour of the afternoon, and furnace hot.

  The heat laid a glaze on everything. It brought out a million smells, delicious and vile. It caught gems and metal and sent blinding rays in all directions.

  But the heat did not subdue the crowds, who had been up and about since sunrise.

  They jostled and pranced, indulged in games and tussles. They clotted at the edges of the roads, and watched the snake of the procession slide by from avenue t
o avenue.

  There were musicians in lynx skins, and dancing girls in rainbow gauze, great squadrons of soldiers in flaming mail, plumed, and carrying lances, bows, swords, and battle honors on gilded poles trimmed by flowers. There were standards of purple, magenta, and scarlet. There were gold chariots drawn by horses glassily shining, with brilliants on their reins and silver hoofs. There were deafening trumpeters, and clowns dressed as wild animals and sea things, lions and porpoises, squid and jackals, who bounced and rolled, played at attacking each other, or pulling colored ribbons out of the noses of the crowd. There were girls in white strewing poppies, and girls in red strewing lilies. There were terracotta camels with fierce men clad for the desert on their humped tops.

  Then there came the tableaux. In one was a great ship with a spread turquoise sail, rocking gently on the backs of twenty blue and silver people being the sea. In another there was a replica of the city in gilded wood, with even the fifteen-story palace depicted, and dolls guarding it, and moving up and down on the streets with choppy doll movements, representing the citizens. There were others of historical moments, and myth. Last of the tableaux was an image of mythic history. In crimson and gold, a former prince was shown, and before him stood an enormous unicorn. It was of purest white alabaster with mane and tail fluted by sparkles. Its clockwork head raised and bowed to the prince, raised and bowed, and toward its horn of chrysolite he extended a garland of flowers.

  After the last tableau of the unicorn rode the current Prince, driven in his chariot, surrounded by soldiers with crossbows and drawn swords. He wore the regalia that had been shown in his library, the purple and the breastplate. His face was icy cool, it seemed he could not feel the heat. Down his back gleamed the sharkskin cloak, fastened at the shoulders with the two creamy fossils—old, maybe, as the earth itself. On his head was the head of a great blue shark.

  After the Prince rode his daughter, the Princess, like a gold and green doll herself, in her chariot. At her side was a red-haired princess of some foreign city.